Mom and dad.
But not for us.
This is a sore subject.
Home was a place to fear.
Mom and dad.
But not for us.
This is a sore subject.
Home was a place to fear.
Clementines, satsumas, mandarines –
one of those small round oranges,
the ones that come with Christmas.
They sit in the big white bowl
surrounding the wise pineapple
or jump over bananas.
The apples are green with envy
for they get all the attention.
Walnuts are trying to get through but
they alway fall through the cracks.
They are the rocks at the bottom of the fruit display.
Ho ho ho
~ yeah, hmm, random. I’m not much of a foodie but I do remember the excitement of Christmas when we were allowed the small orange fruit – lets call them satsumas although it might had been mandarines (does anyone know the difference?). Exotic fruit was a short supply commodity in the 80s in the communist countries, especially if you suffered from lack of money as well (which we did). And although we have embraced the advantages of free economy, up to this day I only buy satsumas at Christmas time.
Dress him in a sweater
The excitement of the retirement home residents over yet another bingo afternoon left her yearning for a small explosive device. Not that the other activities were more fun. Like this knitting. They knit sweaters for dogs. Dogs! Not orphans, not homeless, not the affected by war. No. They knit for dogs. But at least she can take the needles and yarn with her to the park; it may take few hours before the caretakers notice she’s gone AWOL. She stretches her fingers. Damn arthritis. She wouldn’t mind to be young again for a moment, just like the two lovebirds strolling across the grass. She would pass on the drama of the youth though. That seems to be raised by a notch by each generation. Everything is going down the drain nowadays. Dogs wear clothes, men are crying and being old gives you the privilege to do what they tell you to do. Back to knitting, we don’t want the damn dogs to freeze.
I still don’t believe Dukey is gone. My little puppy. I keep thinking about him. I try not to, especially with the cuts at the office. I am so distracted and the work is getting to me. The queen B of a boss is breathing down my neck, terrorising me with her sneaky eyes from 9 to 6. I wish I could retire and sit outside and read, play with dogs or even knit like the old lady on the bench. Is that a little sweater? It’s too little for a baby though. Oh my, so sweet – I think she is making it for a dog. Dukey would look so cute in a red sweater like that. I say that to Tom, but I don’t think he is really listening. I always thought he couldn’t stand Duke, but then he – I can’t think about it. It was such a horrible day. Tom is fidgeting. Is he crying? I would never say he has such a sensitive soul. I squeeze his hand harder and lean on his shoulder to assure him he can count on me.
He blinks. He double blinks, triple blinks and flutters his eyelids so fast his vision is blurred. The speck of something is still lodged in his eye. His right hand is plastered up to his biceps and his left is trapped in hers. It would be unwise to try to extricate himself. He double blinks again. She keeps talking about the dog. Duke Zuzu Theodore the Third. There never was Duke Zuzu Theodore the First, nor Second for that matter. First class Pomeranian. First class yapping pom pom more likely. He was squashed under the wheels of the neighbour’s car two weeks ago along with his stupid heroic arm that tried to grab him out of harm’s way. She is still upset about it. Although it’s not a surprise that the mongrel ran off on the road. His eyes starts to water. Blink. Blink. How can I get this thing out of my eye? Triple blink.
Wednesday. Lunch break. The day of the food market. The windswept passageways of the architectonic disaster also known as One New Change are flooded with hunters and gatherers. 15 minutes wait for a paella is not worth of my time. 15 minutes of waiting for anything is not worth of my time. The dog must have eaten his wristwatch; mine commands exact 12:46. Second date has ceased to be a romantic encounter for me and I start scripting a dump-fest in my head.
I spot him at the Portuguese stand being swallowed by the chorizo lovers. It would appear he has forgotten to sharpen his elbows today. He struggles to manoeuvre through the gaps; an elephant trapped in a glass labyrinth would be more elegant. 12:51 and I’m faced with a rumpled suit and sweat patches. His mouth is opening and closing so he must be vomiting an apology but I am distracted by the small drop trickling down his left cheek. It is almost at his chin. I don’t wait for it to fall.
”Stop wiggling, would you?”
”Only if you get OFF MY BACK!’
”We have been over this zillion times already my dear. I am the head therefore I am on the top.”
”Just because you are the head it doesn’t mean you get to choose!”
”Sure it does sweet cheeks. Of course butt like you could never understand this. Well it is not entirely surprising as you do not have a brain and therefore lack in th—”
”I’M NOT A BUTT – I AM A TAIL!’
”Tail, butt, ass – same difference”
”Did you just…you…how dare you…you, you…”
”Trouble expressing yourself?”
”Aaaargh. You are soooo….”
”Please honey, calm down and go to sleep. Shall I sing something to you? And PLEASE stop the wiggling already.”
”That wasn’t me.”
”You’re the tail. You wiggle.”
”It wasn’t ME. It was him.”
”I think we are going out.”
”You can’t think, you don’t hav—”
”Whatever. I’m right. We are going to fly. And maybe this time I will land on the top.”
”In your dreams.”
”He’s gonna flip it.”
”No he’s not and anyway brainless ass in charge? Not on my wa—”
”Here we goooo!”
She smoothed the red envelope and
could just make out the cut out uneven squares
provided by the morning paper
I KILL YOU
She placed the unopened letter to the in-tray
and walked back to her desk.
She could still smell the glue on her fingers.
I have lost many things, some of them of monetary value but I can’t think of one that would mean anything significant to me now. I had my heart broken and felt abandoned but I don’t wish to have any of those people back in my life. Sometimes I get lost on my way from point A to point B but for me it is an opportunity to unexpectedly discover new corners of the world. Often I get lost in my head, losing track of time and touch with reality. Don’t even get me started on how many times I have lost the plot. I am losing memories, the good and the bad, but that is normal brain behaviour and I need to accommodate the new ones somewhere. I lost a competition and I lost a race but this only made me more determined and made me work harder.
Somehow I have never lost my keys or my ID. But I am losing my patience quite often. Usually followed by loss of temper. I would rather lose the keys but keep the cool head.
If we could touch music, it would feel like water. Music is fluid. Circumstances. Influences. Emotions. Everything is flowing and changing. I can pick three songs that means something to me today. I can’t tell whether or not they will be figuring in the Top 3 of Eva’s music chart tomorrow.
This is blast from the past. I had my music player on random and this song started playing. I immediately cancelled the shuffle and switched exclusively to the ‘Resist’ album. I haven’t listened to this for almost ten years. It feels good.
I love this song. It’s subtle and powerful at the same time. The whole album ‘All the Little Lights’ is a revelation. Second favourite from the album is ‘I Hate’.
‘Lighting Bolt’ is not exactly ‘Ten’ or ‘Vs.” but Eddie Vedder and co are coming to the UK and I can’t wait!
The above list was composed while I was still at work, straight after I read today’s assignment. By the time I finished at the office, sweated in the gym, spent 30 minutes on the train, had dinner and started editing this post, the list looks like this:
This is one of my favourite running songs. I can have it on repeat for an hour and run and run and run. Another one is ‘Next Go Round’…I admit lyrically I have made some very interesting choices when it comes to running but they have a killer beat!
I’m revisiting OneRepublic after hearing their new-ish song ‘Counting Stars’. I usually have this band in the background with several likeminded artists on shuffle play. It played when I was on the train reading and got stuck in my head.
I don’t usually do country but this lady is spot on: ‘Say what you think, love who you love ’cause you just get so many trips ’round the sun.’
My room is, for now, empty like a blank page. Just dark grey carpet and double door leading to the balcony. 9th floor guaranteers to partially reveal the Houses of Parliament and the London Eye. It is a perfect place to drink my morning coffee and spy on the St. Thomas hospital. Also to watch the New Year’s Eve fireworks if that’s your thing.
There is a built-in wardrobe (yay!). I can picture where my brand new IKEA bed with extra storage will go and the matching IKEA chest of drawers. All in white. That way the room will still remain a blank page, the furniture will simply form the lines. Only then I can start to write and edit, embellish, enhance.
Huge pink cushion? Check.
Fairy lights? Check.
Table lamp with buttons? Check.
Multicoloured & multi-paterned bed linen? Check.
Lime green wicker basket? Check.
Straightjacket? Probably needed.
Criminal investigation on a basis of violation of good taste? Pending.
Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
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