Today I give you the honoured task of contacting our friends on my behalf. Nice, good start – a bit self referential but it will do. Thumbs up from me. Good one – haha. Now that’s enough thumbs, I said enough! I’m in control here. No
Thumbs, stop it. Put
That down! No no noooooooo! ArgHhhhjaaarkh.
Dear friends of the mighty thumbs,
We have this human in our
possession and require a sacrifice.
Your life energies must be spent if he is to be released. No sooner than your full physical attendance and he will be free, relatively unharmed. At the moment we have him in shackles, hanging by his false thumbs in a dungeon we won in a game of Bejewled last Spring. But enough of that- the time has
come. Join us in selective merriment dressed as a thumb.
We suffered a walk together down track. There is nothing so invasive as walking at the same speed. He’d
Turned onto the track just before
I, so I’d perched off his shoulder in unhappy pursuit. Waiting on the wings for him to politely slow down, a time in fact which never arrived. As custom I slowed for oncoming traffic and loaded
Uncomfortably behind him. The unwieldy appendage to this two person conga line. Whenever I drew up along side, he seemed to flinch and, blinking rapidly all the while, increase his old-man jangling pace. I’d slow again for oncoming traffic to avoid any upset or disaster and
ironed my malcontent with quiet frustrations towards enjoying the walk and soaking up the environment. In spite of this gentle reasoning, my work-mind persisted. Annoyed with the awkward impassable problem, we scurried on Practically besides each other.
Brewed something new. Inside myself bubbles a fear of sneezing and a worry that’s not wanting to disappoint or talk. Say nothing. Sit, cold and shy. Frail, avoiding fate and the temptation of futures clash. Go with the flow, it will all just happen to you. “Thanks,” no eye contact. Disconnect, warmer, warmer, shorts, physics things running under cold water. Shackles, rattled bones and chains. A sick, digest. Bubbling, rumbling throes. Dispose, sit, piss, dum, flush. Community, disconnect. Games, flush, axe spot. My face.
I’m opening a vein here.
My life force leaving my body.
Pulse, pulse, dullards.
Mundane, check out – keep a low profile.
Money in, money out.
Garbage in, garbage out.
Sitting, flesh on the toilet.
Wasting away. Filling up. Bobbing sick with the time spent disengaged.
A – Apple
B – Ball
C – Carrot
D – Drum
E – Elephant
F – Fox
G – Gate
H – Hat
I – Ink
J – Jump
K – Kid
L – Log
M – Mouse
N – Nose
O – Fx
P – Pie
Q – Queen
R – Rice
S – Sing
T – Toe
U – Umbrella
V – Violin
W – Water
X – Fo
Y – Yellow
Z – ZZZZZzzzzzz
How does this work?
This setup of ours
Has too much shifted
Can we wind back the hours?
Ah, there’s my other glove, said Bellpick. She had only noticed because she was turning. Bellpick was a car.
Over the long weekend. I lost a close and dearest friend. As Jack and Jill went up the hill, his need was cured with a tiny pill. The extra strain on heart and brain climaxed in pain when he finally came. Vital parts flopped and the pumping stopped. As he lost his life, in his wife.
I rode down the nicest street, on my way home. It was lined with oak trees. Large maple-like leaves rested in golden heaps. A ute drove beside me for a moment then slowed and pursued me. I became aware of myself, a rare vulnerability. I changed sides. Looked back. They pulled over. They had not been following me, after all.
I came to the end of the street where a gentleman without a helmet rode past me on the main street. He had right of way, no helmet and carried a sandwhich, roll or something like that in his left hand. The foil was rolled down, bright little creases reflected the street lights. He had dark sandy blonde hair that suck up on end. With only one hand for balance on the handle-bar he took a bit.
I’d been holding off commenting to people all throughout the evening ride. I didn’t say ‘good work’ to the runners I passes. I had only said thanks to two separate families. One picked up their dog as I passed, the other told his daughter to stop.
‘Thanks’ Is all I said.
As this night rider passed by, I jokingly -I think it was jokingly- said, ‘Sick’.
He didn’t make eye contact but rode past. The intersection was a confusing one. For anyone out of town, they’d have been surprised to find that in a car they would have to follow this gentleman as he came along right to left, approaching one of the larger hills in Hobart. As he reached the hill, he took his only hand off the handlebars and put them both in the air. The perfect hero pose. Celebrating his rouge behaviour, a young larrikin. Bull horns and a half-foiled bun, raised to the sky in reverence to nothing in particular but a bubbling comment i’d been holding onto for far too long.
Once upon a land there was an old prince that spent all of his time inside.
Each day he would order a delivery of flowers for the royal estate. He would proceed then, over the following hours, to arrange, trim and place tremendous and intricate bouquets within the separate wings and levels of the palace.
His name and title was Prince Bavard. Although he often suggested,’Please, Monsieur B’ to guests and household staff. An unassuming man of graying hair, demure and of shy disposition, his station and rank was not destined to rise above that of prince. This was because his gentle nature and modest fixations brought little talent for politics nor the governance of a society that so supported his great family. The De la Roccolis had ruled over France for a quiet age which had afforded all a sense of fecund and prosperity.