I miss mum. She was always there. I wonder what she’d say to me now. I have a few guesses. I’ve been thinking of her, it still makes me turn away, like a brand to the side of the face, my neck twists my head away, strangling away the pulse of my sad heart. Cutting tears in half, squeezing a separation of head and heart. Grief wells below my shoulder line, not atop it like so many, unaccounted Atlas’. My teeth may grit and grind. Loss and death upon my mind. But lessons learned are hard to burn. Farewell mum, forgive this turn. ‘Zooom’ made me think of: Kiit & Baat.
He pinned me down. “Better to ask forgiveness than permission right?” Laughing. I looked at the collar of his ghi, he was stronger than me but I didn’t give up like the rest. I pumped upwards with my hips, created room between us and turned my hips, he clamped down on me again like a mouse trap. But now my arm was free, over and behind his head. He was gagging and tapping before I could wrap my legs around him and try to pull his head off. He sniffed indignantly, like a bull- red eyed and bewildered. We rolled apart and I nodded, almost cheerfully. He straightened up, as I sat back on the mats, soaking up the moment. Victorious. “Nice one”. And that was it.
Pins had followed me everywhere, so far in my short little existence. Diapers, hair, ribbons, tailoring, decorating, fundraising, waking up, sitting down, sewing, broken arms, describing legs and now Judo. The world is pins. All held on a cork board, unaligned agony that needles at us, inside and out. I was in a grade 4 class when Tomas got a pin in his eye, one of the tough kids from sat in his chest and pushed it through the lid of one closed eye. The other rolled about- I remember the noise and the finality of it all. Tomas had joked that the guy couldn’t read. 9year olds can be cruel, even if they don’t know what they’re doing. Tomas took up Judo after that I suppose, after the failed surgery to fix his eye. He looks like a pirate now with his black patch. All he needs now is a parrot and a peg leg. We train sometime at the local gym-
I don’t like how often I wake up with a dead arm, once when I was a teenager I lay on my arm until I got pins and needles, and then i beat off into a sock. Looking back at that sort of stuff is honest and repulsive. I feel like an animal with rolling eyes, I suppose there’s a time and a place. Bedrooms are weird like that.
I’m 30 this year, I have a daughter that I’m scared of because she’s so serious. I used to think that serious people were just malnourished or lost a loved one recently. She’s had none of that, no excuses. “Hi honey, how are you today?” I ask. “Fine father, why do you ask?” She’s 2, why is she questioning me. I look after her, feed and love her but she scares me. She’ll probably move out when she’s 9 and become a prostitute or something. I am afraid of her. Her name is April but I call her Apricot because i like the fruit more than the month. I was born in April, “what happens 9 months before that?” -July I guess…
She used to be here. She used be just here. Let me bathe in that feeling. Not idle: raw, saturating, honest reflecting.
Bitter biting feelings wash over me. The tears of every pram a growth towards accident or dissolution. Unresolved- tragic spew. Speeding agony, pinned. Heart, heavy as shoulders and smile turn tragically down. A comedy, a joke played on me and my own. Ask about names, use your definitions.
“You’re alive and well?”
“Same thing” there’s space for complaints, but it’s all bundled together, sick weird feelings. The taste, organic fizzling vomit rises in a turgid swell.
He was tall and thin. Delicate like a wine glass. Too much Chinese. Hot and hot and slapped and fat. We left it all in the bathroom. No tea, no time. Class creations. Mattress borrowing- the queen is bless.
Like the industry flood. Memory of the forgotten. Don’t worry. Don’t worry, repeat after me. Smearing teardrops into belly button like holes. It’s out, wringing dry.
Our marriage over, cord severed, placated hopeless. Katherine? Sounds like the name of the one we lost. No University will teach this- sort through the pens.
‘It’s 2018’ – I find myself and others using this expression in an exasperated tone to justify just about anything relating to technology and common sense.
Nothing more to report. JFGI
Innocence and violence. Talk basic words that you have problems with- adding layer upon layer. The only issue is yours and the other person in that moment. Waste an hour on words. Walking talking entertainment. No skulking, direct questions in good humour and faith. Roll the dice, and don’t make a point of what they look like. You will be liable for your tone. If you tell a bad story it’s a ‘perspective fault’.
Wanna get a beer? -imtryingtocutback.
These people I surround me with. They take from me. Take myself from me. Drain me. Fuck me, fail me, fight me. Love, live, laugh. Like lice, feasting. Fanning fumes into me. Double letters building huts to parallel growth. Away, beating into walls falling slack jawed, hard against hope. I hope you have a nice day. Honest in all cliche. Clutching at reinforced meaning. Tone, content, eyes.
Let the sun shine.