The secret moment

The secret moment

When blowing up a balloon, excitement running rampant.

“I can’t wait to play ping-pong with it” she says.

“I’m giving mine to my mother when she picks me up,” another second grader exclaims muttering.

Time goes by blowing, with breathlessness and dizziness defeated by strict perseverance.

Exerted, jaws aching.

Eyes pressurized, like that of the balloons ever expanding.

Both balloons pop.

Faces splashed with its own slobber.

Surprise reflexes immediately all encompassing.

On the verge of tears from freight.

They recollect and acknowledge the other.

They succumb to laughter.

And looking into each others eyes, knowing this is their secret to keep.

 

 

*I would like to acknowledge that the beautiful image is not my own.

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The Divine War

The Divine War

And the angels fought, they fought for god.

They fought for the ideals and the pureness they saw within themselves.

They fought for the goodness they sought to water the world with.

Be the hero

Be the hero

The Oracle in The Matrix hands Neo a cookie after insinuating that a decision will be forced upon him. A situation will be imposed on him in which he will need to take action, to make a decision. A decision that will impact upon the outcome of this hero, the outcome of this hero’s world. A decision that extends so much further past the extent of the hero’s insecurities, vulnerabilities and misfortune. A decision that transcends the hero himself.

I sit watching birds fly around me. Contemplating what I’d use wings for if I had them.

Simply put, the hero sacrifices, the hero uses wings to fly towards his demons. Facing the mirror that reflects himself to himself, his purest of adversities and self-doubt. This hero attempts to save Morpheus, regardless of whether he understands and has learned all he could have about the limitless Matrix beforehand.

The hero learns that he is required to act regardless of whether he has the understanding to do so.

The hero learns that understanding the repercussions of any action they take is out of their grasp. Th hero learns that attempting to understand these repercussions leaves an individual hopeless, flailing in a dark void that can only imprison, serving to offer only endless questions to unsolved answers.

In order to live in reality, action needs to be taken. To dissolve fear Neo needed to risk losing against Agent Smith. One needs to risk losing and exposing oneself to further fear. The type of fear that can make you nauseous at the ponder of it. The type if fear that doesn’t ring the doorbell before entering.

Inevitably, there is always a Morpheus that needs to be saved, there are always fears to overcome. Use your wings for heroic purposes.

Mr. Jones

Mr. Jones

Faded birch deck. Boards bowing with age as if rejecting the life they were given. Nails protruding up, taking the boards attempt of as escape as a catalyst to their own.

The sun beams down, saturating an inescapable heat over weather boards with flaking white paint. Faded joinery only managing to hint at the once bold colour it once wore in youth. That colour today would be anyones guess.

Inside echoed the strange sounds of an empty house, each foot step a violent reminder of the has-beens that memories collected here had become. Michael stood at the window after walking the hallway to the end, past the kitchen and into the sun room which over looked the ocean.

Outside as the weak winter sun beat down, the wind was calm but the ocean was angry. Furious waves crashed in a messy action as if a toddler was throwing a tantrum in a bath. A storm had recently passed and the ocean was always the last to give up the game.

The view was calming for Michael, his fondest memories were of storms, the sound of the rough ocean would forever be linked to those times. They were welcome thoughts at this time, a time when happy thoughts were too few and far between.

This house once represented a home to Michael, a place where he would rest his battered mind, where he would watch the rain on the windows in winter, and where he would lie on the couch by the window in summer, a book in his hand.

These memories were rocks in his mind, a place to cling to when the current was too strong. This was one of those times.

He walked around the house, touching all the spots that triggered memories, the gash on the lounge doorframe, the chip on the benchtop corner and the faded circular patch of carpet in his old bedroom.

Each one he felt connected to, a soothing sensation followed each texture. Closing his eyes his imagination could take him back. The smells, the weight of the air, everything would rush back. Such action was addictive to Michael. He had been down this road before, being lost unto his mind, the real world became depressing in comparison. He was resolute in his mind not to return, but he didn’t really trust himself.

“I need this”, he whispered to himself, justifying his actions just as an alcoholic would.

Michael was all too aware of his actions and the rationale he adhered to them. It didn’t take long for his mind to over think it and he began to pace up and down the hallway.

Michael had a strange walk, his lanky features didn’t help the situation. It was as though he was an old man with worn slippers who had to walk a certain way to keep them from sliding off his feet, so when he walked his arms and legs would go first and his body would follow. As unusual as his gait was, Michael was a simple and gentle man, his world was self fulfilled. Taking his time, with each part of his life, he wasn’t a self described perfectionist but he knew how he wanted things. This was possibly what bothered him the most, as his life had failed to manifest the ideals he held dear in his mind. Although little of it was to do with his own actions, or lack of.

Two years ago he was in a very different place. His wife and his two young daughters were still alive, so were his parents. The pacing of the latter was what brought him to be in their old house again. He wasn’t sure why he had come back but he figured his unconscious mind knew better how to heal itself than his conscious mind did.

He was wearing a long grey overcoat in which his hands rested in the pockets as though both his arms had gone to sleep. He was hunched over as though he didn’t have the energy to stand up properly. The last two years had sucked the life out of Michael, his skin was devoid of colour and his hair had quickly began turning grey as if trying to blend with his complexion. Even with the great toll the accumulated events had taken on him he still remained quite functional, he was stuck in a sort of auto pilot. As though someone else had taken the controls and he was merely witnessing someone else’s life in first person.

It was all rather surreal when he pondered it, but even thinking had a disconnected feeling to it. At times he would pinch his arm with his fingernails so hard he would bleed, as though the act might kick him out of the seeming other dimension he was trapped within.

In the sun room a large cane chair still remained, he studied it for a moment before deciding to sit in it. He was unsure why it remained when every other piece of furniture was gone. Considering this fact he couldn’t but help but look at it as though it was alien to him. Sitting in the chair wasn’t a comfortable experience, the cushions were gone and the cane had broken in places making parts stick out and stab into him as he applied his weight. He didn’t mind this much, in some sense he found pleasure in it as it reminded him of the age of the chair. He pondered if he had become a little masochistic, but the thought disappeared quickly.

Sitting in the chair and looking outside into the haze of sea spray he drifted into the haziness of his own mind. He thought about the expectation of life, of the human expectation of fairness, of what had been, and of what it had become. It didn’t take him long to realise he related to this chair more than any other human being alive. What he valued in life had been washed away, eroded and faded by time. A line of events that had been, and events which had not yet happened. Everything that he had been was gone, the real Michael laid somewhere in the past. What existed now was the chair. Everything with which he had purpose for was now gone. He no longer served the world in the way he once had, he was broken and parts were sticking out. He was now quasi-real, he quasi-existed. He now knew why the chair remained when everything else was gone, he just hadn’t been taken away yet.

Are You The Sun Or The Moon In Your Relationship?

Are You The Sun Or The Moon In Your Relationship?

All working relationships require one party who takes up the position of sun, the other of moon. These two functions serve as the ebb and flow within a long-term shared relationship dynamic.

The yin: the anchor and prime source of stability to the relationship during the calm swells, thunderous storms and all moments in between. To an overlooker peering up to the sky, the moon offers the only direction and reference amongst the vastness of black unknowing. The moon is the introspection and calm, the reflection and procedure. The escape from the abyss.

The yang: the harborer of action and familiarity, spreading the light and warmth to the world. The sun provides the light, allowing for one to see. The winds that flutter cherry blossoms and assists birds in gliding high. Offering the world with energy to grow into a stronger, more dependable and supportive version of itself. The light that blinds when looking at it.

Relationships can be thought of as intercontinental ocean voyages. Regardless of the particular boat, the size of your sails or whether you are Christopher Columbus or not, without the sun there is no wind. A force that can redirect itself or cease to blow at any moment. The moon within the relationship uses their knowledge of sailing to put the sun’s wind to best use.

Relationships in time, build up high like skyscrapers in the Manhattan skyline. Simply put, without the moon, these buildings would succumb due to poor foundations. Essential design elements would not be accounted for, the structure would not be lightening resistant nor earthquake proof without the moon’s canny. The sun within the relationship can build the skyscraper of their dreams, bringing vision to reality, with methodology brought forward by the moon.

Simply put, people who emanate the sun’s energy produce and source the cards of life from themselves, for themselves and those they love. While those who ground themselves in the moon’s energy, patiently glue new components from the outside world into their lives.

Each can stockpile or hoard their resources. But only after forming union, can they creatively construct and upgrade a house of cards together, that when super-glued will not fall down like the rest.

100 word flash fiction

100 word flash fiction

My thighs and backside ached. Sitting in that chair helped with the lower back though. I had sat monitoring the cities pulse for hours. Sip of tea now, sip of tea then. My cocoon.

She walked in. She was tired but didn’t show it. Our four pupils met, communicating in ways that defied spoken tongue. Her cocoon and cup alongside mine.

Her hand in my hair and smell in my nose. Thigh and backside tingles replaced by ones received from my head. She turned with a simper, with whispering eyes that asked me to ‘steep another teapot and then fuck her gently.’

A poem addressed to myself

A poem addressed to myself

Time passes, moments that could have been spent with you are lost.

Building sandcastles on the beach, so high.

Laughing as sand blows into our lunchtime sandwiches, so gritty.

 

Dynamic dreams, opening the door onto a world that is closed.

Waiting for the signposts, so intuitive.

Reality dissolving inside a cup of watery subjectivity, so inviting.

 

Utterly isolated, waiting for what is meant to come to come.

Aching for newness, companionship, love, so eager.

Satisfied and comfortable without however, all too independent.