Broom (14)

BROOM (14)

I was white-washing walls (so the office looked bright) when the one with the hoola-hoop gave me a fright.

Collapsed in the corner she was, with her mouth a bit slack and her eyes almost crossed.

I said:

'hey, why not give that ring a quick swing?'

She said:

'I can't, I'm just feeling too thin.

'I am thinking too many portraits have been taken of me; the result is I'm feeling quite shaken. (My image is all and my soul is forsaken.) I'm blurred at the edges, you see. And, I'm no longer quite sure I'm me.'

I study her hard and I see what she's saying; she is out of focus, her seams are all fraying. The woman is wasting away. Her colour is gone; she's all grey.

I said:

'Well, please, no truck with the negative; you really have to be positive, and don't worry you're now monochrome. We can always hand-paint you, re-touch and highlight you. There's really no reason to moan. At worst, we can always gold-tone. Yes, that's what we will do to ensure that we fix you.

'And, if gold is too dear then selenium, I hear, will turn you a purplish-brown. (My God, why on earth do you frown?)

'It's a solution, isn't it?'

I, Priestess (5)

I, PRIESTESS (5)

This is how our local waste-disposal operates.

Every other Friday the council collects domestic rubbish and garden trash. The weeks in between are for paper cans cardboard plastics glass.

Those every-other Fridays are our days of shame. (When nobody's looking we pop our bottles in next-door neighbours' bins - in the hope of avoiding humiliation and self-blame.)

I wish we could do the same with our pasts. (Just how long does atonement have to last?)

I wish we could recycle our guilt and regrets; re-think them and make them useful. Bin our miserable failures and transform them into something worthwhile and functional.

I envisage a trash-can crowned with flowers.

Imagine this.

Well-disposed and lightly-perfumed; a world that never goes rotten and never sours.

I, Priestess (4)

I, PRIESTESS (4)

So, I've made a decision to take control: lean and fit and healthy and well.

You'll find me each morning with chalk on my fingers, hanging from a Beastmaker while the sliced bread singes.

So what if the smoke-alarm's ringing?

I can't be found quitting this crimping or clinging to those (beautifully-carved) wooden jugs. You see, I'm practising learning how to handle pull-ups.

Even if the house is razed to the ground, in the process.

You'll find me each lunch-time eating soup from fresh vegetables. Forcing it down despite each bowl tasting quite terrible. (The midday bevy has been replaced already with carrot juice or a mixed-berry smoothie.)

Then.

You'll find me out front, pumping the tyres on my bicycle. (I have to admit, it leaves me quite miserable. Too many sad memories of good times in the nineties.)

You'll find me in the afternoon, hula-hooping in the back-garden. (Got it off amazon.com. It tones one's lower abdomen.)

And, in the evening.

You'll find me behind the sports centre, slack-lining. (The butt-bounce was tricky; it proved quite demanding, but I managed it in the end.)

And, later.

You'll find me at night, curled up in bed, trying to focus on a some contemporary women's fiction. But, it has to be said, those late night-caps seriously fuck your concentration.

Nescio (4)

NESCIO (4)

Many years passed by; all in all, happily.

The brother, he married - quite successfully. He worked in the City and adopted a cat. He ran a good car and bought a nice flat. 

He was a gentle man, no question of that. No streak of violence except - perhaps - his hideous silence that chilled to the bone. He was happiest when he was left on his own. 

The daughter left home as soon as she could. Afraid of the prospect of womanhood, she developed a strategy. Call it a ploy. She starved her body and looked like a boy. She kept her black hair cut short. 

The daughter, however, desired to roam - the same boredom-gene that had made her leave home. Seduced by a longing for wanderlust. For years, she roamed forests and deserts of dust.

(The grass will be greener on the other side, she muttered as she walked.)

She climbed backwards up mountains. She swam against the tide. She hitch-hiked the world always riding beside lonely old men, who were weary and tired. 

She was happy to sit there and chatter. She'd learned young how to cajole and flatter.

In the meantime, the earth went on spinning on its axis and the priestess - for the record -  took to growing amaryllis. As each scarlet trumpet withered and died, she bit off the bloom and sentimentally sighed. In moments of clarity, sobered by sanity, she conquered her pride and her terrible vanity. 

She thought of the children, the sister and brother - the sister and brother so close to each other - who had risked an adventure and ventured to see her.

Despite her best intentions, they had made her feel maternal. Was her prophesy right; were they really damned eternal?

She liked herself better when she hoped this was not the case.