Chopping & Chess by Simon Lucas
“Put your back into it son!”
Whenever we were out woodcutting, his words often stung. I tried so hard to make him proud. Though often muffled by his thick beard that engulfed his skin like dense black smog, he was a man of few words and I clung onto them. His short scruffy hair perfectly matched his hairy demeanour. I remember that once he turned up at mum’s house completely clean shaven. When I opened the door I called out to mum telling her there was a stranger at the door. That’s how accustomed we were to his hirsute face. He was cunning and an intelligent man only dressed in flannies, hard yhaka trousers and steel capped boots. As the tradition usually goes that those from the bush usually stay in the bush, so he had settled for a life of digging holes for fence posts and manning a fearsome tractor rather than a university education.
Out in paradise past Sheffield, every strike of the timber echoed throughout the hills.
“Half way through your strike, let the axe slip through your fingers,” he’d advise and he’d mark the wood with a spray can, where I would strike, and then hit the same spot again so as to get my aim in good practice. To me at the time it was paradise, just him and I.
Arriving home just by nightfall, unloading the Ute, then heading inside for some’ swamp surprise’ a favourite meal that he’d concoct. This was always followed by chess, the general’s game.
It was a very old set but beautiful. It was a Greek style set with hoplites and foot soldiers rather than pawns and bishops. On one of the vertical sides of the set there was the signature of the master craftsman who made it a couple hundred years ago.
He taught me how to play, how I should think three steps ahead at all times but I always played very differently to him, with a childlike view and unorthodox strategies.
Sometimes we would play a few games a night but I only ever won a few times.
One night he said to me “If you were a chess piece, which one would you be?”
Perplexed by what was said I stopped and thought about it for a while, really contemplating even though I wasn’t very old. After a few more moves I told my father that I thought I’d be a pawn because I’m only small and insignificant.
The game kept progressing on in eerie silence, only hearing the tapping of fidgeting fingers on the table and the clunk of the marble chess pieces. A cough and then a sentence came from his lips, “That’s a pretty negative view son, and somehow quite correct.” The words piercing through me like a cold knife, that he thought so little of me, as if I was a half monthly burden.
Months passed with more woodcutting, farm work and chess on every other weekend.
It made me happy when we were out wood cutting and I could hit the same spot and turn a tree to kindling in no time at all, but the man’s stubbornness wouldn’t let me see any sign of approval or acknowledgement, no matter how much I would sweat it out in the late summer sun.
Six months after his question was posed initially he asked it again, “Which piece you would be?” My reply was the same. “I’m just a pawn.” Silence ensued.
I felt upset, but felt the need to ask the same question of him. “Which piece would you be father? Surely you would be the king?” The reply was shocking as I felt sure that he thought so highly of himself. “No son, I’m not deserving of that status.”
“Am I still a pawn?” I asked tentatively. No reply was forthcoming. We continued our chess game in silence. I poked and prodded at his cover, check here, then retreat, stretching out his defence.
“Beer O’clock,” he announced and then journeyed to the fridge for some cheap VB.
Sitting back down with stubby in hand the game continued. I was nervous as to why he had not answered my question. Then after clearing his throat with a look on his face as if trying to swallow a golf ball, he muttered, “Son you may only be a pawn now but one day, one day son, you’ll be a knight.” I sat there shocked in the deepness of what he had said, filled with a bright feeling of joy and upliftment. I grinned with content.
The game had come to a finish and it was a stalemate. I had him on the ropes earlier but being older and wiser he had forced the draw.
That night I lay awake in the cold thinking, pondering the epic night that had come to pass.
The man that said so few words and even fewer words that were of admiration had given his son hope for the future and a feeling of worth.
It’s a big thing for an underappreciated son to finally find this acknowledgement, to be validated as something of promise.
Now sitting down, retelling this story, I’m reminded of the wise man of few words. Now that I am dressed in academic robes, so foreign to his world I am reminded of him, that he thought something decent of me and that he knew I would eventually shine like a knight.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Ode to a man
A man stands at the gates of heaven
Was he a good man, a kind and generous man?
Did he do unto others as they would do unto him?
Was he loved and respected, loyal and honest
Did he work hard and provide for this family
Did he care for the soil and the fruits it provided
This man would surely walk through the gates
And be accepted in heaven as he was loved and accepted here
He was our man, a husband, father, pop, brother and friend
Generous, honest, loyal, strong, independent, a hardworking man
A smile that would show warmth in his eyes and the lines on his face
Hands that could wield a sledge hammer and arms that could cradle a baby
A heart large enough to be broken but small enough to be mended
With a strong back and broad shoulders he stood tall and proud
Always at the ready with a kind word of advice,
He was a good man he was our man
Written by my Mum about my Pop fro his funeral.
Miss you Pop :/
Was he a good man, a kind and generous man?
Did he do unto others as they would do unto him?
Was he loved and respected, loyal and honest
Did he work hard and provide for this family
Did he care for the soil and the fruits it provided
This man would surely walk through the gates
And be accepted in heaven as he was loved and accepted here
He was our man, a husband, father, pop, brother and friend
Generous, honest, loyal, strong, independent, a hardworking man
A smile that would show warmth in his eyes and the lines on his face
Hands that could wield a sledge hammer and arms that could cradle a baby
A heart large enough to be broken but small enough to be mended
With a strong back and broad shoulders he stood tall and proud
Always at the ready with a kind word of advice,
He was a good man he was our man
Written by my Mum about my Pop fro his funeral.
Miss you Pop :/
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
That snobby one
Time travellers inspired piece
That snobby one
Another day, another dollar, I keep telling myself this. How many times have I said this but my optimism in becoming something more than just an ‘average Joe’ is waning? As I weave through my no-career-just-a-job-in-retail life I wonder what happened to my aspirations.
“My gap year so I can travel the world and then come back to Uni” I said years ago. Now I’m too lazy and apathetic about life, disappointed with my train-work-train-day-done-world to find joy. I’m too old for partying, but not yet old enough to settle down. I’m struggling to find aspirations in this prison cell of computing sales and public transport.
Following my dreary, insipid route from work to the train station, through back alleys and parks that have only withering trees and flowers. It’s a den of smoking, quick drug deals and sometimes violence between school kids. Everyone always has a wish-I-wasn’t-here-look. There are only ever glum-tired faces so like mine. Yet among the litter, graffiti broken people and screeching train brakes there appears a tainted light, a face that seems so familiar.
“It’s been so long! That surely can’t be her?” I say to myself. “How could this be? I thought you were a somebody, why would she be riding the trains at 6.30 on a cold Friday night?” I mutter susurringly. Your radiant beauty crosses in front of me. Your hair, long, straggly but flowing; jeans stained and torn. Your shoes have holes and you wear no socks but her face is clean and pretty. Should I speak to you? You once ruled the high school with your academic prowess, looks and charm and then the catwalks of Milan. How has this fall from elegance come about, this riches to rags? I can only speculate the demise of your fame.
You’re sitting down on the cold concrete floor, sipping from a bottle of flat coke; eyes still that shiny brown as you gaze off into the distance. You’re the girl that was above everyone else, not only on a self-placed pedestal but literally a top the podium for whatever you pursued. You’re the girl who had everything going for yourself and snobbed everyone who wasn’t deemed fit to behold your presence. Now resting upon a dirty bin at a gloomy train station surrounded by doll-bludgers and pack-a-day-smoko-every-five minutes café workers. Surely humbled by your plummet from grace, I assume.
I approach to ask of your recent trials and trepidations, follies and shortcomings. I step towards you, but you stand up because your train has arrived. It is also my train.
“What should I say?” I mumble under my breath, as if being close to you was a novelty as you were once something so sought after, like homeless after a hot meal, and I was somehow nervous.
I want to ask about your clandestine and mysterious past, but how awkward. “Uhm, hey you don’t know who I am but I know you were famous, but now you’re in the slums. Why is that?” I imagine to myself.
The ephemeral moment is approaching. I see you turning slowly towards me; eye contact is imminent! You are now looking at me. “He-hey, I know you.” I stammer, my words getting choked on their journey out my mouth. You just turn your head back. There is a glint of recognition in your eyes, but no emotion in your face. “Hey, I know you!” I call out but you’re now facing away from me, walking away.
Maybe in shame or maybe you’re still too high and mighty to acknowledge me. Maybe after all it wasn’t your born-to-beauty-brains state of mind, but an innate disconnection and aloofness to relationships as well as your insecurities, natural like a fawn fighting for its life from a hunter.
That snobby one
Another day, another dollar, I keep telling myself this. How many times have I said this but my optimism in becoming something more than just an ‘average Joe’ is waning? As I weave through my no-career-just-a-job-in-retail life I wonder what happened to my aspirations.
“My gap year so I can travel the world and then come back to Uni” I said years ago. Now I’m too lazy and apathetic about life, disappointed with my train-work-train-day-done-world to find joy. I’m too old for partying, but not yet old enough to settle down. I’m struggling to find aspirations in this prison cell of computing sales and public transport.
Following my dreary, insipid route from work to the train station, through back alleys and parks that have only withering trees and flowers. It’s a den of smoking, quick drug deals and sometimes violence between school kids. Everyone always has a wish-I-wasn’t-here-look. There are only ever glum-tired faces so like mine. Yet among the litter, graffiti broken people and screeching train brakes there appears a tainted light, a face that seems so familiar.
“It’s been so long! That surely can’t be her?” I say to myself. “How could this be? I thought you were a somebody, why would she be riding the trains at 6.30 on a cold Friday night?” I mutter susurringly. Your radiant beauty crosses in front of me. Your hair, long, straggly but flowing; jeans stained and torn. Your shoes have holes and you wear no socks but her face is clean and pretty. Should I speak to you? You once ruled the high school with your academic prowess, looks and charm and then the catwalks of Milan. How has this fall from elegance come about, this riches to rags? I can only speculate the demise of your fame.
You’re sitting down on the cold concrete floor, sipping from a bottle of flat coke; eyes still that shiny brown as you gaze off into the distance. You’re the girl that was above everyone else, not only on a self-placed pedestal but literally a top the podium for whatever you pursued. You’re the girl who had everything going for yourself and snobbed everyone who wasn’t deemed fit to behold your presence. Now resting upon a dirty bin at a gloomy train station surrounded by doll-bludgers and pack-a-day-smoko-every-five minutes café workers. Surely humbled by your plummet from grace, I assume.
I approach to ask of your recent trials and trepidations, follies and shortcomings. I step towards you, but you stand up because your train has arrived. It is also my train.
“What should I say?” I mumble under my breath, as if being close to you was a novelty as you were once something so sought after, like homeless after a hot meal, and I was somehow nervous.
I want to ask about your clandestine and mysterious past, but how awkward. “Uhm, hey you don’t know who I am but I know you were famous, but now you’re in the slums. Why is that?” I imagine to myself.
The ephemeral moment is approaching. I see you turning slowly towards me; eye contact is imminent! You are now looking at me. “He-hey, I know you.” I stammer, my words getting choked on their journey out my mouth. You just turn your head back. There is a glint of recognition in your eyes, but no emotion in your face. “Hey, I know you!” I call out but you’re now facing away from me, walking away.
Maybe in shame or maybe you’re still too high and mighty to acknowledge me. Maybe after all it wasn’t your born-to-beauty-brains state of mind, but an innate disconnection and aloofness to relationships as well as your insecurities, natural like a fawn fighting for its life from a hunter.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Into the night
The air was crisp and fresh as we pelted through the night. The moon was full and its strong milky glow illuminated the fields that we ran through. On our bare feet the grass was soft and dewy and every now and then we would have mud seeping in-between our toes.
The trees bending hard under the strong will of the wind. The bellowing of the wind was all we could hear besides gun shots and the rhythmic thudding of our feet upon the earth. We jogged on, trying to hug ourselves for warmth whilst running.
We were soaked from the rain that whipped into us with a sting from of the fast winds.
We were puffed out and sick of seeing the same old image of the stretching plains of flattened out grass. We could hear the gunshots and although they were too far away to smell but our brains knew the scent. The paddock was ripe with the pungency of cow patties and the horrid stench of mounds of corpses. Our troupe trudged on through the slowly lightening darkness as our pursuers grew nearer, we could tell by the growing sounds of their chase as we heard less of the roaring winds and more of the barking German shepherds. The slow growing glow of dawn on the horizon was beautiful but its light could’ve been deathly from aiding those in search of us.
The grey clouds above us seemed to give me a chilling feeling in my gut as if it was an ominous sign of ruin. The fields that at first seemed everlasting were now coming to an end and the huge bush coming closer. Inside we found tranquility and stillness away from those following. We were certain we would be safe in there, protected from the random pot-shots of our trackers. The winds were beginning to subside and the rain now no more than a drizzle. The tweeting and chirping of the birds could be heard and the moo of awakening cows. Everything around was soaked and had begun to glisten in the now strengthened sunlight. We were clammy and tired from our get away in the pouring rain but after finding a place to hide we could take a rest. The Floor was soggy yet soft with old brown leaves and the thick shrubbery we hid in was comforting. We felt a wave of relief as the danger to our lives to seemed to pass. Our heart rates slowed and we began to enjoy the wonder of our surroundings as we slowly etched our way back to being warm. It was the second week into spring and the flora had started to flourish. As we were far away from the slums of our hometown this was a new experience. The tree’s we hid amongst were brown but plagued with from the trunk upward with green vines sprouting pink and purple flowers that smelled of perfume and to touch were silky. We lied on soft and moist moss as we watched fleeting red and blue birds go about their skirmishes in the branches above. A nearby apple tree provided us with some sustenance and its bounty was ripe juicy and we devoured them with pleasure.
Now resting back at our little spot we realized it had been sometime since our transfer from running to hiding and we felt very relaxed and peaceful in comparison to when we galloping through the country side. Being lackadaisical had almost cost us our lives as heavy footsteps from no more than fifteen meters away were certainly not from anyone friendly. There wasn’t enough shelter in the shrubbery for us all to remain hidden so as quietly as possible I crept over next to a decaying old log and forced it open to give me cover. The solid thud of the nearing boots was deafening as everything else seemed to be silenced. No chirping birds or squeaking field mice only the pounding of the weighty leather boots upon the earth. They stopped. I looked up to see the terrifying thing before which was the boots. The boots were covered in mud but with the steel capped front of them shining in the sun. I pressed hard into the rotten log to stay hidden and little bug crawled over me.
I held my breath and then just as I reached my limit he had walked off. We were safe once again.
We waited about ten minutes until we come out of hiding. Many sighs of relief and little tears from the fear but it was OK. We survived those frightful hours and then returned back to our dreary slums life but the scenery there was never as beautiful.
The trees bending hard under the strong will of the wind. The bellowing of the wind was all we could hear besides gun shots and the rhythmic thudding of our feet upon the earth. We jogged on, trying to hug ourselves for warmth whilst running.
We were soaked from the rain that whipped into us with a sting from of the fast winds.
We were puffed out and sick of seeing the same old image of the stretching plains of flattened out grass. We could hear the gunshots and although they were too far away to smell but our brains knew the scent. The paddock was ripe with the pungency of cow patties and the horrid stench of mounds of corpses. Our troupe trudged on through the slowly lightening darkness as our pursuers grew nearer, we could tell by the growing sounds of their chase as we heard less of the roaring winds and more of the barking German shepherds. The slow growing glow of dawn on the horizon was beautiful but its light could’ve been deathly from aiding those in search of us.
The grey clouds above us seemed to give me a chilling feeling in my gut as if it was an ominous sign of ruin. The fields that at first seemed everlasting were now coming to an end and the huge bush coming closer. Inside we found tranquility and stillness away from those following. We were certain we would be safe in there, protected from the random pot-shots of our trackers. The winds were beginning to subside and the rain now no more than a drizzle. The tweeting and chirping of the birds could be heard and the moo of awakening cows. Everything around was soaked and had begun to glisten in the now strengthened sunlight. We were clammy and tired from our get away in the pouring rain but after finding a place to hide we could take a rest. The Floor was soggy yet soft with old brown leaves and the thick shrubbery we hid in was comforting. We felt a wave of relief as the danger to our lives to seemed to pass. Our heart rates slowed and we began to enjoy the wonder of our surroundings as we slowly etched our way back to being warm. It was the second week into spring and the flora had started to flourish. As we were far away from the slums of our hometown this was a new experience. The tree’s we hid amongst were brown but plagued with from the trunk upward with green vines sprouting pink and purple flowers that smelled of perfume and to touch were silky. We lied on soft and moist moss as we watched fleeting red and blue birds go about their skirmishes in the branches above. A nearby apple tree provided us with some sustenance and its bounty was ripe juicy and we devoured them with pleasure.
Now resting back at our little spot we realized it had been sometime since our transfer from running to hiding and we felt very relaxed and peaceful in comparison to when we galloping through the country side. Being lackadaisical had almost cost us our lives as heavy footsteps from no more than fifteen meters away were certainly not from anyone friendly. There wasn’t enough shelter in the shrubbery for us all to remain hidden so as quietly as possible I crept over next to a decaying old log and forced it open to give me cover. The solid thud of the nearing boots was deafening as everything else seemed to be silenced. No chirping birds or squeaking field mice only the pounding of the weighty leather boots upon the earth. They stopped. I looked up to see the terrifying thing before which was the boots. The boots were covered in mud but with the steel capped front of them shining in the sun. I pressed hard into the rotten log to stay hidden and little bug crawled over me.
I held my breath and then just as I reached my limit he had walked off. We were safe once again.
We waited about ten minutes until we come out of hiding. Many sighs of relief and little tears from the fear but it was OK. We survived those frightful hours and then returned back to our dreary slums life but the scenery there was never as beautiful.
My father, The Great Man
My father, The Great Man
My father was a pretty cool guy, I found. He was funny and awesome, loving and caring.
He was tall with short black hair, big shoulders and a little beer belly.
He was the life of all BBQ’s with his practical jokes, bellowing laugh and fantastic steak cooking skills.
The greatest thing I found about him was the way he loved his wife. Everything, he did everything he could for her, made her feel valued and beautiful every single day. Mum would be standing in the kitchen cooking up a stew, her long hazel hair glistening in the sun as the afternoon light shone heavenly through the shutters and he would sweep her off her feet. Up into his arms she would go, she was small in his arms like a sleeping child. Mum couldn’t smile more at this as he insisted he finished the cooking.
Yet sometimes things go a miss. Sometimes he might slip up and maybe get a little too drunk or dig himself into a big hole of tiredness and stress as his work piled up. But being a lawyer had its perks for him occasionally as I one day found out and his biggest slip up was right in front of me.
Mum had sent me over to his firm to go home with dad after soccer training as she was busy with my younger sisters’ ballet concert. I was to wait around out the front for him as I wasn’t really allowed amongst all the busy barristers, nor would I want to be. Having no public toilets around was pretty annoying and that was my main motivation for I was hungry and thirsty entering the big court house. As I entered the toilets I also saw a women enter father’s office. I made little thought of it, but when I had exited the toilets and entered dads’ office, only to find her half naked and straddling her did I begin to feel a little concerned. Her Business skirt slightly pulled down, and her back was bare. Dad poked his head around the girl to see who was there, “Son! What are you doi...” I apologised later for cutting him off but I couldn’t help it. From my slight dehydration, hunger and shock from what was before me… I had fainted. I wasn’t out for long though, maybe twenty seconds, it wasn’t long enough for the girl to fix her tangled hair and dads’ face was still bright red.
I had regained consciousness but my head was aching, I must have smacked it on my way down. It was a little while before they had noticed I was awake. They were having an aggravated, whispering argument. In my dazed confusion I couldn’t really focus on what they were saying exactly, I think it was over her keeping her job at the firm. I really didn’t know what to expect, with the inevitable conversation that would be coming with dad about what I had seen. Would he be mad or stern? Would he beg me not to say anything? Or try to reason with me and justify his actions? All I knew is that I wanted to get out of there. I didn’t want him to see me lying there looking up at him with disappointment and anguish. I was raring to run out of the door but as I leant up I had caught dads’ attention and we made eye contact. “Son, are you ok?” He asked franticly as he knelt down to me, “You smacked your head on the wall pretty hard,” His voice was crackly from being nervous.
“I’m fine” I said with a short tone. I really just wanted to get out of there. I turned away from him, shunning him to show my emotion. He pulled away and I saw my opportunity to escape from extreme awkwardness of the situation. I turned the handle and leapt out, pelting through halls, my shoes smacking loudly on the limestone tiles. I can’t remember if he called out to me or not, I was just running away. Where and when had his decency left him? When had it started? Why was he doing it? All this contemplation was too much for a thirteen year old boy. I waited outside for him to come out. I waited about ten minutes, outside on a bench. We both hopped in the car and drove home in silence. Not a word was said for the twenty minute drive home. We got home and dad instantly changed, from paranoid and awkward to tender and lovable in half a second. He rushed over and picked up mum, her legs around his waist and they gazed at each other. I straight away flashed back to the office room, the image clear in my head of the random receptionist atop my dad.
My sister came over also as he put down his partner. “Daddy, daddy I had my performance today!” She said as an excited nine year old does. Their conversation continued as I stood watching from a distance. I was zoned out, my mind still plagued with questions. How can he change so quickly? Does he transform every night like this before he walks through the door?
I never said anything, or told anyone so I’m assuming no one knows. I doubt the coward told his wife or told his mistress that he couldn’t see her anymore. We never had that conversation that I assumed was inescapable, he simply never confronted me about it. Everything went on the same after that. Dad was still steak cooking champion and funniest guy around but I knew the terrible secret behind that great man.
My father was a pretty cool guy, I found. He was funny and awesome, loving and caring.
He was tall with short black hair, big shoulders and a little beer belly.
He was the life of all BBQ’s with his practical jokes, bellowing laugh and fantastic steak cooking skills.
The greatest thing I found about him was the way he loved his wife. Everything, he did everything he could for her, made her feel valued and beautiful every single day. Mum would be standing in the kitchen cooking up a stew, her long hazel hair glistening in the sun as the afternoon light shone heavenly through the shutters and he would sweep her off her feet. Up into his arms she would go, she was small in his arms like a sleeping child. Mum couldn’t smile more at this as he insisted he finished the cooking.
Yet sometimes things go a miss. Sometimes he might slip up and maybe get a little too drunk or dig himself into a big hole of tiredness and stress as his work piled up. But being a lawyer had its perks for him occasionally as I one day found out and his biggest slip up was right in front of me.
Mum had sent me over to his firm to go home with dad after soccer training as she was busy with my younger sisters’ ballet concert. I was to wait around out the front for him as I wasn’t really allowed amongst all the busy barristers, nor would I want to be. Having no public toilets around was pretty annoying and that was my main motivation for I was hungry and thirsty entering the big court house. As I entered the toilets I also saw a women enter father’s office. I made little thought of it, but when I had exited the toilets and entered dads’ office, only to find her half naked and straddling her did I begin to feel a little concerned. Her Business skirt slightly pulled down, and her back was bare. Dad poked his head around the girl to see who was there, “Son! What are you doi...” I apologised later for cutting him off but I couldn’t help it. From my slight dehydration, hunger and shock from what was before me… I had fainted. I wasn’t out for long though, maybe twenty seconds, it wasn’t long enough for the girl to fix her tangled hair and dads’ face was still bright red.
I had regained consciousness but my head was aching, I must have smacked it on my way down. It was a little while before they had noticed I was awake. They were having an aggravated, whispering argument. In my dazed confusion I couldn’t really focus on what they were saying exactly, I think it was over her keeping her job at the firm. I really didn’t know what to expect, with the inevitable conversation that would be coming with dad about what I had seen. Would he be mad or stern? Would he beg me not to say anything? Or try to reason with me and justify his actions? All I knew is that I wanted to get out of there. I didn’t want him to see me lying there looking up at him with disappointment and anguish. I was raring to run out of the door but as I leant up I had caught dads’ attention and we made eye contact. “Son, are you ok?” He asked franticly as he knelt down to me, “You smacked your head on the wall pretty hard,” His voice was crackly from being nervous.
“I’m fine” I said with a short tone. I really just wanted to get out of there. I turned away from him, shunning him to show my emotion. He pulled away and I saw my opportunity to escape from extreme awkwardness of the situation. I turned the handle and leapt out, pelting through halls, my shoes smacking loudly on the limestone tiles. I can’t remember if he called out to me or not, I was just running away. Where and when had his decency left him? When had it started? Why was he doing it? All this contemplation was too much for a thirteen year old boy. I waited outside for him to come out. I waited about ten minutes, outside on a bench. We both hopped in the car and drove home in silence. Not a word was said for the twenty minute drive home. We got home and dad instantly changed, from paranoid and awkward to tender and lovable in half a second. He rushed over and picked up mum, her legs around his waist and they gazed at each other. I straight away flashed back to the office room, the image clear in my head of the random receptionist atop my dad.
My sister came over also as he put down his partner. “Daddy, daddy I had my performance today!” She said as an excited nine year old does. Their conversation continued as I stood watching from a distance. I was zoned out, my mind still plagued with questions. How can he change so quickly? Does he transform every night like this before he walks through the door?
I never said anything, or told anyone so I’m assuming no one knows. I doubt the coward told his wife or told his mistress that he couldn’t see her anymore. We never had that conversation that I assumed was inescapable, he simply never confronted me about it. Everything went on the same after that. Dad was still steak cooking champion and funniest guy around but I knew the terrible secret behind that great man.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
My Life in the Park
(Work in progress, soon to be a writing project)
My Life in the Park
My mother would always say to me, "The most wasted of all days are those without a laugh and happiness, so son crack a smile and make the day one worth it," her voice was dry and hoarse from days gone by of recreational drugs.
She was very much a hippie, much like a John Lennon character, a Neil Young fan, always a kind and soft woman. Nowadays she just sits at her antique spinning needle slowly puffing her father’s old pipe. It’s engraved with the cliché "carpe diem". I’m often reminiscent of this when I come to my spot. It’s a comforting image that has always stuck in my mind when thinking in the sun.
At this moment I’m sitting underneath an acorn tree, watching the clouds pass by. This park is my favourite place in the world. A nature preserve by the coast, to my left in the distance, tulip farms dance across the Tablecape horizon, red and yellow the most prominent. To my right, huge and mighty cliffs slightly curved from where the waves break. Where I sit the roses grow from within the black berries, much like how phoenixes fly from within the ashes. I sit here in the partial shade, with the warm and bright sun on my feet, plucking my guitar strings and humming a sweet melody. I know the lyrics but I am not the singer I earnestly wish I could be. I spend so long here sometimes that the people passing by on the footpath nearby think I’m homeless, they think I’m trying to busk or beg for change. I thank them for their generosity and kindness, as it’s a rarity, but I assure them I’m simply doing what I love and that’s enjoying the sun, scenery and those that also pass through here daily for one reason or the other.
There’s an aging skater boy, he’s come from the 70’s and looks like one of those kids in the film clip for ‘forever young’ by youth group. Now he’s old and balding but still cruises along the board walk, listening to an ancient walkman and remember his generation. Also my primary school PE teacher now runs a boot camp and takes his obese, middle-aged office workers for jogs along the causeway, every time I call out “having fun?” or “keep running slackers” to his sweaty, puffing mob as they galumph along the pavement and he gives me thumbs up and a grin. But mostly I’m here for you.
Every evening as the sun is going down; you walk past on your late afternoon stroll. Your long flowing, hazel hair, beautiful brown eyes and you have honestly the best smile I’ve ever seen. It’s hard to think that I dream of you so passionately yet to you I’m invisible. I’ll sit by the tree and hum my tune and you’ll just elegantly pass me by.
I’ll sit and jam for a little while longer, till just before dusk arrives and then journey home to a smoke filled house and knitted, tie-dyed shirts.
I did make something to try and sway you.
A small plaque half way up the tree I lean upon. It reads, “You’re as stunning as the afternoon sky lit red, gleaming with the radiance on the sun, but still with the beauty of the stars in your eyes,” – The guy with the guitar. When you first read it, you stopped and gawked, putting your hands over your mouth in astonishment. You blushed and giggled the rushed away. It made me smile and chuckle to myself, “One day you’ll stop and talk,” I say.
It’s for that smile and chuckle that I try to talk to you every day, because it’s as my mother always said, I don’t want to waste my day and you make the day one worth it.
My Life in the Park
My mother would always say to me, "The most wasted of all days are those without a laugh and happiness, so son crack a smile and make the day one worth it," her voice was dry and hoarse from days gone by of recreational drugs.
She was very much a hippie, much like a John Lennon character, a Neil Young fan, always a kind and soft woman. Nowadays she just sits at her antique spinning needle slowly puffing her father’s old pipe. It’s engraved with the cliché "carpe diem". I’m often reminiscent of this when I come to my spot. It’s a comforting image that has always stuck in my mind when thinking in the sun.
At this moment I’m sitting underneath an acorn tree, watching the clouds pass by. This park is my favourite place in the world. A nature preserve by the coast, to my left in the distance, tulip farms dance across the Tablecape horizon, red and yellow the most prominent. To my right, huge and mighty cliffs slightly curved from where the waves break. Where I sit the roses grow from within the black berries, much like how phoenixes fly from within the ashes. I sit here in the partial shade, with the warm and bright sun on my feet, plucking my guitar strings and humming a sweet melody. I know the lyrics but I am not the singer I earnestly wish I could be. I spend so long here sometimes that the people passing by on the footpath nearby think I’m homeless, they think I’m trying to busk or beg for change. I thank them for their generosity and kindness, as it’s a rarity, but I assure them I’m simply doing what I love and that’s enjoying the sun, scenery and those that also pass through here daily for one reason or the other.
There’s an aging skater boy, he’s come from the 70’s and looks like one of those kids in the film clip for ‘forever young’ by youth group. Now he’s old and balding but still cruises along the board walk, listening to an ancient walkman and remember his generation. Also my primary school PE teacher now runs a boot camp and takes his obese, middle-aged office workers for jogs along the causeway, every time I call out “having fun?” or “keep running slackers” to his sweaty, puffing mob as they galumph along the pavement and he gives me thumbs up and a grin. But mostly I’m here for you.
Every evening as the sun is going down; you walk past on your late afternoon stroll. Your long flowing, hazel hair, beautiful brown eyes and you have honestly the best smile I’ve ever seen. It’s hard to think that I dream of you so passionately yet to you I’m invisible. I’ll sit by the tree and hum my tune and you’ll just elegantly pass me by.
I’ll sit and jam for a little while longer, till just before dusk arrives and then journey home to a smoke filled house and knitted, tie-dyed shirts.
I did make something to try and sway you.
A small plaque half way up the tree I lean upon. It reads, “You’re as stunning as the afternoon sky lit red, gleaming with the radiance on the sun, but still with the beauty of the stars in your eyes,” – The guy with the guitar. When you first read it, you stopped and gawked, putting your hands over your mouth in astonishment. You blushed and giggled the rushed away. It made me smile and chuckle to myself, “One day you’ll stop and talk,” I say.
It’s for that smile and chuckle that I try to talk to you every day, because it’s as my mother always said, I don’t want to waste my day and you make the day one worth it.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
wanna be war hero (redone)
“Mum I wish the world was different don't you?”
“I wish the world was made of heroes and legends, a reality where I know I could do something and make a difference. Nothing I could do here would help anything, no amount of training, blogs or love would change anything.
They say you’re the most powerful when you’re fighting for something, to protect it, but what is there to fight for? Real strength comes from within, the yearning to save something but what do we have to save?
I wish our world was one where through guts, determination, bruises, beatings and strength I could change something, save something or someone.”
“Mum there’s this inevitable war coming that was forged through greed, hate and deception.
A horrible thing that destroys homes, countries and so, so many lives, yet why do I aspire to be someone who fuels it?
A soldier is a man with a gun, from a town like ours is taking lives for the sake of our country.
For many reasons this man fights
It’s for his land
It’s for his wife, his kids and his friends
It’s for family tradition
It’s to become a man
It’s for his religion
It’s for an adventure”
“Mum, as children I fantasized about being a soldier, we would shoot our friends with our hands and chickenfeed guns. Taking lives is a game”
“I think I will to I'll carry that gun through bullets and smoke while the cases drop and the blood spills. I'll wear my flag with pride the blood of innocence on my fingers will stain for my friends, my country and my love.
Why? The delusions of grandeur of a dreaming child? Because I wish in my life somewhere through my existence I could be a hero”
“Mum I wanna be a war hero!”
“I wish the world was made of heroes and legends, a reality where I know I could do something and make a difference. Nothing I could do here would help anything, no amount of training, blogs or love would change anything.
They say you’re the most powerful when you’re fighting for something, to protect it, but what is there to fight for? Real strength comes from within, the yearning to save something but what do we have to save?
I wish our world was one where through guts, determination, bruises, beatings and strength I could change something, save something or someone.”
“Mum there’s this inevitable war coming that was forged through greed, hate and deception.
A horrible thing that destroys homes, countries and so, so many lives, yet why do I aspire to be someone who fuels it?
A soldier is a man with a gun, from a town like ours is taking lives for the sake of our country.
For many reasons this man fights
It’s for his land
It’s for his wife, his kids and his friends
It’s for family tradition
It’s to become a man
It’s for his religion
It’s for an adventure”
“Mum, as children I fantasized about being a soldier, we would shoot our friends with our hands and chickenfeed guns. Taking lives is a game”
“I think I will to I'll carry that gun through bullets and smoke while the cases drop and the blood spills. I'll wear my flag with pride the blood of innocence on my fingers will stain for my friends, my country and my love.
Why? The delusions of grandeur of a dreaming child? Because I wish in my life somewhere through my existence I could be a hero”
“Mum I wanna be a war hero!”
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