Melancholy July 7, 2006
Posted by Jen in : Writing Bits , add a commentCaroline dragged the heavy wool blanket further towards her chin, noticing the slight scratch of the material. What time was it? It was dark, despite the curtains being open. The sash cord had broken when she opened the window too enthusiastically a few weeks ago. Now it was stuck, half open, the wind having blown last Sunday’s newspaper into separate leaves all over the floor. The window rattled, irritating her. Caroline pushed the black hair away from her eyes and peered at the luminous green numbers on the video recorder. 2:07 am. Good. That meant it was still last night and not tomorrow yet; she could legitimately have another glass of wine. She sighed, noticing the Merlot stain on the arm of the saggy, cream chair.
The television was on in the kitchen. She liked leaving something on in every room. It didn’t make her feel less lonely, quite the opposite. It compounded her knowledge that there was life going on around her; she just didn’t want to be a part of it. The wine bottle was empty so she filled up the wine glass with whiskey. Back in the sitting room, she pressed the ‘play and repeat’ buttons on the CD player. Tom Waits. How many times had she listened to this CD? She rested the glass on top of the red wine stain, twisting the platinum wedding ring around on her finger. She supposed she should stop wearing it. It had become too loose anyway over the last few weeks. She hadn’t noticed losing weight. Wearing her pyjamas with an oversized fleece, she couldn’t remember when she had last got dressed. ‘Ice Cream Man’ was far too cheery but lasted just a few minutes before it slid into a tinkling, simple tune that reminded her of her old jewellery box, the perfect but hard ballerina who turned without expression until the music stopped. (more…)
Homemade Happiness
Posted by Jen in : A215 stuff , add a comment
Hard-wearing but colourful
skin stretched over slender frame
Long string tangled
it flies ever higher
Soaring, wheeling, diving
Inevitably a crash.
Dirty and broken
Something so easy, so free
will always depend on the weather.
Unrequited
Posted by Jen in : A215 stuff , add a commentI think of you the moment I awake
despite my pact that I would not relent.
My mind misleads, pretends I smell your scent
which makes my stomach churn, all senses ache.
Your plain dark looks, a drug I can’t forsake
gives bittersweet and silky smooth descent
into a decadent, luxurious torment.
I hate the way you linger at my hips
once you’re devoured. Not just a greedy fling,
I can’t give up my aphrodisiac.
Ashamed when caught, your taste stays on my lips
but diet books have taught me one sad thing:
‘chocolate cannot ever love you back’.
Ticking Away
Posted by Jen in : A215 stuff , add a commentTicking Away
Crumbling church, perched high above the village
guards heartfelt thoughts on lichen-rich headstones.
Dark stubbled boundaries, sheep in grey bloomers
match steely sky; late, pale moon hanging high.
Woodpecker’s staccato percussion breaks
the stillness of this silent symphony.
Footpaths lead through green-hued rainbow fields,
entice from real but stilted clockwork life.
An unrecognisable silhouette
hears nothing. Punctuated by gunshot.
Warm breath coming faster, I check my watch.
This timelessness cannot last forever.
Drifting July 6, 2006
Posted by Jen in : Writing Bits , 2 commentsI’m sitting here. Not doing anything else, particularly, just sitting. Just in that sort of mood when nothing makes me happy; in fact, nothing makes me anything. I walked the dog thinking it would lift me out of this drifting state; that I would be able to focus, think clearly about everything. But I can’t. So, I’m just sitting here, waiting for something to happen. Anything. The perfume of wild, wilting flowers mixes exotically with the tobacco smell of the strong coffee in the tired mug next to me. It’s so quiet, the distant hum of traffic reminding me of the world going on without me… the smell of a barbecue compounds this. I imagine the family I can’t see or hear, laughing, eating before the children are tired. But I am alone. I need a sign. I never see any fish in this river. If I see one now, I know that things will be ok - better than ok, perhaps. Are you supposed to be more positive about signs? I watch the fluorescent green weeds weave in the current, thriving despite their lack of oxygen, hearing the shallow water whisper over the stones. I’ve been reading these hippy books, how you can tell what’s going on in your life by recognising the ‘signposts’ and quite like the idea… it’s more open to ambiguity than horoscopes at least. Easier to make what you see fit what you want to believe. I feel misplaced in my own world, waiting for outside forces to convey what I’m thinking, feeling… make it seem real to me.
The evening sun begins to disappear. The asthmatic sigh of a hot air balloon draws my attention to the floating Christmas bauble; a special treat for someone as I sit here alone, envying them. Is this my sign?
