Stay in the Now

"Stay in the now, dear."

Annoyed she had paid a palm-reader (what was she thinking?) only to receive magazine advice, Liz nonetheless found the words resonating.

She had a habit of getting up and spending her first half hour (after stretches, lunges and crunches of course) making to-do lists for the day ahead. This was Saturday, so her lists should also include the upcoming week's menu and a shopping list.

Today she found herself drawn to the balcony. A little brown bird with shiny eyes landed on the railing as she stood outside. Was it a nuthatch? Sparrow? She'd have to look it up. They eyed each other for almost five minutes. Liz was captivated by the bird's quick, intelligent movements, his tidy economical, hops on the rail, and the way his feathers (her feathers?) fluffed out over his feet to warm them.

Warm them. She realized she had grown chilly, and moved inside. The bird paused a moment longer and then flew away.

Wandering to the kitchen, Liz filled the kettle and placed it on the stove, and rummaged in her cupboard for a tea bag. She was a coffee person. It was a rare day when she made tea, usually only when one of her board sub-committees was meeting here.

Lemon Zinger? Cinnamon Toadie? Zen Stretch Green? WHERE did all these teas come from?

She knew, of course, that every few months she would be inspired by some article about a new cleanse or detoxifying diet, and run out and buy a new mystical tea to gather dust in the cupboard.

Ah, finally! King Cole. The kettle whistled and she poured the bubbling water over the teabag, admiring the way the red-brown colour slowly rose like fog off the harbour. She poured in a bit of milk, again admired the swirling pattern. Chemistry in action. Poetry.

The phone rang as she was completing her menu. This morning she had decided to pull out some of her seldom-used recipe books, and try a few new dishes this week. The recipe books were hiding the phone.

"Liz! I knew you'd be up. Betcha already have a spreadsheet open."

Liz eyed her teacup and doodled-upon menu. Doodles!

"Not quite yet.What are YOU doing out of bed, sister?"

Even Mabel's laugh sounded honey-golden. "I am feeling domestic. I'm making a big turkey supper for Jack and his band, I thought I'd see if you might perhaps like to join us."

Habit forced a 'no' to her lips, but she bit it off, glancing at her short 'to-do' list for the day: "Gym. Groceries. Work on budget."

"You know what? Yeah. That'd be fun. Oh, but my car's still in the shop... hm... do the commuter trains run on Saturday? Hold on...," she was already fumbling with her smart phone.

"Don't even bother, Peter's coming and he's right down your street. He can drive you."


***

WHY. Why hadn't she asked Mabel what Peter, the bass player for the AlmondDeadlies, would be driving? She eyed the bike.

"Here's my spare helmet, it should fit okay. You're wearing good boots. You should get a warmer jacket and gloves though. Do you have a thick leather jacket?"

Of course she didn't have a thick leather jacket. She had running jackets and trenchcoats and stylish woolen coats. Sigh. She thumped back upstairs and rooted in her closet, finally finding a sleek leather jacket that was the opposite of thick and sturdy. She pulled on a wool turtleneck and then the jacket, glanced in the mirror to wish the skin she knew and loved farewell, and headed out, to her certain demise.

The ride was no more than forty minutes in total, but the first 15 felt like hours as she hung on to Peter and the bike with arms and knees and the sheer clinging power of terror. The wind rushing past felt like hands pulling her off. Bumps in the road felt like the bike was bucking, trying to throw her off. The stopping and starting and sharp turns made her think she was going to vomit. Finally, they crossed the Winslow bridge out of the city, and trees rose around her. As the countryside got greener, she marginally began to feel more relaxed. Twenty minutes in, she eased back in the seat enough to peek over Peter's shoulder and see the countryside whisking by.

When they crested the next hill and the sun cast its late afternoon red gold eyes onto them, she realized she had never felt more present.

How can you live in the now when you are hurtling forward so fast? And she closed her eyes and let the rhythm of the bike guide her.

The answer is sleeping, buried, under Glace Bay. Of all places.

The cigar protruded out of his thick lips, covered in fine white hair. His teeth clenched it in a Jonah Jamieson smoke-ringed grimace.

Everyone was watching the smoke ring in front of him as the air gathered tension.

Finally, he sighed. "What do you want me to say? Are you breaking my balls here?"

Andre, the de facto leader of the small band of teens stepped up belligerently. "You could explain where the fuck you've been while the world was going to hell, for one thing."

"Look, kid, I to--"

"Don't bullshit me, I got it, you guys all fucking decided to have a short little nap a few thousand years ago, and then when you woke up you weren't sure how to approach us. I got it. So our climate is fuckered, and you KNEW this. And STILL you chose to take a few decades to watch us, and catch up on Simpsons reruns before you decided to bust in. And now--,"

The unicorn spit the cigar out and made as if to interrupt.

"AND NOW," Andre went on, "now you come waltzing out and think everyone's going to bow down and listen."

"I LOST GOOD PEOPLE OUT THERE. Your shithead army just blew up FIVE centaurs. There are only SEVENTEEN in the world! Twelve, now! What the hell is wrong with you humans? We left you a decent planet!"

"Don't you 'you humans' me, asshole! I'm not one of them!"

Darlene stepped forward at the same time as a young dwarf girl did, both holding up their hands and steering their champions away from the heated debate.

"Andre, Horace," she said, "Dorcas and I have been talking while you two have been butting heads. I think we have a solution."

"But," added Dorcas, "Not only are we going to have to work together, you two are going to have to shut up and get out of the way."

The silence spread out into the Glace Bay mining hall. Finally, from the crowd, a man spoke. Darlene thought it was Mr. Jacobs, the pharmacist.

"Can we stop this, girls? Tell us it's not too late."

Ogres need Bifocals

Although she'd spied the ogre, she didn't rush.

“I said, this prescription is not correct. The glasses make my eyes blurrier.” She patiently waited as the counter attendant continued to try to bluster her into disappearing.

“No. No, I'm not leaving. I want glasses that correct my vision. I need them ASAP. I have tried these for three days. There is no improvement.”

The ogre was moving toward the designer frames, browsing casually.

“I want to see Dr. Kimball again. I understand he has a patient with him. I'll wait... but I want to see him by four.”

The ogre had gotten much closer, and Lil was startled to hear it grunting a whiffling behind her. She turned and caught it glancing at the clock. 3:30.

It caught her eye and gave her a nod that could have meant, “yo, sistah, I got yer back”, or possibly, “eff you, twerp, that 4 o'clock slot is mine”, or even potentially, “my, you look like quite a yummy morsel.”

She sat down in the waiting area and watched the ogre glare at the service bell. The squirrelly attendant had disappeared into the office. The ogre tapped the bell once, waited a beat and then popped the whole thing in its mouth and roared.

Squirrelly reappeared. “Ms. Lil Watson? Lil?”

Sigh. “I'm RIGHT HERE.”

“You can go right in.”

Lil headed into the office, avoiding the ogre, who was now stomping on the Guess frame selection.

You fed me

I hungered, and you fed me.

Your savoury embrace, and I
salivated like at the smell of bbq

I never felt so safe so sated
So full so
Fed.

You did not offer dessert


But eggs and tea and toast and stirfry and the
warm
companionship
hot
coupling
were enough
then.


Then.


This is strange food
melts away
leaves me hungry 

Now, after my three course meal, from
over my
cheesecake-laden
fork

I look back with
gratitude.
You fed me.

Flames are not tongues

Flames are not tongues
They do not lick
They do not
   wet.

Flames are a virus.
They spread.
They eat.
They take what is and
   wreak change.

They are chaos.
They are catalyst.
They do not form
sweet words
And sing of
       a love that never dies.
Flames die.

Or, if they are tongues,
They are lying tongues
And when they
Speak
Lick
Taste
Swallow
Sing of endless love,
They only feed their own hollow
survival.

But flames, like other liars,
  die.

Roam, Ants.

We can float here, yes, sunny today
At the pool bar, enjoying this grasshopper life
I can curl around your back in the warm night and know
You are there.

But someday those thunder clouds will roll in, and
You have never yet
Offered me an umbrella.

africa, from a white girl

very, very preliminary draft of something I'm working on.


continent of spice, and tigers and mystery
what do I have to do with you?
My white ancestors smell of coal, turnips, seasalty fish, we
Are rumrunners, perhaps mountain folk,
Back far enough.

What have I to do with your sun and dark,
Your riches and rape, your depth and warmth and
Resilience?

I honour you, africa.

How did a continent writ over crossways with famine become
Nell-Carter Mother Africa--Mother Jones, Oprah,  Maya
All voluptuous round chocolate warm curves and strength and love and
Carrying on, carrying the weight, carrying.

Is this a stereotype television has fed me?
Well, duh.


You are rich riot orange-green-yellow-indigo-brown kente cloth,
Swathes, swaddled on waddling hips, with flashing smiles and turbaned hair,
A statement I cannot make, I, who wear blackbecauseitisslimming, as my people do.My people: those I see every day, most of them with that peculiar peachy pink hue we
call 'flesh', we caucasian-centric colour namers.


You are every shade of coffee and chocolate, and
I am milk.


i have never travelled your roads myself, but have
clutched the aura of strangeness that Mary Jane and Magan were
wrapped in on their return, sniffing it like a
strange perfume, like an infusion that restored breath.


They are richer for knowing you, while I am the child trying to
timidly touch Jesus' hem from the edge of the crowd.


Africa, it is your women who draw me, your ragged old-too-young rape
of warfare survivors, your grandmothers raising villages where a morality-fused
disease has decimated your children, and you,
You carry on. Carrying the weight, carrying.


I have studied your seedsavers, your co-operative
founders, your micro-credit mother groups. I
know that the challenges that could slay me are
breakfast in your world. I am soft. You
are strong.

The pretender child disavows his own mother from
Shame, and gets nearer to the mother he wants, to try
To become someone he's not.
I know who I am. I know my heritage, my worth, its worth.
But still, I wish
You were the aunt who visited every holiday and let me see you
Hair down, relaxed. I wish I had learned some of your spiced wisdom,
To complement mine.



Africa, I know my own community may lack
savannahs, lions, tigers, zebras, deserts and
there is no Sphinx, but
It too is full of your children.


Please help me, continent of ancient knowledge,
continent of origin,
Help me understand how to overcome my
ignorance, my lack of connection, my
inability to know how to what to when to say...
Help me embrace my honesty and meet you on my
doorstep,
Help me understand when I am ready
when I am worthy
what I can do.
What can I do.


Carry on. Carry the weight. Carry
you in my heart.