Sunday, 22 February 2009

3 a.m. minuet

"You know what your problem is?"
"Which one?"
"Hah. funny. *raises glass*"
"Ok... what.."
"You're a very good person...."
"That's my problem??"
"Ok. No. Wait, let me finish. You're a very good person, and I'm being honest here because I'm sorta tipsy, ok? You always put your self in these existential inner turmoil situations."
"You're a very good person... and I think that you want to be happy. You'd like to be happy."
"But I think that somewhere in that head of yours, you don't think you deserve to be."
"...*short pause*... drink your goddamn wine."

Wednesday, 18 February 2009

Reading cards

She shuffles the cards in her palm, her elbows resting on the old mahogany table in the garden.
Her fingertips stroke their delicately ornamented gilded backs as she layers card over card from one palm to the other, and crickets chirped in the undergrowth under a sky stained dusk.
"This is the last time" she whispers. He tilts his head at her statement.
"This is the last time I do this. No more readings." She say, this time with more irritation in her tone. She sighs softly.
She flips the first card in the pack over. It's the Queen of Cups.
"Interesting. She is royal. And that is in no way literal. She seems to be like anyone else, but she is not. She is far more superior. The Queen of Cups is wise, and governing but with love and tenderness. She is a mother, a friend, and a lover all in one..."
He clears his throat slightly, taking it all in, and again, she flips the next card.
"The Moon. Although the moon does not shine its own light, it allows for one to look at it in the face. It is honest, the light from the sun allows it to shine, but not bright enough to blind, just bright enough to show you the way. It is never the most obvious light source, but it is there, always."
He rests his head on his gripped fists and closes his eyes, listening carefully and trying to understand where the pieces fit.
"Two more cards" she says, as she reaches for the pack, caresses the card and flips it over.
"The World. Hmm." she pauses. "This card links to the first...the Queen and the World..." she rubs her chin with her forefinger, and the lines in her forehead form slowly.
"The Queen, all loving, all giving, is offering the World.." her voice trails as she starts to flip the last card.
"The Queen is offering the world to...."
He looks at the card, and looks up at her as she utters the words as if to reaffirm what his eyes already see.
"...the Fool."
He stands up. "And what does the Fool stand for?"
She looks at him and smiles briefly. "Come on...That's something I don't think I need to explain."
He laughs slightly, before crossing his arms and losing himself in thought.
"You never were never good at reading Tarot" he says.
"Then why do you keep asking it of me? There are only so many times things can be explained."
An owl swoops and hoots low. And the crickets stop chirping for a moment.
She sighs, and looks at the ground near his feet. "If you cannot see what there is to see, I cannot be your eyes. I wish I could, but it is not my place to be your eyes. I have no right to be your eyes. But let me leave you with this cliche of cliches : You won't know what you're missing until its gone. And then it could be too late."
She gulps the last bit of wine from her glass and stands up. Stroking a loose strand of hair from her face behind her ear, she picks up her cat and strokes it, looking up at him for a second.
"The moon is out already, and I'm tired. No more readings. I'm done... I'm done" she states, her voice twisting with melancholy.
She turns her back and walks away, the grass crunching quietly and crispy under her feet.

"The fool.." she whispers to her cat when she is sure he cannot hear her. "The fool.. if only he knew.." The cat shakes its head as a tear lands on its fur, meowing as if in sad agreement.

And as the distance between them grows bigger and bigger, he notices the motif on the back of her jacket.

It spells "Queen".

Tuesday, 17 February 2009

Strangers at a table

"Can I use your outlet?" he asks, holding a laptop charger plug in his hand and eyebrows inquisitively raised.

She nods after lifting her eyes from the work on her screen.

He sits opposite her and starts to type. Every once in a while he humphs or sighs annoyingly or grunts sarcastically. He has an irate demeanor about him, scowling constantly, with a smile like democracy - nonexistent.

He intrigues her. He seems to be gay from his mannerisms, and although she knows she must be generalising, she can't help it. She spies on him every few minutes from behind her screen and from in between her headphones, careful to not appear to.

She orders her diet coke, a few minutes later he signals to the waitress to bring him a cup of a coffee.
He is disturbed by the smoke from her cigarette.
She feels a bit guilty, and tries subtly hard to keep it from floating in his direction.
It worries her unnecessarily. Also something she cannot help.

As she works he becomes more familiar to her, a quiet friend, companion.
I'm not alone, she thinks, as he sits opposite her living his life while she lives hers, completely separate.

And then a few hours later, he gets up. He politely points out that she's plugged her charger into his extension chord and if she could remove it.

"Of course" she says, the only words she's uttered the whole time they were there.

He packs up while organising a plan on the phone he is balancing on his shoulder. He's hurrying, and fumbling, and as soon as the zipper on his laptop bag closes he turns and leaves.

She sees him walk away through the window, his back turned.
And she suddenly misses him, this stranger.
She suddenly feels like she's been dumped by someone who doesn't know her, jilted by someone who she probably would not like. Walked out on by a scowler, and a grunter, and someone who sips his coffee loudly. She suddenly feels a tinge of pain, albeit briefly.

She looks at the empty seat in front of her, and in the crowd of the cafe, she feels terribly alone.

Monday, 9 February 2009

A Conversation with Holden Caulfield - blast from the past

I was mentioning this poem I wrote like 6 years ago to a friend of mine that had to do with Holden Caulfield, and I decided to dig it up. I forget the context I wrote it in, but in any case, here it is...

Conversation with Holden Caulfield

I spoke to Holden Caulfield
And he said everything would be alright.
I asked him why,
He said because of the stars
in the sky at night.

I asked about the ducks,
The ones that flew away.
He said he didnt care anymore
To him, they were just another day.

And the stars?
The stars were different, he said.
The stars were different.

They were as perennial as
the sight in his eyes
They were always in the skies,
in their perfect constellations.
Free in space.

The thought of stars,
brought a light to his face.

"I cannot wait till night falls
to see my own festival of stars
From within these four white walls
And through the this window
this window with bars.."

I left Holden Caulfield,
who had said everything would be alright.
And I found out that they would be
That very same night..