It was church bells that roused me when nothing else could have. A cacophony of potted bronze. Clamorous machines engineered through the centuries to do naught but direct the highest possible volume of sound downward, down to where the sinners live, work and sleep, and to wake those sinners UP. The bells did their work on this day. One hundred bells clamoring for notice atop one hundred churches. Bells hung by a pious people in a pious city, people who would surely one day, if there is a god, walk that golden road to meet Him. The bells were a not so subtle reminder that today was Sunday, the Lord’s Day, the day and time to wake, to stop working, and to accept the invitation to God’s house. It was the day set aside from living so that one might prepare his soul for dying. My soul had little preparation, but was ready yet... almost eager.

The pew was hard. It was of a dark wood, mahogany maybe, polished smooth by two centuries of cotton and wool rising and sitting only to rise again to sit and rise forever. Those polishing the pews spent their lives in this town, listening to these bells, worshipping the Catholic God whom they had inherited down from Ferdinand and Isabella, worshipping from these polished pews, or from ones like them, amongst this congregation, or ones like it, congregations that knew their individual parts and protected them, and loved them. Congregations that are ever changing as parts die and parts are born, but congregations that are somehow still always the same.

Upon the pew, beside my head, is a pile of bloody vomit, bile mostly, as food is a waste, serving only to neutralize that which really matters. The vomit emits a familiar smell of disgust that clings to me forever like spray paint clings to a freight car, tacky, tasteless and rude to the senses. Dried blood cakes my face and shirt. My own blood. Blood freed from me, perhaps, by a member of this very congregation, by one of it‘s parts. Blood that might be washed from me with tender fingers by that same man’s mother, or sister, but not his wife. A man who would do such as this to another man would not have a wife, not for long, not even a Catholic one. Of course, I could not recall the beating, and it may have been deserved. I am not usually a nice drunk, as the alcohol only softens angry nerves for a short while before it pokes them with its needles.

My groin is also sticky wet. Like the rest of me, it too reeks repulsively, my pants clinging coldly to the tingling skin of my inner thighs. My breathing is jagged, my chest heaving, but I can smell them through the fear... the urine, the vomit, and the church. The church has its own scent, a scent of timelessness. Its odor mixes unnaturally with mine in the warm, dusty air. The dust wafts in streams of brightly colored sunlight above me, blue dust, red dust, and gold as it floats across stained glass prisms. The dust swirls ’round me like the smells and the ringing bells, everything swirling, everything sickening.

I try to rise, but cannot. I try my body, my arms, and my legs. The efforts trigger one last spasm. The bile heaves from below, filling my mouth and nostrils. With an instinctive sense of preservation my body coughs, willing the nastiness away, but the coughing only opens the trachea, allowing it to suck the acidic bile inside, where it cannot be. Thus begins the chain reaction of cough, inhale bile, cough and inhale again...

The doors open, letting the townsfolk in. They take pause at the surprise waiting upon the pew. They look with horror at the drowning man, even as he looks at them through his own terror filled eyes. He sees them, a dark-haired, dark-eyed and dark-skinned people, for all the world like impoverished angels. They whisper in a tongue of angels. They whisper prayers for me, a stranger, the women clinging to their rosaries, the men clasping gnarled hands.

The darkness creeps in. The angels fade. The Golden Road lays there before me. At its end waits an unknown God, a God who dose not know my voice, as it is a voice that has never known prayer. It is time now to walk that road. It is time now to test His mercy.

Pink and blue, her favorite colors. That she was herself pink she knew. She wore pink. She was a girl. Girls are pink and pretty. The blue sky was bigger, but the pink balloon stronger. It was so strong that she could not take her eyes from its pink, even though she had to squint to see it. The blue faded into the background until she hardly noticed it, but the pink was strong in her eyes, and shiny.

The pink face was Hello Kitty’s. She was swollen and smooth, but there was no mistaking Hello Kitty, her favorite. It was, of all the nice gifts, her favorite, and it hadn’t really even been a gift at all, but only “an accessory,” Mommy said. “All of these expensive toys and things and she plays with the balloon?” All of the old people laughed when Mommy said it, but even so, it was her favorite.

It was Granny’s house. The party was small. There were no children in Granny’s town, only old people, but there were lots of nice presents, and a pink cake with four candles. Mommy had unwrapped all the nice presents while she played with “the accessory”, jerking its ribbon as she ran through the house with it following her.

When she ran into the courtyard with “the accessory” she had seen how it reached for the blue, straining against its ribbon. She wondered why it wanted the blue so badly, instead of wanting to be here with her. She needed a friend here, and Hello Kitty was her favorite. But Hello Kitty looked at her with excitedly wild eyes, with eyes longing for the blue.

She wondered, “What would happen if she let the ribbon go? Just for a second? Just long enough to see if Hello Kitty would really leave her.” She could let go very, very quickly, she thought. So quickly that she could grab the ribbon back if Kitty tried to get away. She opened her hand. The string shot upward with amazing and unexpected speed. She jumped for it, but it was already too high. Hello Kitty’s eyes bobbed toward her as they rose, then toward the blue, then back toward her again as they raced upward on their mylar rocket.

Her stomach tickled nervously as the balloon rose. It rose very fast, unbelievably fast. She had let her only friend go, and her favorite gift. She knew she could not have it back, but she waited and watched, hoping against hope. She could cry, but crying would not help. The deed was done. She wondered if she would be in trouble? Would Mommy be mad? Or worse, Granny? She loved Granny, and would never make her mad, but this might be the thing that did. She felt herself as blue as the sky, and no longer pink.

It was a hot day, with the breeze napping peacefully in the afternoon sun. The balloon flew nearly straight up, with the slightest of eastward bends, climbing through the air exactly as an air bubble would climb from the ocean’s depths, bouyant through the heavier liquid-gas environment. Could Hello Kitty’s eyes have seen, they would have watched the girl in the courtyard reaching for her, leaping too slowly, and with pitifully little spring in those tiny legs. Kitty would also have seen the girl wave. To Kitty it would have seemed as though it was the girl racing away, and the courtyard, and the house, and the town. Kitty would have felt her own stomach tickle nervously, as her gaseous guts began moving faster and faster inside her shell, and expanding outward against her mylar skin as the atmospheric pressure decreased. She would feel her upward speed slowly decrease the higher she climbed, even as the atoms inside her sped faster and faster, ever expanding as she rose.

And could Hello Kitty’s ears have listened, they would have heard nothing. She offered no resistance to the gaseous air, being little more than gas herself, so there was naught to even whistle in those gentlest of breezes that she rode upon. Silently she climbed, still wanting the blue, and boldly chasing after that which she wanted.

Up and up Kitty went until, at five thousand feet, the pressure of the gas inside her became greater than the pressure surrounding her. Her thin metal skin, swollen now to its limit, could contain it no more, finally letting go a “pop”.

But did it really? Did Kitty really “pop” all alone in the great blue sky she so desperately wanted? The girl’s ears could not hear it, nor could Kitty’s. If there is none to hear it, can it be?

Kitty’s ears couldn’t hear it, so was there a sound?

Can a balloon go “POP” with no ears around?

Too high to be heard by the girl on the ground,

As she watched Hello Kitty come dying down.

The pond is only eight acres. Despite the houses along its west side it remains fairly wild, and draws the wild creatures. The mallards fly in nearly every dawn, leaving at dusk for deeper, safer waters, but when the geese come from the Canadian cold they tend to stay for a while. The heron has claimed the pond for his own, and will fight any other heron that tries it for fish, the fishing being good... bass, perch, some giant carp stocked by my wife to help with the algie, among many, many others. Of a morning a doe sips from the misty bank. We watch her from our breakfast table, she being nervous with her speckled fawn, imaginary threats at every direction. Later, after the working day, and beside the patio fire, come the evening swallows, they silhouetted by blazing reds as they circle for mosquitos, dipping and diving through the dusk before giving way to the bats. Life is never easy, even for the blood-suckers.

All of this besides turtles, buffleheads, tree frogs, and the rare coyote. A pair of red-shouldered hawks nest in the Black Walnut on the eastern bank, while an owl hoot-a-hoo’s from the northern tree-line, ready to take up their raptor’s baton for an evening hunt. It is most entertaining, and we never tire of watching, my wife ever with camera at hand.

But our favorites are Kay’s Swedish Blues, a pair of domestic ducks purchased as a pair and dropped into the pond by my wife three or four years ago. Flightless ducks safe in a tiny pool surrounded by dangers. They have no nesting box, and I gave them little chance of survival when she first brought them home, but they have made friends with the mallards and the wood-ducks, and they swim together alongside the loons, and the buffleheads. The key word being together... always they are together.

On the days with no mallards the Swedish Blues fish together by the bank, four webbed feet and two duck butts bobbing on choppy waves. On days when the mallards come the pair join together in the play, or in the fight, together, or they laze together in the duck crowd, enjoying the walnut’s shade. When night comes and the wild ducks go, our pair finds the reedy bank, floating in the shallows there, always together, the one-legged heron standing guard nearby, three black shadows quiet in the moonlight, awaiting another day.

When Kay goes out with a bowl of corn the pair swim wildy for her from across the lake, sometimes lifting above the water on shaky wings, but it is not love driving them to her. It is only hunger driving them, animal instinct, and I wonder if theirs can even be love for each other? They are only ducks, after all. Yes, they are tied together with an invisible line, never to seperate. Yes, they need each other desperately, that is obvious. They are the only two of their kind in this micro-world. What more could either one want but for another to share the trials of life with? But, what will happen to one when the coyote gets the other, or age? The loneliness will be unfathonamable for the one left, and unbearable, but still it is not love. It is something. Surely it is something, but it cannot be love...

~

the why

see to

we why

do it

is

we

all

ex

is

t?

•

I inhale deeply and watch as a thin grey haze fills the room. Small clouds of heavy smoke swirling around me as if forecasting a change in the weather. Silently waiting for a storm. I narrow my eyes and gaze at the only other person in the small room, then my eyelids close for a moment and a smile spreads on my lips.

“Tilly Saint Jones, now that was a character. Couldn’t stay in place for five seconds even if her life depended on it.”

I look at Marry Lou as she works on her wine. She doesn’t seem to be very interested in the subject. She stretches on the green sofa, her eyes a bit glazed. But then she looks up as if she just heard me.

“People talked a lot about that girl back in the days.”

“Why wouldn’t they, she was a real sight, that one.”

“Yes, Tilly was - special.”

“Don’t smile like that Lou, you’ll get crow’s feet.”

I stare at her for a moment, inspecting her blond curls pinned up like a little piece of art. Some of it slipping out, burgundy heels laying on the floor. She sits in a half lying position, her right arm supporting her head. Her deep emerald eyes narrow like those of a cat.

“Rubbish, I will smile however I want.”

“Do as you please.”

My own eyes wander to the window and the darkness outside, its past twelve and the street seems deserted. I sigh and let my brain sink in the memories. I put down the cigarette and sip on my tonic.

“There was just something about Tilly, pretty girl, but always getting herself into trouble.”

“You used to hang out a lot with her.”

I look at Marry Lou, as she pulls out the pins out of her hair, golden locks falling down her slender shoulders. She seems more relaxed now. Well, I guess that’s what the liquor did. It made us care less about our surrounding and more about our comfort.

“Yes, once upon a blue moon. One could never get bored with that creature. She made everything more fun, while she constantly spent her life running away from herself. Did you know she was married once? She married this businessman from Seattle. She didn’t really care for his money but for the way, he swept her off her feet. Made her feel special. He romanced her and showed her the world. He thought he could keep her. But nothing could keep Tilly in place. Maybe he thought that he would keep his girl entertained. Cause that’s what she was, barely seventeen - but he had the money, so they made it legal. After all, what are over twelve months against the power of real love? Boy, did he have it wrong, four months and she was gone. Like no one ever heard of her, as if she disappeared into thin air. How she managed to run away from such a powerful man? That still remains a mystery.”

“So no one knew?”

“Not officially, but there was gossip, there always is. Most people believed that she had problems and wanted to end herself, but that was just the vile tongues jealous of her new status as Mrs. Edgar Morentine... then again, maybe they were right. Tilly did have problems, so many of them.”

Lou shifts on the sofa and sits up.

“So what actually happened there?”

I light up another cigarette and take off my jacket, the sparkly long dress that I wear under it was a bit uncomfortable but at least it looked good on me.

“As said, there was gossip. But people who were around then, know that the newest Mrs. Morentine was a smart little thing, that could have made things happen if she wanted it badly enough.”

Marry Lou gets more animated, eyes blinking faster.

“So a guy?”.

“Yes, there is always a guy, sweetheart. People said it was the gardener; a strong looking fellow but it was actually his youngest son. Just seventeen but madly in love our little Tilly. She had him wrapped around her finger. He never stood a chance.”

I get up and pour myself another gin and tonic, then I pick up a bottle standing on the floor and pour some wine for Lou. I’m trying to keep her attention awake while she is still animated. She looks up at me and waves a hand at my feet.

“Take off your shoes, darling, this isn’t exactly Milano.”

I do as she says and sit back by the window. I close my eyes and massage my feet. I shouldn’t have spent so many hours in these. The sudden sound of Lou’s voice brings me back.

“So tell me, Katherine. How did T. Saint Jones run away just with the help of a boy? After all, crazy hormones will only get you so far.”

She smiles and sips on the deep ruby liquid, her red lipstick leaving stains on the glass.

“You are thinking like the rest of them. Always not appreciating Tilly’s many, many talents. That girl knew how to get around even at her young age. And she knew that James... let’s call him that, was mad for her, but the thing that was important, was how popular the gardener’s son really was. People were very fond of him. And to get a favor from those people was the easiest thing in the world. Especially when planning an escape.”

I stare at the night behind the thin glass, and lower the zipper of my dress a bit; such a pretty thing but so hard to breathe in. I hear faint rustling sounds and turn my head around. Marry Lou crosses her arms, giving me a funny look.

“Yes?”

“Don’t you think like this story is a bit over the top?”

“No, if anything the story doesn’t have enough facts. There is so much that we don’t know. For example, we know what happened to Tilly in the end. Such sad news, don’t you think?”

“Some of us weren’t that surprised. To be honest, a lot of people thought it would happen sooner.”

“Yes, they didn’t have the same faith in her as I had. They didn’t know how she really was.”

Lou lifts her legs and puts them on the sofa, then strokes the velvet material covering it and furrows her eyebrows.

“Kat, what really happened to Tilly?”

I watch her calmly and see her shiver.

“I think you already know, I think everyone knows.”

“No Kat, I mean why did it happen? Why did she fall?”

“Just like people said, she had problems.”

“But you don’t believe it.”

“Believe in what, Lou?”

“That she took her life because her mind was wrong ... or that she just slipped?”

“Silly girl, a woman like Tilly Saint Jones doesn’t just slip or fall. She doesn’t overdose like the coroner states. I think you and I both know that she had some help with leaving.”

I can see her still shivering as if there was a draft in the room, but she herself doesn’t seem to notice it. She gulps down the entire glass of wine and pours out of what’s left in the bottle. Then she looks at me as if challenging me.

“Tilly was strong. Maybe I didn’t approve of her and gossiped just like the rest of those fools, but that’s the one thing I know for sure. She was strong.”

“Yes, but she was also wild and untamed, too many people trying to kill that quality in her.”

“Katherine?”

“Yes, Lou?”

“Tell me more about Tilly. I want to know her better.”

I light up another cigarette and watch the heavy smoke float lazily in the air.

“Not a problem, we have the whole night for that.”

I smile and empty my glass, running fingers through my thick chocolate brown hair.

“Lou, did I ever tell you how she met that funny fellow, Carl?”

“That painter?”

“Yes, now that guy was amusing. Tilly absolutely adored him. Some she was even close to love.”

“Our little Tilly Saint Jones, in love?”

“Yes, well stranger things happen. But I will tell you one thing. That girl was the wildest of them all. She had adventures that most of us can only dream about. It’s a shame that some didn’t appreciate her the way that they should.”

My voice turns cold as Lou asks with a sudden intensity that wasn’t there before.

“Please, tell me more about her?”

My lips stretch out into a smile and I loosen my dress even more. This story might take a while.

“As said, we have the whole night, and there is much to say about Tilly. So back to that Carl guy. Now that one I really liked, he always made her smile....”

(A slightly ajar door to the room closes, as smoke still lingers in the air and two women talk more. Their voices low in an empty house. The view moves to the hall and then outside. The lock on the front door clicks shut, and the night slowly turns into morning.)

And to this day people still wonder. What did really happen to Tilly Saint Jones? That crazy, unstoppable girl. That’s something no one knows for certain, but people gossip.

After all these years they still gossip.

(The picture slowly grows dark, and a fade out on the scene.)

The end.

I hear a lot of talk these days,

about how we need to teach girls

to follow their dreams.

We need to tell them

that they can study STEM,

or write a book,

or run the United States of America.

That sheerly from the force of their will

they can rise above being “merely a girl,”

and once all the cabinets are filled,

the next gen of chicks will give it a whirl -

Well, I say no.

We need to teach girls to never fall in love.

We need to warn girls about reckless boys,

the ones with pretty hair and gemstone eyes,

because those are the boys who are best at lies and

when they build you up

they tripwire every level

so that they can destroy the place

on the way out.

We need to tell girls that they can go far,

but not if they’re seduced by some dick with a car.

Girls need to learn that when boys say, “forever,”

it means “I want you right now, but that will fade to never.”

And if we fed every girl the facts

like he’ll feed her his lines,

maybe she’ll listen to the world

and believe her paranoia this time -

No, girls should never, ever fall in love.

Girls should never fall in love

because he’ll tell her that she’s a cut above,

he’ll spin tales of a future and where they’ll be,

but when she

is dependent,

that asshole,

he won’t even have the balls

to call it like it is -

He’ll say something like “a break”

and let the “up” be hers, not his,

and he’ll say, “don’t make me feel guilty,”

and she’ll realize:

This was how it was all along,

his comfort over hers.

We must teach these girls to never fall in love.

Don’t you see that when reckless boys

with pretty hair and gemstone eyes

write a girl a poem and hold her while she cries

she’s going to begin to believe that he cares,

so when she so much as dares

to say she loves him too,

he won’t have to chase and he’ll look for someone new -

No, we must make girls be like the reckless boys

with pretty hair and gemstone eyes,

because boys like those

never really fall in love.

#spokenword #slampoetry

When staring at the blue ocean to admire its beauty and strength for the last time, seemed much more attractive to the eye, than it had always been.

When looking up at the clear sky to hear the cries of a seagull flying by for the last time, seemed much more harmonious to the ear than it had always been.

When licking one’s lips to taste the trinket drops from the ocean floating in the atmosphere for the last time, seemed much less salty to the taste buds, than it had always been.

When inhaling deeply the gentle air embracing the very essence of one’s being for the last time, seemed purer to the lungs, than it had always been.

When leaning forward to witness the roaring waves hitting against the rocks for the last time seemed much more of a welcoming guest’s embrace than it had always been.

When standing barefoot on the edge of a cliff feeling the wind lift one gently off the ground for the last time seemed somewhat softer on the sole than it had always been.

Jump Lola jump.

Fear not for I shall embrace thee.

Jump my child jump.

Fear not for I shall catch thee.

Jump Lola Jump.

Fear not for I shall love thee.

Jump my child jump.

Fear not for thou shall be set FREE!

Image: The Suicide Gap - Watson’s Bay, Sydney

Why must I tolerate intolerance?

Why must I be the calm one when angry red faces and red hats

Scream in my face to go to hell,

to leave my own country for daring

To stand up to injustice?

I was quiet, fearful of

being given the cold shoulder.

Why must I worry about alienation

because my own family cannot tolerate

Love and acceptance of all?

Why must I love those who would kill me?

No more, I have decided.

Too much is at stake for me to think of

what I must do to be accepted.

So much for the tolerant left!

I will not sit down, quiet and pretty while

they shoot my friends down in the streets,

While politicians pat their fat pockets,

paid by the companies helping them

Murder us in schools.

We must not let them

stomp out our flame.

We

Must

Resist.

In society’s eyes, people have to fit in with the right cliques, put in so much effort to be “normal”.People have to live by a certain way of life or they’re frowned upon. One may say that they don’t care, but deep deep down, there is a little voice in their head, that’s telling them they’re not good enough to be in that clique, not good enough to fit in. People do unspeakable things to get where they want, wether it’s getting that promotion, or just climbing the popularity poll in high school. Society, people, are so corrupt that that people will hurt each other, just to boost themselves up. So why is fitting in so important? If one does not fit in, they will try to, but no one realizes how pure some is who doesn’t fit in. How pure the “loser” is because they didn’t want to hurt people to get “popular”, didn’t want to spread that rumor, didn’t want to be just as corrupt as everyone else.

To be accepted by society is to live by society’s standards, to be what society deems “normal”. Society is so corrupt, why would one want to meet the standards that this horrible world has said to be normal? One shouldn’t care about this, one should look inside themselves and take apart every piece and they be the one who says that they are acceptable, let them be the one who says that they are “normal”. Normal is just a word used by people who think that they know how things should be and how people should behave.