Saturday, 26 March 2016

Our Precious Breath.

Float to the Top.



Some of us outrun,
our narcissistic  pasts,
and simply rise above it. 

We stop fighting it,
and deriding it,
and we naturally 
float to the top. 

The rest of us swallow it,
we've chosen to wallow in it. 

We give it so much strength,
that it easily gains,
in length and breadth. 

It monopolizes our timorous lives,
and surreptitiously, 
steals away our very breath  

So stop fighting it,
and deriding it,
and just float to the top. 


Love is His Name.

Thursday, 24 March 2016

Smile like a Baby!

I love Me

Together

   The hot tropical air was lifeless, it closed in around her and precipitated on her air conditioned skin. 
    The whirr of the turbines all but muffled out the click clack of her Jimmy Choo rip offs, on the shimmering tarmac.  
    The baggage cart, with her luggage, rattled along at a right angle to the plane. 
    Every last bit of chill had escaped her pores. Her quilted coat was a poor choice, even this far into the journey. 
   As she neared the entrance to Terminal 1, the planes engine had almost come to a halt and the clip clop of other shoes were gaining on her labored pace. 
     With all the formalities over she approached the exit door from customs. She paused to adjust that annoying bra strap for the 10,000th time and put her hair up into a bun, that perched neatly, like a crown, on the very top of her head. 
    She grabbed hold of her trolley and moved through the electronic doors into the arrivals lounge. 
    She tried to look nonchalantly into the crowd of eager faces. There she was, a little grayer and a little plumper, but much the same. 
    She hurtled into her mothers arms. She could feel her mothers sobs that became her sobs also Tissues were rescued from handbags, self conscious chatter ensued, not once did there eyes part. Both soaking up each other's physical presence, that for so long had been sacrificed to Skype. 
   One end of her mothers scarf had dropped down, Elsa enjoyed throwing it back over her Mums shoulder. 
    No matter what time of year her Mum always wore a scarf. It was a throwback to her old bohemian, Uni days. 
   "How was your flight  Elsa" the mother asked, with a twang that made Elsa blanch. 
   "Good Mum, there was a bit of a delay in Dubai, with the the terrorist thing that's going on, but I used the time to grab a quick shower and a nap, in Emirates private lounge. I can't believe the heat here, I'd forgotten its intensity." Elsa prattled away, consciously not letting any silence come between them. 
    Together they pushed the trolley towards the car park, through the crush of oncoming travelers. 
     It'd only been 5 minutes but already they'd found there closeness again and were basking joyously in its warmth. 

Friday, 18 March 2016

Fair Trade




   I don't know why the girl cried at the drop of a hat. I could only guess at her fragility. My judgement of her emotional outbursts, would cloud any hope of me having a compassionate, unbiased viewpoint. 
     A lineup of weekend hipsters waited to order their takeaway Acai bowls with chia and hemp seeds, and their cold filtered single origin coffee. 
   The music from the digital speakers swung safely between RnB and Jazz. It was loud enough to hear, over the 20 somethings catching up over some seriously good coffee. 
    Built into the cafe was a small bookshop, some new, some vintage. The books were a stylish backdrop, to the environmentally conscious fashion labels and the carefully trimmed and oiled beards. 
 

 The girl dabbed the corners of her eyes with the double ply napkin. The boy shifted uneasily on his stool. 
    The two of them were at a loss, as to how they could best move, on from this awkward moment. 
   He was always trying to get the last word in, that was his thing. Maybe she'd broken down, because of her abhorrence to arguing. She preferred to stew on it for a while and then strategize her revenge. 
   "Look I'm sorry." the words struggled from his lips. He knew that it was the right thing to say, but he rarely, actually meant it. His only motive was to try and backpedal to a safer place. 
    There relationship used to be much lighter, and free from all this chess maneuvering. He'd never been much chop, at board games. 
   She ignored him and continued to fidget with the mushed up napkin. A plate of barely touched, perfectly poached free range eggs, on organic greens, sat before her.
   His plate was empty, but for a few sourdough crumbs, a smear of bacon fat and some hot sauce. 
   He stared awkwardly, as if on a crowded train. 
   Through the bifold doors, out on the timber deck, was a big table of 40 something, professionals. With prams as big as 4WD's, they were screaming over each other to be heard. 
   In this vast sea of urban life, not one single soul noticed their discomfort. 
   They clearly weren't suited for each other, but they'd fallen in love with each other's 'stuff'.
    She loved his stylishly messed up hair, his arctic blue eyes and his body. 
   He loved her plainness, that was hidden so carefully behind all the makeup and designer chic.  
   They wanted it to work, it seemed. How else could you explain their  perseverance. 
    She got up and paid the bill and then joined the cue for the bathroom. 
    He flicked through his Instagram feed and checked his emails. There were a few late bill reminders and an email from his supervisor, reminding him to finish the Edwards report and email it to her before Monday morning
    God he wished for a simpler life, the one from his past, had slipped through his fingers all too quickly. 
    She appeared from the bathroom and smiled his way. Perhaps today wasn't going to be a complete write off after all, he thought to himself. 
    He necked the last of his latte and glanced distractedly at that smear of bacony, hot sauce on the plate in front of him and got up to join the girl who cried at the drop of a hat. 



     

Sunday, 13 March 2016

We Choose...

Growth

A Momentary Scar.


      I woke up on the ground. The indent of the cold black bitumen a momentary scar on my swollen and bruised face. 

       Dazed, I slowly pulled myself up to a sitting position. My clothes were damp and torn, my body ached. The last thing I remember was the sound of scuffling feet, a flash of light and a piercing pain on the top of my head. 

            I had been heading towards 'Vincent's Boarding House' in Hackford Road. I had been given the address by one of the English Embassy officials. I was on my way there, to arrange temporary accommodation. 

     I reached in my pocket for about the hundredth time, to see if the carefully folded piece of paper was still there. My hands felt the rough edges and I breathed out a sigh of relief. Even though I'd memorized the numbers and words long before now, it was a comfort to read the words and numbers and dream.

    On it was written the address of my only living relative. Yana Medjool, 32 Templeton Road, Brixton, London, SW9.

         Tired, hungry and now mugged and robbed. If I could have felt any more homesick at this present time, I didn’t think it possible.

        I had only escaped Syria with my life. Everyone and everything was gone. The civil war had destroyed a lot of lives and families, communities and cities. 

    Could my situation get any worse? I had never felt so alone, and so overwhelmed with grief. 

            A shadow fell over me, I flinched as I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Are you ok?” said an unknown voice, with a heavy indistinguishable accent.

     I looked up into the kindest face that I had seen in a long time, since before the bombing had begun. The old man slowly helped me to my feet. It didn’t seem like anything was broken. “Come” he said, “I live close to here, we get you cleaned up, and have a look at those cuts on your head, hey."

        The homely smells of hot soup and warm bread greeted me as I came out of the shower. The old man had left some of his son’s musty old clothes out for me. I slowly dressed myself and walked out to the kitchen. I sat at the old wooden table, where Theo had set some cutlery for me. He bowled up some soup and placed it before me. It was the best meal I'd had since my last family meal. 

    We tried to converse, me with my hopeless English and he with some sign language, some broken English and some unfamiliar words, that he wrote on a piece of A4 paper. 

            “Once you finish your Avgolemeno, we head down to the Police Station and report your mugging, and then we head over to your embassy and see if we get someone translate your story to me”. he smiled

     This morning I woke up to a surprised face staring down at me. I found out later that Theo’s niece was visiting from the U.S and her uncle hadn't gotten a chance to tell her about me. 

       She was shy but curious. Her expression was welcomingly, pleasant like her Uncles. 

    It felt like time froze for almost a minute. We had no language in common but our eyes locked together in deep concentration, as if we were both trying to remember where we had seen each other before.

     She finally turned and hurried out of the room.

       I had a quick shower and got dressed. I walked apprehensively down the dark hall, towards the kitchen. Theo was busy cooking up some more of his childhood memories.

            He had put me up for over a week now. He very kindly told me that I was welcome to stay until I found my Aunt and got back on my feet again.

     It seemed like good luck had finally turned its benevolent face my way again. 

   The girl was at the sink with her back to me, Theo smiled a good morning. I smiled back and took a seat, on the well worn kitchen stool. Theo was making an omelette with graveira cheese and Hellene his niece, was making some Greek coffee and toast. 

     For the first time in a long time, I was able to steal myself away, from the painful memories that had been haunting me for so long. 

     Life might work out alright after all. A dreamy smile snuck up on me, as I sat staring out at the blue sky, through the steamed up kitchen window.  



 

Thursday, 10 March 2016

Death Paid a Visit.

Death paid a visit in the dead of the night. He banged on the door and woke me with a fright. 
  I undid the latch, not knowing who it was. 
He flew at me without warning, for he had no reason to pause. 
In another dream  that night, I felt someone by my bed. 
And again there he was, the grim reaper of the dead. 
I cried out in my sleep, the most pitiful cry. 
It escaped from my lips, with no time for goodbyes. 
We never know when it's over,
when it's our time to die. 
It's always a surprise, with no time to reply. 

Wednesday, 9 March 2016

Live


   She found the ink stamp in her child's toy box.  She had no idea how it had got there.Time stopped still for a moment, the way it does, when it seems like the very fabric of life, has been slightly altered.
     On the side of the stamp, the letters Live were spelt out. She had this feeling that it was a message just for her. It seemed to be pointing towards something, it was digging at something, that she had long ago buried.
   Since having the baby, life had changed so dramatically. She was so in love with that precious little spark of humanity.  She was so totally absorbed in that tiny little guys life, that everything else had been pushed to the side and was coming a very poor second.
    Her life appeared perfect, too perfect maybe. Sometimes whilst he was asleep, she'd feel so alone, an aching for company aloneness. She spent so much time focused on him, that it left meager time for anything else.
    The only relief she had from her house-hold duties, were a few brief hours after Dinner. She would sit and watch television with her husband Adam. When she spoke it was usually, Jeremy did this and Jeremy did that and then it would be time bed. For who knows how long. Sometimes 2 hours and sometimes 4-5, but he'd rarely sleep through. 
     She'd named him after her Father, a man she was only just getting to know, before fate and a heart attack had gotten in the way.
    Sometimes whilst Jeremy was napping, she would catch her mind's inane wanderings and wonder to herself, if there was something else to life. Something she'd missed.
   She stamped the ink stamp down on the back of an old bill.
    The letters spelt out in bright blue ink, Live. Live, the word pierced her consciousness and tugged at her, for its attention.
     She wondered at the mystery. Her mind busied itself with various scenarios, as she stared out the handprint smeared, sunlit window.