Grievance
Done.
Done.
Done.
Done.
Done.
Done.
The heater’s on and it’s not really cold. My hoodie lies on the chair, and my cat’s stretched himself sparse on my legs, inside the duvet.
Applications, applications, applications, applications.
The light flickers. Or, at least, I think it flickers. I need to get my eyesight checked; constant headaches for months now. Maybe it’s a tumor. Maybe I’ll have a little pity party for myself if that’s the case. I’ve always imagined myself sick – a broken leg, a tumor, a benign cancer, shattered ribcage, etc -, wondering how the world would react around me. I don’t know if that’s narcissism or an attempt to gauge some semblance of self-worth.
It doesn’t matter though. There are few things we’re certain of in this world, very few. Death is one of them. The fallibility of human relationships is another.
-
It’s not worth listening, I hear myself say. It’s the voice that loves the idea of self-destruction, of self-loathing. It’s the voice that doesn’t ever care. Things, people, circumstances, none of them ever change, it argues. For some reason, the voice is scratchy and whiny, the sound a rake makes when it’s being dragged across concrete. It’s painful and overwhelming.
“It’s the end,” I hear her say. Or maybe that’s what I think. That annoying rake voice is also a pretty handy ventriloquist. It’d be easier, of course. Extremely easy. I’ve been here before. I’ve made things easy for myself plenty of times. I’ve avoided work plenty of times. It’s easy to fall back into old habits – it’s easy because regardless of whether they’re ultimately good for you or not, they’re comfortable. They feel like home. They feel like you. That’s why they’re habits.
“It’s the end,” I hear her say. I think it’s her. It sounds like her. She has a point too. I can hear her fingers tap the table, and her leg spazzing out underneath the table. I want to put my hand on her knee and look at her, ask her to stop. I want to put my hand on that knee, where it’s been before so many times, where it’s been comfortable so many times. But, strangely, I can’t be bothered. It’s too much work, you see. It’s work that shouldn’t exist, but does.
I want to tell her it’s easier now. For me, anyway.
-
I find myself, strangely, wishing Jason Molina didn’t exist.
And just like that…
There are seas that define us; waves that represent us and tides that chart our travails.
We’ve had weeks and days, months and hours. Sometimes I feel like I’m living within a James Joyce world – full of history and colour and culture and allegories, where references to the world exist on every twist and turn.
I hope it doesn’t end like this.
the sea,
it feels cheated
while your fingers run arcs
over my eyes
the sea -
it breathes on us,
its warmth languishing in
our lungs
and the sea -
it introduces to us a new
fear;
one that will grow
to define us
it tells us tales
we never wanted to hear
the sea
is a raconteur;
an enviable one,
but one that bellows
and sneaks up
on you
so listen,
till all you can hear
are the sea shells,
whispering
to each other,
because they know that one day,
our bones will be amidst them -
and our stories
unlike the seas
won’t be with us.
sometimes, the snow makes things perfect;
your chords, drenched in reverb sway around
like a dialectic, carving shapes for
themselves around me.
and the sun makes for itself a path, amongst
the floating clouds and trees, caroming off
dew-tipped leaves. your drones and your
voices are carried off in the early morning,
tempered by the restraint of kings.
as you stand upon age-old rocks, surrounded by
god and his lakes – and though we are worlds
apart – I am next to you, ankles wet and hands
cold, waiting for the sun to illuminate me
like it does you.
“It takes two to tango”, she said,
as her words floated on specks of
dust lit up by the early morning sun
We’d read through the night, and
then some more, bathing in words and
dressed in paragraphs of prose and euphony
“It takes two to tango”, she whispered,
again, bringing me back to earth and mud.
my ears rung as we hung our harps.
we’ll have our own promenade, I promised her.
on grassy knolls, we’ll have our vaunted,
lonely march.
and then, finally, we’ll be surrounded by virulent seas;
waters that’ll leave us be, while we sing
our dulcet hallelujahs one last time.
It’s not hard for the wind to grab you by the throat. It’s not hard for it to sweep you off your feet as you step outside your house and the hard, sharp breeze whizzes past you. It’s not hard for you to forget everything when you’ve just been slapped by that very force of nature, probably because that feeling is as exhilirating as it is painful.
For two decades and then some, we hold each other’s hands and wish for greater things to fall from the sky. For two decades and then some, we ask for better lives and for better relationships, for better health and for better luck.
But you and I, we live in chaos. We are devoid of wordly chasms. Our creaky limbs and our golden eyes are moulded with the earth and its history. For us, there will be no benevolence beyond what is offered, because the seas and the oceans and the plains don’t work that way. We must use our fingers to carve roads for ourselves; roads lit with the litany of our futures.
For better or for worse.
I’ve dreamt I’ve dreamt I’ve dreamt I’ve dreamt
for a life surrounded by timbers, and the swaying green leaves
Of a forest in the north, with clouds made of bale and rain that
Pitter patters all over the place, tip-toeing when I’m asleep and
Lashing the ground when I’m awake. And lakes and rivers and
Puddles of water and mud and blood; the blood of honest men,
So I can throw a pebble and watch it bounce off the water,
Carefree, forever-
The dream of every ten year old on a boring family holiday.
I’ve dreamt I’ve dreamt I’ve dreamt I’ve dreamt
Of hot-headed angels, with their callousness and general
Disdain for humanity. Oh they look at us so! With their clean
Airbrushed wings and spotless white they point at us and
Laugh at us. We! Creations of mud and clay! But being created out of
Light is overrated; it’s ghastly. I can wank, and curse, and spew
Bile – but can they? I’ve dreamt of them and I’ve waited for them –
Waited for them to come for me.
I’ve dreamed I’ve dreamed I’ve dreamed I’ve dreamed
Of death under a sky full of lights, and of life under stones,
With water seeping into my clothes, while an angry magister
Bellows god’s will in my ears.
-this is life.
And when it’ll come is beyond me.
It’s not easy, with the grass floundering
under your decaying feet. the skin that falls
off doesn’t glisten under the sun; it melts,
instead, to the ground. you’ll talk of your
victory, but pyrrhus would not listen -
he knows about it anyway. there will be songs
for you, and for us, and for them. little
violin concertos, bustling through the clouds
and landing next to us. but we are supposed
to be doing something; doing stuff, though I
know not what that means. I am not Mathieu,
and you are not Marcelle. oak and sycamore
is built for us, you whisper. for us to use,
like we have used the sun and the moon.
because soon, it will be nightfall, and the
bluebirds will fly off, and the rooks with
their black coats will venture towards
warmer lands, leaving us with nothing but
the dry, half-empty words that drip off
our tongues.
