Wardrobe.
In a bedroom on the third floor of an old old house, I collect some of my cameras and chargers from the floor. In the corner of my eye there is movement. Looking up, a huge old mahogany wardrobe looms mischievously, one of it’s doors opens and closes deliberately. Plush toys play peekaboo. A stuffed snake slides back and forth like it’s cousin’s tongue. The door violently opens and the toy flies out onto the bed. I have never seen such a thing before. A man enters the room, he acknowledges the happening with a nod, saying “Yes, this house is supposedly full of spirit.” The man looks like Scott Bookman, but is not. The wardrobe continues to dance and I notice the bed is also moving. I look around to see how far the haunting had spread. The whole house is swaying. I look out of the window, to where a building begins it’s tango collapse, I break my transfixion, calling to fake Scott Bookman to flee with me. Rushing down dancing stairs, we escape and seek the clear ground, as it begins to rain. We find the shelter of a blue parasol. From where we watched the world subside.
Out in the sun.
The day arrived damply from overnight rain, so he read his book while waiting for the sun to sizzle the puddles to mist. In an hour or so shadows sharpened marking the time to turn the corner of the page. He folded it neatly where the page had been folded before, then placed the book down parallel with the sides of the coffee table. He risked suede boots on a drying ground and a clearing sky. Feeling the warmth on his face, he thought where he might go, as we are told that a day is wasted indoors. He turned left, east, towards the climbing sun. He began walking.
The crisp light and shade lends beauty to every surface, the broken becomes charming, the winsomely worn. The shadows dapple on the birch bark, each glance inspires a painting. The children are flowing out from the shadows, fizzing cackles from some imagined glee. His attention is drawn upwards, to a buzzard circling the current, climbing ever higher. He stops to stand to watch the bird, until it ascends beyond human vision. Ageing eyes struggle to regain focus on the earthly forms, blinking, he tries to force his vision into youth. Irritated at time’s cruelty, he rubs his eyes red. Through clearing lenses he continues walking. Buildings rise and take the sky away, life is thinning here in the town, the grey residents are tracking salt air to the coast. Shops open for no reason but to pay resentful staff. The buildings became beclouded by fruiting trees in a desolate park. He sits at a bench, his only company a squirrel burying nuts he’ll never find. The man thinks, I should have brought something to read.
Gas Light.
In a dream, I am wandering the campus, assessing the scene. I have friends here to speak with, hang out with, to chew on the day. Then they filter away, to busy themselves with something. Some of them are studying papers and others are constructing walls, as if instructed by an ethereal messenger I did not witness. Soon I am alone, outside looking in, or perhaps I am inside looking out. Either way, I am apart from the fabrications. I wonder where I might lend a hand, I find there is no opening in which I fit. I am not invisible, as in time there is disdain for my aimless day. Resentment arrives with barbs. Though I never feel useless, I merely ponder the point. These tasks sewn as seed to grow plastic trees, gas-lit by the world.
wordwishes 