The introduction in one sentence, a welcome.

Sometimes I’ll get a sentence in my head that I want to write down. And then another thought. The following sentence. And then one more sentence,  until it’s becoming a story, or a poem. Sometimes a song. Then I repeat it in my head. Repeat it so I won’t forget it until I can write it down. But I don’t write it down. And then I lose it. In the ether of my brain.

My favourite is the first sentence. Its always a statement. The opener. The introduction in one sentence. A welcome. It’s like a poignant lyric in your favourite song. The one that constantly replays because it just connects with you. You and one sentence. One statement.

Last Friday night I was with N. She was driving us home. She managed, who knows how, to get our parking ticket stuck in the machine. The ticket went in, missed the teeth of the feeder and kind of slipped in between the plastic outer covering of the ticket machine and the inner metal box. I was at the car waiting for her and after 5 minutes she yelled “the tickets stuck!”. Me being me, I jumped at the opportunity to solve the issue. Me also being me, I held up the line fully absorbed in the mission of ticket rescue. Equipped with a hairpin I had bent at two different angles on each side, I successfully retrieved the rogue ticket. Mission complete!

After letting the guy who was waiting so patiently behind us pay first, we exited the parking building. N told me later this man, while waiting for us, looked at his phone. N noticed his background cover was of a blonde woman, and not of the brunette woman he was with. “What brunette woman?” I asked N. I never noticed her in between my slight inebriation and my fully focussed ticket retrieval. “Oh, she was hiding behind a pole. I didn’t even know they were together until he turned and spoke to her”.  I shook my head. N agreed. Although I wasn’t shaking my head at his infidelity. I was shaking my head at my lack of observation. I was also shaking my head at the fact that she was standing – well, actually in fact – hiding, behind a pole. That’s not strange at all.

On the way home I proceeded to talk a bit about a certain defining situation I went through in my late teens. She reminded me about it when we met again next for lunch. “It was good that you got that off your chest”, she said. I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like I was confessing anything. Just telling her another story about some thing. I usually tell N stories of things I’ve heard or read about. She’s a good listening audience. So when she said this I kind of shrugged it off. I said, “Well, I wasn’t hiding it. Just sharing it”. I perhaps should have just said, thanks for listening.

An old blog post dated 15 Dec, 2014 found in drafts.

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Repe-repetition

Everybody smoking cancer sticks while I’m rolling mine.

On duty/off duty/on duty..

And.

And people think I’m weird.

I’ll repeat a word several times in my head because I can’t get it off my mind.

Lisp.
Lisp.
Lispaaah.
Sounds longer than a four letter word.

Constant.

Constant comparison of person and companion.

Companion. Last names that sound amazing like Dangerfield.

Daaangerfield.

Like being in a dangerous field like being a spy like being a PI like being someone that’s not like you at all.

Collateral vs intentional damage.

I don’t want to talk about things you want to talk about.
But we do.
And you heal as I feel pained.
It’s like I stabbed myself through you.
Caused you pain on the way to hurting myself.

I roll up to the window and the voice says “would you like an explanation with that?”
And I double over, with the gut wrenching pull of my sins and he grins, thinking he has won.

Then I smoke smoke smoke cigarettes until the night feels uncomfortable around me.

I found me. In some sort of collection pile. God knows I need a smile.

I exist.

‘Your actions should be so dedicated that no one should have to ask you what you want’ – Dr Steve Maraboli.

And sometimes I wonder.. and sometimes I think.. and sometimes I just sit and try to clear my head of what is.. and what was.. and everything in between. In the meantime, I am here. I exist. I can yell and scream, or I can be silent. Then I say to myself, hey. Heeey. We cool.

What I wanted to say:

‘It’s sad that is your main memory of the last few months is fighting.
Unbelievable after 7 years you’re scared of fighting.
Fighting.
What about everything else?
What about every other thing that was not fighting?
Everything that was happy. Exciting. Fun.
Oh! Here’s me fighting by the way!
Asked you again.
You reject me once again.
I came to see you on Sunday to fight for you.
I thought you might want to fight back for me.
I hoped you might come over last night.
I’m not forcing you though,  but that’s how you see it. And it’s sad.
You’re melancholic when there is so much going on in the world and we should be so grateful. We are so lucky.
For example just this morning in Sydney two people are dead at the hands of a terrorist.
You have a life that you can put happiness in and you just reject it.
I really just want to yell at you.
Get over yourself! Make a fucking decision’.

What I really said:
‘Ok’

Sunday afternoon

Let’s run away I say,
Late Sunday afternoon.
Previously sunny afternoon.
Such a dummy afternoon.

I don’t want to know anyone for a while
Says the inner selfish child.

What are you running away from?
Asks the older abrasive child.

Would it make your life much different,
if you were somewhere different,
on a similar Sunday afternoon?

Sometimes I am happy
But today it is not.
I’m stuck with myself on a dummy sunny
Sunday afternoon.

So where shall we run away to?
..and where will we get our funds?

You know running away is not so fun,
when the money has also run.