I Don't Gamble. But I'd Bet on You.

Every time I look at you I am waging a war in my head. I gamble viciously with my own life. I toss loaded dice and a young, vaguely attractive fellow in a red vest and black pants spins the wheel.  I don’t know if I’m losing though. Because every time the wheel slows I cover my face with my hands and hold my breath and when I take my hands away you’re looking directly at me as though you’re asking me a question.

So I answer “Yes.”

You smile and bump my shoulder with yours like we have just shared a joke, so I laugh, because I know that you make me laugh. You gesture to one direction and turn to walk that way. And I follow you. By the time I remember the dice it’s already too late, when I look back the vested fellow has handed them on.

We step out into the night air and I shiver. I’m not cold; I just appreciate the freshness that night air inherently holds. We walk a little way and sit down next to each other and the conversation begins. What we did this week; who annoyed us most; why I have a scar; why you have a bruise; what I cooked; what you fell over; how tired we both are. At some point I split in two.

One of me is watching us and one of me is talking to you.

The me that is watching us starts singing songs, she’s making jokes at my expense.  The me that is talking to you ignores the other, she’s looking at your eyes and trying to mine them for meaning. The singing me doesn't need meaning… I just need purpose, a goal, and sufficient oxygen and time to achieve it. So I sing at us, wondering if the me that is looking at you will ever stop gripping my hands together so tightly in my lap.  The me that is staring at you is making up speeches in my head. So in my head I’m telling you the truth and I’m making up a truth for you as well; every alternate one makes me want to cry.

Both parts of me push against the other when I’m with you. It gets confusing in this head. I get scared and sometimes I get over-confident and sometimes I’m making exit strategies. It’s silly but the reason I don’t know if I am losing is because, every time the wheel slows, every time I open my eyes and every time you turn to go, I follow.

So when we sit down

                                  both parts of me are there.

The Men in White

They look small from up here on the third floor. I cheer the little men in white from behind these panes of glass. There are lots of them, walking about the green circle, some aimlessly and others with undeniable purpose. One of the little men strides up beyond the pale strip of green, he takes the red dot and inspects it thoroughly. He pulls his shirt to make a polishing cloth and irreverently stains it red in his attempt to perfect the shine. He palms the dot into his left hand and starts jogging toward the pale strip.

 Soon the man with the dot is running at top speed, and when he reaches the pale strip he flings the dot down. It bounces and flies menacingly at another man in white standing at the other end. But, the other man is ready, he’s come armed with a plank of wood that he is clearly prepared to use. The other man quickly shuffles his feet, he leans back slightly and hoists the plank. He swings and wallops the red dot toward the edge of the big green circle toward his left side. The previously aimless wanderers on that side of the circle leap into action. One of them winds himself sprinting after the dot, he dives and slides and finally grasps it. 

The diving man flings it to another fellow who had apparently followed the sprint; he’d slowed to a stop in anticipation of the pass. This fellow then pulls back his arm and throws the dot furiously toward yet another man in white. This one is standing behind the place where the man with the plank had hit the dot from initially. He looks like a warrior because he is wearing armour. He catches the dot and slams it into a neatly appointed pile of sticks. The sticks toppled. Lots of men in white throw their arms up and turn to yell at a man wearing (somewhat conspicuously) black trousers. The man in the black trousers shakes his head. All the white men turn back to their preferred pursuits and begin again. 

A Sandwich

She didn't go down to the riverbank the next evening. She made herself wait, she was anxious to see you, but scared as well. Sunday morning she went about her business as usual, subtly watching the clock, waiting. At fifteen minutes past noon she pulled on her yellow jumper and walked to the river. She saw you sitting on the bench facing the river. So she quietly approached.

She sat down next to you and you looked at her and you smiled. Then you handed her a sandwich. She took it and smiled back. You let your hand drop onto the bench between you with your palm facing up.

She placed her hand over yours and you grasped it.

You both ate your sandwiches one-handed.

A Note

It was evening when you came to the bench by the river. You saw the rock sitting on the note on the spot where you normally sit, so you sat on the other end of the bench. You picked up the rock and saw that the note was addressed to you, so you opened it.

Sometimes I think it’s enough for me to know that you are alive and on the planet at the same time I am. Sometimes I’m just glad to know that you look at the same moon that I do at night. But mostly I’d like you to take my hand and hold it for a while.

And you knew exactly what she meant. You put the rock in your pocket and closed your fist around her note and then you breathed deeply. 

A Rock

She is shy
But she is optimistic
While she waits
She sings you songs
She is quiet
But she isn't missing
If you wait
She'll be along


She stopped at the river bank where you sit some times, and you weren't there. So she took out a piece of paper and her emergency pencil and jotted down a note for you. She folded it up and wrote your name on the front. She wandered around for a second, then she bent down to pick up a rock. She placed the note on the bench where you sit and put the rock on top of it, to make sure it wouldn't blow away. As she walked away she silently prayed that it wouldn't rain.

A Waiting Love

How Deeply You Hope

She writes love letters to you in her sleep. She picks out songs to tell you how she cares, but she doesn't send them to you (yet). She gently tells you that she believes in you. She prays the prayers that keep you safe. She reminds Heaven when your head is heavy, and she volunteers her shoulder to hold it up. Hers is a waiting love, and she'll wait for you.

You've been walking alone for a while now. Your heart is almost healed and your hand doesn't shake when it reaches toward the mirror. You don’t feel the tug of the scars so much; they've stretched into normality. Now when you sit on the river bank, you imagine it would be nice to have someone there, a hand to hold.

But you don’t know she’s waiting for you, and she doesn't know you’re ready yet. So close your eyes and say the prayer. Hope desperately and wish her into your arms. Take an extra sandwich next time you go down to the river, she’ll be there soon. I know this because I see how deeply you hope.

The Enchanted Goat's Leg

The Enchanted Goat’s Leg

I was walking through a stretch of bush land today and I saw a goat’s leg in my peripheral vision. I saw the hoof first; it was cloven (as they usually are) and it was bent at the knee joint and brown. I turned to examine the leg but, as I focused my vision squarely on it, the leg transformed into a branch. It was a very ordinary branch, although it bore a striking resemblance to a goat’s leg. The end nearest me was split, as if it were imitating a cloven hoof, and it was bent right at the place where, if it had been a goat’s leg, a knee would have existed.

Briefly, I considered that this leg could have, in fact, always been a branch, this thought I dismissed. It quickly became clear to me that at the place the branch occupied a goat must have buried itself in the ground in order to hide from me; he supposing I were a foe coming to capture him, which a foe would most assuredly do precisely because he (the goat) is plainly enchanted… or perhaps enchanter. I say plainly because it is clear to me that when the clever goat realised he didn’t have time enough to hide himself completely underground he enchanted his own leg (for it was the only part yet exposed) to look like a branch in order to trick his supposed pursuer.

Obviously, I considered grasping the branch in order to shake it and bring the goat out of his hiding. However, while I would have dearly liked to meet the clever goat (and I am sure you will agree with me, he must be very clever indeed!), a second thought on the matter belayed any consideration for shaking the poor creature out of his ingenious disguise, for fear I would frighten the life out of him! I comfort myself thinking it is quite enough to delight in my knowledge of him, and knowing the sweet mystery of falling for such a delicious trick… if only for a moment.

This is what I suspect the enchanted goat looks like obviously

 it is difficult to estimate given I only saw his

leg and only in my peripheral vision.