Quietly, without invitation.
And suddenly you find him under your skin.
And he makes you itch with anticipation and wondering.
The rules hammer through your thoughts.
Even though he might be someone you really want to know.
Don’t pursue.
Don’t scratch.
Maybe he will find someone else to creep to.
Maybe this flicker will blow itself out.
Maybe you are just a Saturday night.
(Two maybes too many.)
Maybe he’s a creep.
Friday, 23 November 2007
Wednesday, 21 November 2007
Boys leave bruises
Violet posies, sprinkled over skin
The blue print of his hip against her thigh
Chameleon kisses
Fade with the days
The minutes of their coupling tick on to fill hours that divide
Their entwined bodies are but a memory
Her eyes, his lips just a fantasy
That boy, a mystery
The blue print of his hip against her thigh
Chameleon kisses
Fade with the days
The minutes of their coupling tick on to fill hours that divide
Their entwined bodies are but a memory
Her eyes, his lips just a fantasy
That boy, a mystery
Thursday, 15 November 2007
I would do anything for love… but I won’t do that.
It’s going to be one of those days. I’ve torn the plastic wrapper off my pack of Super Lights only to unsheathe the bottom of the box, which I then dropped. I got ready for work this morning in a daze, mechanically pulling a comb through my hair, tugging a cardi off its hanger and tying my laces. I’m surprised that I haven’t dropped my keys. I am sleep deprived. And soon I will lose my sense of humour.
Sleep. It’s one of my favourite pastimes. Since I was a babe, I’ve been pretty much able to sleep at any time, anywhere. I take after my dad. You know those silly musings that we’ve all answered at one time or another: do you scrunch or fold (a bit of both), would you rather be blind or deaf (blind, without a doubt), what’s your favourite time of day… I always answer getting into bed. Little satisfies me more than being horizontal after a long day, the smell of fresh linen, the puff of my feather pillows and the chance to cocoon myself as I prepare for moo-moo land.
Sleep is something that fast disappears when an eight-week-old kitten is brought home. And I’m suffering, as I knew I would. Cat owners around the world all have their stories. In the telling, the kitties are portrayed as clever and cute. And we laugh along in sympathy and delight. But that amusement came to a grinding halt when my littlest loved one took to biting my ear at 4 a.m. every morning. I. can’t. take. It. He wants to play. I want to sleep. I swat, grumble, groan and twist myself deeper into my duvet in a vain attempt to escape those sharp little teeth, to no avail.
And so I wrestle him out of the bed, and blindly head towards the door. Drop him on the other side of the threshold and gently (as much as I want to slam it) close the door. He’s learnt fast. He’s found his way back to my sanctuary, but chooses to nestle amongst the t-shirts in my bottom draw instead. And as much as I miss his warm, furry little body, I’m relieved that for the remaining precious hours, I can sleep, untortured.
But I can hear you asking, what would you do for love? Ah, stock up on antihistamines of course. I’m allergic to cats and crazy enough to own one. I will suffer through the itchy eyes, multiple sneezes, running nose and swollen skin around his scratch marks. But give up my time in dreamland? I won’t do that.
Sleep. It’s one of my favourite pastimes. Since I was a babe, I’ve been pretty much able to sleep at any time, anywhere. I take after my dad. You know those silly musings that we’ve all answered at one time or another: do you scrunch or fold (a bit of both), would you rather be blind or deaf (blind, without a doubt), what’s your favourite time of day… I always answer getting into bed. Little satisfies me more than being horizontal after a long day, the smell of fresh linen, the puff of my feather pillows and the chance to cocoon myself as I prepare for moo-moo land.
Sleep is something that fast disappears when an eight-week-old kitten is brought home. And I’m suffering, as I knew I would. Cat owners around the world all have their stories. In the telling, the kitties are portrayed as clever and cute. And we laugh along in sympathy and delight. But that amusement came to a grinding halt when my littlest loved one took to biting my ear at 4 a.m. every morning. I. can’t. take. It. He wants to play. I want to sleep. I swat, grumble, groan and twist myself deeper into my duvet in a vain attempt to escape those sharp little teeth, to no avail.
And so I wrestle him out of the bed, and blindly head towards the door. Drop him on the other side of the threshold and gently (as much as I want to slam it) close the door. He’s learnt fast. He’s found his way back to my sanctuary, but chooses to nestle amongst the t-shirts in my bottom draw instead. And as much as I miss his warm, furry little body, I’m relieved that for the remaining precious hours, I can sleep, untortured.
But I can hear you asking, what would you do for love? Ah, stock up on antihistamines of course. I’m allergic to cats and crazy enough to own one. I will suffer through the itchy eyes, multiple sneezes, running nose and swollen skin around his scratch marks. But give up my time in dreamland? I won’t do that.
Monday, 12 November 2007
What's in a name OR Grace is a little girl that didn't wash her face
For those who know me well, know that patience isn't one of my best traits. I'm tempted to spin it and tell you that it's actually a strength and that I'm your girl when you need something done. And done properly. But you probably won't believe me! Time is my enemy. And people who tell me to "be patient" come a close second. I know. I know. But...
It was with the excitement of a 6-year-old that I drove to Royal Ascot this weekend, frustrated by right-hand-lane hoggers (patience), closely following a print-out of directions to lead me to a potential new member of my household. An eight-week old kitten that happened to be born on my birthday. A sign! I'd seen the photos, I'd even given her a name. And decided that we'd be partners in crime on lazy Sunday afternoons, immersed in a DVD I'd already seen 10 times, ensconced on the couch with "Poppy" ensconced on my lap. We are content.
I knew that she still needed to be weaned, and that I'd only be able to take her home in a week or two. Oh the agony of having to wait that long. Oh, the volumes of fantasies I'd write in those two weeks. Oh, the shock and startling disappointment to discover that Poppy (who they'd named Rocky), MY Poppy, had been promised to someone else. I was semi-crushed. Thankfully there was another kitty that needed a home (they'd named her Donnie) and so I set my sights on her.
This was difficult since Donnie, the little bastard, didn't want to be held, cooed over, petted and loved and scuttled under the
couch to hide and sleep. Ah, cats. I called her, and talked sweetly and played the piano all over the carpet in a deft (daft) attempt to get her attention and coax her out of hiding. But it was not to be. Still, I was resolved to take her. And force her to love me. (Patience.)
For the rest of the weekend I strung words together in patterns, waiting for one that worked and stuck. She's grey, so I ran through a mental thesaurus hunting down clever synonyms, petite posies of letters and such that would suit her. When it hit me. Lady Jane, the 9-day queen. A real madam. It works. Satisfied with myself, so began a new reel of cat mother moments and the countdown continued. Made worse by not knowing exactly when I'd be able to take her home.
But this gnawing voice kept telling me that something wasn't right. And that these things should not be forced. And luckily Donnie's/Lady Jane's cat mother was listening to the same voice. Not wanting me to disappointed, she suggested a kitten she'd met at the vet. A bold. friendly sweetie-pie. And did I want to go and meet it. Two cats, two names, two fantasies down. Down the drain along with swallowed tears.
I have learnt my lesson, cruel fate. Patience is a virtue. And you shouldn't name something you don't have. And as the excitement creeps back under my skin and the prospect of taking a little ball of fluff home fills me with love and wonder, this time I will heed their motto and be patient. And as I chant quietly under my breath, if it's meant to be, it'll be... maybe, just maybe, I'll call her Grace.
It was with the excitement of a 6-year-old that I drove to Royal Ascot this weekend, frustrated by right-hand-lane hoggers (patience), closely following a print-out of directions to lead me to a potential new member of my household. An eight-week old kitten that happened to be born on my birthday. A sign! I'd seen the photos, I'd even given her a name. And decided that we'd be partners in crime on lazy Sunday afternoons, immersed in a DVD I'd already seen 10 times, ensconced on the couch with "Poppy" ensconced on my lap. We are content.
I knew that she still needed to be weaned, and that I'd only be able to take her home in a week or two. Oh the agony of having to wait that long. Oh, the volumes of fantasies I'd write in those two weeks. Oh, the shock and startling disappointment to discover that Poppy (who they'd named Rocky), MY Poppy, had been promised to someone else. I was semi-crushed. Thankfully there was another kitty that needed a home (they'd named her Donnie) and so I set my sights on her.
This was difficult since Donnie, the little bastard, didn't want to be held, cooed over, petted and loved and scuttled under the
couch to hide and sleep. Ah, cats. I called her, and talked sweetly and played the piano all over the carpet in a deft (daft) attempt to get her attention and coax her out of hiding. But it was not to be. Still, I was resolved to take her. And force her to love me. (Patience.)
For the rest of the weekend I strung words together in patterns, waiting for one that worked and stuck. She's grey, so I ran through a mental thesaurus hunting down clever synonyms, petite posies of letters and such that would suit her. When it hit me. Lady Jane, the 9-day queen. A real madam. It works. Satisfied with myself, so began a new reel of cat mother moments and the countdown continued. Made worse by not knowing exactly when I'd be able to take her home.
But this gnawing voice kept telling me that something wasn't right. And that these things should not be forced. And luckily Donnie's/Lady Jane's cat mother was listening to the same voice. Not wanting me to disappointed, she suggested a kitten she'd met at the vet. A bold. friendly sweetie-pie. And did I want to go and meet it. Two cats, two names, two fantasies down. Down the drain along with swallowed tears.
I have learnt my lesson, cruel fate. Patience is a virtue. And you shouldn't name something you don't have. And as the excitement creeps back under my skin and the prospect of taking a little ball of fluff home fills me with love and wonder, this time I will heed their motto and be patient. And as I chant quietly under my breath, if it's meant to be, it'll be... maybe, just maybe, I'll call her Grace.
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