Showing posts with label I tried. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I tried. Show all posts

Thursday, March 1, 2018

Nine Seconds of Jason

Alright. Cut me some slack because I haven't edited this rubbish or checked the formatting, but I'm fucking tired and lonely and talking to myself at this point. I thought this would be shorter and that I would finish sooner, but it wasn't, and I didn't. So you'll have to wait for more. That's if you're here. That's if you care. That's if you exist. Anyways. Thank you.



Nine Seconds of Jason



I — Work 

Mei was tired, and the problem with being tired is that if you tell anyone that you’re tired they will always one-up you, just like Serena was doing right now. 

“Look, it’s not that I don’t understand,” Serena was saying. “It’s just that we all get tired from time to time.”

From time to time. Mei choked back down the snipped words that threatened to escape her and formed a more pleasant response. “I know. We all do get tired. I guess I’m just feeling it a bit more today.”

Serena rewarded Mei with a smile, but somehow it seemed confrontational / condescending. “I understand.” Lie. “It happens to us all, doing all these crazy shifts.” Lie. “I can totally empathise.” Lie.

Mei’s phone rang with a startling TING that simultaneously woke her up and gave her relief — Serena finally had an excuse to leave. And as if on cue, the perky blonde waved with just her fingertips, turned on her Nike-clad heel, and departed down the cubicle lined hallway with the grace and pep akin to those in middle-fucking-management. MFM Mei said to herself, which always sounded like a B-rate radio station. 

Mei answered the phone and even if it was a memorable call she wouldn’t remember it within the hour. That was her life — call after call, complaint after complaint, shift after shift, change after change. She worked through until midnight (which was when she had been waking up the week before, and when she had been half-way through a shift the week before that, and when she had been deep in REM the week before that) and clocked off without eating her lunch. Mei exited the shiny matrix of glass and marble that was her workplace building and wondered how many of her lunch containers had grown old and festering in the cafeteria refrigerators while she clocked on and off without ever asserting herself and taking the breaks she was entitled to.

No point wondering she thought. The answer was All.



II — Home 



Mei caught the late train back to her apartment (or was it technically the early train), heaved herself over the arrangement of junkies on her front stoop, and bundled up the stairs to the emptiness that awaited her. Shift after shift left her a ghost. Perhaps that’s what she wanted to be. More likely it was just what The Man needed from her. Telling the difference was becoming harder and harder. People like Serena who worked nine-to-five pretty much every week of the year were different. People like that — people like Serena — who had consistency and regularity and most importantly normality, they didn’t know what it was like to be a ghost. An imprint of an imprint of an imprint of yourself. 

Mei walked through her apartment and found it to be just as lonely / empty as she had anticipated it to be. Todd had left more than six months ago but she’d still found herself expecting him to be there each time she got home. Who would stay she asked herself now, as she undressed and (barely) lifted her limbs into the shower. The water ran over her and while Mei wanted everything to wash away, it never did.

Mei was lost inside her head when someone asked her something.

“Hello?”

She jumped, righted herself, listened harder. Was someone at the bathroom door?

“Hey.” The voice again, but closer this time.

Mei felt her stomach lift in fear and her heart double it’s pace, but she knew that she’d heard the voice. Perhaps one of the junkies had come in through the front door after her, while she wasn’t paying attention.

“Can you hear me?” the voice asked. It was right above her and too loud — startling her and catching her off guard.

“CAN YOU HEAR ME?” it shouted this time. Mei turned too quickly, grabbed the shower curtain without thinking, and fell painfully onto the bathroom tiles like a sack of potatoes wrapped in a wet plastic bag. 

Fuuuuuuck. Her back smacked hard against the immovable floor. The cussing continued in her head as the wind had been knocked out of her and the pain clouded her mind — perhaps she had instantly forgotten all the words that weren’t Fuck. Or perhaps it was just the only word that she could remember right then and there. 

By the time Mei scraped herself off the tiles and got to a sitting position on the toilet she’d come to the conclusion that she had hallucinated. Wouldn’t have been the first time. On rotating shifts it was easy to forget where you’d been, who you’d seen, what you’d said, what you’d heard. Some days she would get to work and not even remember putting her uniform on, or getting on the train, or clocking in. Yep, that was it — just a hallucination. 

Mei stood and looked at herself in the mirror. There was already and ache in her back and the bags under eyes were those of an unseasoned international traveller. Still, she opened the medicine cupboard, took a pair of painkillers, and made eye contact with herself. “You’re going to brush your hair, paint on some eyes, slip into that blue dress, and go get a fucking drink.”

Her reflection frowned back. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look you lazy whore,” she scolded. Her reflection shrugged and smiled. A drink it would be. 

III — The Bar

The blue dress fit a treat — perhaps the shift work had helped her shed a couple of pounds — and Mei felt a little more comfortable behind the heavy makeup and the perfume and wad of twenties she had withdrawn from the cash machine a couple blocks back. 

The bar wasn’t seedy but it wasn’t too classy either. Mei hated classy. Seedy was fine but it wasn’t what she was after the day she’d had — she needed to feel good about herself, and if not good, then at least a little better. Definitely not seedy. The bar was just right and she could tell by the light. Not too dim (seedy), but not too ambient either (too classy). It was just a little more than ambient and made her feel a little woozy even before her first drink. She headed to the bar as she tried to ignore the pain that lingered in her back.

“Vodka tonic, with lime please.”

The bartender said nothing and nodded. He prepared her drink quickly and took her cash courteously. She told him to keep the change on a tab and keep the drinks coming. But also the water she added, hoping none of the other patrons would hear her. Getting home was something that she needed to do tonight because, of course, there was a shift awaiting her.



IV — The Toilet



Toilet — “You’re drinking.” 

Mei almost fell off the toilet. “What the fuck!?” 

It was the voice again. “Woah, potty mouth.”

“Dude, who are you?” Mei looked around the filthy bar toilet stall as if she expected to see someone in there with her. “Were you at my house earlier?”

“Yeah, that was me,” he said, and it sounded like he was right in front of her / above her(???).

“Um…okay.” Mei wasn’t really sure what else to say to the disembodied voice.

“You’re drinking,” he repeated.

“Uh, well, technically right now I’m peeing.”

“And on a school night.”

“Okay, mum. I can drink if I feel like drinking.” Mei finished up her business and hiked up her knickers underneath the blue dress. “Wait, can you see me right now?”

The voice was quiet / silent. 

Mei flushed and felt her cheeks flush with colour. “Fuck. How long?”

“How long what?”

“How long have you been able to see me?”

A pause, and then… “Not long. Since yesterd —”

There was sudden silence. “Since yesterday?” Mei asked the air in the toilet stall. There was no response. “Hello? Voice? Are you there?”

She shook her head (mostly to herself) and figured she either needed another drink or to go home to bed. She opened the stall door and washed her hands in the grimy sink / basin. She wondered if this was the kind of thing she was supposed to tell her therapist. Not that she had a therapist. Not that she had money for a therapist. 

The bartender, as requested, had another drink reader for her when she made it back to her seat. Mei drank it fast and then cut herself off, leaving the guy a generous tip before hightailing it back to her apartment. The night was still early but her lower back was starting to ache from the fall onto the bathroom tiles, and the Voice was right. It was indeed a school night.



V — Sleep



It was only a three hour shift change this time, but each one took it’s toll. Mei was awake, staring at the pale morning light that was only barely strong enough to push through the window. She wasn’t thinking of anything other than a strange dream she’d had during the night.

“You’re awake.” The voice didn’t startle her this time.

“And you’re not a dream, then.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You think, therefore you are.”

A pause. “I doubt.”

“Uhhhhhhrg. Gross. Do you correct your mother with that mouth?”

A laugh. Mei felt her ears twitch up in a smile of her own, and she too laughed. They were that way for a moment and then he was gone again. “Hello?” she asked the air. “Where did you go this time?”

Not long Mei thought to herself. 



VI — Work



It was late in the day and unfortunately for Mei, it felt late in the day. She’d had a double shot coffee before leaving her apartment but 7PM was no time to be starting anything other than an expensive multiple course meal. The train was full of people on their way home or on their way out to something fun. The only good thing would be the noticeable lack of Serena.

When she got there the office wasn’t empty but it was certainly filtering out. Ricky from HR stopped at Mei’s cubicle as he passed by. “Just getting in?”

Mei shrugged and clicked quickly through her login screen. “That’s life on rotation.”

Ricky looked legitimately concerned. “When was the last time you had AL?”

“I don’t know.” And it was the truth. 

Ricky scratched his beard, thinking. “Okay. Let me talk to Serena in the morning.”

Mei grimaced. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.

He smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell her it’s come from the top down. They hate when you have too much stocked, especially if they have to payout a resignation.” Ricky left with another smile and Mei was relieved when she realised that she was the only the one left on her level. Before she could enjoy it her phone rang.



VII — Jason



It was 1AM when the voice returned. “Hey.”

This time Mei wasn’t shocked or startled. She took off her headset and put a pause on her incoming calls. “Hey yourself.”

“I’m Jason.”

“Mei, but you probably already knew that.”

“Kind of, but not really.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

“You should be asking better questions. / You’re not asking the right questions.”

“Oh my god. You’re pretty fucking pretentious for a ghostly voice, Jason.”

“You think I’m ghostly?”

Mei laughed. “No. I don’t know why I said that.”

But then there was no response. He was gone. Jason was gone. 

“Hello?” Mei felt lonely and stupid calling out to the empty air. Her screen lit up with incoming phone calls as she logged back in and adjusted her headset into place.



VIII — Home



It won’t surprise you to learn that nothing is open at 3AM except Mickey D’s. Mei didn’t particularly like take out food, but she stopped either way and grabbed an egg wrap and a coffee. The egg tasted of rubber, and the coffee of luke-warm chemicals. Seventeen minutes later she stepped off the train behind a few still-drunk sports fans and —  with bleary eyes — trudged up the road to her apartment. 

Once inside she turned on her coffee machine to make something actually drinkable and pulled out a leftover frozen lasagne. The microwave was still buzzing, it’s internal plate rotating, when her phone rang. It was Ricky, from HR.

“Listen kiddo, Serena is being…well…Serena. She’s cut me off at every angle, but she’s agreed to let me give you the next two days off. I know it’s not much but —”

“Oh!” Mei couldn’t stop herself. “Dude. Dude! Are you kidding me!? That’s amazing. That’s…”

“Don’t thank me just yet. I have no idea what she’ll do to your shift schedule after those two days. But at least you can sleep, right?”

Mei’s face hurt from the smile that had set up camp on it. Her ears twitched with happiness. “I owe you Ricky. I owe you a big one.”

He chuckled on the other end of the phone. “Just think of me when Christmas gifts are getting handed out.”

“I will,” she promised. 

Mei looked at the wall clock and noted that it was just past 5AM. Ricky must have worked on that shit overnight and then called her as early as he could. She didn’t just make a mental note, she took out her diary and wrote a reminder to get him something good within the week. There was an interesting desk piece she’d seen on the internet — perfectly carved crystal likeness of all the planets in a mahogany setting. Most people weren’t kind. But when some were, Mei dug deep, and that’s exactly what she would do this time. Ricky had gone out of his way. She noted the website and made sure to transfer some of her savings out to her credit card. 

She was half way through her coffee when she heard Jason. “Hey, you.”

Mei couldn’t stop her smile as she adjusted on the couch and faced where his voice had come from. “Hey yourself.”

“I didn’t think you’d still be awake.”

She hesitated. “I was waiting for you.”

“Were you now?”

Mei felt embarrassed. “Maybe. I don’t know. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re cute when you get nervous like that.”

“I’m absolutely not cute.”

“You work weird hours.” It was a statement but still, he sounded confused when he said it, almost as if it was a question. 

“I know. No need to remind me.”

“What if you —”

But he was gone again. 

Not in the mood to finish her coffee and full to the brim with reheated lasagne, Mei spent the rest of the morning reading and catching up on personal paperwork. Now and again she’d stop and listen and wait for Jason, but he was never there and eventually she realised that all she was doing was torturing herself. 


~~~ more to come...



Tuesday, March 29, 2016

He. You. She.

He. You. She.
Three poems for free. I hope they're okay.




My Avocado

Sitting there in the fridge, smug
That would be fucking right
But I know he’s hiding the truth from me
The naughty shit
His skin — dark and rough and green
And yet he looks so perfect
Ready for a salad
Mine to take
Mine to eat

But my avocado
Hiding his foul brown-ness from me
Leading me on
Lying in my fridge
Lying to me
He’s nothing but a liar
Naughty little avocado
You’re naughty
You’re a naughty little shit



My Pen

Baby where did you go?
Three days
Three whole days since I lost you
My soul aches wondering where your plastic-self might be
Your spare ink cartridges lie still — no longer with purpose

Baby where did you go?
I still remember how you felt between my fingers and how you
Managed to speak for me
Even at the worst
Even at the best
Even in the middle

You were all of me when I was nothing
Ink running down to your tip
I could always coax out what you had
To spill

Baby where did you go?
It was easy
To work you, until you couldn’t help yourself
And then your hot, thick truth was all over my page
And you were mine
And I was yours

Baby, where did you go?



My Crazy


My crazy wakes up early and goes to bed late
My crazy knows that there isn’t enough time in the day
My crazy has a busy schedule and I am at the top of the list
My crazy has been watching me
My crazy has been paying attention
My crazy knows the drill, but
My crazy, she lacks imagination — for she looks just like me
My crazy talks like me
My crazy walks like me
My crazy smells like me
My crazy, well, she’s just like me
My crazy is me
My crazy is everything I want to be
My crazy is everything I’m not
My crazy is qualified
My crazy is tired, and
My crazy wants her life back
My crazy is going to win.

Monday, February 15, 2016

Little Miss Turtle

Happy Valentine's Day


It was a blind and broken time
And kindness was forbidden
I guess I tried to hitch a ride
From acid to religion

But every guiding light was gone
And every good direction
The book of love I read was wrong
It had a happy ending

Leonard Cohen
The Great Divide -- from Book of Longing

*** 


I can’t sleep.

And it’s been eight minutes since I last looked at the clock because I’m looking at it again now, and it says 11:13PM and the last time I looked, it said 11:05PM. So that’s eight minutes.

Eight, very long minutes.

There’s something dripping. I can’t hear it all the time but if I stop and wait long enough, and make sure to listen properly, I can hear it. Something dripping. Maybe I left a tap on upstairs. Or maybe it’s the fridge again. Anyways, it doesn’t matter what it is because I know I won’t fix it, I’ll just keep letting it drip, whatever it is.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I was never very good at fixing things, or solving problems, or finality. I was never very good at letting go I suppose.

I would always wake up before you, I couldn’t help it. Probably the shift work or perhaps the caffeine that I yearned for; the caffeine I still yearn for. You would sleep without moving and I would lie there next to you and worry that the sound of my heart beating would disturb you. Now I just wake up whenever it pleases my body. I toss and turn and make a mother-fucking ruckus. I would wake the dead if they slept next to me.

It used to be that I would wake up and it would be an inconvenience except that what does it matter now? Sometimes I wake up and I hum a tune and then catch myself before I realise it doesn’t matter. Not now.

It doesn’t matter now.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Maybe it’s the other clock — the one outside our room, sorry, my room — the one I can’t see. Maybe it’s the other clock just tick-ticking away and maybe nothing is leaking or dripping at all.

I used to wake up early and be as quiet as I possibly could in the shower and then turn the coffee machine on and get out the milk and rip open a packet of Splenda and I would do all of this on edge. But you would sleep and none of it would bother you or wake you. I’d peek back into our room — sorry, my room — and you’d be in the same spot, unmoved, unchanged, lost in Sleepy Town. Nothing could ever raise you. Not until you were ready, at least.

It’s too early for coffee right now. Or is it too late?

I made bacon and onion and pasta last night. It didn’t work out well. It was too wet and the crappy shrivelled beetroot leaves that I put in it made the pasta an unappetising pink colour. I ate a couple of spoonfuls and then left it to sit in the pot. It’s probably congealed by now, but I’m so lazy that I’ll dump it into a plastic container and pretend like I’m going to eat it for lunch tomorrow, at work. But I already know it’s shit and I already know I won’t eat it tomorrow. At work.

Work. That thing I have to do tomorrow.

I definitely won’t eat it.

You would have made something nice — something impressive — like pasta with a homemade sauce. Or chicken wings with slaw. Or salisbury steak. You would have let me cut the onion.

Baby, you would say, please be careful. Last time you almost sliced off your finger. Pay attention, okay? I would blush and when it was almost done you would let me taste it for seasoning and I would say, no it doesn’t need any salt, and you would smile and say,  And then you would add a little more salt.

I can’t sleep and you would say it’s because I don’t exercise enough. I don’t expend enough energy to be tired at the end of the day and I know you’re right but you’re not here and so it doesn’t matter anymore.

I wake up early, long before you do, but you put everything into your day and I am a slow, underachieving turtle. You are loud and I am turned down so low that soon I might just disappear.

Little Miss Turtle.

11:22PM. Drip. Drip. Drip.

At work you would text me and ask how my day is going and I would lie and say it’s good. I'm killing it, I would say.

Does my pillow smell like you? Maybe it just smells like me and I can’t remember what I smell like so I attribute it to you; to your smell.  It smells more manly than me, I think. You smell like trees. Trees and grass and forest air. You slept like dead-wood and I always woke before you did. You were the slumbering log and I was the…

What was I?

The turtle. Little Miss Turtle.

After dinner you would go for your run and I would watch you out the kitchen window as you disappeared down the path next to the road. Every night you would disappear and all I could think was that you weren’t going to come back. The irony in that, is that one day you didn’t. There was always going to be that day time that you didn’t come back. And that one day held true — you didn’t come back.

I have to work in three hours. I stare at the clock and know that I’m going to look unrested and strung out and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ll put on my work shirt and some makeup and hope that there aren’t any meetings scheduled today.

When you met me you decided that you hated my job and that in turn, I hated my job. Four ay-em? you baulked. No one starts work at four ay-em! Your body clock will be so off, baby.

You were right I suppose. Perhaps all of me is off. I can still hear it, but I’m not sure if it’s real — drip, drip drip.

For a long time your side of the bed was empty, but that got to be too much. Now I have books on the sheets amidst the dust, because I haven’t changed them for weeks. The sheets, that is. Maybe it’s more than weeks by now.  Drip, drip, drip. Coffee and a grapefruit is not breakfast, baby.

I shaved my legs tonight like it was date night. Like it was Thursday or Friday and you were going to take me out. Like you used to do.  You would give me attention and order me too many drinks and not enough carbohydrates so that I would be easy once we got home. So that I would let you have whatever you want. I knew how it worked and I never said anything but that was probably because I liked it that way. I liked it when I was yours — when I belonged to you.

Now, if I wanted to, I could sleep for days without worry. But I can’t. Now, I can’t sleep at all.

I can’t sleep.

I shaved my legs and they’re smooth now, but me in my bed by myself, what’s the point of smooth legs? You’re not going to take me out. No one is going to take me out. I’m in my bed and all I can think is that I-have-to-work-in-two-and-a-half-hours. It’s on a loop inside my head.

If I wanted to I could come home and get into bed straight away. I could change into my jimmies without doing anything — without cooking dinner or washing the dishes or saying even a single word. I don’t do that, but sometimes I think about doing it. Sometimes I really want to do it.

When I come home now I usually do a lap around the yard and pretend like I am committed to our garden — sorry, my garden. I fill the watering can and feed the parsley, the three rose pots, the succulent on the front table (it has a flower now, by the way), and the rosemary bush, which has grown into a tree in it’s own right. Then I come inside and I kick off my shoes and strip off my sweat-soaked work shirt and wonder how many hours it will be until I can sleep tonight. Drip, drip, drip.

Probably all of the hours to be fair.

I considered dinner on the way home in the car — an old burrito wrapped in tin foil in the fridge, a sandwich made with the bread from the box which I know is already stale, or pizza ordered in. You would hate all three options but you’re not here anymore. I’m a slow, slow turtle who doesn’t want to cook tonight.

Little Miss Turtle.

Last Valentine’s Day you bought me seven roses. They were variegated. Pink and red and peach. It was the first time you’d given me flowers and I didn't’t really know how to act. Today is February 13th and those roses are brown and grey and dried up, but they’re still in the vase that I put them in a year ago. I had to empty out the water because it started to stink, but once they were dry I put them back in and keep them on the dining table, where they sit.

I didn’t exercise today — I came home and poured a gin and drank it in two minutes and thought about texting you. I didn’t get any steps. Well, maybe twenty or so, but not enough to impress you even a tiny bit. I didn’t do all the things you used to tell me to do over and over again. I didn’t expend energy. I didn’t work hard without thinking about what it would get me. I didn’t ignore the externals. I didn’t feel thankful for all the things that I had. All I did, at the end of the day, was consider the ice in my glass and twist my hair into a ratty knot and I think about texting you.

11:22PM. That’s nine more minutes. I pour another gin and watch the dead roses on our, sorry my, dining table. I’m worried they might move or come back to life somehow. Perhaps if I stare at them long enough. Drip, drip, drip.

Sometimes (and you’d laugh at me) I drag my pillow and blanket out and set up a makeshift bed under the table downstairs. It feels like I’m camping — like I’m just out camping and that’s why you’re not here with me. I thought about texting you.

Hey little turtle. Did you get your steps today?

Once, in the morning, I dropped a glass in the kitchen and it smashed into a million pieces and I froze in panic at the cacophonous sound. But you didn’t wake up. You didn’t even hear it. I cleaned up the mess and you woke up at the time that you always woke up and you asked me if I was feeling positive and ready for the day.

Yes, I said. Yes, of course. A lie. Nothing but a lie. Drip, drip, drip.

11:29PM. Seven minutes. Seven minutes.

There’s a space — a point that hollows out in the center of my chest — you used to rest your fingers there after we were done having sex and it made me feel like perhaps gravity really could hold me down and stop me from floating away.

11:31PM. Two minutes.

I didn’t have dinner. I had another gin and I stayed quiet so that I could hear the drip, drip, drip.

I thought about texting you.

Valentine’s Day last year you told me that you loved me and you asked me if I wanted to marry you. I told you I wasn’t sure and that I would have to think about it.

I guess I fucked up. Little Miss Turtle messed up everything.

I thought about texting you tonight.

But you won’t get it. You won’t ever get another text from me.

The space where my necklace used to hang is empty. The space where you used to be is empty. I’m empty.

I’m fucking empty.

And I can’t sleep.


Feb 14th 2015
Man Dies in Chatinnya Lake

The details are still unclear, however the Westlow police station has confirmed that young local man, Bobby Callick, has been lost to the Chatinnya lake just below Chatinnya Bridge.

His car was found in the late hours of today, February 14th, floating downstream towards the spill, and the guardrail damage is consistent with that on his vehicle. There is no sign of foul play.

The county is confident that this incident is an accident despite the insistence by the victim’s finance that this was a suicide.

Mr Callick’s family will be holding a memorial at the Lutheran church in Westlow County due to crews being unable to retrieve the body from Chatinnya Lake. Our prayers are with them. There will be no formal burial.