I call my creatures inside
I’ve been going through my folders and finding all sorts of unfinished projects. This is an attempt to organize myself. An attempt to finish what needs finishing and discard the rest.
Perhaps, there is something here that could be reworked, perhaps not. I am writing this in fragments. Trying to untangle the string of disconnected thoughts. It calms me to document my experiences.
I observe my surroundings. Something can come from nothing but starting is easier with a spark. I rub two stones together and see what happens.
Where is my body? It is gazing upon a piano. A piano that is missing the white enamel on the keys. The mantel is stacked uncomfortably high with soccer trophies and pictures of people that I do not know.
Where is my body? There is a spade stuck in the dirt, beyond the glass doors. Outside, there is a mountain of shoes, gumboots, sandals and sundries. Beyond that, an olive tree. Wherein, a magpie chases two blackbirds from the branches.
Two dogs roam the room. I am their temporary keeper. They bark and bark, maddened at the movement of the birds. There are scratch marks on every door.
A creek encircles this patch of land. Bamboo grows along the driveway and blocks the neighbours from view. There is a lemon tree heavy with citrus. Traffic clings to the road and the noise dives deep into my ears. It was raining in the night and water lingers on the patio furniture.
I’m trying to turn over an idea. But I feel damp, clunky, under caffeinated. I carry too much of yesterday’s burdens. Why is it that some memories cling to us?
The way they replay, again and again. The corners of this house are unswept and dusty. I cannot find the broom in the cupboard. Is it under the stairs?
I walked to the beach this morning. It was a mood. Black on black pants and a hoodie. A cup of tea, swirling in my hand. Two dogs in the other. I become the leader of a pack. But all I do is scoop plastic bags of poop from the grass and sand.
I wanted to wake up somewhere beautiful. This is not it. My mind is a minefield of anxiety. A child’s scream cuts through my melancholy.
“Where are you!” Over and over again.
It's the neighbours and they are shrieking. Louder and louder. The mother replies, louder and louder.
“I’m by the chickens.”
I cannot put a face to their voices. Nor names to the type of people I think they must be. I am annoyed at how annoyed I am. They are only living their lives. I came here thinking this was a suburban sanctuary. Words can be deceiving. Where is my body?
The magpie is back. It’s on the neighbour’s tree. I crane my neck to see it. There are chickens wandering through the bamboo. The dogs bark, anew. I am their guardian. I call my creatures back inside.
