Dunno where this is going

I remember looking desperately into my future for a glimmer of hope and seeing none.  I remember listening in the dark for the voice of my future self telling me I'd make it - I'd heard it before in my darker times.  It didn't come.  All I heard was a stranger's voice telling me how sorry it was for my pain.

Three years later, I know that the stranger's voice is mine and that the woman who was me for a while died, just like she knew she would.  I stare out of her eyes, push her hair back out of her face and listen for the voice of my future self.  I don't hear it, but everything's fine now, anyway.

Memories of childhood

The garden we grew in
grows brighter with age
Perhaps we return there.

An artist's lament

My favourite flowers are roses
and I... wish that they weren't.
Couldn't I just die for a passionate two-lip,
or bliss out on a bohemian sunflower?

No.  Like a million before me,
I breathe the scent of contentment
from pedestrian petals of perfection,
rich in colour, complex in shape
and protected by thorns;
the inspiration of a million poets -
what more could *I* have to say about them?

There's nothing to do, but keep on deadheading...
and quietly curse my conservative taste.

Precious things

I'd like to write reams, but it comes down to this: art needs a frame.  Treasure needs a chest.  Precious things need to be cherished, or they become nothing but trash.

Have you ever seen a single shoe in a pile of junk?  Not a ratty-looking flip flip or broken-nacked slipper, either.  The suede was as soft as the day it was made, and a ruffle of gossamer thin paper was still tucked in the dainty toe.  It was the only thing in the room that seemed to repel the stench of rotten food and cat pee, still having that leatherish smell of a long-lost shoe box.  It should have been a precious thing, but without its partner, discarded and unloved?  It's just beautiful junk.

I slung it in the bin bag with sodden tissues, food wrappers and broken, useless things.  It still looked beautiful.

Poem for Nan - WIP

I've built you a heaven from my memories.
Your malaprop'd "monocle"
is set on the grand oak table
(more fitted for a stately home
than a bungalow kitchen).
You'll need that,
for scouring the clues in the newspaper.
Yesterday's mystery of 7 across,
is finally revealed in the small print, inverted.

Set down on the table,
it makes ellipses of the grain
around its chrome casing,
and a study of it under its lens.
The refracted light from the kitchen-diner chandelier
is re-focussed in overlapping circles on the grain,
as it always was.

I've picked you a silk nightdress,
a fleece dressing gown,
and slippers that match neither.
The dressing gown fleece is soft against my cheek
and your arms feel like home.

Above the tiny telly
a picture smiles down.
A young woman in uniform,
sepia, with strange hair
and an air about her.
"Yes, that was me."
You'd smile and sigh.

I don't know if she'd like it here,
that quick, clever girl who could
fix an anti aircraft gun.

I can't see her doing a crossword,
or indulging a child too many sweets
while singing to Songs of Praise.
"The Old Rugged Cross" was your favourite.
She crushed on Tony Martin, and went to the cinema
with soldiers who weren't my Grandad.

Now free from your body,
soft and gentled by necessity;
are you the laughing eyed girl?
Is that your heaven?

Ranunculus WIP so bloody tired ...

Edit: OMG, like... I am a 16 year old girl.  Jesus.  What the hell was I thinking?! This belongs in a whiny supernatural roleplay book from the mid '90s.   And that's probably why I'm keeping it up, because god help me, I LOVE that cheesy stuff.
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Homunculus: "little man"
The dark magician brings forth the homunculus to hold a part of himself... his greed, anger, or some lighter part like his sense of humour. 

Ranunculus: "little light of the sun"
The lover is inspired by their muse to bring out the best in themselves.  Its form is fragile, and outside of the protection of the mind, its fate is most often to be crushed - more often by clumsiness than malice.
Upon the destruction of their Ranunculus, the lover feels bereft, as the best part of them truly has been destroyed.  But with time and nourishment, the fertile heart soil grows another.  The lover is wise to be cautious before allowing a muse song to draw out their Ranunculus for a second, third or even fourth time.  The memory of pain is a wise teacher.  But the lover is also wise to not wall their Ranunculus up so that no song will ever reach it again, lest it wither on the vine and poison the heart soil with its decay.

Plenty of Fish

An account of the most disasterous date I ever went on via an online dating site

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I went ahead and met a guy in real life.  We'd been jokey-flirting a bit, though I made it clear that I was just funning with him and wasn't looking to get physical - all I want from this dating malarky is an excuse to put on a nice dress, enjoy male companionship, then go home alone.  He said he was fine with that - and furthermore, he was in his late 40's, and into rock'n'roll dancing.  I was all "Yay! Me too! Let's go dancing!"

I'm in my late 30s, but the age gap didn't bother me a jot - it was only a date, I'm not looking for a boyfriend.  But the night we were meant to go dancing, he called (I'd given him my number so we could talk on the phone beforehand etc) and said that the dancing had been cancelled - would I like to go for a drink instead?  Well, why the hell not, eh? :)  Better than being home alone!  I was feeling fairly trusting towards him - we'd spoken on the phone, and I had added him on SNS site, and could see he had family and friends, etc.  Fairly normal guy, had a bit of a silver fox thing going on.

So.. I arrived at the pub and spotted him straight away.  He looked enough like his picture that I could recognise him, but... it was 15 years out of date.  That man was late-50s if he was a day, and his silver fox hair had gone sideways frizzy in the intervening years.  Also, he'd dyed it jet-black, so he looked like a toilet brush that'd been stuffed in a tin of shoe polish.  Okay, I thought. So, he knocked a few years off, and was too embarrassed to say he's too old for the moves in the dancing.  We can still hang out, get an uncle-figure kind of thing going on, maybe?

Well, maybe not, unless your uncle's on some kind of register.  He was all handsy, trying to stroke my damn arm all the time. And... worse than that, ever... he kept getting all mouthsy! EWWWWW!  Three bloody times I fell for the old leaning-in-conspiratorially, I've-got-some-juicy-gossip trick. Then he'd plant a slobber on my cheek. 

First time, I pulled back sharply and glared a bit.  He seemed to back off, so I relaxed, figured that the message was received.  But he did it again.  He apologised quite profusely, cos I told him "Ummm, NO, actually" and pointedly kept my bag up as barrier between us.  That made conversation a little awkward... there are only so many ways a man can mumble "Nice bag, ummm... is it designer? My daughter has one like that ummm...bought it in John Lewis... ummm.." so I suggested a game of pool.  I figured it was win-win - if it was a genuine misunderstanding of intent... maybe the glare had been too subtle?... then we could chat about the game and re-establish boundaries.  And if he was still going to try to be sleazy, I'd have a pool cue to hand.  Again, it seemed to go well.  He was polite, friendly, respectful... right up until the very moment I let my guard down, then he pulled THE VERY SAME DICK MOVE AGAIN.   :asshat:

I felt awful....sick and shaky... kinda scared, too.   Oddly enough... I really, REALLY didn't want to make a scene.  That's not like me at all - I'm usually quick to become a snarling ball of spikes and sharp edges when I feel threatened.  So instead of beating him with a pool cue, I made my (fairly poor) excuses and pegged it... less than an hour and a quarter after arriving!  In retrospect, I should've sent him a firm "Fuck off" text the minute I was out of the car park, but unfortunately, it seems I have a bit of a weakness when it comes to Grandads.  I can't hurt them.  They're old.  So, when he texted me a few days later... instead of "Take a hike, mister" I... kinda... told him... that me and my ex-husband (Bear) were getting back together, and had agreed NEVER to speak to people we dated while we were apart.  And once he'd wished me well and told me what a lovely girl I was (yeah, I know, mate... shame about you, though!)... I cheerfully blocked him on Facebook, and on my phone.  And that oughta have been the end of that!   

But, dumbass that I am, I completely forgot to block him on the dating site!  So, within a day or two of my "I can never speak to you again",  Dear John text...  he's messaging me again, dripping with concern at my domestic situation! 

I was so thrown... I can't believe I did this, but I absolutely panicked.  And sent him a stern, gruff response.

"Dude, this is the husband.  She gave me her logins.  Back off, yeah?"

That'll show him, I thought.  He'll apologise and back off, like a man.

But, turns out I don't know a damn THING about how men interact, 'cos he immediately called "the husband" out for a fight   

"This is a dating site" he wrote.  "so ill meet u anytime, anyplace.  Im a confidint ex-para* and this is what I look like"

Then he sent a picture of himself about taken about 10 years ago, paddling in the sea in his grandad-pants.

 

Dunno if "the husband" was supposed to be scared, but I reckoned at that point that *I* could take him, if it did come to fisticuffs.  But that wasn't the issue.  The issue was, I was supposed to be a young(ish), fit(ish) chap that could handle himself in a brawl and I was being challenged to a fight by Angry Ghandi.  I had no idea what to do in this situation, so I did what I ALWAYS do when I'm at my wits end.  I messaged my bestie-Bear.

Me <typing furiously>: I have fucked up.  I have EPICALLY fucked up and I don't know what to do

He: What's wrong?

Me: BogBrush Man wants to fight me cos he thinks I'm you - WHAT THE HELL DO I DO?!

He: What the fuck is a BogBrush Man?!

<pause while I recall that I hadn't told Bear about my disaster date yet, and pondered how to condense the situation into as few words as possible>

He: Hang on, I'm phoning

A short conversation later - Bear, cool as a cucumber... "Does he know where you live? Does he know who I am? Well, what DOES he know?  Okay, um... <trying not to laugh like a loon>... can't you just block him, or something?"

It was like a gasp of air after holding your breath underwater.  Block button! Beautiful, beautiful block button!    Right there and then, I blocked BBMan's wrinkly ass.  Sweet relief... I like to imagine that he strutted away in triumph, thinking "the husband" got scared of his manly sandals or something, and I also like to think that I'll never see his face again.  Plenty of fish, or so I'm told.
That wasn't a fish though - that was a goddamn slimy octopus.
 

Happy fishing!

* For those who don't know, ex-para = ex-soldier who jumps out of planes and stuff.  I didn't know they had them in the Napoleonic Wars, though