“And in closing, I’d like to thank my supporting cast. All the doctors and nurses who have enabled me to endure my labour, and of course my husband – who was gentle and kind at the beginning, leading me to believe that a two-minute roll in the hay would last but two minutes.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe my new director is crying to be fed.”
Clever, this mode of communication. I can speak without words and you listen, from farther than sound waves carry. Across vast distance we converse, sometimes shouting, sometimes secretly whispering, or jesting delightedly, our smiles never faltering. I am laden with unmanageable sadness when we misunderstand.
Today I find myself weary, though never too weary to blow you a kiss.
Or push the door closed with the sign for ‘I love you.’
Originally written August 5th 2013 for my son, Alex, who is Deaf.
LGHill
How crisp is this day? When the leaves rustle like castanets in the hands of a child, chilled to the bone from playing outside too long; and the green grass is tipped with glittering white specks of frozen dew.
Ah, the joy of coming winter. The sun sets before our sup and refuses to rise in the morning, appearing in the east slowly, like a stubborn teenager.
Christmas is but a bargain away, All Hallows Eve a pile of wrappers hidden under the sofa cushion.
And the days are crisp, the nights desirous of a fireplace.
On the final evening of their honeymoon, they sat side by side on the beach and watched as the darkening ocean consumed the sun.
“Everything has a purpose,” she said, resting her head against her new husband’s shoulder.
“Yes,” he whispered. He placed his hand on the tight mound below her breasts.
His son.
Sometimes I don’t even feel human. Perhaps.
I am the extension of a spirit. Perhaps.
I am the shell of another being. Perhaps.
I am a fish swimming in a sea of air. Perhaps.
There are intelligent fish at the bottom of the Bermuda Triangle who keep people in air tanks just to watch them run around and bang up against the soundproof glass. Perhaps.
I digress. Perhaps.
I am the figment of someone else’s imagination. Perhaps.
I am someone’s guardian angel. Perhaps.
I am the chips at the bottom of someones chip bag. Perhaps.
There are chips at the bottom of my bag screaming and hugging the chip beside them, just waiting to be consumed. Perhaps.
I am stoned. Perhaps.
I am the flame on top of a giant’s birthday candle. Perhaps.
I am a particle of sound rising from my speakers. Perhaps.
I am the scent of roast beef. Perhaps.
I am about to be inhaled by an even bigger giant than the birthday cake one in the waft coming off his Sunday dinner. Perhaps.
I need to smoke another joint now.
Ahh that’s better. Perhaps.
I am my own recurring dream. Perhaps.
I am an aquistion of Alice’s restaurant. Perhaps.
I am a goddess and all my dust mites pray to me. Perhaps.
Goddesses surround each and every one of us constantly. No Shit. They also surround the birds and the bees, trees, rocks…dust mites… Ok I made that up. Perhaps.
I should stop forcing myself to write by telling myself it’s the only way I’m going to get my hand out of the fucking chip bag. Perhaps.
I am the essence of my aloneness and my creativity. Perhaps.
I am my own memory of another lifetime. Perhaps.
I am the nameless, wordless Tao…
Ok, perhaps that was an excuse to roll another joint. Sue me. Perhaps.
I am a poem created by a four year old. Perhaps.
I am art in the eyes of some beholder. Perhaps.
I am a song written by the artist who I love. Perhaps.
It’s time for some Yellowledbetter by Pearl Jam. How can you not LOVE that song? Oh, and to smoke that j. *hwhwhwhwhhhh*…here…
(If I am ever going to understand the words to this song it isn’t going to be tonight. Perhaps.)
I am silence and all the energy that surrounds me is noise. Perhaps.
I am the centre of the universe. Perhaps.
I have the power of hell at my back and yet I am a meek little mouse about to be stepped on by a giant freak. Perhaps.
That was a little spooky. Perhaps.
I am nothing but my memories. Perhaps.
I am whole only as a matter of my own perspective. Perhaps.
I am the realization of my own thirsts. Perhaps.
I am thirsty for some Baileys. Perhaps.
I won’t be driving anywhere tonight. Perhaps.
I am the heart of my own desire. Perhaps.
I am the desire of my own heart. Perhaps.
I desire a man I can never have. Perhaps.
I am human.
Linda
@January 15, 2006. 1:11am
“So, Jones,” said the boss as he seated himself behind his desk. “What do you do for fun when you’re alone?”
“Well, sir, I enjoy fishing…”
“No Jones, I mean when you’re alone.”
“Um… well, I sometimes go down into my basement…”
“Yes,” the boss said eagerly.
“…and work on my train set. It’s a 1:160 scale…”
“Jones?” the boss interrupted.
“Yes, sir?”
The boss leaned across the desk, close enough so Jones could see the pores in the man’s nose. They were deep and dark.
“What I want to know,” he wiped his brow, “is what you do for fun when you’re really alone. I mean, completely and utterly alone. Can you share that with me, Jones?”
“Well sir,” Jones blushed, “it’s rather personal. That’s why I do it when I’m alone.”
The boss sat back in his chair, clasped his hands across the expanse of his belly, and twiddled his thumbs. He smiled like a man satisfied that he was about to receive precisely what he wanted.
“I, um…” Jones swallowed. “I like to, um… dress up in my wife’s clothes, sir.”
A grin spread across the boss’s face, lifting his jowls and creasing his eyes. It wasn’t a malicious smile, nor was it meant to mock. It was merely a smile.
Jones relaxed a little.
“Jones, I have something for you.”
“You do?”
The boss reached under his desk and Jones expected him to come out with a gift bag, perhaps with a nice pair of heels or a frilly dress. Instead, a small device rested in the palm of the boss’s hand that looked like a tiny silver doughnut.
Jones leaned forward to have a closer look. “What’s this, sir?”
“It’s a listening device.”
“And what would you like me to do with it?”
“I would like you to break into Kramer’s house and plant it in his bedroom.”
Jones studied the boss’s face. He didn’t look like he was joking.
“Why should I do that, sir?”
“Well you see, Jones,” the boss placed the item on the desk and sat back again, “this is the very listening device we retrieved from your house this morning. I need it put into the next employee’s house to help us determine what he is doing when he is alone. The next one on the list, alphabetically is Kramer.”
“But… why?”
The boss leaned his elbows on his desk and regarded Jones seriously. “We’ve heard rumours, Jones.” He lowered his voice. “I can’t have you telling anyone this. Can I trust you, Jones?”
“Of course, sir.”
“All right. We have reports that say someone in the organization,” he whispered, “has been masturbating.”
Jones’s bottom jaw dropped. “You’re joking!”
The boss shook his head, as grim as night.
“I don’t need to tell you what that means for our company, do I Jones?”
“Of course not, sir!
“Harry Palmer Sterile Products would never be seen the same again!”
“I told you not to put it off.”
“I know.”
“And now look where you are.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You could have arrived home on time…”
“I know.”
“And safe…”
“I know Dad!”
“But here you are with me in the hospital.”
“Hmph.”
…
“Wait, I know my tire flew off on the highway and I crashed because I didn’t take it to the mechanic on time, but why are you here again Dad?”
“I broke my pelvis.”
“Your pelvis? How?”
…
“Dad?”
“You remember that step your mother asked me to fix three weeks ago?”
I always think of you, when I stand among the daffodils. The way their heavy heads bob on the breeze reminds me of when you agreed with me that one time. Do you remember?
I think we were driving to Niagara Falls. It was the first really warm day and the humidity was rising out of the ground from the rainfall we’d had earlier that morning. I remember that little detail, because, as I got into the car I stepped in a puddle and soaked my left sock… or was it the right one? No matter.
Anyway, we were on the QEW, approaching Burlington and the sun was coming up. It shone in the rearview mirror and just about blinded me and I said, “It looks like it’s going to be a nice day.”
That was when you nodded, and I thought of the daffodils.
And then we hit the patch of oil on the bridge. It was a long drop.
I miss you, mostly because it ended so perfectly.
Sitting by the fire, you work your fingers to the bone, but your mind is ages away. In your head you hear music; it sounds so foreign as to make you believe you could be insane. But it doesn’t stop. In your mind you compose symphonies in crashes and whines like the screams of frightened livestock. You want to tell me of these auditory ‘visions’ but there is no way to explain them. Instead you hum as you work, wishing there was at least some way to record what you compose.
Perhaps in another lifetime…
Sarcasm drips so easily from your palate to your tongue that it’s hard to keep up with you. But I try.
“So you’re saying you don’t want broccoli for dinner tonight?”
“Oh yes, I love broccoli. I love to look at it and smell it and do all kinds of naughty things with it.”
I slow my speech. “So, you’re saying, you don’t want broccoli, for dinner tonight?”
“What the fuck do you think?”
“I’ll do beans.”
“NO! NO! I don’t want beans, I want broccoli, you stupid bitch!”
I long for you to grow out of the terrible twos.
Linda G. Hill 