Last Wednesday

Cows must wonder, with their brown soft almost unknowing eyes. What bright shiny things these humans drive.  How heavy they land with wheels breaking off, all of a sudden screeching and tearing rubber before flying and bouncing crunch over a tree..

The flies themselves stopped their wings momentarily and took off for the car now stranded on the barbed wire fence.  Three of us got out of the car and stood around on the side of the isolated stretch of road looking at the wreck.

‘Yeah, Sorry about the car’

‘Don’t worry about it..you ok ? … needed a new one’

Some time later trucks stopped and cars stopped.  People got out and came over to see if everyone was ok.

‘Is anyone still in the car ?’

‘Yeah- I saw what happened – it was that truck’

‘How’s the towie going to get it off the fence ?’

‘Got a pair of pliers ?.. that should do the trick’

‘Oh, thanks for stopping.’

‘I’m a nurse.  Anyone get hurt ?’

‘No – well just a scratch and a bump on the head a bit’

‘Flies are bad eh ?’

‘Was it a kangaroo ?’

‘No – a truck trying to act like one’

Through the glass – the junk pile

Try cutting through glass. I know I’ve done it before – way back had to make a small piece of glass smaller – got a lie cost cutter from Sears I think – anyway it worked and so thought glass cutting – piece of cake or easy as pie or both – .

Every year we have a kind of cathartic chuck out week. During this week everyone in the local suburb starts piling up stuff on the nature strip. could be anything – small lone items like a single briefcase or mixmaster through to piles of everything domestic including the kitchen sink.

This years collective theme seems to be dead mattresses and travel gear.

People have real feelings about the piles of junk. But these can disappear instantly when as if supernaturally called a truck scavenger squawking down the street suddenly stops. Everyone turns to the spectacle of the driver picking through the pile and sometimes taking all the metal or appliances. Then in a few minutes it’s gone and your pile is suddenly a few scattered bits if wood and curtain rods or perhaps a mattress or two. Not to worry, it’s the council will send massive trucks in a few days time to clean up the bones if it.

So there I was in the shed thinking to throw out the glass – a large 12mm 1/2 in piece – already broken of course – did I find it on someone else’s pile ? Yes ! So I really can’t throw it out without doing something with it.

So naturally I thought of cutting off the broken edge .

To be continued when I figure out how.

A visit from Mr Leonard

Tersiiska Key

 

A knock startled him from the drowsy afternoon, and he pushed himself up from his armchair to open the door.

‘Hello ?’ he said to the stranger just outside.

‘The name’s Leonard.   I’m looking for a Mr Guido.

‘Well, come in.  Take a seat.. over there..Mr Len,  by the window.’  Said Guido.

Leonard picked his way through an untidy room carefully and sat down.

‘Like a glass of water then Len ?’

‘No thanks Guido, I won’t be too long I suspect.

Guido, now wide awake and a bit worried took a seat back in his armchair across from Mr Leonard.

Guido, let me introduce myself, said Leonard.  I’m a monk and actually from another time, far back in the past. 6th century France that’s me. Don’t be alarmed though anything is possible to God who gets me around anytime and anywhere depending to help out.   I’m here now though responding to a significant amount of prayers which had been said on your behalf over the past few years.

Guido responded simply, ‘That’ll be since the war broke out then. I’ve been stuck in this far flung sun burnt country since that time and spent the whole time as a POW, incarcerated here.

‘Well I presume you’d like you’re freedom back wouldn’t you.’ said St. Leonard. [he was in fact St. Leonard] who brought out a large key from one of his coat pockets. ‘Here’ he said, handing over the key to Guido. ‘Just hang onto that for now.’

I don’t know if I really want to leave anymore.  you see it’s ironic in a way.  When war broke out, we were all rounded up in trucks by the military police and sent to these vineyards here to work the land and the vines and keep the economy rolling along. At the same time, the local boys were all conscripted sent off to the way, leaving their crops, dogs and women all behind.  While working I met up with Sally a local woman whose husband was sent overseas to fight and she’d needed people to help run the place and keep things ticking over. Well since I stayed, we got to be close, her husband didn’t make it back and so now we’re as good as married I guess.’ said Guido.

‘Oh I see.’ It seems you would be happy to stay, but still the wristband.’ said St. Leonard.  How restrictive is it ?’

‘Well I can go anywhere I like within about 1 km.’ said Guido. It’s on a fail-safe, so if it comes off and stops transmitting, the cops will come running.  I’ve been quite lucky really and feel quite protected, even though how long this war will go on for we don’t know.’ said Guido.

Guido got up from his armchair and walked over to the window. Something seemed a little odd.  He looked down at the spare chair and noticed it was empty and the person he’d been talking with, this Mr Leonard was nowhere to be seen.  He looked at the key in his hand, the key given him by Mr Leonard.  It had a small cross on the end where the key should be.  He put the key down on the chair and looked out of the window.  The sun was setting over the nearby hills.  Perhaps he’d mention it to Sally, about Mr Leonard and the key to his freedom.

 

Key Photo : Tersiiska : Flickr – Used with permission 2014

When the mo-poke calls

Tersiiska Tense Dark Chocolate

 

night sparks

and the tension starts

quiet – still

the mo-poke marks

the time

of the bitter night dark

Its good chocolate to take just in case. Dark tense and bitter sweet. When memories strike back, I gently push them into the compartments in the train, on tracks of memory creased into the land and  held down by the iron gravity of a slight bend in time.  The time we’re here to make our mark.

Memories start as pages nice and neat and friendly categorized. On floors on stairways and on the darkened corridors of the upper floor.  Pages and pages, but non so organised as to be in a brightened book.  But recently now in November dark, I remember things that happened, the bitter chocolate things that shouldn’t have been and for many years with tense energy I had pushed them. Pushed them again into those far flung corners of the house.  Out of site and out of everyone’s mind.  But now unfortunately those memory doors are unlocked and ghosts coming out of the cupboards with broken locks and swinging hinges.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

photo: https://www.flickr.com/photos/tersiiska/15618922691/