The bathroom door could shut properly, thank God. Though the handle had a tendency to fall off if Simon didn’t jam the two sides together a few times a day. He had lived here for, ‘what was it?’… 26 years now… yes, that long. The house was tired and a bit older than he was and he was tired alongside. Both of them were falling apart here and there. Like the doors. All the doors used to shut, firmly, keeping out out and in in. Now they hung lopsided just enough they would not shut entirely. Bits of in leaked out, and bits of out leaked in.
i looked today at a simple watercolour of a birdhouse set among broad pastel shades. I felt the painting. It touched me with an unknown emotion. When someone you know well is angry with you, the anger is felt. You might try to find the reason behind the anger, quite likely you know the genesis of the anger, but anger itself is incoherent in its essence and is felt. No words, no reason lives in the depths of anger. So too love. So too joy. So too sadness.
This painting of a birdhouse may have a reason behind its existence. Someone decided to paint a birdhouse. Was the birdhouse real? Was it a product of sheer imagination, an imagined birdhouse? Did the original, real birdhouse become imaginary? The artist had a motiviation to choose this subject, though it is another question whether that motivation was rational, at least in its birth.
But for me, i felt birdhouse painting watercolour pastel shades emotion.
looked like uneven corn rows after the harvest is done. He was not sure how he knew that as he had lived in cities and suburbs all his life. Well, he had visited a farm once on a school trip. But there were no corn rows, harvested or not that he could recall.
But, there it was. Disturbed, in broken lines, turning this way and that but always in the same direction, as though churned up by machinery, or rather by a team of horses pulling an old harvester in horse rows rather than machine rows. He thought briefly about brushing it, or combing it. No, that would be a violation of the laws of nature. Despite the fact he had read in some online source or other there were no ‘laws’ of nature. Apparently this was an imposition of western ideas, like so much else in this debased time. Another evil of western civilization.
He stopped. This was hair. Not a CNN or Fox News or, heavens forfend, a CBC bit of faux philosophy. It was corn. Oh. Errrr. Hair.
before i start my paid employment
it behoves me to scribble some nonsense down
something that i don’t but you do
is my brain rattling loose
i didn’t like that line though it’s something
now how do i get out of this meandering loop
and stop wasting time whatever that is though i think
Distant voices mingle
With quietly raucous
Taken by the breeze
Down my street
Rising high to touch
As I sip a coffee
In my chair
In the corner
On a Monday
In the Spring
i am past my sell by date
danger lurks for any
who open me