He sat at the table with a glass of white wine. He spoke down to all who came before him. The black cloud pushed his children away into the yard by the picnic table were the barbeque burned and the grandchildren played. All seven of his children were there, only one, the last child really had no idea who her father was. Who we were. She only knows what her father is she never saw the man he use to be. Six children pushed away and naive number seven was so busy she had to leave. The party had only begun.
He never left. He did not budge from his position. He drank and carried on, one person at the kitchen table was good enough . The wine flowed. The beer cold. The fire pit made of copper.
The end of the world was coming and the middle child was going to drive his motorcycle into a brick wall.
“Enough already….I’M Gonna leave here and do 90 into a BRICK WALL!”.
A few sighs from the women and ribbing from the men, the middle child left his masculinity behind on the table for his father to feed on.
“MY fucking kids they never listen.”
“That’s your uncle?” she asked me and I agreed.
“Yes that’s him. He’s the one”.
At that point my Uncle was on his own.
“He’s all yours if you want him?” I said to my girlfriend.
“He’s the one?” she said as if she didn’t understand.
“Yep, that’s him.”
She walked over to talk to him. Her charm on full, his knowledge endless as I walked out to kids screaming and the smoking barbeque. At least the smoke from the barbeque smelled like chicken. I wondered how long she could sit under his black cloud. After all the world was coming to an end and he knew why.
Make my hands burn.
They taste like fire.
I can feel the burn in my palms
The feeling of being denied
Do you have a plan?
With the rest.
Join the group
A fuckin band
This thing this thing
I hurt like
You told me there would be a tomorrow
The pounding on our shores
A thousand times
Tricky dickey do
A thousand times
What’s right is right
Laugh until you shit your pants
There has been no snow this winter at least nothing that has stuck. A few flakes in October and the other night in hard wind I watched fat flakes get pushed upwards. There in the night under the spotlight of Suburbia I watched the flakes struggle against gravity riding pushing winds back to the clouds. The snow refused to fall.
My daughter pointed to the spotlight on the side of the house “Look Dad the snow is falling up”.
In the darkness I closed my eyes, stuck my tongue out and hoped for a flake to fall.
“They’re falling up Dad”
“One is bound to fall down and land on my tongue” I told her.
She closed her eyes and waited.
“What are you thinking about honey?”
“I’m picturing one landing on my tongue. What about you?” she asked.
“Marine snow, Shel Silverstein.”
I had confused her.
“You said Falling Up like the book I use to read you.”
She giggled. “What’s Marine snow?”
“Well right now I am the bottom of the sea and I’m a crab. It’s dark, I have my mouth open and I am waiting for all the scraps falling down. All that stuff is what feeds the sea. The detritus. I image crabs feel like children when the snow falls.”
“That’s gross” she said as the images appeared in her mind. A snow flake landed on her tongue “EWWWW SNOW”.
“Does that marine snow taste fishy?”
She smiled “Daaaaad!”.
In the moment I did my best to make my hands look like crab claws and I chased her around the yard trying to tickle her. I could feel the sand under my feet.
I have been on the side of the tide, where the people sit and the sand is soft. The warm toes have little rings and the tans are made of caramel. Paper white in the winter and lobster red all summer long, their tanned skin and white teeth blind me.
I have been on that side of the tide. Where the shallow pools are stunning. Simply staggering. Make you fall to your knees and drink.
I have found kindness there in spite of the glare.
You can not fake this, act as if this is not real. Lay down your words and let them tell the truth without the echo. You can not blog, speak out, without putting your own head on the chopping block. A naked world looking out from this clean soap box of truth.
I love the shit talker. The twister of words.
I enjoy the conflict zone. The throwing of fists just above my head.
Above all, I love the point where the wave can no longer push the shell or pull it back into the ocean.
I walk the high tide line at the point of equilibrium, collecting jingle shells.
These shells, my stories.
This is the sand and the suds. The spot where land meets water.
The high tide mark the net can not reach.
The Equilibrium Point