Sequential

The other day I went to the pharmacy, the old one on the block.. the one we used to go to.

Can you believe it, when I went there, the same old folks were there... after such a long time.

After such a long time, the same people serving behind the counter, maintaining the place, pleasing the customers, dancing with life.

I looked out that same old windowpane and what did I see?  That's right, nothing had changed!  After all this time, it was still there.  That view, the same people, not much altered, not much gained.  I looked and, although the view was the same, if not more beautiful, more scenic, more enticing than before, more fully grown, flourished and in bloom, there was also something different.  As I stared, and stared and wanted to stare more... I wanted to look again, for longer, forever, again and again.  I wanted to look out there for a long time!  The view, just suddenly disappeared.  Like an overcast shadow, the blind was dropped.  The same old man closed the view.  I couldn't work out why and in my astonishment I began to question loudly and harshly... 'Madam,' he informed me politely.  They will soon be closing up the view on this side of the building permanently, forever.  There is a new windowpane that will be installed on the other side of the building.  The view was lost, gone forever, like a part of the old pharmacy and its history, the foundation that began with it, would be without it and I was sure it would never quite be the same. 

Circle of Women

The women gathered together and it was, together, that they talked of lives that were lived...

For each of them, each women, they led a life and had a life to be lived, each one in their own home and within their own world.

There was Rebecca, Julie, Macey and Bobbie.  Each one of them had their own ideas, values, some without,  notions of the world how it should have been or is, how they would have it, and each one of them had their own set of problems... oh yeah, each one.  

They rubbed ideas off of one another and saw that they all had something to be grateful for and something that the other had, that frankly, they would not like to have. Together, all of them, had lives to live, things to be appreciative of, and others not, but overall they had lives, that they did live.  Together they would live aside one another and grow and develop and build friendships ... this one different to that one, this one doing it differently to that one, yet it didn't matter.  They would all live and grow, together, all of them, alongside one another, yes, with their different ideas and different ways of doing things.

They laughed, joked, drank tea, shared some similarities of the day and together, all of them, the women, they knew they were bonded and yoked in some ways, ways of life and living, that we all had to live.  All of us.

Summer and Winter

Summer is here and winter is coming, it is soon approaching...
For now the skyline touches the tops of the roofs of the local houses by evening and early morning with a golden fingertip of orange light.
The air is cool, crisp and fresh on the evening, at the end of the day, a hot day in early September whilst summer still lingers.  Tomorrow, the end of the week draws nearer and nearer and eventually, not too long off, the end of the year.
We live in a 'full' country where there is 'much' and we are well and we are young, still, believe it or not.
Life is full, busy, accumulating multiple schedules from this one and that - each one with their way, their own things to do, their own lot and their own dreams. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow I tell you, will tell another tale and bring on a new day wherein all sorts of surprises await us and dreams lie in wait.  What did you do with your past years and what do you plan to do with the rest?

ART

1. The expression or application of human creative skill and imagination

THIS IS ART, AND WRITING IS ART... IT IS ART, EXACTLY THUS... CREATIVE, ARTFUL AND MAKING USE AND APPLICATION OF THE IMAGINATION AND EXPRESSION, AT TIMES EXAGGERATION.... ART IS ALSO DRAMATIC, EMOTIONAL AND EXPLICITLY EXPRESSIVE, NOT DEFINED AS DARK....

ART IS TO BE USED, EXPLORED, ENJOYED AND FOR THOSE WHO WISH TO PARTAKE IN ITS ART (FOR THEIR ENJOYMENT ONLY)... THE SKILL AND FUNCTION OF WEAVING WORDS, OR OTHER...

ART IS TO BE VALUED, TREASURED, APPRECIATED, PROLONGED AND ENJOYED BY US

A Meeting

The boy decided he had had enough.  He would soon have to make a decision about whether to stay or to go.  He looked one last time around the room and realised that he held no connection with anything around the room at all.  Nothing there held him to the place and there wasn't much that held sentimental value.

It was one of those cold London days when the sky looked as if it might turn black.  How odd the season had been with the weather following its own destiny from bright sunshine one day to jet black the next.  He thought for a moment about what he could have done differently and yet nothing came to mind.  It was as if he was living in a dark and dank prison cell whilst he had lived on this street and in these conditions.  

Times like this were desperate and the strangling relationships he found himself in were the final knot that twisted his stomach into coils that seemed as if they would never unwind.  How ironic it had been that this was the first place he had met them, in this apartment block, and on that mild day in autumn.  The sun was neither hot nor cool, it was just autumnal sun.  A usual day that held no outstanding memories or extraordinary happenings.

It has been a Tuesday when the estate agent sought to show him around a couple of vacant apartments in the block.  He had been a strange fellow himself, the estate agent with a peculiar scent, and clothes that dated back to the 1920's.  He was a short man with an unusual confidence which he used when speaking rather loudly and assuredly, standing as close to his victim as possible.

It was unfortunate that he was one of those people who came across as not owning a toothbrush or if he did, his wife might have dipped it into the lavatory water.  In this case, it simply couldn't have just been the lav water, it must have been a swathe in urine.  On that Tuesday, he had seen them coming for a long time before they reached him and he found that he was staring.

It wasn't that he was transfixed or drawn, it was just that his head had paused in motion and would not move from that position.  His eyes settled on them and they would not remove themselves.  He did not know why and he still did not.  It was one of those fatal moments of life when things happen and frankly you have nothing to do with it at all.  There was no element of choice or decision making process.  It was just as it has been told, it was just like this.  

Cottage

The manicured English grounds were perfect in the low setting sun of the now wintry season as the end of the year approached.  In this light, and impeccable setting, the cottage stood.  There it stood, and had done so for many years before, behind the white stable door that led to its interior.  Once a writer's abode and now once again inhabited by another one.  The cottage, small and quaint, warmed by a log fire in the heart of it.

They had done it, they had caused it, they had set fire to what was now blazing and soaring in insurmountable flames - did they know, did they care, could they heal it... they could not and many would say would not. 

Yet here in the cottage, surrounded by the beautiful green lands, the horses, the fields, green houses and historic features... the setting set a pace for rare moments of tranquility and an opportunity for the lungs to open wide and inhale the crisp winter air.

The trip drew nearer and upon that bird they would soar to other heights.

One Room

The sky is out there, vast and hovering over the earth which narrows, almost zooming into focus.  There is the location, a particular spot on the map.  Not only a small village but an even narrower vision of a room in a home.  The person is there, sitting and busy, with a torch shining on the busyness. 

Wrestless, waiting and agonised in these hours.

Gaping, gawking and a kind of frantic sense about that is restless.

The largeness and otherliness of the Great Wide World zooms from such magnitude to this tiny space of existence in but One Room.

It is here that everything happens and must happen.  Yes, everything.

All kinds of things which constitute a daily existence, a weekly and even monthly.

All in One Room. 

Not like other people and even houses next door who enjoy a life in many rooms.

There isn't a lock on the door and yet it's as if the strictest system is hemming us in for life-long imprisonment.  There was no force involved and somehow our free will has brought us to hell.

The letters and choices that decided this place are... well, where are THEY even?

The album, we cannot do.

The photo frame, shattered.

The message book, an abandoned project.

There isn't anymore.

We are there.  One Room, not at the start, or end, or even in motion.

The windowsill is full.  Everything is full, tight, occupied and cluttered.

They have their place.  Each thing.

Organised chaos surrounds the One Room.  Our lives, spent in One Room.

Five months, it didn't take long.

See-saw, see-saw, 'which' door.

We go up and stars twinkle above our foreheads as if they might never go out and gently caress the brow... wanting to stay... wanting more... to brush the fringe of the human head with gentle, loving fingertips.

Wham, it flies down.  Thud.

The devil is there.  He is laughing.  And more.

He is eating into our flesh.

One Room.  How sweet you look today in your organised way of being... of being, re-assembled.

Tonight you are quiet, very, very quiet.

You know don't you.

The writing is there, written word after word, all over your mind.  A mind full of words.

The zoning in view from the top of the earth, the heavens, read them.

Slowly, they read and stop with a deep breath.  They are not confused, they are not shocked, they are saddened and frustrated.

A dim light shines, flickers, goes out, re-appears.  Sometimes it seems it never ever ever will.  Momentarily pervades the darkness.  The lingering dark goes on for... almost ever.

One Room.  You are warm.  The season is changing.  You once brought something so different, did I mention VERY.

Walls of colourless substance you have watched me for six and a half years.

I'm sure you are not proud today, not here, not now, One Room.

Do you remember?  Not even that helps.

One Room.