Broken pencil poetry. You thief!

If you rehearse it... you are a thief.


You thief!
24 Nov 2017



Walk this way
On your synapses,
From one neuron
To the next,
On your way
Through your own dreams.

Have you left breadcrumbs
On your path
To your imagination?
Have you picked all the locks?
Jumped all the fences?

You thief!

You are treading carefully,
Wobbling on the tightrope -
You have rehearsed this so thoroughly,
Why are you so afraid
To perform
Without a safety net?

Bitesize fiction. With a pinch of salt. Part 3

First Officer's log, stardate 20150706

The Salinians have given us a warm reception and we were given the chance to admire the salt caves. The caves ran deep throughout the planet's crust and held inside them houses, commercial and educational centers and even underground lakes. The Salinians have built themselves a home in these tunnels, leaving room enough for the indigenous plant and animal life, as little as it was, to continue living undisturbed. There was room enough for everyone.

We admired the view of one of their leisure centers from the promenade.

Particularly impressive were their decorative structures and the abundant use of lights. Some were arranged in clusters, others hanging from the ceiling like stalactites. There were very few dark corners in the populated caverns and the atmosphere was almost warm, despite the lower temperature that the Salinians prefer.

There were small row boats on one of the smaller lakes.

After the tour was over, the Captain, myself and the ambassador were invited to participate in the first negotiation meeting. We do not foresee any impediments. Although the Salinians are not technologically advanced and not members of the Federation yet, their behavior so far has been open and the communications smooth.

End log.

Bitesize fiction. Taxi telenovela

The yellow car stops in front of me as I wave my phone to make the driver understand that it was I who had placed the order.

I get in the back seat with my luggage, mechanically confirm my name and give the driver the address. I sit back, relieved to be out of the cold.

The cabbie drives off and resumes his phone conversation without paying me any more mind. I really don't like it when the driver talks on the phone. At least he's using a hands-free device. Hey, it could be worse... he could be trying to make small talk.

I absentmindedly look at the buildings passing by, trying to give the guy some privacy. Easier said than done, he was speaking quite loudly.

"Yes, I know I haven't called you in a while. I needed some time to myself, you understand?" This sounded like a lovers' spat. If it was, it could potentially be too distracting for the driver. I listened in.

"You changed me, see, you made me be this way. I need to be myself and I can't be that with you around." Are they breaking up over the phone? Uh-oh. I feel a sense of panic creeping up on me. I automatically concentrate on the road and all the signs and turns. Why isn't he slowing down when the car in front brakes?

It strikes me then that his voice however has no malice, it is as if he were answering a survey over the phone. "You see? You change me. You have a strong personality and it is really clashing with mine."

The car zips left and right between lanes, followed by a few half-hearted honks. I'm sure that if he cared to notice, he would see me clenching my jaw and fiddling nervously with the straps of my shoulder bag. I knew most cabbies drive like there were some special traffic rules for them, with the ease that comes from doing this job every day. Relax, he stopped at the red light.

"Yes, see, I knew you would understand. You are very intelligent, that's what I like about you. You speak French very well and all too..." I admit, I did not expect the guy to have so much tact and steer the conversation towards a happy ending. He swerved at the last minute to avoid one of the many holes in our road.

"Mm-hm, don't worry about it. I told you, we will be fine."

I see him approaching my home with no sign of stopping. "Can you stop over here please?"

"Oh, yeah, sure," he tells me while braking almost too suddenly. "I have to drop a passenger off, so I need to hang up. I'll call you later, Mike," he talks into his hands-free.

I pay the fare and get out of the car. As I watch him drive off to another order, I think to myself, that was something you don't see everyday in a cab...

Layers

Ogres are like onions...

All of us are like ogres too. No, we don't stink. Well, not all of us... not all the time.

But we are like ogres, as in, we have layers. Like onions. Or cakes, because not everybody likes onions.

It feels like every time I acquire a new habit (or hobby, why not) I am growing another new layer. A new facet to show to the world. The ridiculous patient person. The writer (if inspiration is forthcoming). The idiot (because other people are nice enough to think for me). The fiber artist (tatter, for all you jargon enthusiasts). The grammar nazi (or linguist, for all you kind people who use proper grammar). The cook.

The cook? Yes, the cook. Or at least the sous-chef. Ok, maybe just the kitchen help... Aspiring patissier?

One may recall (if one has the memory of an elephant) one of my older (now defunct) blogs regarding cooking. I was learning to cook, but since my budget was so forbidding, I was also very limited in my repertoire. So the blog got scrapped, along with my budding cooking enthusiasm. Also, I have a picky husband.

Lately though, I have been starting to make pastry. Tiny nutmeg croissants (the kind that don't rise), biscuits (crunch!), cheese sticks (semi-fluffy), now pâte feuilletée.

It is currently cooling in the fridge and the butter is warming on the counter. I am still learning, but I am ambitious and I hope that is enough to keep me going. That and hoping to make at least a bit of an "oooh" at my upcoming birthday when I show up with treats made at home. Yum.

And right there, I have a hesitation. Small, but very annoying. What if they turn their noses up at it? I know they are nice people, but for a bunch who eats out at restaurants almost every lunch, am I a bit too rudimentary? Am I too wet behind the ears? Did I put too much water in the pâte feuilletée?

I guess I just need to gather my guts and do it. For my birthday, I mean. As for the rest of my cooking and baking occasions, I know I have two huge fans (me and my doggie), a shy fan (our roommate, who thinks it is bad manners to gobble up the whole batch) and a never satisfied customer (my husband, but he just won't eat sweets these days).

Sometimes I wonder if hiding all those layers is good for me or not. I did get an almost compliment for my little turtle earrings, so, why not give it a go? After all, I have a pretty tough (and stinky, if I do say so myself) outer layer: not caring too much what everyone else things about me or what I do.

Broken pencil poetry. Shattered

Frustration is one of the strongest emotions I have felt. It is both the cause and the effect of passion, anger, fear, recklessness... among others.

It is one horrible hurricane that blinds and binds. That is why I often find it so hard to convey it in a coherent form. It will simply appear as a misarticulated mess. Shift+Del.

I think I finally have a vague rendition of this feeling...


Shattered
6 Jan 2017


The little glass marbles
All roll out on the floor,
Hiding in corners, under the bed, in a crack in the floor.
Look at your hand -
They're all gone,
But one, one more...

Stuck in your head,
It grows like a pearl from a grain of sand,
Like a hurricane,
Like a star.
It's a scream caught in your throat,
Burning your lungs,
Exploding from your ribcage,
Out in the sky.

You close your eyes
And wish that you could close your ears
So you'd no longer hear
The silence that follows.