© Catherine Sutherland 1997
How will I know if I am going to be late? There are no
clocks in the room to tell me the hour, and my bed is too
warm to get out of. I know; the worry will leak its way
into my bones and work its way up to my head. Then I will
know that it's time to get up.
Breakfast.
The egg, the small life thing,
Encapsulated pregnant moment,
Carelessly common.
I eat it boiled.
Jam.
Concentrated essence of the first fruits of summer.
Coming to us Sticky and Sweet in the middle of winter.
Conjuring up Autumn Orchard Dreams.
Consumed on toast.
Combing my hair, I notice my faithful old comb has lost a
tooth. I find it in my cleavage, a broken broadsword,
lost in the battle of the tangle.
Have I forgotten anything? I can never remember things in
the morning. I assign them to the `Do Not Remember'
compartment and shoot them out the back of my head like a
bullet. Trouble is, I loose half my brain that way.
No chance to ponder now, the clock has
dragged time across its face by the hands, and the carpet
in the hall pulls me to the doorway.
A loud snap echoes back across the valley of Dark Night,
signaling once again the closing of the door. Expulsion
into the cold air, and the sudden return of a crisp,
white-breathed silence after the warmth and noise of the
rising
household.
I meet the early morning city. Flecks of light scattered
in odd precision disturb the waves of molten land. Let
the sea rise up, cover; and heal the scars.
There are no street lights on this cold dark street.
Suburbia's anonymity.
A biting wind blows unquiet attackers through every
wayside shrub and tree
Suburbia's anonymity makes the houses dark.
At the bus stop, Dawn is waiting.
In her half-light, the world is black
and white television. Moments of movement like static cut
across my still frame vision.
While my awareness plays on some small
scene, colour slays the shades
of Grey, and the moment of mutilation has evaded me.
Behind the hills, the clouds are stained pink.
One of their silly fluffy heads gets caught.
And is stabbed into silver by a sword of sunlight.
Slowly it bleeds fog down into our valley.
The growing light hardens into crystal raindrops, whose
sharp edges split open the skulls of those unwary walkers
who have taken no thought for protection. The jagged
shards of broken crystal glint amongst the blood and
brains
which spatter the streets and shop windows.
This world could do with a shake up; the bus is late
again.
It arrives: finally.
On board, in the silent crowd, I come to a spaghetti
realisation, seeing that all is covered with the same
tomato sauce. Everyone is slippery with it. We are all
packed into this tin can of a world, surrounded by
nature's pretty, sky
blue, atmosphere, biosphere label. Displayed nicely on
our solar system shelf. Who will buy us? We are common.
Someone behind is kneeing me in the back. It always
happens, you can take the polished sword of irritation
and plunge it into any still and peaceful moment. And you
will have created the essence of life.
The bus halts, suddenly chatty people make off in all
directions. Their stable tar-sealed pavement does not
betray them. They become a crowd, waiting at
intersections. Joining the throb of crowds everywhere,
starting their days.
I see them more distantly now.
Flowing in a ceaseless rhythm of forgetfulness in the
unforgiving universe
Talking in tongues.
Weeping with hands in a slow diurnal grace.
Seeking no solace from time nor direction from nature's
moments of Glory and Death.
Waging wars only with the slow beat of the Earth heat,
and the half light/dark of space.
Singing without end a chorus of cycles.
The Rock builds.
The Mountain decays.
Time passes through our lives and asks the question:
"How is imagination received in this place?"
And the reply comes: "Conserve, conserve. Why change
anything?"
I have arrived.
© Catherine Sutherland 1997
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