Category: #SOCS
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Reflections on a Corner
A Stream of Consciousness – Reflections on a Corner Dad said, the piano goes in the basement. It was the noise – the rhythmic low notes banging like enemy fire against the bulkhead. We were kids; mum explained it was to do with the war. What war, we asked. We were kids –…
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13 December: A Stream of Consciousness
Mike just walked by. He has a fistful of Christmas cards. I’m washing lunch dishes, looked up, and saw him. He nods. I guess we’re not on his Christmas card list this year. Actually, we never were. Give one to get one, I can hear my mother say. She had all sorts of wisdom packed…
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Stream of Consciousness Saturday
23 October: Once, well actually it’s happened before, winter’s early bite sunk its cold into my hands and feet. It’s Saturday, although the day doesn’t make much difference, however I suspect the weather took its turn Friday night because for most of that day I’d not turned the heating on, although I did hit the…
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For Miz Quickly’s Day Two: All About Heat
Miz Quickly’s Day Two: All About Heat I.I Remember Rain That Felt Like Silk I’ll be an old nag, obdurate, andstill sucking on a Werther’s Originalby the time temperatures soar likewhat Attenborough’s always saying, and I reckon the wind will bloweight-beats to a measure with yourhair-blowing cyclonic in your face,with brown-burnt grass torched off the…
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Stream of Consciousness Saturday: New Shoes
25 September: I won’t get far in these shoes. New, they are. My feet are little piggies. Pink and squealing. But I will them on, walk walk, to go on, just like the seasons. Surprising that the leaves are turning overhead. Seems too soon. Most have fallen on the autumn grass, crinkly and twisted as…
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Stream of Consciousness Saturday: I Smell Saltwater
I smell saltwater, and just like that, I’m 10-years old again, and we’re driving past that cranberry processing plant where berries roll and float in salty pools, the tidal waters renewed twice a day, and we’re a mile or so away from the marina where once a year Dad goes deep-sea fishing. That’s our summer…
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11 September: Somewhere #socs
Somewhere That’s the way of things, isn’t it,the past.Always waiting there. It’s a long shadow, likeboarded-up windows to keep out the sun and salt air, or like cold rooms where youdon’t dare breathe becausethe air is damp and…
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Stream of Consciousness Saturday: 4 September
Stream of Consciousness Saturday: 4 September Above the dim stirand clatter of dishes, we sit content at tables. Dinner talk.Tea and sugar.Blossoms and ash. We,the ages,playing cards. Pale worlddriftingin constellations, five stars look like a cat. And this dull pencilhas lost itssharpened pin. Dull lines is allit writes. It seems…
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A dVerse Soliloquy Stream of Consciousness
My-My-My My mum lived in a little blue houseat the top of a hill where lodgepole pinesleaned in the wind like a widow’s hump,and there was a creek, raged full when itrained, but the soil sucked it dry by July, (I’m being generous when I say “creek” –it was more like a drainage ditch), and…
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A White, White Fog
A White, White Fog Did you see that woman withhair like a white, white fogstanding with her back to uswith one hand on her hip,looking at a child face downon the pavement? And you say, What woman. And if I were walking, I would’vestopped to make sure that childwas okay, and possibly…
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