Garlic, Onions & Ginger

"Do you remember that day?"

"What?"

"That day, back in Amsterdam?"

"My dearest dearest darling, do you know how many times we've been to Amsterdam? Imma need a little bit more than that."

"The first time, obviously."

"Ah, obviously. I'm still not a mind reader after all these years."

"But you remember, right?"

"Yes. Of course."

"What is the first thing you think of?"

"I guess biking down the channels, getting drinks, making each other laugh 'til we almost shit ourselves."

"You drank me under the table."

"Of course I fucking did!"

"And you remember that one morning?"

"Which?"

"With breakfast."

"Again, I'm gonna need more than that."

"Fried rice and an egg."

"Oh. Yeah, that was fucking great."

"Yeah, that was a good fucking breakfast."

".... sooooo you gonna make me some breakfast or just sit there like a pretty fuck boi?"

Dancing Queen

Dancing Queen (feat. Alita Moses) - Live in Stockholm by Jacob Collier & Alita Moses, released 2022

He stood in the kitchen, perplexed at the options that expanded before him. It really was only three ingredients, how could it be this complicated? A splash of this, a shake of that later and a semblance of an evening drink arrived on the counter. Then the familiar creak resounded from the living room like a whistle that brings sheep to pasture. Wordlessly the same three bottles came out of the cabinet and another contrived cocktail came to rest upon the countertop.

She was curled up in her usual way. The wicker chair liked to poke through the pillows but it had always seemed to meld to her shape in some unexplainable way. She was cross-legged, pencils, pens and paint already strewn about her. Who wanted an art studio when a chair could provide all the space you needed? Or at least that’s what she told him when he inquired.

Something began to evolve upon the paper underneath her ministrations. He walked, with every step on the side of his feet to attempt not to disrupt the revelatory moment. Silently a deep red liquid-filled glass was placed by her side. He evaded cracks, crevices and squeaky boards on the way back to the couch to establish his perch.

She drew. She painted. She was herself.







She looked up suddenly, a furious sense about her. Her eyes quested about her and landed upon a glass with slightly melted ice cubes. Her eyes snapped to the couch.

“Hey!”

“Hey.”

“When did you drop this off?”

“Like 10 minutes ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, dummy?”

“You seemed quite entranced.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Of course.”







He sipped his glass. She sipped hers.







“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Remember when we used to dance?”

“What do you mean used to?”

“No, I mean like forever ago. When we danced like no cared and basically broke our knees in half to do it?”

“Yeah. I remember you could barely keep up.”

“Ha. I remember you always forgetting a hair tie.”

“Yeah. But you liked it.”

“Yup… still do."

She looked him right in the eyes at that moment and he saw a spark, no a fire in them.

“What’s stopping us from dancing now?”

“Um, it’s like 10pm on a Tuesday.”

“I’m not sure I understand your point dummy.”

She walked across the room, creaking every board on the way and stood above him on the couch with hands outstretched.

“Dance with me.”

“Ok.”

Tides of Time

The Watchmaker by Woodlock released 2021

She stood upon the tides of time with yesterday and tomorrow the rising and falling tide. A moment of unconscious serenity within the hurricane of emotion. A breath of air met with a breath of smoke. A touch of salt melded with the footsteps that brought her here. She stood. And time washed over her.

She’s been told of these shores, warned of them, promised them. Her mom spoke of the dangers that lay upon these tides. Waves that draw you into the past, into the disarray. Her grandad told her of the sparkle that lay upon these sands. I suppose both truths were honest. The mainland had offered her a life much like her mother’s. One of failed promises, betrayed love, and burnt hopes. The mainland had shown her life, or what her mother vehemently called, “the greatest bitch of all”. It had shown her pain. Her mother had donned the glasses of pain and worn them since her youth. Pain, pain, pain. Her mother’s reality. I hope that it doesn’t become hers.

Her grandad had seen pain. Pain of a visceral nature. Pain that comes with the whistles of falling metal. Pain that comes with friends present one moment and gone the next. Pain that comes with fulfilling the maniacal orders of those who can’t see the tides at their feet. Those who repeat and repeat and repeat. Her grandad had seen pain. But pain was not the lens that he chose. He had come to these shores, after the blood and carnage had been washed from his skin. He came to these shores and gazed into the past, gazed into the present, gazed into the beyond. And he saw more. Pain, yes, but more. 

She stood upon the tides of time. Her pain was unique as those of anyone who’s feet meet the wake. It pulled. It pushed. And she stood. Pain, pain, pain. But also, a glimmer.

I like to believe that she may have found more. All I know is that the waves pulled and pushed. And she stood. 

Time Rages Ever On

A day for remembering strangers

For recalling sorrow
For remembering joy
For everything

Let everything happen

The good and bad alike
Because time turns
Good to bad — Bad to good

And in time
Those words themselves
Begin to lose meaning

It’s all about which moment in time you sample

It’s all just droplets in a raging sea
Sample what you will
But the ocean will always continue to rage

Yesterday they’re strangers
Today they’re everything
Tomorrow they’re strangers

The sea rages ever on

Push as you will
Fight with what breath you have
Time rages ever on

From love to strangers
From life to death
Times rages ever on

Let it rage

Wet Socks

        A small car, twisting through cobbled streets, winding down alleys and one-ways. And the sky rumbled. A couple, huddled in the back seat, eyes drooping, passports safely stowed in pockets. And the sky ignited. A house, room enough for two travelers to find comfort in, but small enough to keep the two close. And the sky cried.

        The two hooded figures pushed out of the car, tip already delivered, and met the sky’s welcome. Thunder, lightning, rain, and a cold, “hello”. Bags in hand the two scrambled up to the house that was just the right size. It was a code or maybe keys to get in and out of the sky’s greeting. The couple pushed open the door, bringing quarts of water in with them. The clean, dry floors quickly were introduced to discarded coats, muddied boots, drenched beanies, and wet socks. Suitcases were quickly dug into to find replacements for the wet mess that the man and woman wore.

        Steam began wafting from the tiled room into where the man arranged the clean clothing. A small dresser began to again fulfill its purpose as he allocated drawers for each of the suitcases contents. Then the kettle needed to be tended to, plugs needed to be discovered, and wet clothes needed to be relocated. A voice broken through his checklist. An invitation, the type that isn't refused unless one is clueless or simply didn’t hear correctly. Wafting steam and an invitation. More wet clothes found their way onto the floor, checklist discarded for the time being.

        The sky continued its theatrical performance above the town full of cobbled streets, winding alleys, and one-ways. But inside the house that was just the right size, with wet socks laying beside the shower, two people found warmth in the most simple of ways.

Weathered Hands

        The mahogany always had to be polished. Didn’t matter how many patrons made their way to the stools for a drink, the mahogany always had to be polished. The glasses, some for beer, others for other drinks, but mostly just mugs for beer. Those needed cleaning too. And the floors turned grimey after looking away for the barest fraction of a second. All those people bringing in the mud and muck of the outside world. This hadn’t been his choice. A little farm out in the highlands would have been preferable. Even a little shack on the edge of a cliff would’ve sufficed. Yet here he was, tending to someone else’s dream.
        In the corner, men with long beards rolled back and forth in laughter in their open-bottomed clothing. Mostly locals and a few the man hadn’t seen before. But mostly locals. The man pulled back from the bar for a moment, into the pantry to gather up a few odds and ends for the midday meal. The framed visage of the bar’s founding proprietor lay above the piles of dried meats, staring down at the barkeep as he scrounged up ingredients. Older brothers have a way of staring silently, but with intent disapproval.
        Sausages in a stew, bread interwoven with herbs, and another beer to go along. Midday meal as produced by a man wishing he were a different man. The patrons came, a few at a time, to gather up their portion of the slop the barkeep dished out onto wood serving ware. Everyone knew a menu was a relic of the past in a place like this. Well, everyone except those two out-of-towners.

        They strolled in, wanting some gluten-vegan-lactose free bullshit. After a few stern words they settled with a few lentils from the pantry and ran back to their booth, tails between their legs. The barkeep sniffed, looked heavenward, and returned to polishing. It’d been 20 minutes since the mahogany’s top had seen a rag. Too long by his standards.
        The day continued, the hipster assholes pranced on to their next dandy adventure and the bar moved and flowed as it should. Old men with nothing to do but drink and laugh, young men done with an early day of hard labor, women cackling and joking too, just with wittier jokes than the men. Back to normal, as it should be.
        Evening meal came and went. Drinks were served, jokes were overheard. The men and women moved about each other with seasoned ease, each knowing the buttons of the next. Soon the patrons milled slowly out the doors, bantering and bickering. Still the man polished that mahogany. And finally, when night fell and the man tucked himself in bed he lay and readied himself for another day of cleaning that damned fucking mahogany.

Embers

        Fascination.
        The crackle of the new logs, moisture releasing, twigs bursting alight. The smell of chocolate and mallow slowly cooking amidst the coals. The warning of heat and careful respect for this untamable mistress. The creation of memories that will last until the sun sets its final time. That first campfire.

        Fantasy.
        Huddling up next to your first, giddy at finally an excuse to be close to them. The world seems to melt away as faces are illuminated against the raw heat of the fire. Marshmallows are only an excuse to give something to them. A guitar finds its way to the fireside. Chords are strummed poorly, songs with quiet undertones of romance. A hopeful beauty in that bright moment.

        Family.
        The fire gets built by the kids now. The kids that are barely kids anymore. First the little tipi with bits of torn newspaper underneath. A smattering of what dry grass could be found and finally a spark. Soon tin foil parcels are set amidst the kindled coals to cook the night’s meal. Stories being told, exaggerated and retold in fanciful new ways. Silly accents, ridiculous jokes, and warm smiles that rival the fire’s heat.

        Friends.
        Old glasses, collected over the years, now filled with mint leaves, lemon slices, and the sophisticated brother of vodka. Stories among old and new friends, the fire pulling them all together in a half-conspiratorial circle. Eyes flicker, reflecting the spontaneous spirit of the flames. A moment of simple perfection, hands held, smiles natural and genuine.

        Future. 

        The logs have burnt away, now just embers, whispering their last crackles. Two seats and two mugs of tea. Two shapes, silhouetted against the night. Two figures that have blended into one picture, painted by the quiet sparks on the night’s canvas. Two hearts waiting out the embers.