Blessed are the cigarettes

Blessed are the cigarettes that divide my sleepless night measuring time into tiny tasks. They make my living breath tangible.

My left shoulder, the one that Zissou fixed with strong hands has cramped back into out of place and if I knew the man better I would be tempted to set my car to autopilot and find his hands wherever they are.

The Spatula is casting rectangular light above my door. This old house with its absurd windows above doorways. There was a sheet of cardboard pushed tight against the light but it fell out and then I put it on top of my ornate desk. Now there are plants, a lamp and giant squat three wicked candle sitting on top of it.

I feel out of order, too many questions and unrevealed thoughts. I am not bold enough to divine what it is that I am thinking. What am I doing going around filling my life with people and events. I need this house to be clean. I need this house to be tidy. I need to sit myself down and finish this manuscript. This world is all distraction.

Comments

Dahlia said…
Happy New Year Dale!

When you feel the need to tidy up your outer world or distract yourself, it means your inner world is in chaos or disorder. Honor the feeling. Sometimes, focusing on something unimportant helps. Sort of like the creative person who has an aha moment in the middle of night once they are relaxed and not trying so hard.
Anonymous said…
My great grandmother's house on Dixon St (off King) had those windows above the doorways. They were painted out during the Second World War, and were never stripped back afterwards. Beautiful stained glass stuff, by the look of it.
This was the woman who's son, my grandfather, sung "ding dong the witch is dead" at her funeral, to a few of his grandchildren.
He did not like his mother.
DS said…
Ron,
That's a good song. Does your Grandfather own the house on Dixon St?

Avi;

HNY to you. I took some time to relax and have a shiatsu massage but now my back is bruised and I am hobbling.
Anonymous said…
The funeral directors asked if he'd like any particular song to be played at the funeral, he requested that song, but they insisted that they cannot do that.
And no, the house got left to my dad's evil cousin, who ransacked it and sold almost everything of value, the rest went to charities. She then sold the house, the real estate agent putting up a sign saying "just as granny left it" - which wasn't entirely true, as granny was not lying in the bathtub half dead.
I would have really liked a paver, or a tile from the fish pond, both from the back yard. Or the bit of wood in the old toilet out the side which had my grandparents names carved into it, from when they first met when they were fifteen.
The good thing is my grandfather is leaving me this doll of a witch on a broomstick, if you clap your hands it's eyes light up red & it cackles. He figures that is the best way to remember my great grandmother.