Out of joint.

The flickering sunlight danced shadows around the old barn. Like a spotlight, it threw little details of the shed into clear focus, and quickly moved to cast light on another pocket. This was now his workshop. The greasy, single-glazed windows let in just enough light to work with, but were rendered opaque by the spotty green mildew that refused to wash off. This suited him.
Today he had come as usual just after midday. Five days in a row without a break. He examined the contents of the bottles that lined the shelves. Opening one, he tested the texture gently with a long skewer. Good. It was coagulating nicely, holding itself together against the gentle force of the skewer, springing back in a way that satisfied him. He replaced it on the shelf along with the others.
He pulled back a long length of curtain beneath the counter that hid his shelved trolleys of plants. Rows of them, all in different stages of growth. Each tray had its own heated mat, and the tiny seedlings were insulated by a layer of thin fleece. His babies! He cut off some leaves from a mature plant, and carefully crumpling them, he rolled two joints. He would allow himself two today.
He noisily shook open the makeshift metal table and chair that lay folded against the far wall. He opened his tablet to his webcam screen. He had set up this system so he could keep tabs on trespassers. Multiple screens showed the activity of different points of access to his barn, with the central one focusing on this very room, two alternating angles. Yes, here it comes now! He waved to the camera. Almost like the Stasi, he thought! Knowledge really is power.
He tested the moisture level on each of the trays before settling himself down to real work. He lit up one of his smokes, and inhaled deeply. He pulled out his ledger, and scanned the figures for the last month. He had to work hard to make them balance. His next trip overseas was the end of the month. He would need to gather hard cash by next week. He knew his greatest debtors, and running a pencil down the takings for the last three months confirmed this. 'Fucking Rooney!' he thought, shaking his head. The guy was an imbecile! Nearly got him shopped just by talking. Worse than any bloody woman! He was already on his last warning.
Feeling an angry adrenaline rush like the hit of a double espresso, he drummed his fingers urgently on the page, and then knocked his knuckles decisively. He had enough! Time for action! He knewjust the guy to sort him out.
Withdrawing his phone, he found the name he was looking for. He paced around impatiently waiting for him to pick up, his heavy footsteps echoing around the barn. He stretched it out to arms length, squinting for reception.
'Pick up, for fuck's sake,' he muttered to himself. What good was an idle hit man?
He texted a message instead. Brief. Always brief: PHONE BACK. NEED TO TALK. JS.
He worked in silence, but found it hard to focus. 'This stuff hits hard' he thought, and decided not to fight it. Plodding heavily towards the door, he fell out into the sunlight, and nestling down against the trunk of a tree, cowboy style, he lit up his second joint.
Facing the old door of the barn, hearing the rotting fragments of wood on the bottom scrape along the concrete ground as it swung open and shut he got a sudden moment of deja-vu. Suddenly his mother was there, pudgy, flour-covered hands on hips:
'Johnny, get over there and help your father!'
There was her voice, raspy from smoking. The voice that gave a rousing rendition of many a ballad. The voice that scolded and comforted. The voice that told filthy jokes and limericks but that had a prayer or bible story for every occasion. The voice that laughed like no other he knew since. The voice that he struggled to remember as a kid, that trickled further and further from memory, like water going down a black drain, unnoticeable at first until it gurgled urgently to its end. The voice that no amount of women since could equal. The voice.
Rubbing his eyes, all he saw now was the old wooden door, and all he heard were the alternate scrapes and bangs as it swayed or swung with the breeze.
'Jesus, where did that come from?' he thought.
His phone started to ring...

Something blue...

The hotel lobby is empty, save for the doorman chatting with the receptionist. She is vaguely amused by the presence of a uniformed porter in an airport hotel, an obviously perfunctory setting. She had skipped breakfast and the coffee she ordered on rising was soapy and weak. She walks towards the door, spiky heels clicking sharply on the shiny floor. The porter hastens towards it, in obsequious effort to fulfill his duty.
His cheerful "Have a good day now!" greets her like a saucepan crashing suddenly on tiles.
" Yes, thank you", she manages mutely.
A line of taxis awaits her outside. 'Thank God I'm out of this bloody country' she thinks.

Traffic isn't heavy, as she anticipated on a Saturday. The radio creaks and stutters in the front, conveniently diverting the driver's attention. She sees the church in the distance. Discreetly, she withdraws a little bottle from her clutch, takes a quick swig of brandy, and replaces it.
Cars are parked along both sides of the road, so the driver pulls up abruptly, a bit away from the gate.
"Here do you, love? That'll be fifteen so"
She hands him a twenty, doesn't wait for her change and makes for the church to claim her seat near the back, though not so near either as to stand out from the crowd.

The church is unfamiliar, a decided advantage. She knows she will be seeing plenty of familiar faces throughout the day, something she is no longer used to.
The church is awash with excited whispers, greetings, last-minute checks, photos, with the usual strains of a quartet defiantly playing the wedding standards in the background. The noise, people, sense of anticipation, from which she feels removed, is not unlike that of the airport yesterday. There is already quite a crowd, and she scans the seats on the right hand side to choose her spot, her vantage point, when she feels a hand on her elbow.
"Del?! I thought it was you! I said it to Benj. 'I'm sure that's Del', but we weren't sure. We were behind you coming into the church, late as usual! But, it is you! How are you? God, it's been years!"
"It is me! Surprise!", she manages to respond, unable to come near the level of gushing enthusiasm that greeted her.
"Are you here on your own? Never mind! You must sit with us. Leah and Gus are keeping us a seat. Come on..." She links her arm and leads her towards the side aisle, ushering her up towards the centre, where Leah is sitting, guarding space on the pew with her bag. As they approach, the noise of the crowd quietens to a whisper, as news of the bride's arrival spreads.
"Look who I found, loitering at the back of the church!" proclaims Amy, just a little too loudly.
Leah, poised as always, greets her quietly, gently squeezing her hand, while Gus winks at her.

All eyes are on the bride. 'Nessun Dorma' heralds her majestic entrance, as the crowd behold her, gracefully approaching the altar. Amy is gasping beside her, her elbow sharply angled close to her face, straining to take a photo. She draws back from her, not bothered about being deprived of the view.
The ceremony unfolds like a film: she, watching the action from afar.The figures at the altar are hazy in the distance. Everything back here seems so, since she moved away. Like a film, that she can tune in and out of, with the safety of distance, disociation, even. And just like in a film, when she does become involved with the characters, she must work hard to contain her emotions.
"I, Ian Collins...do take this ring..."
A tear falls down her cheek. She cannot help it.
His voice, crystal clear through the microphone, makes him immediately present to her. His voice, with its distinctive West Cork deflections pronounces without any hesitation that this is his, Ian's wedding. This is no film, no make-believe. This is real, this is happening, now.
Leah, discreetly offers her a tissue. She focuses intently on her smokey blue dress, her Jaegar that once made her feel like someone. Now, as she gazes at it, all she can think about is all she threw away in the name of 'feeling like someone'.
'Why did she come here?' she wonders. She painfully endures the rest of the ceremony. After the bride and groom make their exit through the back of the church, she mumbles something to Leah about needing some air, and slips out the side entrance.

Moonlight

She lingers in that middle space, that hazy limbo between sleeping and waking. Maybe sleep will once again evelope her. That is the favourable outcome. She doesn't dare to 'hope', or attach any active voice to this sentiment. She merely waits, passively. When she becomes aware of her waiting, realising she can no longer quench her waking consciousness, she turns over and checks her bedside clock: 3:05am. Great! A half hour earlier than last night.
The rising and falling motion of her husband's body beside her, the nasal ripplings of breath, in and out, in and out, rather than having a calming, hypnotic effect, serve only to make her resentful and even more awake. She lies on, trying to employ the usual strategies of falling asleep she has read up on: empty your mind, focus on your breath and lie still. She begins counting her breaths, in for five, out for five...
The more she breathes, the more awake and annoyed she becomes. 'If this doesn't work', say all of the sleep experts, 'get up and do something else'. So once again, she is up, tiptoing downstairs, wondering how to fill these nocturnal hours.
The cats, asleep on the sofa, sleepily raise their heads, clearly put out by this interruption. Cato sleeps on, wrapping a paw around his head in determined refusal to be so rudely awakened. Tess however, sidles up to her, affectionately nuzzling her head into her arms, purring loudly and playfully coaxing her towards the pantry, where she knows the food is stored. Both cats are drawn to the food, and once they have eaten their fill, settle back to sleep, leaving her once again awake, and at a loss.
The back garden and patio, usually so dark and dull, shaded by high brick walls are tonight bathed in luminous moonlight. She opens the sliding door and floats noiselessly out. Though she spends a lot of time in her garden, none of this is familiar to her. She feels blanketed by the velvety sky, the grass is so soft, almost smooth, like lava, and the plants and shrubs exude an exoticism afforded by the silvery glint of the moon. She lies down on the flat of her back, as she used to always do as a child, making pictures of the clouds. Now, she just gazes up at the sky and waits. She's not 'taking it all in', as in that clicheed expression of moments such as these. Rather, she just gazes, waiting for something to move her. She feels oddly safe out here, safe but detached, like in a dream, a sort of fleeting sense of harmony that she experiences as a listener rather than musician. More and more, her life seems to be like a dream and she's finding it harder and harder to cling onto any sense of reality.
A sudden chill makes her sit up and wrap her gown more tightly around her. She sneezes, gets up, and decides to move. She takes a tin of woodstain and a brush from the garden shed, and begins to treat the shed, a job she had meant to do weeks before now. The soft motion of the brush as it easily glides up and down, changing the faded wood to a deeper, richer red, somehow gives her a sense of purpose. She, yes she, was actively doing this task and the results were immediately visible. She keeps going, the tedious, repetitive nature of the job calming her mind, and the potent smell of the woodstain keeping her focused on this moment.
As she painted, deepening the colour on the shed, she doesn't notice the sky lightening, the moon and the stars receding, the distant sound of birds singing. Only when she finished, and replaced the lid on the tin, did she realise it was morning. Today would be another busy day, and once she rolled into the hospital it would be straight into her rounds. She would go about her day in her usual way, counting down the hours until the end of her shift, when she could come home, and do as she always did, which was to count the hours until her next shift would begin. Whoever says that we don't become institutionalised in this society is a fool, she thinks. Where is the room for magic?
As she makes her morning coffee, she looks out at the newly painted shed, the vague impression of experiencing the beautiful transition from night to day still with her. It is fleeting, but it is enough to support her through the tedium, the senseless, deadening routine, until hopefully the next such moment.

The writing's on the wall

She cannot tell me how it was
When first she met my father.
I'm looking for some answers
But she can hardly now remember.

Idly sitting, staring vacant
Gnarly fingers clutching beads.
Today she calls me by my name:
A short-lived lucid moment.

Dementia has slowly effaced her
Eroding all her hard layers.
Completely stripped bare, a nobody,
And only now can I stand her company.

I imagine she saw him in me:
My dark moods, my fire and rebellion
So contrary to her hostile temerity
That shushed me and dampened me for fear of fear.

Greedily, hungrily, my mind stored up
Any fragment of him carelessly uttered.
Mapping out his life in colonial fashion,
A cartographer, meeting my own ends.

Thus, he emerged, as I wanted him:
My bold, brave, heroic father.
Traces of him in my literary heros:
But more exotic, god-like...distant?

Never blamed him for his absence.
Only longed to know who I came from.
I'm my father's son, as I'm nothing like her,
Whom I've only ever blamed for her presence.

Ten Umbrellas.

I plod along. All the other kids around laughing, what's funny? I'm concentrating on the lines. The lines and the cars. Cannot step on the lines, and need to count the cars. Not parked cars, but cars in motion. So far no yellow, no green, no white, only one red, three blue, six black and fourteen grey. Grey always comes out on top, I don't know why. Red is the best colour. Clever people should know that. The Red Planet, Mars looks red because of the iron oxide there, plus there's the great red spot in Jupiter. It's the colour of blood, warns of danger and people say the colour of love, which apparently is a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person. There's two more silver cars zipped by. The first is definately going over the 30km limit, but I didn't manage to catch the reg of that one.
'Careful now, Conall. Keep walking'. Anne's hand shunts me along. Some of the other kids have passed us out. One yellow and another black.
'We're nearly there now. You're doing great!' I could have got the reg of the first car, if only that second one didn't follow so soon behind. I step on the road to avoid a network of lines on the path.
There's the gallery, in front. I was there once before to see an exhibition called 'Wheels of Motion'. There was an installation that used water to move a wheel, that moved pebbles that went back to start the water flowing. It was obvious that the pebbles were too small, and were stilting the movement. I was just fixing it, but Dad dragged me off, apologizing.
'Why are you sorry?' I asked.
He shook his head and didn't tell me why. I still don't know what the problem was.

The building is good. Corinthian columns, but not original. The first documented was the Choragic Monument of Lysicrates in Athens, erected in 334 BC, but this is a pretty good copy.
Thirty four steps to the door, that means fifty one for me. Left, right-left, right, left-right...
'Come on now, Conall. Try to walk properly'. Anne's hand firmly takes my wrist, and tries to make me go to her pace.
'No!', I think, but don't say it.
I plant both feet on step 13, pull my arm away and fold my arms. I look up and notice all the kids are already gone in.
'Nnnnnneeeeeaaaaa'. I block my ears with the heels of my hands, but the noise is just as loud! I look up and see it overhead. I jump down, wrap myself up small, ears still covered. I pull my hood tightly over my head.
I see Anne's foot just beside me.
'Ah, Conall, come on now, it's only a plane. We talked about this.'
She crouches down close to me. I pull away, start rocking.
'Don't worry, Conall, I'm not going to touch you.'
A pair of footsteps pass by, black pointy business shoes and clip clop high-heeled boots.
'Count to ten slowly, take deep breaths, just like we practiced'.
Don't like the number ten. Instead I breathe in and out for seven seconds each. Big blowey breaths, like Mummy practicing her yoga.

We are late for the guided tour but that's fine by me. I prefer to just look at the pictures anyway.
'Oh, we've missed the tour, what a pity'.
'Is it a pity?'
I walk off away from the noise. I look in the door of one big room.
'Oh, lovely! The Impressionists', comes Annes voice right beside me.
I scan the pictures quickly. All fuzzy and mute, like a photo not in focus. I keep walking.
'Oh Conall, wait. Look at them properly. Here, can you see the church?' Anne is clutching my wrist, so I shake her off.
'Ya'.
I look for about thirty seconds to keep Anne happy. I edge away, Anne following closely, and I go through a glass door. It's quieter here, darker too.
This exhibition is called Fifty Shades. They are mistaken though, there's way more than fifty shades. And technically a tint is the mixture of a color with white, which increases lightness, and a shade is the mixture of a color with black, which reduces lightness. So looking at most of the pictures in this room, it's more about tints than shades.
'It shouldn't be called Fifty Shades you know'. I start to explain this to Anne, but she just gives a half smile, half grimace.
'Ah don't worry about it Conall'.
'I'm not worried about it. I was just saying...'

Later, back at school, we have to prepare a report about what we saw at the gallery. Ms. Newman is asking us all about the pictures we saw.
'I want you to really look at what the artist is trying to say, what message are they giving in their painting'.
I'm working out some tricky maths problems. But I am listening a bit too. 'Keeping my ears open', as Anne says, though I really can't imagine shutting them, locking them up with a key.
'So what drew your attention, Conall?'
'The name of it was Rainy Day at my university by Maja Wronska'.
'Lovely! And what was it in this picture you liked?'
'I didn't say I liked it'. I shake my head.
'Well...what was it that drew your attention, then?'
'There were ten umbrellas. Ten is bad but the tessalating tiles were good. So that cancels itself out. But umbrellas give shade too. The exhibition was 'Fifty Shades', So Anne thinks the artist might be having a bit of a joke. Ha ha!'
'Ah...well, thank you Conall. That is indeed...interesting. I will look forward to reading more in your report'.
Anne is beside me, cutting out stuff. She winks at me. I get back to my tricky problems.

Autumn Leaves

"...the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference"
The voices wash over me, surround me and wrap me up in their cosy warmth. I want to hold onto this moment, this togetherness. Nightlights burn gently all around and on the sacred space, a child rests peacefully on the palm of a big, open hand. Autumn leaves are scattered randomly here, their warm colours lulling us into the cold sparseness of winter.
At tonight's meeting, we each choose a leaf. From the pile strewn on the carpet, this might take some time; but in fact everyone seems to know, with deciciveness and resolve 'their' leaf. Holding this leaf as we recount the past week to ourselves and each other, we come to know it intimately. I hold a sycamore leaf, yellow and soft, a piece missing from one of its palmate tips. It has brown spots, like liver marks and thin delicate veins, only just perceptible to the touch. It is light, and later, with my eyes closed, I struggle to even feel it as it lays flat upon my open palm.
As I recall my moments of hurt, anger, humiliation, rage, self-pity, loathing and cowardice over the past week, I bring myself back to the moment. Around me, in the circle, all these other people, whom I admire, respect and have come to deeply trust, are doing just the same. As I recall my fractured past, the suffering I caused, my numerous falls from grace...'oh God, will it ever leave me?!', I bring myself back to the moment. Around me, in the circle, my friends are doing just the same.
I look at my leaf: broken, delicate, laid bare. Suddenly I feel like crying at its heart-breaking beauty. A sense of hope engulfs me...acceptance.
In a symbolic gesture, we are encouraged to drop our leaves to the floor, like the tree preparing for new life. Somehow, I cannot let go.
The tree with unwavering faith, is constantly renewed. I know, the moment I leave, I will live out another week, in the same predictable manner like last week, and before and on...
As the meeting draws to a close, I feel soft and free; safe although I'm exposed. I see that like the tree, with leaves of different colours, shapes and sizes, I have all these components...bad and good. It's what makes me who I am. But unlike the tree, I can't seem to let go.
I walk out into the dusky autumn evening, wrap my scarf about me protectively, and crunch along the leafy path towards the gate. Leaves trickle down like autumn tears. Before I go back out into the world, I pick up an old, crumpled leaf. Holding it softly by its stem, I whisper the prayer to myself: "Grant me the courage to change the things I can", and I leave it fall softly to the ground.

Grace

Music awakens
My sleeping soul. Falling tears:
Pulse of the spirit.