Tell Me a Story

Maybe it’s that story. You know. The one that never happened. Or maybe it’s a combination of several that never happened. That works too. The best stories that never happened. All rolled into one pretty little parcel. In a sort of ‘this is how it was supposed to happen’ kind of way. Would that I knew how it was supposed to happen.

So we’ll spin it. Over coffee. At a show. The little things. The Take Away Concerts of life. Moments that, no, not moments, vignettes that create a complete picture. ‘This is how it was.’ All of it is a painting. Why should that be any different? Only a slightly less abstracted painting. Impressionist, rather than outright abstract. There’s a good way to look at it. The story is Impressionist, the modern vignettes are Dali-esque, and what else? Who knows? All of it abstracted somehow. I don’t have the comparison. Think someone with bright colours, an eye for detail, but turning the picture into what they want it to be, not necessarily what it was. An artist’s eye.

And here, our lives! Presented in glorious Technicolor. Just the way we would have wanted to see them.


Her Porcelain Skin

Call it fleeting. Call it a moment that, in another life maybe, led to something.

You know, I thought of you once. It was a moment pretty much like this one. Quiet. During that mid-afternoon lull. When the world pauses for a few minutes and thinks about resetting. Take a break. We’ll come back to that.

And then she spoke the words, and everything changed. Wanna know how it happened? It was a whisper, that carried such a weight. And it’s such a weight to carry. Whispers always carry weight. That’s how we say the things worth saying. The things that we’re scared to say out loud. You can only speak reality in a whisper. It’s how we trick ourselves and get past the filters. I’m not really saying this out loud, I’m just thinking it. Do you believe me now? How about now? Silence. It’s the best answer.

Looking for patterns in the chaos. Trying to figure out where we go from here. Like playing an endless game of hide and seek. Tell me what you see, and every time it changes. Close your eyes, count to fifty, and everyone around you disappears. Thanks for the loyalty guys, but it’s all part of the game. They’ll be back. But the moment they return you lose. Somebody wins, somebody loses. Try and get out of that clause in life!

She told me she had a scar, a fleck on her porcelain skin.

The Memory of Beauty

I’m obsessed with beautiful moments. And beautiful things. I’m trying to stockpile them. Plaster the walls of my goldfish bowl with the imagery, so that every time I forget, I’ll swim around and see them again. It’s everywhere. The intro to a song that you heard once long ago, in a moment that made you incredible happy, and even though that particular moment has been lost to time, the feeling still lingers, transported by the notes of a song. Rain droplets coalescing and running rivulets across the window as you drive home in the evening. A child running ahead of its mother on the sidewalk. An elderly couple holding hands. The fern on a well-poured latte.

I think about seminal moments a lot. Those moments where you think, ‘Yes. This is what life is about. This is exactly where I want to be right now.’ And they’re not always the ones you’d think. Sure some of the seminal moments in my life include a view of the Himalayas at nighttime, or swimming next to a whale shark, or surfing at sunset. But they also include other moments. A joke told by a friend in a cafe. I don’t remember the joke, but the moment was perfect. Crying at the end of a book that really moved me. Watching the stars, without worrying what they mean.

And then making a wish on a falling star.