I am Jacks' Right Hamstring muscle. At 23 Jack has always had an injury prone body, sports were never supposed to be his thing. Yet, here we are in a 400 metre final, on the last stretch of the race, barely behind 3rd place and only 1 yard behind 2nd and 1st place. Jack decides to chase the medal, but he forgets his prone muscles in his pursuit. His facial expression turns from simple to desperate in seconds, he is now running with added desire, verve and added confidence. 3rd place is passed easily, but my rapid contracting and extending in these tights proves too much, and i am about to give in. "The line, the Line!" says the Brain. " Just a little more!" says the heart. But with 10 metres to go, i cannot hold out any longer, and my last contraction see's jack ceased up. He clutches his hamstring, as he collapses onto the track, the finish, only 1 body length away. tears seem down his cheeks, as he lays on his back, hands on his face. It was a show worth watching over and over again, but for jack, it just wasn't meant to be.
When she walked through the garden, she was looking closely at the flowers. She was seeing faces in the textures of the flower pedals. Forcing images, if you will, upon nature. It was a bit pretentious, but it all worked for her. She stepped and stooped, then stepped to the next. "There, that looks like a civil war soldier longing for home," she says, then steps and stoops. "This here looks like a school master angry about the falling rain. " Step and stoop. "This one looks like a police man with a mustache observing the conduct of the pedestrians." She strolled through the garden casting her images wherever she wanted to. She respected no boundary between her mind and the tangibility of nature. She walked as an authority. Tall and strong, with a dress that made the garden keepers envious, as it drew everyone's attention away from the flowers.
Colorless faces float by me. Colorless faces are all i see. I would like to think i am beyond looks and complexions. But all i see are those empty eyes and the hollow cheeks of those who are dead. Soulless voices do i hear. Soulless cries i have surmised. Why do the dead speak to me, why do they shame me into being something i can not be. They want to live again even if it's through my suffering and pain. They want to feel again even it's my pleas of forgiveness that they hear. Why do i hold the dreams of a nation within me.
When he asked me to tell him about what had been going on in my life, I had no idea where to begin. Could I really tell him the truth? About the fuck ups I made that actually led me to my happiness? His request caught me off guard. I didn't think he truly wanted to hear the intimate details of my life. So much had changed over the past few months, and other things had begun to take the place that he once held in my life. In a way, it felt as if it were a betrayal to tell him of the new man who was beginning to love me for who I am. For years, he had tried to learn to love me, but I just wouldn't ever let him. Now, I have entrusted my flaws with someone else and hoped that they would not use them against me. But as I began to fill up the silence with the things that had begun filling up my life, I could feel his part in my life dwindling down.
Start at the dot, end at the parking lot. Follow your map to the spot. Bring your hat and binoculars. Two sisters eat sandwiches on a park bench while birds fly over their heads, flying far out, somewhere into the far reaches of their context. The park bench is all theirs. No room for anybody else. The first sister is an ambitious woman, with a career goal. The second is a pathologically driven thing with a dream of being in total control of her destiny. Their aunt was an alcoholic, but that doesn’t ever come up in conversation. They talk of prospects and potential lovers. They talk of objectives. They talk about what they call “a woman’s limitations” in their warped view of the world. I don’t know why they talk in the park. They could just as easily meet in a restaurant or a bar. I guess it is more nostalgic to meet outside, surrounded by wind and leaves, cars and streets, birds and context. A sisterly, conversational ambiance.