Awesome Twitch

Back corner bar, lights down low, summer sun a filter of speckled dust through foggy windows; leaning back in my chair I tip my glass toward lips longing for the cool wet of summer, the way the first Popsicle of the season tasted in the backyard, wearing your new bathing suit that’d be covered in wet and sticky and muddy before long, when you were six.

Shuffling chairs kick up patchouli clouds, a scarf falls off the table onto the planked floor and we reach at the same time, laughing shyly as our hands touch too much. I nod, turning back to the music, tapping toes to the beat of long summer nights, experiencing that floating feeling you get when life comes together in a beautifully poignant moment, the fracture of the kaleidoscope reflecting the symmetry of how simple life can be, how perfect life can be.

Strummed chords and hummed tunes, the lady on the dance floor is awesome twitch – her head and hips moving in opposite directions, her hands clapping, waving, shaking to the same rhythm she’s danced a thousand times before. A spread smile, wide lips, shining teeth, her face turned to the rafters – a hallelujah of praise for this little piece of Dionysus.

Clap, clap, clap – it’s so easy getting lost in the tempo of this energy, it’s so easy getting lost in the sound.

Setting sun, the clouds a pretty pink dusting of the long goodbye – the light of summer sticking to the edges of night, off-kilter voices and jagged harmony floating out the door tickling the backs of my bare legs on the slow walk home. A perfect night for summer.

xoxo,

M.L. H’art

Tepid Tea

I don’t sleep much these days.

Instead, I pad around the house in those ridiculous fuzzy purple slippers you gave me last year as a peace offering for the anniversary you got too drunk to remember. I watch the lights in the high-rises across the way flicker on and off on floors being cleaned by people being paid minimum wage.

There’s a hole in the toe of my right slipper. I pad a lot, these days.

I pretend the banks of lights sweeping on and off are dire signals, like when I was little and mom told me to flash the back porch light as a warning to the neighbours if He tried to break into the house again. Tungsten Morse code.

I light the stove, put the kettle on, slide open the porch door, spark a smoke, sit on my heels.

The distance between us is gathering stale air. It’s settling in my bones, making them ache. I pretend I can see right into your bedroom window. You’re not sleeping well again and I watch as your eyes flutter. It’s so easy to see you’re conflicted.

I think about calling you, waking you up, seeing if you’re ready to talk about the hurt, but the kettle whistles and instead I make chamomile tea and pet the cat and return to perch on the edge of the porch where I pretend to watch you some more.

You blame me for so much. It’s true, I didn’t have to sleep with him or get so distant or hang up on you or say bad things to people I knew would tell you eventually. You didn’t have to lie to me or trade our time together to get high or spend all our money on ways to keep the party going or tell me to kill myself.

My big toe gets cold, so I go back inside where it’s damp with dark. I crawl into bed still clutching the cup of tea I’ve not sipped yet and I sit with my back propped against the headboard and I sing till I get so loud the neighbour next door pounds a fist on the wall.

The clock, it says 3:17, the little dot illuminating AM. I don’t have much concept of time these days.

I turn on the bedside lamp and look at the bruises on my legs. This one here, it’s new. I don’t remember seeing it yesterday. I push my thumb into it and get sad when it doesn’t hurt much.

The cat, he sniffs my tea and takes a lick. It’s not even warm any more. Tepid tea.

I put the cup down on the dresser beside the other four cups still full with rotting tea and I slide down the bed, pulling blankets over my head. I kick my feet and let the comforter fall, the same way you used to shake the sheets over me when it got too hot to sleep.

I think about calling you to come shake the sheets over me, but it’s not hot out and I would be silly to ask you to shake them when it’s cold.

xoxo,
M.L. H’art

A Scatter of Sirens and Split Light

On a Friday night, we’re standing on my deck, the electric blue and red bouncing off our wine glasses. There are dozens of them, yelling, jumping, punching, kicking. As the anger grows, so too does the mob. They swarm from all corners of the dark alley, throwing fists into the air before they even have a chance to make contact with someone’s face.

They are angry, so angry.

One cop car, lights bouncing. Then two, then four, then six, then eight: the alleyway a scatter of sirens and split light. The chopper hovers in – wide beam spotlight highlighting the faces of young men with nothing better to do. The men scatter like ants under a magnifying glass – their skin beginning to smolder with the heat of the sun.

Paddy wagon, fire truck, ambulance: a regalia of city force making little impact on the spreading mob mentality take nearly two hours to clear the area. Media trucks with tall satellite towers and coiffed reporters with painted red lips arrive nearly as fast as the emergency services.

We are drunk and this is just another spectacle side effect of living in a city getting too big for its small town roots. It’s no different watching it from your balcony than it is on your TV. The plot’s just the same:

“…a combination of liquor and testosterone culminated in an all-out brawl outside a downtown bar last evening. The nearly 30 culprits – who have yet to be identified – swarmed two police officers as they attempted to break up a fight between two bar patrons. City Police contribute the riot to over-consumption of alcohol…”

This infection of violence is spreading: a super virus gnawing on the fleshy fabric of our city.

I’m awoken by the pop! pop! of gunshots at 2:30am the next Thursday. Screams filter up through my fourth story bedroom window. I am awake, staring in disbelief at the club-goers scurrying through the parking lot behind my building. This time, there are no cops.

The crowd disperses into two vehicles – one on either end of the parking lot. The vehicles lurch forward, grills growling, headlights off. They charge at one another, speed up as they get closer.

Smash!

They back up, rev forward again.

Smash!

The drivers are pressing heavy feet into gas pedals – a tug of war; as one car loses ground, the other gains. A back and forth of metal and squealing rubber.

A woman crawling on the ground grabs a shirt lying under the only tree. She is crying or laughing – hard to tell from so far up. She smushes the shirt up under her nose, barely noticing the heavy metal match up battling behind her.

One lonely cop car races around the corner from the far end of the alley. The two cars – racing toward each other again – swerve and speed out opposite ends of the parking lot, hoods crumpled.

The woman runs, still holding the shirt to her face.

Here is the cop car. The chopper. The ambulance. Fixtures of an urban scene becoming too commonplace in my own backyard.

xoxo

M.L. H’art

Photo Credit: Lucas Boutilier

Conversations with Myself (Canto I)

Sitting across from myself, I tap my spoon on the lip of my mug and sigh. The table is scattered with the shrapnel of an eternal coffee break: crumpled, beige-stained napkins, cold and sour coffee lining the bottom of a cherry-lipstick stained cup (the pink o a perfect open-mouthed kiss against the mug’s white porcelain). Strewn sections of the newspaper lay underneath torn sugar packets, wrinkled and empty, the sprinkled granules proof of defeat.

I turn to me and say: “If not now, whenever. There’s no rush.”

I nudge a fallen strand of hair out of my eyes as I purse my lips in hard concentration. “I want it now.”

Pushing my coffee cup away from myself with both hands as the sticky spoon clatters to the floor I say, “Patience is a lesson I have to learn.”

“I cannot outfox patience. It’s likely I’d be stuck in this very place an eternity,” I say as I flash a look of contempt. I’ve obviously grown bored of waiting around for good things to happen.

I reach for my spoon, fingers brushing sticky crumbs under my chair. I shoot a glib look of disbelief. “Take time. I rush into things too often and get myself into a trouble I can’t undo. Chill the fuck out, okay?”

Jutting out my lip, I blow out hot, acrid breath, ruffling my bangs as I roll my eyes. “For how long? Until I’ve grown old, until my hair is gray, until I’ve lost my motivation and determination, until I’m able to accept things just the way they are, until I’m no longer interested in impacting change? Shut up.”

I blow on the bowl of the spoon, steaming it. I rub it with the edge of my sweater sleeve and blow again so I can stick it to my nose. Leaving the spoon hanging, eyes crossed, I say, “Not grow stale, but learn to appreciate the lulls. Boredom’s always been my biggest foe.”

“A foe I perpetuate with lackadaisical acceptance, an inability to grow a backbone and take what I want.” I snatch the spoon off my nose and toss it to the table with a sharp clank.

“Me-ow!” I pick up the emptied sugar packets, squishing them in my hand. “I have such expectation. Can’t I trust things will work out the way they ought?” I ask, tossing the crinkled packet carcasses to the table with the fallen spoon.

Eyes rolling again. “Seriously. How might things work out the way they ought if I refuse to take control of any of them?” Slouching back in my chair, I cross my arms over my chest – defensive, frustrated.

Fingering the edges of the paper, making small rips in the corners, I say, “I don’t know. There’s just nothing I can do right now other than wait. I can wait.”

Chuckling, a nasally hiccup of breath, in and out. “Right. I’ll see how long that lasts.”

The waitress comes around with the bill. Five coffee refills. One poppy seed muffin. Four hours. I dig into my pocket and produce just enough, with tip, and leave the change sitting on the table. I don’t even attempt to clean up my mess as I push back my chair. I follow me out into the street and recite under my breath: patience is a virtue, right?

xoxo

M.L. H’art