I’m officially finished with the five day work weeks again. Last week’s round of evenings being my last full week in Latents. This week will be a three day week there (having a stat holiday today and taking this coming Friday off). So it is now an official return to CPSIC schedule blogging. Every eight days… More or less… Rather than every Sunday. Though it will be a Monday posting next week as well. I’m simply running a day behind this week.
Really, not much went on this past week. Evening shift at work meant it was pretty quiet in the office while I was there. It also meant I didn’t do much outside of work. A little TV and grocery shopping was about it. And for the holiday weekend, the only people I’ve actually sat and talked with have been thousands of kilometres away, talking to me on the phone. Several days of quiet have been nice, after a busy last month… But I probably shouldn’t enjoy such times as much as I do. I see people on TV talking about how people are social animals… How we need contact with others. And I see politicians harp on about needing to do this or that for the benefit of “our children”. And it’s at those times that I’m left to think I should feel guilty about pleasant solitary times. The people on TV seem to be telling me that I’m wasting my life. But the people on TV also give voice to Donald Trump… So maybe I’m not the one who’s got it all wrong after all.
The Living Room Clock
The rhythmic tick of the clock transports me
From my landlocked living room seat
To an ancient harbour
Several decades ago
Where my father combs knots from my bed ravaged hair
And my grandmother works dough in the kitchen
While a previous batch begins to waft aromas from the oven
Aromas that penetrate every corner of the house
Yes, faintly, in an upstairs bedroom
But just enough to stir the soul
And with hair now as managed as a summer’s father would care
I am drawn by the smells
We all are
This is why the kitchen is the heart of an outport home.
Fed
I return upstairs
Drawn to the bedroom window
Speckled with dabs of white paint
Remnants of a previous year's painting
Where the clapboard became a fresher coat of white
I sit at the window
While my bedside clock ticks
Morning seconds becoming minutes
Drifting into hours
I sit at rain soaked glass
Peering out at the sea
Seeing the clapboard white foam
Where shallow rocks
Break frigid waves
Where open ocean meets sheltered harbour.
New rains sweep in on gusts
Joining the window rivers
With cymbal like regularity
As if the winds are great breaths
Paused for an inhale
Before the next round
Further attacks the glass.
There will be no outdoor play today
Toy car roads have been washed away in the yard
The half buried boulder near the corner of the house
On sunny days a dinky fortress
With crevices for my sports cars, dump trucks, and police cruiser to park
Today it’s a slugs paradise, with each crevice filled by the morning deluge.
So today I’ll invent makeshift games
Listening to the metallic clink
As I haphazardly shift marbles about the tin Chinese checker board
I’ll drive the dinkys up the stairwell
And park them under the sofa
I’ll listen to my grandmother humming hymns as the bread bakes
While my father runs amongst the raindrops
Going across the street
To talk with Joe.
But for now I sit at that window
As the bedside clock ticks away
Until I return once again
Landlocked in my living room
Decades traversed in an instant
As my clock continues to tick
Seconds
Becoming minutes
Turning to hours
As more days
Continue to pass the years.
No comments:
Post a Comment