Do not fit me in your box;
That box of how life is supposed to be —
That box is not for me.
Many a box up in the loft–
Dusty pages, faded photos, old coats,
Boxes filled with forgotten notes.
Your space is full of box.
A box fortress life.
Yet your head is full of strife.
Only this box full of my things,
One I brought over the sea
I will carry out and be free.
–by A. E. Wallace
in binary dance
competing for centre–
cancelling life around us–
to our own
Little girls in summer white dresses–
Fairies at play in bright light of noon—
Soapy bubbles float to pop on sunglasses,
as I sit in the garden where turtle doves croon.
Too many years wasted cutting back weeds–
Investing my time tilling good soil into poor dirt–
bearing insult as birds pecked new seeds–
avoiding wasp sting through my thin shirt.
Peace now though the dog still barks in his kennel;
but he is nothing to think about now.
I am safe amid chrysanthemum and fennel;
He is old and leaving me, anyhow.
Soon, I will be like my fairies that play
with no other thought than to blow my bubbles far away.
By A.E. Wallace
Old Ollerton, Nottinghamshire at the teahouse
Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
Here I am in Mansfield town centre on Monday and I wish it was Friday. Like everyone always seems to say, post, tweet, pin-up etcetera. Like the song says; it’s Friday, I’m in love. But I am on a mission–On a job—on a plan—meeting with the lawyers Some Young Guy LLP—steeling myself for the onslaught of emotional battle. I am weak, afraid, wounded but I need to be a shark. Sharks don’t get caught up in the current of pedestrian traffic—they make the current. But I don’t because I mingle in with these people who seem to always be going, wandering and flowing in and out of days with no real direction. I need focus but I am caught up in so much haze—like a dirty fish bowl. Moving in general fed-up-ness darting more than a scuttle—hustle more than a bustle– within the crowd of slow moving old-aged-pensioners and goldfish-bowl-mums who vacantly push strollers in long rolling steps. I dart around some men who meander within and without of the crowd. They remind me of seahorses with their heads fixed forward but going nowhere. They just go around and around all docile and drowsy—dopey drones of dopamine days.
Am I as goldfish as the goldfish girls or does my scuttle make me more like a neon tetra. I look at my watch more than these people. I am Big-City-Busy but without the Big-City-Shoes and looking Big-City-Bored as I try to think of somewhere to go whilst I kill time before my appointment with Finality. Instead, I float about.