I’ve seen better days, when lavender explosions by the front porch maddened whole colonies of bumblebees, when steak and frites appeared on my plate without my even having to ask, when cartographers met and brought Paris fourteen hours closer and arranged for all the tea-party states to clump together near the Texas panhandle. I’ve seen better days, rocketing over two-lane roads on a Parella 250 with my good friend Bob, sleeping in barns and waking to the snuffling of sweet cows and the grumbling of irritated hens. I’ve seen better days, sex in elevators, free suppers, herbal remedies rolled in fragile white paper. But these days aren’t so bad, watching the traffic light up the wet street below, the slivered moon fattening night after night, wrapped in the arms of the one I’ve been waiting for.
Anyone in their right mind would recall their youth and remark, “I’ve seen better days.” The vigor of firm flesh unmarred by wrinkles. Thick glossy hair without a hint of gray. Memories of innocence found and lost, “I’ve seen better days,” they’d say with a sigh and a smile.
But not me, no not me. I cannot say that is true at all. My better days are here and now with a fire in the hearth, beef barley soup and the last of the summer vegetables on the stove. Mistress Ginger Kitty and Boi Sioux underfoot in the kitchen, these are the best of times.
I was older and more jaded at the age of nine than I am today. Those dark days of youth are far behind me now and for that, I am grateful. I am safe, I am loved, all is well.
I've seen better days when the surf lapped at the bottom of my woven mat, the sun burned its silent form of carcinogenic tattoo and the air held to my skin like chocolate loves vanilla. Time had a new quality, an extension of the twelve hour clock, perhaps an extra twenty or thirty minutes added to sweep algorism into the library. My heart wanted no one at my back, no voice dictating the menu, no hand pointing to the exit door when the pumpkin lost it's glass slipper story. But the walls of stucco and brick and shiplap siding refused to crumple at my command. Nursery rhymes and cartoon stories never stood a chance against the Halloween monster in the attic, the hulking silhouette against my window. Chocolate poured over vanilla. Berries on the spoon. Fire flies inside the diamond. All it takes is one ounce insanity and a jigger of the moon and the surf nibbles once again at my toes, not caring about the cheating clock, the lying calendar, the agenda struck down at noon. On the beach beneath that palm tree I slip myself back into the library envelope. All numbers chime in turn. And birds pluck hands of the clock from the face of grim doom. Drink from that cup held fast by the lucky foot of a friendly rabbit. Time is meant to be wasted.
It's odd. You ask me if I have time to talk and I instantly feel a knot begin forming in the pit of my stomach. I tell you I'm on a call. You say we'll talk later. Not “it wasn't important”, but that we'd talk later.
The knot gets a little bigger.
It's been three hours now. My mind becomes a spinning vortex of possibilities. What is wrong? What did I do? What did they find out? I run through all the possibilities from downsizing to customer complaints. I try to remember what I did, I can't think of anything short of some status updates from work and being late a couple times. I go almost all day, paranoia begins to grip me. Are they waiting until there are less people around? Wow it must be something really bad.
I finally get brave and decide to ask you. What is it? My name wasn't showing in the system correctly and was I having problems with my logins. Disaster averted.
Have you? Or did you just forget what it is like to go hungry? Today the memory of what was is not crisp and clean, like your linen sheets. The memory fuzzes out the edges so they don't cut you anymore. But they did. The hunger cut every day, slicing through everything that we did. Fear was a blanket that offered little warmth and seemed lined with razorblades. I remember one day, not a better day. So cold that there was no hiding from it. Sliding down the hill so I could go to school. I really thought I would die that day. I don't think I ate a full meal that week. And every smoke I smoked was bummed off of someone. There is no grace in that. No glory days of rebellion. Not if you aren't actually rebelling.
7 comments:
I’ve seen better days, when lavender explosions by the front porch maddened whole colonies of bumblebees, when steak and frites appeared on my plate without my even having to ask, when cartographers met and brought Paris fourteen hours closer and arranged for all the tea-party states to clump together near the Texas panhandle. I’ve seen better days, rocketing over two-lane roads on a Parella 250 with my good friend Bob, sleeping in barns and waking to the snuffling of sweet cows and the grumbling of irritated hens. I’ve seen better days, sex in elevators, free suppers, herbal remedies rolled in fragile white paper. But these days aren’t so bad, watching the traffic light up the wet street below, the slivered moon fattening night after night, wrapped in the arms of the one I’ve been waiting for.
Anyone in their right mind would recall their youth and remark, “I’ve seen better days.” The vigor of firm flesh unmarred by wrinkles. Thick glossy hair without a hint of gray. Memories of innocence found and lost, “I’ve seen better days,” they’d say with a sigh and a smile.
But not me, no not me. I cannot say that is true at all. My better days are here and now with a fire in the hearth, beef barley soup and the last of the summer vegetables on the stove. Mistress Ginger Kitty and Boi Sioux underfoot in the kitchen, these are the best of times.
I was older and more jaded at the age of nine than I am today. Those dark days of youth are far behind me now and for that, I am grateful. I am safe, I am loved, all is well.
Copy and Paste - My response is here: http://soundcloud.com/samroderick/sam-roderick-better-days/s-DxUqY
I've seen better days when the surf lapped at the bottom of my woven mat, the sun burned its silent form of carcinogenic tattoo and the air held to my skin like chocolate loves vanilla. Time had a new quality, an extension of the twelve hour clock, perhaps an extra twenty or thirty minutes added to sweep algorism into the library. My heart wanted no one at my back, no voice dictating the menu, no hand pointing to the exit door when the pumpkin lost it's glass slipper story. But the walls of stucco and brick and shiplap siding refused to crumple at my command. Nursery rhymes and cartoon stories never stood a chance against the Halloween monster in the attic, the hulking silhouette against my window. Chocolate poured over vanilla. Berries on the spoon. Fire flies inside the diamond. All it takes is one ounce insanity and a jigger of the moon and the surf nibbles once again at my toes, not caring about the cheating clock, the lying calendar, the agenda struck down at noon. On the beach beneath that palm tree I slip myself back into the library envelope. All numbers chime in turn. And birds pluck hands of the clock from the face of grim doom. Drink from that cup held fast by the lucky foot of a friendly rabbit. Time is meant to be wasted.
**Previous removed due to post issue**
It's odd. You ask me if I have time to talk and I instantly feel a knot begin forming in the pit of my stomach. I tell you I'm on a call. You say we'll talk later. Not “it wasn't important”, but that we'd talk later.
The knot gets a little bigger.
It's been three hours now. My mind becomes a spinning vortex of possibilities. What is wrong? What did I do? What did they find out? I run through all the possibilities from downsizing to customer complaints. I try to remember what I did, I can't think of anything short of some status updates from work and being late a couple times. I go almost all day, paranoia begins to grip me. Are they waiting until there are less people around? Wow it must be something really bad.
I finally get brave and decide to ask you. What is it? My name wasn't showing in the system correctly and was I having problems with my logins. Disaster averted.
Have you? Or did you just forget what it is like to go hungry? Today the memory of what was is not crisp and clean, like your linen sheets. The memory fuzzes out the edges so they don't cut you anymore.
But they did. The hunger cut every day, slicing through everything that we did. Fear was a blanket that offered little warmth and seemed lined with razorblades.
I remember one day, not a better day. So cold that there was no hiding from it. Sliding down the hill so I could go to school. I really thought I would die that day. I don't think I ate a full meal that week. And every smoke I smoked was bummed off of someone.
There is no grace in that. No glory days of rebellion. Not if you aren't actually rebelling.
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