Jose, ya I knew Jose…

He was the bookie at that race track…you know the one. His mother was mad at him because of the incident involving his brother’s death.

Jose’s uncle’s girlfriend’s mother in law owned the racetrack. That’s how he got started there. He used to be a stable boy, just like his deceased brother. After his fit of rage that lead to the murder of his boss, he needed money to pay off the witnesses, so he became a bookie. His brother Armand had an unfortunate incident when he was shot by one of Jose’s clients, who thought he was Jose.

Their mother will not let Jose in her house again after his involvement in the murder of her youngest son. She blames the incident entirely on Jose. That’s why he just payed the hit-man to whack her.

Out back, there is a tree…

Out back there is a tree. It seems as old as the ages. Withered bark encases its core like a rough grey jacket. The tree is always there…has always been there, as long as anyone can remember.

I love to spend time in the tree. I love to sit on the lowest branch and watch the quiet country as I think about experiences the tree might have had. This tree could be the first planted by settlers here. It could have witnessed war and survived while its companions did not. Hundreds of years ago, it could have shared itself with another person. Maybe they sat in the same place, sheltered by the leaves.

I use a rope to climb it. It is tall, and there are no lower branches. I reach the lowest branch and hop across branches, spiralling upward like a staircase. I reach the top and feel the wind on my face. I trace the lines of its bark with my fingers. I am lucky to witness something so peaceful in this world where war waits on the doorstep like an unwelcome guest.

Once upon a time Sally…

Woke up. No, not woke up as in the alarm goes off and you get out of bed. She woke up to life; To the world around her. For Sally, you see, was stuck in a rut. A rut would be a nice way of describing her fucked up life. Every day, Sally followed the same routine. She woke up and did chores, went to school, came home and did more chores. She barely ever had time for friends, and when she did have time, she was so exhausted, she just wanted to sleep. The sad thing was that Sally was a vigorous, positive person (when relieved from her every day weight-of-the-world). The day that Sally ‘woke up’ was also the day she didn’t wake up. She slept in, and without meaning to, screwed up the ’sacred’ Schedule. When she did wake up however, she didn’t jump out of bed panicked. She just lay there. Sally didn’t care. She didn’t care if she got her chores done, or if she got to school on time, or if she never woke up again. That’s when she realized that her life was destroying her. She needed to change before she was completely engulfed in darkness.

We Knew…

We knew not who we were with…Shakespeare’s version of the Godfather…No. Somehow that just doesn’t sound right. As this topic obviously pertains to knowledge, I will write about that. I had a run in (rather unfortunately) with a drunken man (who will remain nameless), in a pub where my family dined just last week. Being in his drunken state, he saw no need for an ice breaker to start a conversation with me, and jumped right into the topic of teenage knowledge…or the lack thereof. He stereotyped me as a ‘typical’ teenager (which I couldn’t be too offended by, because I had already branded him as a typical drunk in my mind). Prattling on (somewhat slurred) about the probability of my high ego, naivete and ignorance, he actually got me reflecting on human knowledge. People can be so sure of something they know (whether they have reason or not.) They will even defend their knowledge to the point of violence. Look at the people who were positive that the world was flat…until Christopher Columbus broke the bad news. It’s really amazing what human conviction can do…often equated with righteousness.

She kicked off the covers and sat up…

It was another day. But when did it start? Whatever time it was dictated what her day would be like. Would there be joy? Would there be fighting again? Every day was different, yet the same. Early mornings were the worst, it seemed. Yet each day, she sat up, kicked off the covers and started out with courage in her heart. Courage and a bit of hope and dread, mixed equal parts. Sometimes, life could be incredible. Amazing moments made her feel on top of the world, and incredibly lucky to be there. Other times, she could feel the dark jaws of the black dog closing on her, pulling her into the gaping maw. She expected to look down and see dirt under her fingernails from clawing her way above ground. Never a moment’s rest. She could never count on anything anymore. Always being in demand was just too much to take sometimes. And there was the anger. More anger than she had felt before in her life. No, that’s not true. Maybe just less self control this time. Would she be able to escape? Would she be able to find her way back to her old self, introduce that self to her new self and make this life work out great, the way she dreamed it could be? It was up to her. No matter what happened, in the end, it was always her in control of her destiny. It was in times like these that she got reaquainted with the true mettle of her spirit.

The floor is shiny

It’s really weird. I never clean it. It reflects the walls and doorways as if I polished it daily. As if the wax had just dried. Maybe it’s worn. Maybe there’s a stage of wear and tear, where you stop looking haggard and start looking polished. I wish that applied to everything. Sometimes I find myself staring into the mirror at a complete stranger. My mind doesn’t even register it’s me. I brush my hair only because it hangs in my face if I don’t. I want to get it cut but there never seems to be time to breathe. My lips are always chapped. They hurt. The lip balm is right there. So close on the counter…but it seems too far to reach. I’m so tired. If I could only just reach for it and put it on, I would feel bett…damn, I have to go. So many things to do. So many teeny, tiny things that would take seconds. Pick those clothes up off the floor, make the bed, clip my nails, brush the dog, clear those plates, blow my nose, sweep the floor, clip my nails, go to the bathroom, make the bed, clear those plates…someday my head will explode. That little man inside with the sledgehammer will finally overtake my defenses, and there will be nothing left of me but a horrible mess on the floor. I wonder who will clean it.