Poem: Love Is Not

Poem: Love Is Not

Someone once said to me that poems ought not to need explanation, but some do. I differ in opinion because it suits me. This is a poem about Love and Love is not.

Before I knew anything hard or cruel
like the world is
I believed in fairy tales
with one dubious eye open – but even then
never wanted one
never thought Love would look a certain height or weight
or would gaze at me through eyes a certain colour
with skin a certain hue

I only hoped Love would be nothing
like I had seen in a movie or read in a book.
I hoped Love would be an new idea.

I hoped Love would be an anchor,
as steady as concrete or steel
and at the same time warm,
I wanted a paradox of my own to explore.

I hoped Love would feel strong
and sound like a cheerleader
believing each of my
mad, genius, over-sized and wonderful ideas
was in fact, wonderful.

I wanted to Love to find me wonderful, an endless curiosity.
An unending conversation.

Later the hard nature
of the world taught me
how I did not know
could not know
the touch or voice of Love,
the sound or the feel of it.

I spent long hours talking to
the stars and the moon instead
to the curve of the earth and rippling sea
cheeks made damp by
my own ocean of salt water
my days poured out like sand
a broken hour glass

I spoke aloud and asked
how I could not know the
sound of Love’s voice
after listening so long
unless I had never heard Love at all.

Before the Universe answered
in that long silent pause of breath that is
light reaching between two stars within my sight –
that long of a breath I was left waiting.

The Universe still did not answer me
but a feather fell at my feet saying
‘Love is itself, warm and waiting
stretched from the stars to the moon.’
But this truth I refused, my body shaking.

I climbed to my high place
stared out into the sea
in my smallest voice
whispered to the Silent in my silence.

…….

It occurred to me perhaps
I knew what Love should be
because I knew so well
what Love was not.
I said to the Love strung between
the stars and the moon and the sea
‘Let it be kind, strong and generous
when Love comes to me.’

I met Love on a Thursday
but we did not recognise each other.
I was following feathers and
by the time I did see Love in
kindness, strength and generosity
I had learned that when Love is strong,
Love will probably be stubborn and
not all kindness is admirable but
there are other things that Love is.
Even kindness takes some getting used to.

Love was busy telling me
what Love is and is not
and Love didn’t want me.

I leaned in and learned the lesson anyway
what is was to listen and talk to Love
and then I returned to my high place
as close to the moon as I could stand
far above the sea, and said to the Universe

Now that I know what Love feels like,
sounds like and looks like –
I think I must talk to Love no more.

It occurred to me that silent or speaking,
telling me what is and what is not,
Love and the Universe are much the same.

And the Universe was still silent.

An Exchange of Words

An Exchange of Words

The Writer
I would write you a letter, with ink and pen on thick paper that feels good in your hands. I’d like to leave the weight of my words with you, a deep impression on the page. I’d like to know you received it, took it into your hands, ran your fingers over the postage and came to understand I’m telling you the story so far, as far as I know it.

These words would be fragile and soft but in reading them, you’d forget being lost and make your way home. I’d make a roadmap of words from here to tomorrow, to guide us til we arrive. You homeward bound and me, reaching for you. Laid out in lines on a page full of humour, sorrow and life.

Each story we know, every secret and joke written in ink for keeping. I’ve come to believe life is a series of chapters you can read out of order because nothing will make sense until the end. As I’m sitting out in the moonlight and waiting for you to come home now, I’m waiting for the right words too.

I know some things will be fine by the end of the book. But some won’t and I’m searching for words to tell you in advance how sorry I am for the small things I’ve ruined by asking too much or when I couldn’t give you enough. I’m grieving for what is lost, what is left in my hands, what we counted on and what I’ve kept to myself when I could’ve opened my heart.

The Beloved
In the beginning there are words. Words that in their being brought earth, stars and all creation into being with them. Words shaped land and ocean, sky and heavens, placed stars into atmosphere and drew water out of springs in the earth to water the ground. The ground that would bloom into life, and the walking, breathing life that lived upon the earth to eat from the blossoming of the earth. All this came from words.

At the end there are always words. They are heavy with sadness and loss, trying to bring meaning to repeated breath and motion that make what we call life. Words that make small triumphs from failures and can change the purpose of a life from smallness to greatness in death.

Words are powerful here too. When the silence becomes an ache, the ache an emptiness and the emptiness cannot be filled, words anchor, restore, comfort and sustain until the last word of farewell is spoken. Hope remains and life endures in the breath and phrases we use to define the ones we lose.

You, I do not intend to lose. My words are constant and true. Trust in their steady and enduring light. I will write you a map home, your words like fire dust in my sight. I hear you calling.

The Writer Lost
Don’t ask for my body without my mind. Ask me for a kiss of syllables, consonants and round, deep vowels. I will slowly form phrases from the infinite depth of my heart which cannot find sharper or truer gift to give you. Words are less fleeting than feeling and hold their shape in the invisible ether. You cannot make dull mean sharp no matter whether you write it on paper or say it aloud.

My words contain everything of myself. Why do I find a deep sense of home in listening to words that roll from your tongue in apathy to my need of them? Our words together seem like a dance where one is never certain of the other. The orchestra slips ahead, like salmon darting upstream, always dragging us behind, always lost in thinking of a lyric for the bars that we pass by.

My words speak my heart aloud and fly up into the air, resting on shadows and clouds, sliding down raindrops back into puddles at my feet. Sometimes I do not recognise my heart as it comes broken back to me, yet drawn to these fragments I piece together a strange jigsaw puzzle of a poem.

Some words hesitate me for hours, fixing me in place until proven true or untrue. ‘Beautiful’ can trip me up for hours, words like ‘father’ bog me in delay. Others are deep, sapphire pools of the ocean and entice me to play. I am playing, waiting, delaying but really now – I have become lost and have need of a new map.

I will send out my words like the breath of the wind and even lighter, in every atom of the air. They sit like art upon the page, they will fly soaring when spoken. Can you hear me calling to you now? I fear forgetting the timbre of your voice cutting shapes into the night with your words.

Mine are arrows that fly from my heart to yours, along an invisible string that binds itself tightly to you. Yours are cool water when thirsty and lamplight in the desert. Hard to find when travelling.

This is a conversation in stilted exchanges – the way we used to communicate in letters, telegraphs, postcards and emails, between one who is lost and searching for the other and one who is calling the other home. Allegory is a powerful way of using story to illustrate ideas about true things and there are many true things in this exchange. At times, I find myself the Writer, at other times I relate to the Beloved. 

 

She Undresses.

She Undresses.

It begins with the shoes. The red shoes. They hardly come out of the closet these days, but when they do – her walk is lifted, the tilt of her hips just ever so much more swung from left to right. Everything else is for her or for them, but the shoes – the shoes are for you.

Layer by layer she dressed this morning, knowing whichever direction the day thrust her, she would need to be ready and prepared to stand her ground. Calendars matter, to this woman. The schedule of roles she will play that day; friend, colleague, sage and unclaimed lover. The precise number of minutes given to eyeliner, perfume and mascara are counted out in the rush towards beginning the day. Every task their due and nothing other.

Layer by layer, her costume slides on dictated by what others need to see in her, or of her. She catalogues the demands inside her head.

Be soft, be warm, be strong, be open, be commanding, be wise.

Jeans and a casual shirt, because nobody wants to appear unapproachable. Business shirt and pencil skirt, or hip grazing, cleavage revealing black dresses with variations of red, navy and lace for days when she walks with people as powerful as she. Black when she needs to hide and red when she is feeling most alive.

Jackets and scarves chosen by necessity. She dresses first with perfume; in a sanctuary of scent she feels herself and then clothes rush on at the beginning of the day. Layer after layer dictated in the morning rush by how she will undress at the end of day. Not what you need to see but what she wants to show you.

After dark, things slow down.

Last on in the morning, at night first her jewels come off – pendants unwound from ivory neck while her fingers follow the slight curve where the artery rests. Hair pulled back exposing neck, an invitation offered gently in the night, only ever in the night. Cool night air whispers ‘welcome home’. Rings of heavy gold slide from fingers except the one band that never leaves her hand. That band that carries precious stories in its rubies. And now you know that ring is a symbol, you will want to ask.

Then those shoes, her arches sighing in relief but they give her calves a certain elevation and as her hips find their gravity again, she feels warm. The shoes were for you, but maybe also for her. There is no part of her body that does not come to life as she unclothes it.

The rest comes off even slower, the layers for them – demanding crowd. Off comes cotton, denim, polyester and ponte. Cuffs, collars and shirts unbuttoned one by one. Skirt unzipped and allowed to drop, kicked by painted dark red toe up into the grasp of hand and cast aside to laundry pile or hung up.

In this, she is most graceful and more so than in other parts of day. Dressed, she is more clumsy than most. More likely to stumble than to dance, but as layers slide off the dancer re-emerges. Back arched and ribs held high as joints flex and bend to undo all that is held together during the day. The collarbone emerges and the shape of her hits the light, curve and strength and softness. There are symbols and stories painted on her body in scars and ink; some of them you know but others you have not listened to yet.

Then silk, satin and lace. A dozen shades. Under the plainest of wardrobes, she is always silk, satin and lace. Stockings unclipped and eased down past bended knee; balanced in warm lamplight. Garter undone but she is not yet undone, there is still more to see, even more to know below bustier and corset and teddy barely containing soft breast. Still she is not undressed.

Here she is, left perfumed in the sweet musk and salt of the day, still layers of vanilla, sandalwood and orchid. High notes of orange, jasmine and patchouli. And this is her, both earthy and sweet. Vanilla, bergamot, florals and earthiness the essence of whisky, which is the other name by which you know her.

Still, layered in perfume she is not yet naked before you. She undresses but she does not leave herself unclothed.

It is beyond silk and lace, beyond what the skin wears and beyond costume of the day. Even removing silk and lace, undoing self entirely to the response of air against skin; all sharp pucker and caress. In undressing there are all elements of ache and relief, until she meets you, skin to skin and eye to eye. A dozen stolen, fleeting touches and then the eyes meet.

There is the wall you could not see til now, where every brick is a shout that said ‘Too much’, ‘too loud’, ‘too smart’, ‘too physical’, ‘too sensual’, ‘too strong’, ‘too intense’, ‘too present’ and the wall is hidden there, beneath blue eyes seeking out yours. Just one word is all she needs to hear – Leap!

Now, eyes upon eyes – back in a room full of strangers but where a glance and a look was true. There in a moment, her eyes slide from blue-gray flecked maybe to truest blue; she undressed for you.

A woman undresses from her eyes; as the shadow lifts and grey-blue hue turns to summer light – she is naked for you now. She leaps over the wall of misread doubt from voices past, while still clothed and disrobes for you.

It might happen in a room full of strangers; deep in the night while she pushes all noise and interruption to the side. Perhaps it happens while you’re not watching but she is thinking and assessing to one side. It is most likely to happen while you also, are watching her – the slow, steady and soon-to-be reliable slide of public to private sight. But whether she is still clothed in silk and lace, or wearing denim or corporate suiting for the day – she undresses from her eyes.

There is one story that is not told upon her skin, or in the ache of body that is expressed between the light and dark of night. She tells you only one story in the light of eyes unveiling into sacred, private sight. There is only one story that remains under cautious and wary eyes. The story of the Phoenix and the girl who rises.

I am the Phoenix, bold and wise. I am the Phoenix flying high and true and firm, but I will acquiesce for you. I will let you touch and hold my burning wing, hold my sharpened voice and sing, I will burn and rise again for you.. and let you see me, see me shining through. I am the Phoenix, I will rise again and rise and rise and rise again.’

And there she is, exposed at last – she is a creature of the myth. She undresses and you find her in between the grey and blue, the Phoenix, who rises and looks for you.

Poems at a Distance

Poems at a Distance

Distance, figuratively through a lens or over physical miles, brings a focus and perspective to the human experience; particularly in my case to a sense of connection and disconnection. When I am away, in those first few moments and days of separation, whether I am leaving behind home or returning to it – I feel this tension of being pulled apart. My voice here is that between lovers, but really, it’s the cry of what feels like home anytime you are separate from those who welcome you, who bring you back to yourself.

So here, a series of poems at a distance and what it is like to feel that connection and disconnection over miles or through a lens, from that which we love and which calls us home.

i.

Kiss me one thousand kisses
A single drop at a time
Kiss me under moonlight, rain and sky
Kiss me sweetly in the morning
Graze my cheek as you come and go
I will count each one as offering
I will learn it we go
Kiss me to finish an argument then end it anyway
Your thoughts are as fierce as your lips sometimes
I am learning you best this way
Let me taste the kindness on you
Let me taste til I’ve drunk you in
When I am drunk enough on you at last, one thousand kisses done –
Then give me one thousand more,
Til kisses are breathing and words and knowing
Til you can’t take them back.
Kisses like water when they are true
Healing the dust and the ash of you
Kiss me with your mind in the morning, touch me with thought all day
I am yours one thousand times over, in each single turn through space.

ii.

There is a curve of you
Where the light rests and if I could
touch you there, quietly
just a caress of atoms and
feel you breathe, life within you
I would rest complete.
But though your body rests
beside my body during conversation
You are beyond reach just now
holding yourself together
just where I want to hold you.
Release yourself, I demand
But it is whispered like a prayer.
Oh, how I long to touch the light in you.

iii.

In my dream I am half of nothing
And whole of a whole
I am the tree and the bud
One round curve kissed by light
Another curve in shadow
Half of nothing is the difference
And the whole of a whole is complete.
It is a sweet dream to be touched by the moon and caressed by darkness
When one is your hand and the other is also yours.

iv.

Touch me again with your eyes
Let me soak in your voice
A little longer, a little closer
The timbre of your pitch humming in the air
Whisper closely and touch me with a word or two
But do not touch me
I do not want to touch you more than a whisper
Not yet, not today
Today is the long, slow luxury of not touching what I want to touch
After tomorrow, I will have only to remember what it was like to wait on you, fingers, hands, lips
The hidden corner between your shoulder and neck
I should like to live there a while
Resting on your pulse, rising on your breath
So, just – there.
Yes, your fingers are gentle and go no further

Touch me but do not touch me yet.

v.

This is the view of my weary heart
Another hotel room with crisp sheets
Only one side of the bed will warm
and I reach endlessly into white blindness in the night
It matters not that you do not share my bed when I am home
My mind is warm with the thought of you so the bed is emptier while I am away
My thoughts return to you, no doubt sleeping on the other side of the earth.
You are all imagination to me now, too far away to be real, a phantom in the night when I long for home;
I chide myself now home is something, someone I do not know.
I cannot claim to know how you would lie beneath these sheets
Or occupy this space with me
But you do occupy it, softly, insistently.
I push back against your presence in my mind and wonder if you feel me occupying your spaces or feel me in your dreams.
I still myself against this ocean of pristine cotton; think only what is real.
I will pass this day and the next one too; I have lived long not knowing you –
I can sleep alone.

vi.

I am sleeping under the stars in the Czech Republic
Which has known so many names
for one small piece of earth.
I too, have many names.
Long, short, punctuated and sentimental.
Soft names and hard names made of history’s sad stories.
Like this land I breathe and walk on, I cannot direct you north or south on it or point you to clear winds.
Like this body, I cannot whisper how to map your way through me, my great city of Names.
Perhaps do what no other has, carve me a map of myself using only your name; the name you choose for me.

vii.

Sleep, love but do not sleep –
instead dream.
Dream hard and long and wild, no pretend
that dreams are mild or mannered things.
No, a dream is a phoenix of the day passed
and dragon of the day to come.
A dream is what carries you to me in the dark
between oceans and thoughts.
More than an imagining now, you’ve left some
thread of yourself on me
now in the dark, my mind can paint you in a dream
one thousand times over.
I need never be lonely but to
dream and remember you.
Sleep, love but do not sleep
dream of me instead in whatever colour
I have left upon your chest
or written in your mind.
Dream hard and long and wild
and meet me there in the long dusky cloud.
Sleep so I can reach you in my sleep.

Edith’s Omelettes.

Edith’s Omelettes.

A short story about Edith who can’t remember how to make an omelette. She may be losing her mind slowly or just rediscovering the joy of using the F word. There’s a little language, be warned if that’s offensive.

Edith’s Omelettes.

The omelette is gone.

“The fucking bastard!”

The well-loved chef’s pan is thrown into the sink, a foaming hiss of steam rising up and across the window.

Edith stands head down, tea towel over her shoulder with her hands pushing her frustration into the bench.

She checks and double-checks. Gas burner off. Off. Oven off. Off. Didn’t use the oven, she thinks, but just check again.

There is a small mound of flat-leaf parsley on the board. She opens the fridge and puts it slowly back into the packet. The indignity of herbs from a packet, she thinks. Slams the fridge door for emphasis to her thoughts.

Fucking bastard omelette.

Edith shakes her head slightly and purses her lips, running her tongue between her teeth and upper lip.

‘Is that a new habit or something I have always done?’ she wonders, reaching for the tea cup with some half-tepid green infusion. ‘Good for my health, those fucking nutters. If they weren’t my own children, I’d never drink this shit,’ the internal dialogue continues.

Her thumb catches on the lip of the cup as she picks it up. She likes to get a decent grip on it these days and because her mother is nowhere near, there can be no complaints about ladylike behavior.

“You’re 62, for fuck’s sake, Edith. You can hold the cup anyway you like!”

That was out loud, she realized. “Well done, love. Probably gave the neighbours a thrill with that one.”

That’s what the vague pricking sensation in her thumb was. The pain, if you could call it that (which Edith wouldn’t) from a tiny scratch on the tip of her thumb made by the bright, white edge of where the cup has chipped. She holds it closer to her face and sees a faint smudge of red.

Smash, crack, splatter.

Edith laughs out loud and keeps laughing. She has thrown the tea cup against the wall and now the shards sit on the floor in a kind of halo, while the green tea drips in long strands across the counter and down the cupboard door.

‘Would you look at the legs on that,’ Edith smirks (internally, of course). A quick calculation (she is fairly certain none of the kids will be back until the weekend) tells Edith she has at least two nights to clean it up because she is almost 100% confident it’s only Wednesday.

She walks to the fridge and looks at the lists pinned there.

Yes, definitely Wednesday. Thursday’s deadline is fast approaching.

On the next list, Edith looks at the fourth item listed and makes a single stroke next to it. She’ll try the omelette again tomorrow, she decides, but only twice – because it’s an omelette and if it’s still gone tomorrow, well, then damn it all to hell.

On the third list, the first five items are already crossed off. Edith has been making good progress here, but the sixth has proved problematic. Still, a Wednesday night at 6pm should be perfectly reasonable to walk up and get a table, she surmises with confidence.

She moves through the kitchen with a kind of graceful efficiency you would expect from someone who accomplishes an omelette with ease; the apron off and hung in the nook beside the pantry. Tea towel back over the oven rail and a decisive ‘Whack!’ as the cookbook closes.

She picks up her cellphone and calls the cab company from speed dial. “Yes, thanks. Just one from 23 Macintosh. Ready now.” Click.

You must be efficient wherever possible. Don’t waste words and risk getting caught in a conversation or train of thought that isn’t precisely about the current task.

Edith’s inner monologue is full of these little commandments. Of course, there is a wryness to her thinking, because if she followed half her own advice half as well as she ought, then she probably would’ve already crossed this restaurant out weeks ago.

She makes her quick revision of tasks as she prepares to leave the house; first handbag, then checking the list inside it. Keys, phone, purse, notebook, lipstick. Ok. Next the bathroom; taps off. Off. She sees the light of the bedside lamp as she moves down the hall and into the kitchen. Oven and elements all off. Off. Fridge closed. Ok.

A brief pause at the hallway mirror to reapply her lipstick.

‘Really? This I can do with my eyes closed or basically in the dark, but I can’t make an omelette without burning the pan?I’

She hears the cab pull up and triumphantly emerges from the front door before the horn toots. Edith is secretly pleased with her efficiency in the last hour. There is a burnt pan in the sink and the remnants of a tea cup on the kitchen floor but she has managed to escape the house in the blink of an eye and feels much closer to achieving Thursday’s goal already.


 

“Table for one, ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you. By the window, if you can. I’ll have mineral water to begin, also. Not tap. Ok?”

“Of course. Follow me.”

Pleasant, but not overly endearing, Edith thinks. The seat by the window looks lovely, a nice view of the rest of the small suburban bistro, yes – this will do. A decent slice of the kitchen is visible but nothing is too theatrical in the fit-out. Pleasant, but not too pretentious.

She picks up the cutlery, getting used to the feel of it in her hands. It’s weighty and well-balanced. There is some relief in this, as last week a fork had unexpectedly slipped from her grasp and left streaks of marinara sauce all over her pale pink blouse.

Edith used to relish these nights, inviting friends and dragging them around the city to every new and favourite haunt. They used to simply decide on the night which restaurant on the list they would choose. Her husband used to refer to it as ‘The List’. It was, for a long time, the only list.

Now Edith has a list for nearly everything. A list in the handbag to make sure she’s never without what she needs. A list beside the telephone in the hallway of names, numbers and when to call. Edith believes that list is going a step too far. So far she hasn’t missed a single appointment or even needed to use the list, but the kids are always going on about things like that.

Focus. It’s simply a matter of maintaining focus. Which is why she takes a cab now, instead of driving. Easier to stay focused on the task. A single restaurant or location. Simple.

“Ma’am?”

“Oh yes, hello.” Edith is a little startled but finds herself talking to the pleasant maître d again.

Just typical to lose track of myself while I’m thinking about focus. Dammit. Also, funny. Keep your sense of humor at all times.

“Have you had a chance to review the menu? Perhaps I could tell you about the specials?”

“Yes, that would be fine.”

He smiles gently.

Ahh, that’s it. He’s not quite figured out if I am happy or sad to be dining alone. Not sure what to say so he’s keeping it bland. It’s ok, we’ll manage.

“Excellent. Well, we have the scallops in fresh today with a cauliflower cream with a orange, pomegranate dressing and pickled radish to start. And we have a beef daub on offer, made with a cheek, and really, it’s very good. It comes with the potato dauphine and beans, very traditional.”

“I see. I’ll have the prawn ravioli to start and the scallop. The daub sounds good. So yes, I’ll have one of those. And some wine – just a single glass, with the main course. A Burgundy, if you have it?”

“Of course. Would you like to choose..”

“No, I’m sure you can make a suitable match. I’m very happy to leave it to you.”

“..well, ok then.” He smiles again, the gracious host.

Edith has been eating alone since her husband left, early last year. Choosing the wine feels exhausting. She’s getting used to it again. It’s the sort of thing she did frivolously when she was younger. It was always exciting to eat some place in a new city or just some place new in the same old city she lived in every day. But then, at a certain age it seemed less graceful and certainly less efficient to eat alone. You can only get through so many tastes and dishes, and no reviewer wants to visit a place three times to get a sense of the chef.

Of course, when she was starting out, that was almost exactly the opposite of what Edith did. She would order always from the menu, never the specials. Always choose her own wine. Always some witty conversation with the front of house staff. Not so much now. Now, a single three course meal will be enough to make her mind up about whichever young chef is behind the pass.

Well, she thinks, two starters is hardly excessive, right? Not that it matters. Can’t remember if it started before Brian left or after, but I can eat what I like these days and it melts away. Harder to keep my pants up than his. Bastard.

First, or was it second? Anyway, my damn memory, Brian and now the fucking bastard omelette. Just gone. Perhaps a few other things along the way, but that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?

Edith realizes she has been chuckling out loud.

Great, now they all think I’m a raving lunatic too. But I’m not, am I? No. Everything is perfectly fine, actually. I have lists, I stay focused. I am doing alright. After all, I’ve even got my confidence back. Look at me, eating alone. Right, lady. Assume the posture, back straight and a slight smile. Hands gently resting on the table. Don’t let the smile hit your eyes, yes, that’s it. Mysterious, graceful. Don’t think about the tea cup or the omelette any more. Nobody feels sorry for you, they’re just curious.

Edith begins to let her eyes roam the room. This is not breaking the commandment of focus, instead it is her focus. There is a young couple she imagines on a first or second date. Their conversation is still a little stilted from time to time. It is easy to imagine the young woman is not sure of the man in front of her.

In a lovely parallelism, she notices an older couple at the table opposite. Then balks internally as she realizes that it’s actually a couple about the same age she is. Dammit. Squinting slightly, she wonders if it’s actually Paul and Rachel, who had that son Dave, who went to school with her Lachlan. It’s just a little too far to really see for certain. People age so differently anyway. It’s probably nothing. Stay focused.

Slowly Edith makes her way around the room, noticing each party and noticing especially those that notice her. The maître d has been remarkably attentive all night, a lovely touch.

The courses pass from first into third, until finally Edith takes out her notebook and the pen which is easier to grasp. Damn Holly for being right about that, if not the green tea.

Notes fly furiously into the notebook, little wee sketches. A little exclamation here and there. The scallop was lovely, Chef was right to make it a special but if Edith isn’t turning into cauliflower cream one of these days she’ll be surprised. The ravioli was indulgent (three underlines), a code for butter and cream. The daub was delicious and the cheek was a very good idea. Everything else was a little bland about it though. Edith had reached to the salt dish twice for the beans.

Just like that, the meal is done and disappeared. Edith asks the lovely maître d to order the cab and settles that she will leave a suitable tip.

As she settles the bill, she asks “Are you open for breakfast ever? More specifically, I mean to ask, does your chef make an omelette?”

“Ah, yes. Yes, we open for breakfast in the weekends. From 8am on Saturday and Sunday. And the omelette is quite good.”

“Excellent. I got my first kitchen job making omelettes. Dozens in a day. Short order cook, that’s where I started. Maybe I’ll come back. Thank you again. Good night.”


 

Edith checks her watch while sitting in the back seat of the cab. It’s stopped at 3.22. She’s forgotten to wind it but who knows for how many days. Instead she reaches into her handbag for her phone. There is a text message from Sarah, the editor.

‘Copy due by 9am. Will you be on time?’

8.53pm seems like a suitable time to get home for a Wednesday. I can get that copy done in time. Perfectly acceptable to work late whether I’m 62 or not. Oh dear, am I 62? Or is it 63 now? What was that last birthday card from Holly and Lachlan? Oh shit, shit, shit.

“Are you ok?” the cab driver interjects.

“What? Oh, I’m sorry. Was that out loud? I’m so sorry.” Edith blushes slightly, feeling her cheeks and ears reddening. It’s one thing to be caught out when throwing a tea cup or swearing at a burned omelette but it’s worse when you’re frustrated with yourself about losing track of things like your own age.

“It’s ok, as long as you’re alright. My mrs always chooses the lowest one, if it helps. She’s been 48 for five years, I reckon.”

“I’m not sure it helps, but thanks all the same.”

“Alright then love. No harm meant.”


Edith is standing in the kitchen, observing the burnt pan and smashed tea cup. There was a time when this would have seemed an ideal opportunity to procrastinate against a deadline, but those times have passed.

They went sometime ago and now Edith is just tired. Lists are exhausting and spending so much time trying to remember to remember is even worse. She knows the window is short to get the copy done and there’s no time to feel sorry for herself right now.

Tomorrow, when she sweeps up the porcelain, scrubs the pan and mops the floor, will be the perfect time to wonder how the omelette slipped out of her grasp to begin with or how many more dishes on her list will be scratched out next month.

Perhaps it is the sign they were looking for with the last scan, that this is more than just forgetting the odd thing here and there and occasionally leaving a pot on the stove. It’s like my wrist had just forgotten how to hold the spoon. Does it get worse than losing your mind?

Edith had jollied everyone along in the beginning, convincing them that dementia was just her brain taking a lovely little holiday every so often. So much so that she would barely notice and then one day, they could slip her off into care and she’d be none the wiser.

It was just taking so much longer than she had expected and surprisingly, Edith was fighting it harder than she thought she would. She’d had so desperately wanted to be graceful about it and slip away quietly. But people made it so easy to fight. She’d said to Sarah, there was no point a chef writing restaurant reviews anymore, when the chef can’t remember how to cook.

Nonsense, Sarah had said, you still know what good taste is. And then there were the puzzle games, the mind teasers, the physiotherapists. The green tea from the kids. Even Brian had tried eating salmon for dinner each week, despite hating it.

Ha! Scramble Brian and you get brain. Both my problems summed up.

Edith flicked on the table lamp, opened her laptop and reached for the notebook out of her bag. There was no pretending that these five hundred words would make or break that young chef’s career but now, it was the summation of hers. All those years in the kitchen, all those years eating and writing. All those years dining alone, then with friends and now alone again; Edith and the food, Edith and the kitchen. Edith, one old chef and these new, younger, still inspired and unbroken ones.

There are more restaurant reviewers and bloggers in this city now than restaurants, thought Edith. I’m glad I’m not cooking for them.

Less than half of those know how to really cook or what it’s like in a kitchen. Less than half of those can actually write. At least I have that. I’m witty enough for now and I’m never writing about cauliflower cream again. I’ll stop when I’m no longer witty. There’s a boundary I can live with. Right. Now here’s my thirty years and your ten, kiddo. Let’s see what we can tell people about your food.


From: Sarah Smith (Editor).

To: Edith Bradbury

Date: Thursday 7 March

Subject: How’s the omelette?

Hi Edi,

Thanks for the copy. Late night was it? Great copy, I’ve sent it to sub. Sending someone in for photos. Don’t forget your expenses this month. You know what I mean. That’s not a joke about the.. thing.

What I really want to know is how the omelette challenge is going? How many have you crossed off the list? I’ve been thinking about doing a feature and wondered if one of our seniors here might interview you.

It’s the list thing, Edi. Got me really fascinated about how you’re trying to keep track of things and I’m wondering if we shouldn’t just out you now – woohoo, big reveal, our chef’s critic all these years has been…. Edi Bradbury! Then swoop into the inner world of your diagnosis.

What do you think? I just think you’ve been so funny and smart about the whole thing and you’ve really got the strategy down so far. Hope you’re not offended, but I had to ask. I know you said you were just going to let your brain go on holiday but you’ve got so much left to give. Imagine how this might help people. Let me know what you think.

Much love – don’t forget next week’s copy is due by Wednesday instead. Short week.

X Sarah


Edith measures the weeks in omelettes. If it comes together in the morning, soft but holding together and sliding gently onto the plate, she knows it will be a good day. Some weeks measure six omelettes, some only three. She hasn’t told the kids about this system yet; they’ve stopped taking notice of the list on the fridge. She’s in the clear for now, so she’s started a new list. Public outbursts and sweary emails. She can’t decide if there should be more or less of them, though. Like many new ideas that come along now, Edith is happy enough with the concept of a thing rather than the specific numbers. Somewhere, in a slightly fuzzy thought, she knows eventually the numbers will tell a story about what happens next. But at least for now they are her ideas about how to measure things and not someone else’s. So fuck words and omelettes it is.


From: Edith Bradbury

To: Sarah Smith (Editor).

Date: Wednesday 13th March

Subject: Copy

 

Hi Sarah.

Copy attached and on time for this week’s deadline. Getting a reminder at the beginning of the month about this month’s expenses may be slightly over the top. I’ll get them done, but remind me again next week. I’ve put it on a list (see below).

In response to your other request; sorry about the delay. Wish I could say I’d forgotten you asked it, but I hadn’t.

In short, FUCK OFF.

If you want some dizzying witticisms about living with the knowledge that you’re slowly going completely insane and losing every sense of what is normal in the world in slow-motion, I’ve created a list.

  1. You swear a lot more. You swear all the time and sometimes it happens out loud when you’re not meaning too. People stare. It frightens the children, including your own.
  2. You sometimes lose track of when you’re talking to yourself out loud or just having a thought.
  3. The lists are pointless. They’re the things I’ll likely never forget or just insufferable burdens that make me walk around the house three times before I’m comfortable to leave the house.
  4. Everyone worries about you all the time, so much so that you start to feel as incompetent as people worry you are.
  5. Some days you want to put up a fight and make the effort (and those are most of my days) but actually, then the kids think you’re having a good day and get their hopes up. Frankly it’s exhausting. We all know I’m too young to die in my sleep without a miracle and so I will have to lose my mind slowly. It’s terrifying.
  6. Some days you don’t want to fight at all. You wish you could slide into oblivion in the land of happy memories you do have so that you don’t have to watch the sad faces of your children, or your friends, or waiters in the restaurant who don’t even know why you’re just so damn tired that you can’t order a glass of wine for yourself.
  7. Actually, waiters can be your best friend because you don’t have to try and remember anything but to tip them and they don’t know I’m not meant to be drinking.
  8. It’s lonely. For everyone. Me, the kids. My friends. Everyone. And don’t get me started on worrying about what will happen with the lists don’t work.
  9. As for the omelettes. I’ve eaten them every fucking day for a week. With goats cheese, tomato, with bacon and brie and those damn microgreens which I wish they’d stop selling at supermarkets. The omelette went on a little holiday in my brain somewhere and came straight back as soon as I remembered what my wrist is meant to do to get that lovely soft texture and perfect pillowy fold.

Feel free to ask me again next month.

I may be less inspired by the omelette diet or even better for you, I may have forgotten you asked the first time by then. Right now, I cannot imagine sharing how truly lonely this journey is with anyone. I’d rather eat out alone for the rest of my life. At least then, there’s still mystery about it.

With efficiency and focus,

Edith.


 

*Edith has dementia, diagnosed relatively early. She is losing not just memories but abilities while trying to decide whether to resist or accept the changes happening to her. While Edith is a fictional character, I’ve learned much about dementia and related diseases through my step-father’s illness.

Poem: Ten Thousand Million Atoms Deep

Poem: Ten Thousand Million Atoms Deep

I’ve often gone through periods in my life of rising in the early morning or taking respite in the late afternoon to write with pen to page. Often these minutes are a way of emptying the endless-seeming thoughts in my head on to  a page, captured where I have no fear of losing them. Recently my head is so full, I fear if I was to pick up the pen I would not be able to stop for days.

People sometimes ask me, the difference between the thoughts I publish in pixels here and the thoughts that remain private, locked in paper. How strange it is that pixels can now never let me down, but my most secret self lives in frail paper and ink. It could succumb to fire, water and age. Attacked by rats or if I was to fall into a moment of rage or despair I might tear them up. I’m writing those journals of my deepest self in the hopes by the time my mind is old; some lover, child or friend will find my true self remembered there.

Writing on paper leads me to silence; silence of the clammering head. Like listening to music without lyrics or tapping out a rhythm without melody; it makes a liminal but precious space. In that space I cannot speak, cannot write but all of myself reaches out into the Universe longing to be heard. I highly recommend you open this link to the beautiful music of my friend Derek Mount. I invite you to play it while you read the rest of this post. Yup, do it now. That’s it, there you go. This piece is called ‘You Have No Idea’ from his project Brique a Braq. Just give it a second. Breathe it in.

I imagine in these moments every one I ever loved somehow feels me in their spirit, without touching. That everyone I ever embraced feels me in their blood for a moment and all that is good or bad or wise or true in me hangs like moonlight on stars and in the dust of the Universe, on the breath of the Earth. Somehow in that moment, listening for each other in the great Silence and making a beautiful fingerprint in the world, both compass and constellation to navigate by.

Ten Thousand Million Atoms Deep

Shh and

listen to me now

really listen, beyond clammering head

eyes closed and all your atoms

stretched towards me

feel the electric hum of

my atoms reaching for yours

listen with your whole body

for what touches without touching

names without naming

that remarkable thing within you.

Forgive me the frailty of language,

my incompetent hand, hip and tongue stutter –

were I trying to convey words

on a page my fingers would fly

instead my lips frozen without breath

but listen to me now, straining towards you –

remarkable you.

I concluded there is nothing to say –

but my longing is you to hear me, wholly myself

in the dust of the Universe

giddy amongst inverting stars and moon we share

in the air and blood of me

ten thousand million atoms deep

wherever you are, say without speaking

shh and listen to me now.