Pulling My Punches

Pulling My Punches

American by birth, Aussie by choice, my husband Andrew’s best mate, he became my friend too. When he returned to the States for some years, he‘d phone Andrew late in our night: long, philosophical discussions so fascinating that I’d join in. We could hardly bear to hang up, despite the hour.

He came back and went the rounds, catching up with old friends before settling in Queensland – staying a bit longer with us, due to a sudden heart attack! After the operation, he came back to us to convalesce.

Something came on the news about some U.S. TV announcer. It meant nothing to us. He, more aware, growled scornfully, ‘She’d be a left-leaning liberal!’ – like that was a BAD thing.

‘Hang on,' I thought. 'That's what I am.’ So was Andrew. But we were both shocked speechless. The moment passed; he was oblivious.

After Andrew died, this friend phoned every few weeks to check on me – the only one who did. It helped. 

We still had wonderful, long conversations about all sorts of topics. 

Eight years later, this still happens; now every few months.  We sign off with, 'I love you.' It’s always been perfectly platonic, no spark, but we enjoy the talks. He’s a mate in the Aussie sense: we’d have each other’s backs.

Spiritually we usually agree. He’s New Age mystical, I’m Pagan; near enough.

He still takes an interest in America. Lately his political utterances bring me up short. I’ve argued a couple, gently. We’ve met in the middle … outwardly, but not really altering each other’s views. Often I’m reduced to non-committal murmurs rather than take issue with such a friend. Yet, how real the friendship if I don’t tell my truth?

Most recently, he declared Coronavirus fake, designed to put us all into fear and force us to accept vaccination. He called the Premier of Victoria – whose stringent measures have kept that State relatively safe – Despot Dan.

‘You know who I’m talking about?’

‘Oh yes, I know who you mean.’ 

I didn’t add that in my opinion Dan's a hero.

Yes, I’m a coward. I expect I’ll have to have it out some day. I keep hoping the contentious issues will all blow over first.

369 words written in response to Weekly Scribblings #56: Hit Me With Your Best Shot, at Poets and Storytellers United.

(And no, the friend concerned never reads my blog.)

NaHaiWriMo 2021, Days 1-7

NaHaiWriMo 2021 Days 1-7

(Responding to prompts at the NaHaiWriMo facebook group)

Day 1: Monday morning

days’ edges blur

in the time of COVID – 

is this Monday?

Day 2: Dreams

my dreams

keep waking me –

what’s real?

Day 3: Landslide

behind my lids

houses collapse and fold

over and over

Earlier version:

behind my eyes

houses concertina 

repeatedly

Day 4: I’m so afraid

darkened sky

cancelling daylight –

storm or fire?

Day 5: Songbird

solitary –

a magpie warbling

at dawn

Earlier version:

one distant song –
a magpie warbling
alone at dawn

Day 6: The chain

her old gate –

the rusty chain

dangling

Day 7: Tusk

his tool and weapon 

his own greatest danger –

his ivory tusks

Dear readers, I'm open to suggestions for improving these; also would appreciate opinions on alternative versions where applicable.

Rebelling

Rebelling

 
At 17 I escaped, cast off her strictures 

(imposed by secret signs across rooms: to fix my hair, how to sit, when to stay silent …)

along with the gloves, hats, stockings

the fear, the conformity.

I learned to cross my legs at the knee. I learned to laugh loud.

She shuddered, calling it 'coarse'.

I was glad she was dark. I was fair, resembling Dad’s side.

Until one day someone said, 'You look so like your mother!' Then the mirror said so too.

I dreaded her forties-housewife life; kept my career long after marriage and kids.

(Forgetting her secretarial job when I was a teen – at a time when married women simply didn’t. Dad, afraid of being thought unable to provide, reluctantly agreed: better than her boredom, depression. A valued Office Manager, she finally retired in her seventies, when her path was no longer brave or unusual.)

I deplored her conservative taste in clothes, furniture, politics and art.

When I was newly adult, unhappy, her house was my haven, a place to self-indulge. I knew: wherever she was, was my home. I could just arrive.

Fearful, even phobic, she never learned to swim or drive a car.

I learned both.  A timid swimmer, I hate waves, hate getting my face underwater. I swim in still pools or rivers, from the neck down. A scared driver, I stick to places I know. Otherwise I do much silent praying.

Once socially active, in age she preferred the phone, or for friends to visit her. She shocked me by watching Days of Our Lives; even explaining it to me. (If I was visiting, I had to sit through it too.) She borrowed a bundle of romance novels from the library every week. 'How could she?' I thought. 'A supposedly intelligent woman.'

Now in this pandemic, old and widowed, I stay home alone watching Netflix, or reading romance novels on my Kindle.

She lived to be two years older than I am now. Travelling hastily to her bedside, I was with her on Christmas Eve, as she died.

My Christmas letter, finally telling her all the reasons I was glad and grateful for her, arrived after me, three days later.

 

************

369 words for Weekly Scribbings #55: "What You Resist, You Become" at Poets and Storytellers United.

If I knew then what I know now …

 If I knew then what I know now …

I’d take better care of my body,

so it would take care of me now that I’m old.

I would never start smoking, never eat sweets;

I’d exercise daily and strenuously.

I’d get enough sleep, the full eight hours:

going to bed before 10 every night, I promise.

Or would I? Because really, I did know. 

We all really know the simple rules of health.

But we think we can cheat –

only a tiny bit, just for now.

We don’t understand we’re building habits.

Bad habits. Lifelong habits.

The sweeties tasted so good 

on the tongue and in the mouth.

And the cigarettes stopped me

from putting on weight.

(Too bad about other effects! I quit

in time to miss cancer; not emphysema.)

Least possible exercise, intermittent,

can soon slide into almost none. And 

anyway, it’s much too early for bed. 

There are poems to write. There’s Netflix.

There are friends to visit on facebook.

And I must get a late-night snack….

The title is Magaly's prompt for Weekly Scribblings #54 at Poets and Storytellers United.

Beautiful Words (found haiku)

Beautiful Words 

(found haiku)

searching for fireflies

the first dream of the new year –

the moon freezes

plants are sprouting

under last year’s dried grass

or under snow

clouds 

predict good fortune –

green shadows

sunlight filtering

through green leaves –

buried fire

Found haiku written in response to Weekly Scribblings #53: Beautiful Words at Poets and Storytellers United – using, rearranging, recombining, and occasionally slightly altering (by additions or omissions) the phrases in Rommy's prompt:

For this week’s prompt, I’ve selected a few poetic names from Bruce Hamana Sosei’s book, 100 Beautiful Words in The Way of Tea. Pick the English version of one (or more if the mood hits you) to shape your words around.

Zuiun – clouds that predict good fortune

Shitamoe – plants sprouting under last year’s dried grass or under the snow

Hatsuyume – the first dream of the new year

Uzumibi – buried fire

Ryokuin – green shadows (sunlight filtering through green leaves)

Hotaru-gari – go searching for fireflies

Tsuki-koru – the moon freezes

'Every morning, so far, I’m alive.'

'Every morning, so far, I’m alive.'

I have reached a plateau on my journey

where I stop awhile and look around,

admiring the long view of the landscapes

I travelled on the way, spread for my gaze.

I can pick out houses where I lived, in

towns or cities or rural retreats; I can see

favourite mountains, rivers, trees … and

certain ocean vistas I thought of as mine.

The unfolding past is populated. I walk

again with old companions, conversing,

sharing adventures; laughing with many,

crying for some. Plenty are still here now.

One person’s life. No-one else can know it

quite the same. In another way, everyone 

shares it all – the same drives and necessities,

the ups and the downs, the wild unexpected.

I like the paths my steps have taken, 

by and large – having survived the mis-steps 

and false directions. Every morning, so far,

I’m alive. I rise, go on, explore further.

Note: The title is a direct quotation from Mary Oliver's poem, 'Landscape'.

This piece was written for Weekly Scribblings #52 at Poets and Storytellers United: Something About Mary, where the prompt is to write something based on a line or phrase from that particular poem.