When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes (Sonnet 29) William Shakespeare, 1564 – 1616
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He closes the door, the walk isn’t too far, he wants a cigarette, a fix in the morning a bite in the afternoon, a few cans in the middle, and by four he will be out of it again, outside the world. She will pass by him and shrug, he is on a bench outside the church, lifting her eyes to heaven, she remarks
, did you see the like of that, alcohol drenched sloshed in front of your church, no respect she mutters beneath her breath. He eyes her as she passes; would she ever throw a few coins, has she any heart at all. She can hear his thoughts, his eyes stab her like daggers, in the back. All he does is drink it, she ignores him and walks on.
Mrs O’Neill says the cashier, she is inside the women’s fashion shop, everywhere, it’s spotless and shiny, she is there to try the new dress, there is a wedding coming up. It’s awful what you see on the street these days remarks Mrs O’Neill, referring to the drunk slumped over the bench down by the church. The attendant ignores the remark. A half hour later, Larry is slouched completely, lying motionless on the pavement now. In sleep land, he does not notice Mrs O’Neill as she passes; the smell of alcohol and that other smell, have they no respect she says.
Solomon heard two women in conversation, the sight of alcohol soaked bodies hanging around the sanctuary is too much for them, they have to speak up. What the children are exposed to one of them says. Solomon smiled, God works in wondrous ways, giving us tips, and angels come in all sorts of guises, many times just warning us all, of the outside worlds.
Originally posted on Savvy Raj: In continuation to my earlier post on Holistic education. I came across this poignant post and I heartfully share this wonderful initiative and reflections. ATTENTION ALL TEACHERS AND PARENTS Every Friday afternoon Chase’s teacher asks her students to take out a piece of paper and write down the names of…
“Maureen”, a song from Sade’s 1985 album, “Promise”. Helen Folasade Adu was born on 16 January 1959 in Ibadan, Oyo State, Nigeria. Her middle name, Folasade, means “honour confers a crown”. Her parents, Adebisi Adu, a Nigerian lecturer in economics of Yoruba background, and Anne Hayes, an English district nurse, met in London, married in […]
He packs, there is not much to fill the duffel with, he wonders if he should get on his knees. Under the bed. He hates it, being thankful, on his knees, it always reminds him. Older times. The procedures that fill the life, other people’s habits, ring a ring a rosie, he puts a hand on the bed side table, lowers his ageing frame, he recalls the time he left his bifocals behind him, he had never been able to replace them, one reason to search under the bed, he wears those throwaway glasses, not an exact fit for the eyes, but they will do. He manages to find a sock, and a lot of dust, do they ever clean the place he says as he wipes the dust trail from his sleeve, it’s a newly washed shirt, a passing out present, he’ll feel good wearing clean clothes, at least the dogs will stop sniffing him, three weeks in the wash out center for breaking a shop window, a habit he formed, if you are stuck in a foreign place, so his friend had said, you need a bed for the rest, cause a public disturbance, they have to take you in. He sits on the bed, his knees stiff, the effort. Only in his mind does he run, only when asleep does he feel normal, good dreams, it’s always the same one, the dream, a sanctuary, the Island as he calls it.
For three weeks he has eaten regularly, and the staff polite too, a double bonus. He wonders what it cost to stay there permanently, what a thought, he catches an image of himself, they even allow mirrors, do they encourage suicides, well, that’s what the cynics say and the scare heads, mere dogs, all they want is a chase, a conclusion, and they start over again. He edges down the bed, he wants a good look at himself, before he returns to the dark scruff he usually resembles. Mary is in the corridor, one of the cleaners, her voice creates a smile, that woman sings, she ought to be a professional he imagines, he would if he was her age, she is hardly forty. An ensuite bathroom, being able to wash every morning, he began to miss it already. His toiletries are still to be put away, he turns the tap, the sound of water, it makes you piss they say, the noise of water, when you are out in the open with nowhere to go, it’s a little different. To be able to sit on a clean toilet bowel, not worry about who last sat there, were they clean, did they think about anything, the days seated on the toilet bowl, a dream for some, a nightmare for the rest of us. The stories they fill the airways with, an insect climbs the bowl while your sitting there, the little malaria bug, in search of another body of fresh blood, hopefully the malaria bug is afraid of marijuana, can’t coordinate..
He wants to leave the place with a reputation for clean, he would return some day, perhaps. So his mother would say, if you’re clean you are welcome.
There is a knock at the door, startled; he drops his tooth brush on the floor. A minute he says, the door opens. He exits the bathroom, the supervisor of the dry tank, and a woman with a writing pad in her arms, stands before him. Michael, you are going home today she says in a warm cheery voice. He’s heard the speech a few times, patience has taught him to hold his whist, listen smile, be attentative, they all love that, thinking they are being listened to, over the years the advice worked. It’s amazing how people listen sometimes. They are half listening to a conversation going on before them, a woman enters the room, suddenly their sense of smell is activated, the hair, would I look good in that, is she too old for that, will I meet the new secretary for a drink, how do I get her to trust me, what stimulus can I use, you were saying Matron. Back in the now, the speech is near the end, he is waiting for the envelope and the emergency cash, good for a nights boozing. Alcohol though is not on his mind, probably on theirs, cynical.
Is this the walk of death, the feeling of going somewhere but not knowing where to at the say time, is this the meaning of an emuete, as the French would say. After you have seen too much, do you pick up the gun or pills. He is on the way to the communal dining room, a cup of tea and a slice of cake, he has been through the routine, they are part family he supposes, his old life a blur most of the times. He doesn’t want them to figure out why he loves breaking windows; the doctor even gave him a name, a pet name, Mr Glass he loves to hear things smash. Don’t hurry, what have you to do, he labours over the tea, charting the next two hours; a visit to the library would give him time to read the notices, he is searching for a message. It will appear in print, so the angel told him years before, you will go on a sage that will never end, and when you get to your destination, you will begin the process again, with all that you learned. How could he tell them of his quest, for the secret Island?
In the meantime, he needed a bed for the night to come, before it began again. It wasn’t raining. He had met many searchers on the trail, maybe this was the meaning of all those walks and pilgrimages, the process of continuous searching, flowing Spirits. One day you walk up truly enlightened, in the meantime, you are a desserted Island. Another cup of tea and he would be chasing the facilities elsewhere, the practicalities of the pilgrim he sighed, getting to his feet, ready for the quest to continue, amen.
Poetry – God too – an antitheist’s view God Too I’m the power in your sun The atom and the wind Giving light its speed Its colour And its spin Arising out of nothing To make your sunset glow Organising your bodies To your neurone flow I give life its mystery Creating all the laws […]