She patted my left shoulder, i wandered why, then my right, followed by both my hips.
Apparently i had ghosts tethered to me, ghosts from the land that i live on. Spirits caught in limbo, well if my major anatomical joints could be conferred such a description. So naturally, she removed them for me, as we continued to dine and be merry. She was a witch doctor of 20 years experience, myself a serendipitous guest unknowingly haunted.
'Three females and two males' she elaborates, 'the female ones have been preventing you from forming meaningful relationships in recent years.'
Why of course! Makes sense now...
The eyes of my translating friend widened in sincere astonishment. 'What?' I ask, 'more than 5?' No. Don't be afraid she reassures me, which curiously had the opposite effect.
'What? Do tell.'
'They are coming. All 468 of them.'
'Eh? Who?'
'Your ancestors, they will soon arrive here and rid you of these ghosts'
'This is a good thing right?'
'Of course'
Home now, feeling lighter. Or is it heavier?
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
7 minutes.
"Hey there!"
"What?"
"Nothing, just wanted to get a response from you"
He turned the corner. The pavement was littered with concrete wrinkles characteristic of an urban landscape engineered on the ad hoc whim of town planners playing catchup to an unrelenting gentrification of an old ghetto, now forcibly hip, and ostentatious. Except for the pavement, a quiet bastion of honesty.
She threw her right shoulder against the rough inertia of the brick wall. A smile unfolded. The cheek, the audacity, the nerve. Ipod vibrates in left trouser pocket with a brevity suggestive of an SMS - her ex. Focusing on the space that delineated an absence of him she settles on taking in the ill-defined space that punctuated this ill-defined moment that will pass like many before, with a exaggerated mindfulness disproportionate to it's significance.
He walks on. Tomorrow they'll meet again, for more of it. For now, artichoke soup awaits. Cold hands find their way into warm jacket pockets.
9 minutes transpire.
"What?"
"Nothing, just wanted to get a response from you"
He turned the corner. The pavement was littered with concrete wrinkles characteristic of an urban landscape engineered on the ad hoc whim of town planners playing catchup to an unrelenting gentrification of an old ghetto, now forcibly hip, and ostentatious. Except for the pavement, a quiet bastion of honesty.
She threw her right shoulder against the rough inertia of the brick wall. A smile unfolded. The cheek, the audacity, the nerve. Ipod vibrates in left trouser pocket with a brevity suggestive of an SMS - her ex. Focusing on the space that delineated an absence of him she settles on taking in the ill-defined space that punctuated this ill-defined moment that will pass like many before, with a exaggerated mindfulness disproportionate to it's significance.
He walks on. Tomorrow they'll meet again, for more of it. For now, artichoke soup awaits. Cold hands find their way into warm jacket pockets.
9 minutes transpire.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)