the angels keep singing

the angels sing through the walls. consumers cover ears with blankets and headphones their eyes with slides or neon blue light projecting liquid crystal their minds with lunch and regret and themselves. maybe a little too early for trivia card games divine intervention. blankets work for three of five soft snoring, one quiet shaking leg over another. invisible ticking someone’s watch a little louder than sleep than breathing. the angels keep singing next door.

punchlines

and this will all become a story people ask about like a holiday or breakup as though it wasn't everything  a whole world for a moment in time that had no end until it did. I hear it all reduced to punchlines in my own voice and maybe surely because it is easier this way we can laugh about the ward the rules the characters the funny things they said. yes. so much better to laugh than think about what was and what wasn't the shapes and shadows of that world I never asked for til I dreaded leaving like a death. we are all a lot better at laughing thinking only takes us places we are better off without.

outside

outside is vast is loud is breeze on my face a return to expectation and beyond any control. variables dwarf the odds with eyes closed. I do my best to write myself into believing. 

in the fridge

a new consumer fills the empty chair at lunch directly from another ward. she knows the rules her bolus of choice she's seen this all before. her first night is my last is just another in the unit. twenty one sleeps in my room I feel as frightened and unsure as I had on my first night. white sheets beige walls alone I feared surrender to the goals and expectations of the program the doctors the losing all control. tonight I fear returning back to where I was to choice to filling the dishes pantry space and time to mirrors to myself. outside I am seen with no say no excuse no soft plastic veil of protection security bolus in the fridge. on the precipice of freedom I stop to turn to catch my shadow. kneeling falling weeping for my captor beg for certainty for locks for answers maybe just more time. the thoughts grow inside out into tomorrow. I wash my face and pray and maybe find my feet in dreams.

behind the paper

ward rounds on Tuesday morning. we talk about discharge maybe Friday afternoon in time for the weekend a cool change my bone density scan. they say I’ve done well and ask how I feel about going home. it’s a funny question in that I don’t know how I'm meant to answer. the truth might make them wonder if I’m ready. to tell the truth may buy more time here prolong my freedom from the rules and expectations of the ward. what was scary at the start now seems so much less than what brought me here. out there I stand on my own and fill the fridge myself. out there expectation reigns excuses do little. out there appearance matters the narrative matters we laugh and look at ourselves in the reflections of each other’s eyes and every uncovered mirror. in here I sleep and wake to eat and do the same. I sit and listen to the other people and their stories with no real need to think about my own. there is no real need to think about anything. I am here to be fixed. how do I feel about going home? the truth hides behind the paper on the mirrors in my room the parasite’s new face the scream I don’t want to be seen. is this some kind of Stockholm syndrome? how can I be ready for myself again?

breakfast in another room

we take breakfast in another room away from all the noise. the nurses are concerned about the impact of the unpredictable ambience on our will to do our job and eat. barricade opens we follow the trolley past the nurse’s station down the hall into an office on the left a few doors down. a board room table cushioned black faux leather chairs projector screen and whiteboards. our places at the table are chosen by the nurses. they lay our trays at particular positions, removing each instrument vessel item of food napkin juice box to place before each consumer. trays returned to the trolley timer rightly assuming head of the table. toaster sitting nervous on a chair by the wall. we all seem a little thrown. a new room a closed door the unfamiliar lack of noise. plastic packet sounds and knives in single portion spreads much heavier in silence.

sitting across the table from a nurse we haven’t seen in a while I ask about her week. she has been well and even better now her daughter is on her way home escaping airport closures bombs escalating tensions on a flight out of Dubai. a little relief but still waiting for her son to do the same. I look down at my food my problems my self embarrassed by how I am despite what I know. what would the children in the rubble in the flames hiding under headlines think? I watch the nurse smiling as she waits for us to eat, not knowing when if how her son will come back home. I drink from a straw and remember a world outside much bigger than the ward myself any of our problems. 

birds

birds bathing in gutters on the roof. birds sitting on the table looking closer at my breakfast. birds fed by another consumer with his breakfast from the bench. birds coming and going enjoying their wings. birds breathing like me but a little more free.

on our phones

we visit the courtyard on our way to bed. the forecast says the moon is due to glow blood red and disappear into our shadow. looking up for the eclipse we see little beyond unwanted light between the walls of other wards. nothing worth a wish or staying outside any longer. we can't have the moon tonight. at least we can still watch it on our phones. 

whatever I think of the drink

fresh air today and rain. they say I can leave for an hour. I walk up over the hill across the road into a cafe recommended by the nurses. between new movement and colour I sit inside and I am just another patron, free to order coffee, sit and laugh a while. the coffee is too strong or my taste is too weak but this is much more about the play and the props than whatever I think of the drink. soon they'll have me back onstage to do this every day. I wasn't ready to stop when I surrendered. will I be ready to start when they call me back again?

tomorrow et al.

letting go to be where I am. I write to myself on the last day of summer. there are dreams I can't remember and mistakes I drag into every day like shadows. they monitor my vitals and all is well for now. as I'm told I do my best to listen to their voices more so than my own, to see that this is where I need to be, that whatever else can wait and doesn't matter quite as much. I read the news and think about the world beyond the ward and what it means to be where I am and letting go to do so. and so we sleep and dream through bombs birthday cakes massacres mardi gras white cliffs waiting rooms another string another season until tomorrow et al.

red voices

read away red voices

listen to tick of

starlight

tissue for consumer shakes

slipping blankets and

vitals

waiting in purple

think of other sounds and places

colours

outside soon

incidental

I dream of days beyond myself and love and clothes that never fit. cures and curses all return to dust. I am the spear and I am the scar and I am incidental.

seeing myself

someone else takes the reigns to lead me through another puzzle in the bardo. I follow their tracks as best I can: reaching in the dark, trying to hide healthily. they cover my mirrors with paper and tape. I wash my face and think about drawing a smile.

the sunrise and my innocence

when I was where I was

I was who I am without knowing

the not knowing was peaceful and quiet

like the house before I left for school in the last couple of years

sixteen and seventeen

catching the bus before anyone else's alarm

in winter some mornings were dark

I would first see the sun through the bus window

I would listen to music and close my eyes and the sun

would kiss me softly through the glass

my cheek was warm

and I could be where I was

closed in myself beside strangers forever

between here and there

not needing or knowing any better

or wanting more than the bus to keep going

to stay in the sunrise and my innocence for good.

my science fiction

the illusion falters and we find that we were never in control. so many silly choices between desire and laundry - plenty more to fuel my science fiction. the crowds follow tramlines and the clouds roll thick and heavy. I watch my dreams on the horizon fall yet a little further out of reach. maybe they’ll come back tomorrow. maybe I’ll be ready then.

another sentence

I remember something more than now: waking up to lightness and feeling less unwilling. hope. a new day was a chance before it was a sentence. maybe it can be that way again.

another bridge

let the phone ring out. I am trying to remember how to build words for thoughts to land on. they all pass like water now. maybe all we need is another bridge to fall to make a dam.

unfinished in the library

my brain is not my friend again. we’re both fed up with one another, close encounters in such close quarters for too long. I leave thoughts unfinished in the library to lie under a tree.

when I close my eyes I could be sleeping. when I sleep I’m only fractured dreams from waking up.

no standing sign

the supermarket swarms a little after dinner time. I tie my bike to the pole with the no standing sign. pigeons mind their own business on the sidewalk, a couple dozen or maybe more. someone thought to leave them a bowl of water, though they don't seem to care. I watch them peck the ground and under their wings. I wonder what I'd do in their place. they take to the sky and I take out my phone. 

rolling over

I stop and hold the boulder for the other ones to pass. sidestepping or rolling over? out of sight and focus either way. I let the other cyclists overtake, watch them speed through amber lights into the setting sun.

you call a little later from a room on the street I used to live. something else to miss and help commiserate my choices. I take you to the creek and let the stream surround your voice. time is water only ever passing out of reach. 

echoes

tides take time but everything returns. the cat comes back to bed. my thoughts come back to you. are we only ever always on our way home? waves with dreams torn from seas now rolling back to sleep. can we hope for more than echoes? I can’t hear much more right now.

coughing

clocks keep coughing up days and demands I can’t meet. clouds cry and I need to wake up.

tea and doubt and fear

we wait for my brain to start working again. patience wanes a little more with every thought. I move slowly between tasks and expectations, slipping back into a childhood haunt to hide behind. outside the clouds keep moving with the headlines I don’t read. time spoils in cups of tea and doubt and fear. I think about regret and lose another day in limbo. I brush my teeth and hope for dreams of being someone else.

compost

I watch my taxes explode into the sky

different colours

golden rain that sings

beautiful and brighter than the stars

the people cheer for time’s passage out of every open window

holding hands

crying for more

I decompose slowly

and take a photo with my phone.