I sort of started this whirl in the morning over a nice cup of tea and it went nowhere. But then got on with my day of errands and running around and by the time I got back to it, it was late afternoon and Chloe said, “mom, it’d be nice to have a fire tonight.” and then that was that, the whirl became all about the fire.

How does that happen? Thank you to Brenda for the manageable words this week.

habits, create, however, virtue, regard, gap,
cycle, undoing, lessen, choice, gathering, suffering

You regard the virtue inside the cardboard rectangle that fits in so nicely in your hand.
Smooth edges turning between your fingertips, sandpaper rough against the soft parts of your palm, inside holding torches, slides in and out and in and out, its one function: to light your fire

Lessen the load by one wooden stick. That familiar cycle, strike and spark, ignite, flicker, flame, burn.

Smell of sulphur, of smoke, of late nights in a cabin full of candle shine, gathering twigs and pine cones that sizzle and pop.

Of nights in the ashtray of a hotel bar. Of stick after stick, smoke after smoke blending in the hazy grey.

Of habits in pockets, creates excuses for names and numbers, lives in the junk drawer in your house, measures your choice and suffering, lets you know where you’ve been, where you might go again.

A carbon copy waiting inside the chamber holding fire, sliding in and out and in and out, now it appears in your hand to strike, split-second gap, then ignite and burn, sizzle, pop, hiss, choke, sulphur smoke.

Do it again

However, that is your undoing.

Not that Chloe and I don’t have enough Starbucks around here, we drove the seven minutes away to our old hood to hang out at the Sbux up there to have the very same Earl Gray tea I can make here at home for the price of a tea bag, which is much less than the $2 Sbux price. What’s that all about? And then we watched the lovely people stop by to get their own drinks for 17 times the price of the home brewed.

I was reading the Sunday whirl words and thinking that we’ve all got an addiction to coffee shops, to coffee, a psychosis, and so I let the whirl spiral right down into the dark roasted bitterness of it all.

buckle, gain, miss, instant, navigate, grace
visions, humming, drill, dignity, years, stride

Coffee is really a dominant force in her life right now. It has been for years. It’s a sad thing, but there it is. She takes it in her stride… it’s a city thing.

She likes to stop for coffee on her way, pay her money and hand over a crisp, white Styrofoam cup. She likes the way it looks. The boy behind the coffee bar looks up and smiles; he knows the drill.

Sometimes she has a latte, sometimes an Americano, she never misses a day. She thinks about that time, thousands of years from now, when she and this country will be known for the things left for future generations: Styrofoam cups, plastic bottles; things which may buckle with age but not decay. She is holding in her hand molecules which will outlive her body. Thousands of years of existence for an afternoon coffee finished in ten minutes…in an instant.

No, it can never be instant. That was left behind a long time ago along with her memories of her mother, fat and nervous. How her hands shook as she pulled the wet linens out of the washing machine.
She snapped the sheet open, folded it and put it in the laundry basket, wet, folded, but wet.
Washer woman, lacking grace or dignity, navigating children and chickens, humming her way down the clothesline in the yard.

She blinks away the frown. She smiles at the Styrofoam cups covering every square foot of her living room, each an organic reminder of the day before. She looks at the clean white order of her days.
Someday urban archaeologists will excavate her home and find a large cache of these things, lovingly organised and ready for study. Oh what a gain for science, how glorious that will be.

She picks up the magic marker and writes 09,10,2013 (thought of mom)
She walks over to the window ledge positioning it carefully next to 09,09,2013 (bought new cups)

Lovely Sunday Whirl words.

When I read them, I got a glimpse of falling stars and so went with the feeling.

A little fantasy/nonsense/whimsy then.

chance, nest, secret, clever, swept, ripe,
blinked, stars, basket, flesh, saw, hand

We grab blankets to steel ourselves against the icy bite of the night air.
We tiptoe across the lawn to sit on the swinging chair under the trees as stars fall down like ripe plums around us.
We pluck them from their grassy nest to cart them home when we have found our fill.

I lay them out across my open hand to feel their weight before I place each one in our basket, then bend to gently sweep another free; for pull too hard and break their backs.
I hold each of the stars up in the glare of the moon hoping she’ll tell me which one holds a secret, or at least a clever clue, in the chance hint of moon beams, the magical, deceitful light.

You fear the ancient superstitions.
You say we shouldn’t let fallen stars see the moon or they will forever long to join her floating far above, forever calling, forever whispering her name in your ear.
You don’t realise that lying there in my hand they can’t call the moon, only feel her aching pull.

Each time I hold a star in my hand I long to see its light, feel its weight, let it warm my flesh.
But you are right. Each star that saw the moon blinked forever out of reach.
And the moon is distant, smiling, lost in her own perfect world, impervious to our anguish, calling us to where she knows we can never go.

My hands are cold. Cherry burning, huckleberry bright and cold.