Frank Lloyd Wright
          The truth is more important than the facts.



William Shakespeare
      Love all, trust a few.



Aristotle
                              The gods too are fond of a joke.



George Bernard Shaw    
It is dangerous to be sincere unless you are also stupid.



Francis David
                   We need not think alike to love alike.



Doris Day                          
Middle age is youth without levity, and age without decay.



Oscar Wilde
                     True friends stab you in the front.



Francis Bacon
                 A prudent question is one half of wisdom.



John Junor
                      An ounce of emotion is equal to a ton of facts.



Voltaire
                            A witty saying proves nothing.



Edwin Land
                    Creativity is the sudden cessation of stupidity.

The air was cold and Thackery could see his breath in front of him as he walked along the pier to the Studio. It was a still night and his Italian shoes echoed above the sound of the lapping water against the wharf. He hugged himself against the cold and smiled. He loved this time of morning. The glow of the dawn and the shimmer of the Bridge lights beginning to fade at the sight of the sun. He came to the Studio every Wednesday to have breakfast with his father. He loved the way he could leave the harbour and the cold rising from the water and walk into the warm Studio. He was looking forward to cooking their breakfast and looking at his father’s progress with the Electric Chair Illusion. He’d been working on it for almost eighteen months. The finer details are the hardest part – making it look and seem as authentic and as terrifying as the real thing.

Thackery was nearing the end of the wharf where the secret entrance to the studio was. There was no way that just anyone could gain entrance to the studio. Kwan had made sure of that. There’s no way anyone will steal our secrets Kwan had said. A train passed across the Bridge as Thackery seemingly walked through the wall of the wharf warehouse. He hoped someone on the early morning train had seen him do it. He laughed imagining someone giving an interview on ‘unsolved mysteries’ He wondered how they would do the re-enactment and if they’d approach him for some technical expertise. As he entered he shivered and realised something wasn’t right. The heat was off and there was no music to herald his arrival through the secret portal.

He searched in the darkness along the wall for the switch and stumbled over something lying on the floor. He cursed and hoped he hadn’t broken anything. The automatic lights ought to have come on when he entered. He cursed again as he caught a splinter while his hand searched for the switch in the blackness. How stupid and unobservant could he be? Why hadn’t he ever bothered to look and see exactly where the switch was. He was always observant. He was trained to be and Kwan had seen to it that he had incredible memory and powers of observation. At last his fingers found the switch and as he turned the old fashioned switch on the click seemed to thunder through the silence but there was still no light.

Damn. What’s going on he thought. He was about to call out to his father when the thought occurred to him that this might be one of those tests that Kwan had put his father up to. He smiled at the thought and with a wave his outstretched palm burst into flame. The studio looked eerie in the torch light and he quickly scanned the studio. Shadows loomed and flickered as his eyes came to rest on the body of his father swinging on the end of a rope. Thackery jumped and then laughed. They’d used the hanging man illusion for years and it had never made him jump until now.

He laughed again. God he loved his father. He admired the detail in his work – and his jokes. He extinguished the flame in his hand and said great one dad. I’ll let you down you must be freezing up there. He crossed the room now beginning to be dimly lit by the aging dawn and switched the theatre lights on. His father was now spot lit and swaying slightly. I was supposed to find this light first I suppose.


Thackery edged around the electric chair set and released the brake on the rope that was holding his father in the air. He knew only too well how to operate the ropes in a fly gallery. The whole studio was as well equipped as a theatre. He marveled at his father’s detail – there was even a fake mist in the air surrounding him. It looked magnificent as his father slowly descended.
– ok you’re about six centimeters from the ground
Suddenly he was frightened. How did his father get up there? Then with a shake of the head he realised Kwan was a part of the trickery. He lowered his father to the last few centimeters but instead of standing his father collapsed like a marionette. Thackery bounded across the room floor and picked up his father. He wasn’t wearing the harness. He was dead.

Redemption. Max’s POV

–So where are you going tonight?
–Down to the club, said Max
–You gonna eat there?
–Yeah...
–Why don’t you take her to a proper restaurant?
–It is a proper restaurant the food’s really good.
–Pig’s arse it is.
–You can get have that as well if you want it. Hazza playfully clipped Max’s head with his big hand.
–I mean somewhere without the sound of pokies in the background and where you wear a suit ya mongrel. You can afford it you stingy bugger, and touched his boot to the toe of Max’s boot.
–And there won’t be all those layabouts cracking jokes about being a garbo either will there, embarrassing you in front of the beautiful Marion.
Max looked at the ground and took a long drag on his cigarette. After all these twenty odd years of working on garbage trucks he was still sensitive to anyone making a comment about it. Worse of all it had happened in front of his new girlfriend Marion.

 He flashed back to last Friday night when he’d walked into the club with her on his arm. She was a beautiful thirty-five year old woman, a little shorter than him and just the right size as far as he was concerned and her lips felt like petals when he kissed her. He loved her long straight black hair and whenever he saw her, his heart skipped a beat. Yep, this is love he thought to himself whenever he saw her. They’d walked into the bar and Tom Clancy’s son Carl made some loud off hand joke about garbage and flies.  

Max ground his cigarette out and looked at Hazza

–That Carl, he says, what’s got blond hair and flies? Loud enough for Marion to hear.
–Water off a duck’s back Max.
–Yeah but he meant me and it’s because I was with Marion.
Hazza sighed.
–You’ve been around too long to let it get to you Max. Let’s leave a little message in his bin when we get to his street next Wednesday. Max’s eyes crinkled in laughter.
–That’d be stooping to his level Hazza and you know a garbo is a pillar of society, and they both laughed.
– Bastard made me feel like shit.
– Hello, here’s the new lad. Now don’t go telling him he’s got the job cos Jock sliced his hand open lifting those bloody new plastic bags.
Max shot a glance at him and was about to speak when the new crewmember walked over to them. Max smiled and extended his hand.
– G’day. I’m Max. This is Hazza and they shook hands.
–I’m Michael he said and shook Hazza’s hand as well. Hazza’s short for Harold is it?
– No mate. Hazard, and his lips curled into a small smile and they all grinned.
Hazza climbed into the truck. He was the driver and that’s why he had a belly. Max led the way around to the passenger side and Michael followed.
–Up ya go Mick. You’re piggy in the middle mate. He climbed in and Max jumped in beside him and Hazza started the engine.
–Done this work before?
Michael shook his head.
–You’ll get fit Mick. Max’ll show you the ropes, and in an hour you’ll be out of those overalls. Michael nodded. 
–You’ll be sore tomorrow. Lucky for you it’s Friday, so you can come in and help wash the truck tomorrow morning and iron out a few kinks.
–Bit of extra money in it for you too.
Michael nodded.
The truck roared out of the Depot and headed up the road toward the hills.
Max leaned toward Michael’s ear.
–This is the hardest part of the route, but it’ll be over in a few hours and the rest of the days a lot easier. Lovely streets though, and he winked. Although this was the hardest part of the week’s route, Max loved these streets cos the lawns ran straight down to the kerbing and the garden’s were always well tended and brimming with flowers. Maybe I’ll buy Marion a single red rose tonight, and take her to a restaurant just like Hazza said, he thought as he gazed out of the window.
Hazza started to whistle … ‘since my baby left me, I found a new place to dwell.’  He turned a corner and stopped the truck and Max jumped down. Hazza, still whistling raised his eyebrows and looked at Michael and then winked.
–The name of the game is to be safe Mick. Just do what Max says and you’ll be ok. Ok?
Michael nodded and jumped out of the truck. Max was waiting for him.
–This is my side of the street Mick. You take other side, ok?
– Yeah
– Keep pace with the truck ok?
–Yeah
–Ok Mick, let’s go, and he walked over to the other side of the road and picked up a garbage bin. Michael picked up his first garbage bin and lifted it to his shoulder and walked to the truck. Max was poised on the runner board waiting for him.
–This is what you do. And he dropped the bin from his shoulder and in one movement emptied it with a swinging motion that sent the garbage sliding into the cavern of the truck. Michael did the same while he watched.
 He’s gonna be alright this young fella, he thought, and smiled at Michael.

– Same again Mick, and they both jumped off the truck running to the next bin.
They worked their way up the street running between each garbage bin and then running and jumping onto the runner board and emptying it in one smooth movement and then running to the next one. Occasionally as they crossed an intersection they would stay on the runner boards and the breeze cooled them down – It was getting hot and it wasn’t even 8 o’clock yet.
After they’d covered four or five streets the cavern of the truck was getting full and the smell was rising, a sweet musty sort of aroma that had a tinge of damp and rot in it. Michael leaned away from the smell wondering if he’d ever get used to it. Max watched him from across the mound of garbage.
–We’ll be stopping in a minute Mick and Hazza will compress this stuff.
 Hazza stopped the truck and got out and came around to Michael’s side and Max joined them, he’d already stripped down to his shorts and a yellow tee-shirt with ‘The Bees Knees’ written on the back of it. It was the name of the local netball team that he coached. That was where he’d met Marion, when she’d brought her daughter along to join the team.
Hazza could see Michael was sweating as he started the compressor. The truck growled as it pushed and pressed the garbage into the back of the cavern.
– You’ve got time to get out of those overalls now Mick, said Hazza

 Michael climbed out of his heavy overalls, opened the side door of the truck and laid them, folded, on the compartment floor and then sat down in the gutter and retied his boots. For sure he’d be wearing running shoes on Monday.
– How’s he doing?
–Good, said Max.
–Is he tired yet?
–Not yet. He grinned. He’s gonna be sore tomorrow after lifting those boots all day though. Hazza looked into the cavern of the truck as the hydraulics squashed the garbage into the back of it.
–I’m gonna take Marion to a restaurant tonight just like you said Hazza.
–That’s the ticket Max. You look good in a suit mate, and he turned off the compressor.
 
– You’re doing well Mick, he said as he passed him.
– Hop on the runner mate we’re moving to another street.
Michael nodded and stood up and mounted the runner as Hazza got behind the wheel.
–Stay safe ok, he yelled to them both, and the truck roared into action again and they headed down the street and turned a corner.
Yeah thought Max, a real restaurant, without any bloody idiots to make jokes and embarrass me in front of Marion.
 As they turned the corner some of the garbage from the compressed pile slid down towards them. Max looked over at Michael.
  – Mick? He yelled over the noise of the truck. See this? He held up a parcel of rubbish wrapped in newspaper.
Michael nodded.
– This is garbage Mick. You’re not. Remember that mate, and he threw the parcel hard to the back of the truck and it broke into pieces.
 He looked back at Michael, grinned and winked at him.
–Payday today Mick. We’ll have a beer when we’re finished tonight, and still smiling he jumped off the runner.

This is a work in progress and a first draft of a fiction story I'm working on. Any feedback is appreciated :–)



Ghost:
Murder most foul, as in the best it is;
But this most foul, strange and unnatural.
Hamlet: (1.5.27)

                                                                       ~ 0 ~

Sitting quietly in a dark corner Pyotr watched them walk into their cell opposite him, flanked by four guards. They were smiling. Tough guys with tattoos that indicated they had killed more than once. Dima Orlov and Yakov Losev where, according to the newspapers, savage murderers without a conscience.

 Fifteen days ago the city was shocked to hear of a poor old man who was wheeling his bicycle through a Moscow underpass when Orlov and Losev attacked him for no apparent reason and stabbed him five times in the chest after almost punching and kicking him to death.

                                                                       ~ 0 ~

Dima leaned against the door of a shop in the underpass almost too drunk to stand. It was nearly four o’clock and the night had already descended, but down in the underground it was almost warm, and for the most part dry, although the people hurrying home had brought the snow down with them on their shoes and boots leaving a growing stretch of black water at each of the entrances. People walked carefully so as not to slip on the marble flooring that decorated most underpasses and passed the drunken pair without a glance. Better and safer not to see.

 Yakov lurched out of the shop pushing Dima aside and opened the bottle throwing the cap to the ground, and threw his head back and swallowed a large mouthful of the vodka. His eyes were bloodshot and his face had a bloated look. He was not a happy looking drunk. There was a menace and savagery etched on his face, and he was a big man with broad shoulders. He wore the obligatory black of a Muscovite. If you looked close, and no one wanted to, you could see he was wearing a security uniform under his padded jacket. Dima wore the same uniform, and sported the same padded jacket. The only real difference in them was their sizes. Dima was shorter and compact but built just as widely in the shoulders. One glance at them, told you they were mean and violent men and people avoided stepping too close to them as they hurried through the underpass.


Dima took the bottle from Yakov and looking at him with a slightly crazy smile lifted his chin and swallowed nearly a third of the bottle in one go.
–Are you ready to do it?
–I’m ready enough to kill you, you bastard and he laughed and slapped Yakov on the shoulder.
–We’ll be famous.
–And our families will be rich.
–To wealth and riches ... and our demise, and Yakov drank deeply as he steadied himself against the underpass wall. He passed the bottle to Dima.
–To our mothers. To our sisters and brothers and he drank and shoved the bottle toward Yakov as he stumbled and held a hand out to the wall to keep upright.
–To you Dima my friend. A Saviour. An iron man. Once more he drank and handed the last of the vodka back to Dima.
Dima grabbed Yakov’s jacket and twisted it in his hand trying to maintain his balance and took the vodka from him.
–We’re going to die you know that don’t you?
–We all die sometime Dima, and silent tears fell from his eyes
–You’re a Saviour too my friend, don’t forget that. God help us for what we are about to do.
He looked straight into Yakov’s eyes.
– Remember what we agreed. We are mad with vodka, and we must be seen to enjoy it. We must create our reputation. Everything counts on that. We must become animals.
– A wolf and a bear.
– To success, and Dima finished the last of the bottle and turned and threw it at the wall, and it smashed into pieces sounding like an echoing gunshot just as Yuri Vershinin, an old man with a bicycle came into the underpass, shivering and stamping the snow from his worn boots.


                                                                     ~ 0 ~


       The Vorovskoy mir, the Thieves world, dated back to the time of the revolution when, for a time lawlessness ruled.  Under the Soviet regime, and with the help of the KGB, the Thieves world, the criminal underworld, was almost destroyed. Out of the Stalin era and the gulags grew another force that was never to be stamped out, the vor v zakone, the thieves-in-law. If Stalin couldn’t stamp them out, then what could an ordinary citizen do against such a power? Nothing. Nothing could be done.

 Pyotr could see by the tattoos that Dima and Yakov were vor v zakone. He saw the skulls on their shoulders indicating they had killed. He saw it, and he shivered in his dark corner. The winter seeped through the damp walls and into his bones. He wanted to sleep but the cell was so crowded that they took shifts using the beds and he wouldn’t get a bunk for another four hours yet. He stretched his legs out careful not to bump the man in front of him. He bowed his head and ran his hand over what used to be his greying hair, but his eyes watched the guards as they turned and left the new arrivals in their cell. His lids closed and he contemplated the new arrivals. He’d already heard of how they killed a poor old man and slashed his face open so his lips were parted to leave a grimace that made a coroner pale but it was not just the cold that made him shiver. 

       The vor v zakone, ruled the prisons and labour camps. Outside of the prison walls the so called mafia was in charge. They were only common criminals that didn’t live by the vor v zakone code, and in truth they were nothing but opportunists – all tough men – but they were terrified of the day they may end up in prison where their real punishment would be meted out.

        Their list of rules is a well known secret. Uppermost on the list, besides forsaking family ties and not having a wife or children, there was the cardinal rule – make good on promises to other thieves. So far, Dima and Yakov had made good, but their real job was to be done now that they were inside the prison.

I keep forgetting. I keep forgetting what it’s like to be in rehearsal. I keep thinking that this is the way it ought to be. I keep forgetting that I’m happiest when I’m rehearsing. I’m not so happy when I’m performing. I’m engaged in something else when I’m performing.
Don’t get me wrong. I love performing. I love getting it right. I love recreating a moment, moment by moment as if it were the first time ... and it always is the first time  – that’s the secret to it. It’s easy to understand but not easy to implement.

Years ago I was in a rehearsal. I was at drama school and rehearsing a John Galsworthy play called ‘Strife.’ The director was to become one of my mentors and even though I haven’t seen or communicated with him for over what seems like twenty years I still talk with him. I have these conversations in my head with him. I suppose in an NLP way it’s something like second positioning ... walking in someone else’s shoes. The conversations are nothing to do with acting either, but they are to do with being – that’s the crux of acting whether it’s on stage, in front of a camera, or in the street.

I had a moment with him that I keep forgetting. I was playing the spiritual aspect (or character) of the play and was learning a lot. Not about acting but about myself. I can’t remember the character’s name ... oh ... it came to me ... it was Thomas. I was talking with the director one afternoon after a rehearsal. He was a good listener and that makes for a good director. He was listening to me searching for how to say what I was feeling about the rehearsal we had just finished. I was having difficulty finding the exact thing I was feeling. I like to be exact, especially in terms of my work. I searched and searched and all the time talking to him and he watched and listened to me. I knew he knew something that I needed to know but couldn’t articulate it. I didn’t think I could find the words to express my confusion and then I said it – I felt confused.

He smiled and said to me as he took my hand and stroked my arm because he could see I was in pain. The pain of the search, and he said to me – You’re exactly right. I had no idea what he meant and my confusion was even greater.
– The character’s confused. What your feeling is exactly right.
I felt a sudden release when he said it – I keep forgetting that.

This whole piece is quoted and not my own work.  I feel it would be of interest to poets and budding poets everywhere ... and especially those that inhabit Zaadz.

 At the end of the article is the link to see where the piece  came from. I feel it is something worth investigating ... and, I'll read further ... I hope you do also.

quote:
The Future Poetry

Sri Aurobindo, not only expressed his spiritual thought and vision in intricate metaphysical reasoning and in rich and subtly perceptive psychological terms, but also in profound and beautiful poetry. In Sri Aurobindo's theory of poetry, written under the title The Future Poetry, we can appreciate the importance he attached to art and culture for the significance it has for the spiritual evolution of mankind. He believed that a new, deep, and intuitive poetry could be a powerful aid to the change of consciousness and the life required to achieve the spiritual destiny of mankind which he envisioned. Unlike philosophy or psychology, poetry could make the reality of the Spirit living to the imagination and reveal its beauty and delight and captivate the deeper soul of humanity to its acceptance. It is perhaps in Sri Aurobindo's own poetry, particularly in his epic poem Savitri, that we find the fullest and most powerful statement of his spiritual thought and vision.
Consistent with his spiritual vision and the coherence of the many-sidedness of his work, Sri Aurobindo's ideal of poetry is the mantra, an outflow and direct expression of the divine Reality. He suggests that true poetry is a creation of neither the intelligence nor the imagination, but rather it is a creation of the soul. At the same time, the true recipient and, let us say, true target of poetry is neither the intelligence, the emotions, nor the vital nature, but rather again it is the soul of the listener. The intelligence, imagination, emotions, and vital nature are instruments of the soul and thus may shape or color the poetry, Sri Aurobindo says, but “the more rapidly and transparently [they] do their work of transmission, the less they make of their separate claim to satisfaction, the more directly the work reaches the sinks deep into the soul, the greater the poetry.”
While he grants an indispensable place for technique in poetry and discusses it in some detail, he gives it a secondary place quite subordinate to the poetic inspiration. He says of all the arts, technique is perhaps least important in poetry. He explains that this is because the instrument of poetry, the rhythmic word, is more full of subtle and immaterial elements than the instruments of other arts; it is more complex, flexible, variously suggestive, and has more possibilities in many directions.
In The Future Poetry, Sri Aurobindo analyzes the development of English poetry, indicates the significance and direction of its drift, and then traces the lines of its future development. Sri Aurobindo indicated that the poetry of the future would embody a harmony of five eternal powers: Truth, Beauty, Delight, Life and the Spirit. The Truth that the future poetry will embody is not simply the limited truth of the outward life and nature, nor the truth of reason, philosophy, or science. Truth, says Sri Aurobindo, “is the very face of Infinity and Aditi herself, the illimitable mother of all the gods.” In a revealing passage he says, “its field is all soul experience, its appeal is to the aesthetic response of the soul to all that touches it in self or world; it is one of the high and beautiful powers of our inner and may be a power of our inmost life. All of the infinite Truth of being that can be made part of that life, all that can be made true and beautiful and living to that experience, is poetic truth and a fit subject matter of poetry.”
Just as poetry is concerned with the infinite truth, it is concerned with the infinite life of the spirit in its many creations. It is concerned more with the inner life than the outer, though outer circumstances, the objective world can be a means or a vehicle to contact or express that deeper inner life. It is a deeper and wider life that the future poetry will express and open for us, a life not imprisoned in the moment and the immediate act, but a life which has the background of eternity and the act which carries within it an eternal peace and the momentum of a universal power.
Even more essential to the future poetry are Delight and Beauty. Sri Aurobindo says that “delight is the soul of existence,” and “beauty is the concentrated form of delight.” He indicates that behind all things, whatever their appearance to the surface mind, there is an intrinsic spiritual delight and beauty. This bliss inherent in all existence is called Ananda in the ancient Indian scriptures, and it is this deeper delight and beauty in the essence of things that moves the poet and finds expression through poetry.
Sri Aurobindo believed that a great spiritual destiny awaits humanity. He indicated that the future poetry would be inspired by and express this greater spiritual consciousness and life. The spirituality that it could thus reveal and inspire in mankind is the view of existence as a progressive manifestation of the Divine in the universe and mankind's life as a field for a possible transformation into a new and perfected and divinised life. It would help open humanity to its deepest soul, to the higher levels of mind and spirit and to the vastness of the cosmic consciousness. It would show a solution and way of deliverance for humanity from its vital unrest and mental questioning by the uplifting strength of the Spirit within and its supporting calmness and power of knowledge and mastery. It would reveal the unity of the self with other conscious beings in Nature, the soul and life of the plant and animal, the soul and life of things that seem inert. It would reveal to mankind the meaning of existence, express the universal delight and beauty and power of a higher life, and the infinite potentialities of our future existence.
We find in Savitri, Sri Aurobindo's epic poem of about 24,000 lines in blank verse, a wonderful expression of the future poetry that he described and predicted. Based on a tale from the ancient Indian epic, The Mahabharata, of love conquering death, Savitri describes in vivid detail and grand proportions the nature and significance of existence, the secret worlds and inner experiences of a master Yogi, the many layers and levels of human and cosmic consciousness, the reason of suffering, and the way out. In this poem one can begin to see and feel the spiritual nuances that are described so intricately and exhaustively in Sri Aurobindo's prose works.

unquote.

Here's the link that this article came from.

Thou art the best o' th' cut-throats.

Do you know where this quote came from?
Damn trying to place this pic where I want but to no avail ... anyway: The inscription on the church monument to Shakespeare, erected in 1621, reads: Judicio Pylium, genio Socratem, arte Maronem Terra tegit, populus moeret, Olympus habet. Stay, passenger, why goest thou by so fast? Read, if thou canst, whom envious death hath placed Within this monument: Shakespeare, with whom Quick nature doed; whose name doth deck his tomb Far more than cost; sith all that he had writ Leaves living art but page to serve his wit. Obiit ano doi [anno domini] 1616. Aetatis 53. Die 23 Ap. The quill in his hand is replaced each year by the people who look after the Holy Trinity Church where this monument stands ... below it is his grave. So far, we believe that his daughter Suzanne erected this monument to him ... she inherited most of his money and possessions ... her daughter (Elizabeth) eventually became a 'Lady' ... I think Will would have liked that ... comment and make a guess where the quote came from ...

Afraid.

I see it, a tiny blond head bobbing up and down. For a moment it doesn’t register what it is and then I realize its Karen, my girlfriends sister. Ice runs through my veins as I jump up and pull my shoes and socks off and start pulling my jeans off. I look out to find her. “Please God make her be there,” I say, as my muscles begin to vibrate with panic. I rip my jeans off looking around me for a way to clamber down the rocks and get into the water.
My inner voice is saying, “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck …” and faster and faster the words come until I’m saying them out loud. I pull my tee shirt over my head as I navigate down these huge rocks looking for a way, any way, to get into the water. My hearts racing and my mouth has gone dry and my strength seems to have abandoned me as I squat and slide and climb down the huge rocks. All the time looking out to see her as if just seeing her will keep her safe until I get to her. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I’m saying as I hurry too fast. My breathing is rapid and shallow, and I’m trying to slow it down, so I can swim to her, but it’s no use the adrenalin has overtaken me and I haven’t got to the water’s edge yet. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” It’s like a mantra and I’m unconsciously trying to use it to steel myself against what I have to do.
The sea is moving in huge grey swells and she’s out there bobbing up and down and I can see she’s struggling. She’s struggling in a huge mass of tentacles. It’s kelp, seaweed, and I’m so frightened of it - the very thought of it usually makes my flesh creep and shiver.
My mind is racing, my blood is racing, my heart is racing, and I haven’t reached the water yet. I’m trying hard to not break an arm or leg and I can feel my feet and knees and elbows bleed as I graze down to the edge of a might rock. I stand and look out and sight her. My heart is in my mouth; my legs can barely support me. “What if there are rocks underneath me. I’ll kill myself if I dive,” and I sit and ease myself into the water all the time looking at her. “Don’t think of sharks,” my mind says, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” and I almost jump out of my skin as I slip into the rising swell and it drops me at least four feet down. And then I go cold, like steel and I swim for her. I stretch out my arms and the very act of stretching relieves the pressure on my ribcage and I begin to breathe deeper. I’m a champion school swimmer and I know how to do this and my mind blanks out as I place my head in the water and push against the mighty current and within seconds I reach her. We’re surrounded by thick, ugly, slimy kelp and it’s touching my legs and I can’t control my revulsion as my legs kick out against it, but I grab her by the hair. “You’re safe, you’re safe you’re safe,” I say, as I turn her away from me because she’s trying to cling to me, and I press my arm over her shoulder and lift her onto her back and my hip and firmly plant her there. My eyes look to the rocks and I stretch an arm out in sidestroke. The panic has left me. I’m once again in control of my body. I’m like an eagle that has a rabbit in its talons. I’m not going to let her go and I push toward the rocks.

© Jim Holt all rights reserved.

Redemption.                   

It wasn’t overly cold but I was glad I had my new overalls on. I was walking to work and I’d left myself plenty of time because it was my first day on the new job. I’d been laying sidewalks for the last three months for the local council and the Depot Boss turned up to inspect the job yesterday afternoon, instead of the usual foreman.
– Anyone of you lads want a job working on one of the council trucks? It’s full time.
I stepped forward.
– I do Mr. Jackson.
–Good on ya son. Report to the depot site manager tomorrow morning at 7 o’clock and he’ll tell you what truck you’re on. Pick up some new overalls tonight when you finish here ok?
– Ok.Thanks Mr. Jackson

 I’d spoken up immediately because I was bored with the afternoons that dragged on and on with the concreting job. By 10am the heavy work was over. Another hour saw the concrete finishing done, and then a long hour to waste having lunch, followed by the forming up, for the next day’s work. It was slow work and the afternoon heat seemed to make the work drag on. I’d recently split up with my girlfriend, well, the truth of the matter, was that she’d split up with me, and the more time I had on my hands, the more I thought of her. It helped if I was busy and had something to occupy me otherwise I just fell into the doldrums. It had been 3 months now and I wasn’t sure I’d ever get over it.

 As well as that, I was bored with the other guys and their inane conversation. I preferred not to talk. I was usually a ... who cares, I’d just sort of stopped talking. I just wanted to work, to bury myself in it, but there wasn’t enough work to do. We could easily lay twice the amount of sidewalk if we had to. I could lay three times the amount just by myself, and get the forming done for the next day too. Instead, I spent the latter part of the afternoon cleaning the tools and the site while the others sat around smoking and talking sport. It was a government scheme to provide jobs for young people, but the culture of leaning on a shovel didn’t interest me much, and I needed to keep busy for my own sanity. Her words kept circling around in my head.
–I still love you, and then she said the other thing, and I was crushed and had cried all the way home.
– I just think we ought to see other people for a while.
We’d been going out for nearly four years, since she was fifteen and she’d started University and I knew I was going to lose her. It was only a matter of time. I knew that. I had no other choice but to let her go. What could I do chain her to me?

The council depot was only a few blocks away from my house and when I walked into the yard I reported to the site manager and was given a card to clock on and off. I’d never done that before, and felt like I was in a bugs bunny cartoon as the clock stamped my card. My name was on a board and I placed the card in its place and looked around. The site manager winked at me and indicated with a nod of his head where I should go. I nodded back and walked over to a truck with two men standing next to it smoking.

 One was lean and wiry, and to me at my age, he looked like he was maybe forty but he could have been younger. He had a weathered brown face from the sun and blonde hair and he wore old overalls. The other guy carried a beer belly but he was big and strong looking, and he wore shorts and a tee-shirt. As I approached them they looked at me and smiled a greeting and I was relieved. I was expecting the usual stuff that comes from older guys … –do you think you’re old enough to work … it’s going to be hard ... do you think you can do it with those smooth hands … all the crap that they go on with.

Wiry held a hand out and I took it and squeezed back with the same grip as we shook hands.
–G’day. I’m Max. This is Hazza.
–I’m Michael. I shook Hazza’s hand as well. Hazza’s short for Harold is it?
– No mate. Hazard, and he grinned.
I smiled. I already liked these guys. Hazza climbed into the truck. He was the driver and that’s why he had a belly. Max led the way around to the passenger side and I followed.
–Up ya go Mick. You’re piggy in the middle mate. I climbed in and Max jumped in beside me and Hazza started the engine.
–Done this work before?
I shook my head.
–You’ll get fit. Max’ll show you the ropes and in an hour you’ll be out of those overalls. I nodded. I wanted to make a good impression and I can be too chatty at times.
–You’ll be sore tomorrow. Lucky for you it’s Friday, so you can come in and help wash the truck tomorrow morning and iron out a few kinks.
–Bit of extra money in it for you too.
I nodded.
The truck roared and we moved out of the Depot and headed up the road toward the hills.
Max leaned toward my ear.
–This is the hardest route, but it’ll be over in a few hours and the rest of the day’s easier.
I pursed my lips and nodded again.
–Lovely streets though. He winked.
Hazza started to whistle … ‘since my baby left me, I found a new place to dwell.’ I was enjoying being high up and seeing my streets from the truck. Hazza turned a corner and stopped the truck and Max jumped down. Hazza, still whistling raised his eyebrows and looked at me and then winked.
–The name of the game is to be safe Mick. Just do what Max says and you’ll be ok. Ok?
I nodded and jumped out of the truck. Max was waiting for me.
–This is my side of the street Mick. You take other side, ok?
– Yeah
– Keep pace with the truck ok?
–Yeah
–Ok Mick let’s go, and he walked over to the other side of the road and picked up a garbage bin. I picked mine up and lifted it to my shoulder and walked to the truck. Max was already there waiting for me.
–This is what you do. And he dropped the bin from his shoulder and in one movement emptied it with a swinging motion that sent the garbage sliding into the cavern of the truck. I did the same while he watched. He smiled.
– Same again Mick, and he jumped off the truck.
 We worked our way up the street running between each garbage bin and then running and jumping onto the runner board and emptying the bin and running to the next one. Occasionally as we crossed an intersection we would stay on the runner board and the breeze cooled me down – I was getting hot and it wasn’t even 8 o’clock yet.
After we’d covered four or five streets the cavern of the truck was getting full and the smell was rising. It had a sweet musty sort of aroma and it didn’t bother me. Hazza stopped the truck and got out and came around to my side and as Max joined us I could see he’d already stripped down to his shorts and a yellow tee-shirt with ‘The Bees Knees’ written on the back of it.
– You’ve got time to get out of those overalls Mick said Hazza
I was sweating and was glad to get them off. Hazza started the compressor and the truck growled as it pushed and pressed the garbage into the back of the cavern. I opened the side door of the truck and laid my folded overalls on the compartment floor. Max and Hazza were talking, and I sat down in the gutter and retied my boots. I’d wear running shoes on Monday. The boots were heavy to run in and my legs were tired already. The compressing took about five minutes and we were ready to move again.
– You’re doing well Mick. Hop on the runner mate we’re moving to another street.
I nodded and stood up and mounted the runner and he got behind the wheel.
–Stay safe ok, he yelled, and the truck roared into action again and we headed down the street and turned a corner. As we turned the corner some of the garbage from the compressed pile slid down towards us. Max looked over at me.
  – See this, he said holding a parcel of rubbish wrapped in a newspaper.
I nodded.
– This is garbage Mick. You’re not. Remember that mate.
I looked at him and nodded. The truck stopped and we jumped off the truck for the next bin and I don’t know why, but my boots didn’t feel so heavy.

© Jim Holt, all rights reserved.