Odds and Sods from a Dreary Sunday Afternoon 10/30/2016

On a rainy Saturday the plan was to go Irene’s for brunch, then to the Ravens game. The club sandwich was $15, which I thought was pretty outrageous. While wolfing down the food, I watched the pretty women of the Glebe come and go. I don’t know if they were talking of Michelangelo or not.

I skipped the game, because even going to Irene’s in a car I starting sneezing and coughing. I dreaded the return of my chest cold, which lasted a month. Indeed, on returning to my apartment, I slept for hours.
In the morning, the phone rang. I groggily awoke from a dream. I was dead and going out a date with an equally dead woman. We were reminiscing about how it felt to be alive.
Later in the morning, a friend and I went to Ikea. A toddler was being taken by his mother in a baby carriage looked up at me. I noticed the intelligence in the boy’s eyes, and the wry smile he was giving me; like a toddler Buddha.




The moon smiled on the wine dark sea. As we all know sometimes, there is a long moment every night when time stops and another kinder kind of temporal slow march takes over from the hurly burly of the usual tick ticking that measures the race’s race through the days.

It’s a moment when the celestial rowers whoosh by the satellites on high, and strange shadows appear on the radar screens to be murmured over by technicians who know better than most that beyond technology is a kingdom of night with its own rules and regs so strange we can only mutter weird little rhymes about space that curves into itself and black holes into whose folds galaxies disappear to emerge maybe as crumpets on Mars, who knows?

Actually, the moon knows. But she keeps her secrets to herself for now, while fishes with spirits come to the surface and with little mouths go gobble gobble they’re eating their flies and plying their mistress with questions.  Sometimes, if you stare hard enough you can see the moon shrug her shoulders and whisper a gentle “no” like a lady in love who is saying she’s sorry, things are not quite right, no, not tonight.

As for the breath of her yeses, so rare, it’s so sweet; it mingles with the air from the flowers and wafts among the crickets, who sing excited melodies that capture all that beauty in rapturous song. And this night, the notes of their hymns were so loud they caused goose bumps on the skin of the dolphins who cavorted just off shore with baby sharks whose mothers had left them in their care for these hours.


@Copyright David Clarke 2016



Ever get the feeling you are being watched?

It’s late at night. The bright light from Laura’s small office spills out through the doorway onto the dim light of the hallway. In the daytime, you can see a tasty slice of Toronto skyline through the one, long, thin window. Now if you look into the window, you just see Laura and the room glimmering in their own reflection. It is all there is for the seeing. You could stand in the doorway, look into the window and see what you wanted.

You could observe how Laura’s face is drawn with concentration as she works. Her features are precise and maybe you would say a bit hard; but then she has eyes that are big and green and a mouth that looks like it’s never really entirely dry, and usually not even closer to dry than say the inside of a fresh apple. It’s hard to describe her. Laura doesn’t just look like anybody else. Just let me say the overall impression she makes is that what you have here is a very beautiful woman.

What you did then would be up to you. These are bad times; getting worse. Maybe your tastes run to horror movies. Maybe it is surprises that you want, an explosion of sound and movement, rape, murder, mayhem. Or maybe I’ve got you all wrong, and all you want is some class, some dialogue that’s kind of funny and true and uplifting and goes on from that thought Cary Grant land on to where we can see George Clooney frolic with …oh, what is her name, these days? It doesn’t matter; frolicking with somebody cute with style and a brain and an interesting job.


Yup, let’s hover a moment with our eyes about a quarter inch from her forehead and stare into those unblinking orbs of hers.

Laura’s sitting in the room in her mind only now there is a handsome man at the doorway. His name . . . well, somehow he’s got my name and he’s been watching her only she doesn’t know it. She has been working fast, inspired, with her whole body and mind online, creating a graphic on the screen. And now she can see she has created a wonder of an image: a brilliant red heart beating against a background of purple incandescence.

Then Laura presses a key and the heart stops beating, and breaks into two as the background breaks down into a melange as ugly as the world most days, in most ways. And as our image of Laura fades out we see her laughing or shrugging or maybe you think you saw her crying for a moment; it’s hard to make her out now in the near dark; but still you can hear or maybe just feel her breathing, with her heart still beating in your hand as you walk away.


@ 2016 David Clarke