short thing #20

and then what to believe

In searching for the truth

And the reason for being

In searching for the answers from without and within

I have found that the reasons are colliding

Contradicting

Confusing

I can’t figure out what to believe

And I’ve been trying for so many years to find out

In the gods of the north

To roam

And flow and be wrapped in animal skins, sweat

To kiss and breathe and eat and drink

To understand that love is a family that is safe

To the pain of those people that are not me

The ones with the skin and nothing else different to mine but

Experience more punished and degraded

I’m sorry for what those before me have done

To what those around me believe and still do

I wish your pain away; I take it inside and suffer along

I’ve tried the Buddha and his homies

I’ve sought some solace also

In mafia books about family and red wine and pasta

Where passion is harsh and true and fatal

And I had always wished I was Italian and beautiful

I had always wanted love like that

I remember sitting with my Nan in church on a Sunday

And thinking that I was scared of the windows and priest

Knowing that as a woman I had no power to change their minds,

They’d already decided I was wrong before I started

But she was the kindest person I’d ever met

I’ve held my hands in prayer position at

My heart space

I’ve stretched and breathed and opened and meditated

And then

Seen the truth

That the truth of the people sprouting these meaningless words is as greedy

And hungry

As the ones with the television shows

I understand symbols and how I interpret them

But can’t know what they mean to you

In words and in images and songs and in colour

In gods who will kill for the loves of their lives

I’ve looked to the stars and the science of cells

I see that the vibrations are true to the end

But why as a planet are we alone

In the universe

When hate and love are both

When to travel is to know but to see is to be saddened

How are we this cruel to our own

I’ve searched through images and images and images

I’ve looked to the earth for the answers

The naked beauties and the trees they adorn

Are still much more peaceful than my mind knows how to be

And the magic they believe in scares me

And the vegetarian, vegan, organic meat eater

The one that I can’t label, what am I?

The one that has guilt

And the one that has worries

The worries seem to be the only constant thing that I know

And I can look into my lover’s eyes, think that I know him

And have no idea what he’s thinking later that day

At my child and my love and desire for his happiness

At his safety and health and not knowing this pain

One truth I might know is the fear for his life

And the competition for housing and funding and beauty

And the friends and my family who I love but envy

And the people that look to me for insight

When confusing and contradiction and colliding is all that I’m sure of

I’m tired of knowing all that I don’t know

And so when it comes, the knowledge of nothing

Of the dresses I’ll never own or look right in

Or the goddess that can tell the world how proud she is of her everything

That I judge and envy and wish I was like

Of the people that know in their heart that they’re right

Of the worship and pain and violence this causes

Of living true but not understanding what truth is

Of searching for truth and searching for truth

I can’t look at the sun any longer

Without burning my eyes and my heart and my insides

I don’t know anything for certain

Because all that I am

Is nothing defined.

(c) Samantha Florence, 2015.

short thing #19

a secret slice of pizza

And now he had two daughters. One was eight years old, one four and a half. She had two daughters, too, obviously, as they shared their children, but sometimes the girls felt like his and hers. Separate beings, with different identities, depending on the adult around.

When he had started the business they were still young, she was 28 and he was 29. The eldest was ‘on the way’ but they both agreed that the hours one could choose, when a business owner, were more conducive to family life than his career at the time. He had agreed with her, at least.

His business thrived. Hours and days became weeks and years and his daughters’ experiences were different than the ones he had expected them to have. Their tent then their caravan were packed away for most of the year until they had a long weekend in November or a few days between Christmas and New Year’s to enjoy family time.

They took photographs that she shared with the world to prove to somebody that they were away. She shared that they were having a wonderful holiday. That this was the life. That they were so grateful. That he deserved this. That the girls loved camping. That the simple things in life were often the best.

He played Uno with his youngest.

When home, he worked at the factory. She worked at the house that they’d built when the youngest was ‘on the way’. It was her dream house. She had had this house in her head since she was little. She knew exactly what it looked like. The cushions matched, but not exactly. The bench-side stools were comfortable yet stylish.

The lighting was perfect.

When his eldest was ready he took the morning off for the first walk to school. The excitement was sunshine with her pigtails and stiff uniform. She held her mother’s hand while he watched, walking behind. In the end carrying the near two year old, so he didn’t miss out.

But most mornings, now, she walked the eldest to school. She walked the youngest to kinder. Soon they’d both be in uniforms and pigtails. With lunch-boxes and drink bottles and hats.

He liked the mess on the bench afterwards. If he got home early. Before his wife packed it all away.

On weekends when the girls had lessons or games or play dates or parties, he would hide. Mow lawns. Watch sport. Play golf. Or pick them up at the end. Dutifully.

He didn’t know what to say to these people. He didn’t have the small talk ability of his wife. He didn’t understand why people even talked about these things.

He didn’t understand why his wife talked about these things.

Sometimes on a Saturday morning when she had taken the eldest to netball, he would take the youngest grocery shopping. There was rarely too many things to buy, but he’d find some treats, or some barbecue meats from the butcher. And his youngest would chat and sing and skip up the main street. She would often have her security teddy in tow. He loved how that bear smelled of her sleepiness.

When the eldest was little, his wife had been convinced that she was allergic to dairy. She had recipe books now, and a few blogs that she followed for ideas. The eldest was compliant and never complained. The youngest had fire in her belly and loved bakery store, vanilla slices.

At work, his wife would drop in to help with the accounts. Or touch base with some old clients. She wore tight pants even though her body had changed some since the girls. The skirts weren’t short, but he noticed they were tight, too.

When he saw women in their early twenties he remembered what she had been like then. She was always smiling. He always knew how much she wanted children. He liked how she reminded him of his mother. And in some ways, his favourite aunt. He wanted children, then, too. She would be a great mother.

He forgot, however, to remember he needed a friend.

Sometimes on a Saturday morning he’d buy his youngest a slice of pizza. It was too early for pizza but they would sit outside, or inside in the winter-time, and she would pull the pineapple off and leave it on the plate. Even after he’d asked if she wanted him to order it without pineapple.

When they got home from the shops and netball. When they’d had gluten-free, salad rolls for lunch. When the girls were on the trampoline. When the lawn was mowed. When the washing was dry. When bananas and rice crackers and cheese and strawberries and sultanas were eaten in a rush to get back outside. When dinner was in the oven. When the dips were on the table. When their friends had come over. When the girls and their friends had spilled their drinks at the dinner table. When the wine was finished. When their friends reversed out of the driveway. When the girls were asleep. When she spent fifteen minutes in the ensuite. When he wondered what it was like to have sex with his wife with the light still on. When she was pretending to be asleep.

He knew exactly what tomorrow was going to be.

And she couldn’t figure out what to do next.

(c) Samantha Florence, 2014