A very long holiday

It's funny how you start out looking for something, and end up finding something you forgot existed in the first place. I had such a moment this weekend. Rummaging in my shed for a bundle of pictures, I found a book I had forgotten all about.

I can't remember why or how this book came to be. I know it was about the same time that I started this blog. This blog was almost as forgotten as this book, and going through the book I found many memories surfacing. Some good, others bad but the most intriguing thing of all was that how much inward joy these memories brought. This was not a journal, it was only a note book that had some random scribblings, appointments, reminders, phone messages - pretty mundane stuff, but it still held a quality that captured my attention. It reminded me of past conversations, friends, going to the dentist, an interview for a job, mistaken identities on my phone messages. Things that at the time of their occurence were supposed to have had no lasting effects, but yet I found myself discovering a part of me. These events no matter how trivial at the time, still had a hand in fashioning the present, and maybe it has returned to remind me that the future depends on the present. 

Speaking of finding things, you were not looking for, I found this in my drafts. It's not very good, and it's most likely why, it was never published, but perhaps I should give it a chance. Who knows how trivial a thing may one day return to remind me of what I need to do.




The marching band outside a window plays,
in the room above a man is laid -
Dying.
In the heat of June
his lips are curled, his eyes so dry
never a glimpse of the past goes floating by,
all that remains are the blaring horns,
the drums, the whistles and a ceiling bare.
He summons to his lips with all his might
Gasps short and lets go - a word unsaid.

A crimson stain on the blade he wipes -
clean, lays it on the table
and whistles in tune, the ebbing melody
as the street din renews. He heads for the door,
turns, a final glimpse of his canvas.
Enthralled, he crosses the street
a job well done, a day run through, a dollar
richer returned home - the butcher.