The lone guy sitting on the church steps revealed a sad smile in anticipation of me taking his picture. I felt an apprehension at the intrusion and at the last minute angled the camera upwards.
We are playing hide and seek. From my secret hideaway, I can barely see you walking way over there. Oh, the thrill of the seeker heading off in the wrong direction.
With white on red, a statement is made. I am only too relieved that the shop is closed. Prickly pears and stories of thorns tweezed out of milk white foot soles scare me. Thank goodness they don’t pretend to be everyday fruit, those rebellious renegades. Let them remain here, where they can still get their name in white on red.
Too many foreign fight films have lead me to believe that I can traverse from branch for branch with merely a firm flying jump to each.
Your hand goes round and round in a circle as you press the chalk down firmly on the wooden table. Surprisingly it does not snap in two. You are concentrating. I am mesmerised.
Imagine drawing aside the dusty curtain that probably has not been moved in years (be careful of the spider) and just letting the light stream in.
Inside, there are four apples and six carrots to be exact. The paper bag crunches as I fold it carefully.
Oh the simple joy of tracing a brick maze with your finger.
Behind me an old house is for sale. There is a lady tending to the ramshackle garden. I can’t help but feel tad melancholic in the late winter afternoon sun.
Around us the smell of freshly ground coffee is swirling about, tugging at our jackets and drawing us closer one step at a time.
To my right people are walking by. Earlier, standing in the exact same place, they came past the other way. We are connected through invisible pulleys and strings for a rather boring, yet serendipitous, suburban puppet show.
The question remains to be answered. What exactly is behind this door? I am yet to see it open, but love how beautiful it looks closed.
Just below, people are walking en masse. They are spilling from the sidewalk into the street.
Inside, in the box within the box, by now seeping into the blue satin lining, is a secret.
Let me string two words around wooden heart hangers. Let me then hang them out to air. When they are old and withered and beaten, I will fold them away as a broken pair.
Behind him the little monster waits. He does not care.
A sense of loss for the lifeless bodies has always gnawed at my heart and mind, yet has never bothered me as much as now.
Behind the hedge, behind a back room, behind the house, behind the wall, this painted bench waited.
In the past we would place two cent pieces on the tracks. In the crisp morning air we would skip back in anticipation to search and find, with such relief, the most perfectly flattened treasures.
In the future, these perfectly sculpted shades will hang in the right place, but for now they are resting here.
And here is the evidence, it was indeed that little brown horse who knitted the extra rows, yet he still blames the bird.
Gone are the days of pretending to ride the most beautiful horse or flying, black cat on the back, into the night sky.
To my left people are pouring out of the church, to my right out of the carriages. They meet somewhere in between.
Behind me, the telephone is ringing. It stops just as I stumble to a halt. I am yet to find out who it was.
I Love, Be Kind. Be Kind, Love I. Love, I Be Kind. I, Be Kind Love. Love, Be Kind I. Be Kind, I Love.
Oh weary lady with the line mapped face, I still feel that you perhaps just may have sold your soul along with your handmade boots. When I slowly pull them on, one foot up and then the other, I often think of you. Thank you for letting me be the one to buy your soul boots.
Moments before he stood apprehensively at the fence. I was convinced I could speak cow, but turns out not so well.
Just below this, people are eating furiously whilst speaking in hushed tones. I’m drawn to the woman who is laughing out loud with her head thrown back, her eyes closed.
When we ride through the reeds on horse-back, long stalks brush our sides. We wind through the thick grasses, not being able to see past the next hoof step, playing Cowboys and Indians all over again. You are always ahead of me.
We all rush past this old church on a daily basis, passing from various directions over and over like time-warped scurrying ants. Today, for a split second, at this exact point, it looks all serene on top of the hill, as if the solemn king of a desolate road in a long forgotten dorp.
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