Melly

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Melly
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Arts & Culture > Poetry & Prose > Il Bel Far Niente
 

Il Bel Far Niente

I slump down on the couch. My back flat on the seat.
Legs like a starfish with sliding feet pressed flat against the carpet.
My core yawns tight and then relaxes, sending a tense tingle of energy through my chest.
My mind spins dizzy. All thoughts fall paralyzed.
With a vacant stare, I watch the air conditioner gently tickle the red curtain.
Not far away, its silent understudy shivers against the wall.
Imitating. Practicing. Pretending. Perfecting the curtain's wiggle.
Patiently waiting for a chance to be something more... something vibrant... to show her true colours. A quiet grey wallflower waiting for her turn to explode into a red curtain.
Alas poor shadow, I hate to be the one to tell you, but I fear you'll never get the chance.
For you were born a shadow - and forever a shadow you will be.
Even so, I still love to lay here and watch you dance. So dance your little heart out until the sun pours its affections elsewhere, and the evening sky tucks you into bed.
I look beyond the slotted blinds, to catch the breeze stealing kisses from all the maple leaves, not unlike Ben Harper or Georgie Porgie Puddin' and Pie.
I stretch out further.... f u r t h e r.
My head pushes backwards into a cradle of cushions, muting my mind in pillow-like softness.
My hair falls down past my shoulders, wrapping itself around my neck like a threading scarf.
Loose strands revolt. They rise up against my cheek. I can't be bothered to fight back.
I listen closely to the white noise... white noise... white noise... occasionally punctuated by the outside world.
Just as I am at my most relaxed, my stomach makes a quiet threat.
Shut up stomach, I say. Must you really? Right now?! Seriously... Can't you see I'm busy doing nothing!
I make a feeble attempt to rally my union of arms and legs - but they give me the cold shoulder. They are on strike, refusing to cook.
Just great. Now what am I going to do?
Like a perfect husband, J reads my mind. He suggests we order out.
Stomach roars a little louder, passing her message along to lazy lips who incoherently mumble in agreement.
My exhausted brain is too tired to think of what to order, except something that requires minimal effort - like an IV bag of red wine perhaps?
My mind slinks backwards hiding in the darkest corner of my empty skull, hoping that someone else might take the initiative.
Like J.
Or perhaps one of the cats.
Eyes flutter closed.
The inside of my eyelids are stained rouge.
I saw red and am reminded of the song by the same name, with the grim lyrics and happy reggae tempo.
"I saw red. I saw red. I saw red. One more sacred lover that I shot dead."
Like that same dead sacred lover, I focus on the stillness of my body -- with the exception of angry stomach, who is pulling a horrible temper tantrum, demanding to be fed.
Shut up, I say! Shut up!
I remind her, "Gimme, gimme never gets! Only gets a spanking." At least according to Daddy-O's beat poetry.
Following in my father's footsteps, we also plan on making up dysfunctional nursery rhymes and telling them to our children. I can't wait. We already have one prepared called, "Poppy Says..."
Someday I might sing it to you.
But not today.
Right now, my ears only want to focus on the white noise... white noise... white noise... interrupted by the occasional clatter of outside distraction.... and the sound of J ordering pizza for dinner.
****
I was just going through my other blog and found this entry from last August. It's just a bunch of random nonsense that was going through my mind at the time... but I kinda like it. :)

posted on Jan 25, 2010 9:17 PM ()

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