Brer Robert is a Master Cleaner

One day Brer Robert was at home in his cottage. A cottage that is small. A cottage that is cosy. He was at home in his cottage doing what he liked best to do, relaxing. Relaxing was hard to do because he was always busy, because he was always moving. He had stopped moving, fidgeting, stirring, shifting, budging and now he was still, relaxing. He was smiling a relaxing smile. A smile of relax. A smile of content. He had just finished cleaning his house, his cottage, cosy and small.
He had woken up early, stretched out a big yawn, prepared for the day, pinned back his ears and set to work.
He cleaned his room first. Under the bed, in the wardrobe, over the bed. Dusting, wiping, cleaning. When his room was clean, clean enough, clean clean, he moved onto the corridor.
Along the long wide path that led out of his room he cleaned, fastidiously. Every dust, grime, sand, dirt particle was wiped away. He was so into his job that he told himself a story, as he went, that followed this line – Captain Robert is strong, kind and handsome. He plows through his chores with ease and charisma. He entertains even the lowliest of minds. He is amazing! No bit of dirt is safe from his destroying path. They run and hide in fear at the mere thought of him. He is the master of clean! Let all who know his name bow down in awe at his cleaning capabilities. The cleanest of all the land. Brer Robert thought this story was particularly good because it had a protagonist in it, a hero. Someone that people can relate to. True, the story had little to no plot, but who needs plot when Captain Robert is the star of the show.
Through the corridor and into the living room he progressed, cleaning, cleaning enough, clean, clean. All the while he thought grandiosely of himself as the heroic and masterful cleaner. After a while he even begun to hum a few bars of what he thought would be a fantastic theme tune for this hero. Humming and smiling, a content cleaner.
When he finished his tidying he paused for reflection at the room around him. He lent against his broom handle and thought of how accomplishing things is satisfying, but perhaps more satisfying if you have a theme tune. His eyes took in his handy work and then drifted out the window. The garden was beginning to bloom and looked beautiful. It was a good garden. But whats this! Are they weeds Brer Robert has spied, and perhaps those trees need pruning. I think this job calls for Captain Robert! And with a woosh and a flurry Brer Robert seized his gardening tools and rushed out to his garden. Captain Robert was here to save the day.

Brer Robert and his Friends (adapted from "Brer Rabbit is so Cunning")

One day Brer Robert was walking along a path in a forest. A forest with many trees. A forest with many leaves. Brer Robert was walking with no intention, strolling, meandering. Ambling and wandering. A man with no task. He walked this way and that, along the path.
All at once some leaves flew up and into his face. His meandering ways and ambling mind was startled and he yelped out in surprise. In the field there yonder stood two friends who saw Brer Robert and his actions and started to make fun of him.
"Brer Robert is scared of leaves! How silly is he!" They threw the leaves around and play acted the fear they saw from Brer Robert. They laughed and giggled and poked fun.
Now these friends, in the field there yonder, were friends in much the same way that you are friends with someone that you hate. These friends that you hate, you hate but you talk to. You talk to because you always seem to be in the same place at the same time. These places include - the elevator, the train, the toilet block, the common area of work and sometimes the secret place at work that is around the corner behind the door, that you go to to be alone for a while and daydream. This secret place that only you know of, or so you thought, because sometimes they are there smoking a cigarette. These friends that you hate, that you see and you inwardly groan. You walk towards the elevator and you see them in there and your eyes dart around looking for a way out of an encounter with them but your legs always seem to be moving forward and you can't stop until you reach the inside of the elevator, stand next to your friend and push the button to go down.
Damn these legs! you think, and damn this elevator!
"Resistance is futile" say your legs insolently.
Your mouth smiles a tight smile and you ask "How was your weekend Kirk?" and you swallow the sigh of acceptance and dully await the reply.
He puffs away about the late night out on saturday and the outrageous antics that usually ensue when Bazza gets drunk and handsy with the ladies, when Macca makes to acost a police woman and when the whole ladsy crew dare him to moon the bouncer. He relays all this information smugly and his chest puffs out with pride when he thinks how envious you must be with how popular he seems. You stare into the near distance and make the appropriate noises in response "oh wow! you didn't! oh my!"
Brer Robert didn't like these friends at all and their jearing ways only highlighted his hate for them. He wished that he hadn't smiled at them then and that the elevator didn't exist.
Brer Robert's friends were not his friends and he didn't smile at them now when they jested at his expense.
He hated them. He wanted to make them pay. He looked at the leaves, those offending leaves, those leaves of torture and instead of saying something to these friends, these people he dislikes, he kicks the leaves. He lifts up his leg and kicks at the leaves. He curls up his hands and stomps on the leaves. Silly elevators! with their silly spaces! and the silly things you hear from the people that you hate! Brer Robert stuffs his hands into his pockets and walks away. He isn't meandering anymore, he has intention. Brer Robert has things to do, he is going to get a blower vac and clean up this forest.

A fire in Brazil

Blue

When you hug yourself and your chest rises and your neck disappears

A river that isn't on the map

There is a new thing that I know, this thing I know, this new thing. It is like a river that is hidden away and not often seen. Nobody knows but me, they cannot swim in this river and they cannot fish in this river. They cannot be near this river because the map does not show where it is. The map that has directions. The river is long and winding, it is muddy brown, it is hard to see to the bottom of the river. I don't like swimming in rivers because I don't like to feel things brushing against my feet and not know what it is. My imagination says that it is an eel or a snake. It is an animal that is making to eat my feet, that tasty treat. I don't like swimming in this river so it is a waste for me to know where it is. This new thing that I know.

A trap for my colour

The colour that I feel today is hidden from me. It hides from me around corners and it hides from me up in trees. It’s like a child’s game of hide and go seek, but I’m not playing and somebody is still counting and hiding and giggling around the corner.
The colour I feel today is illusive and mysterious, but I have a plan. The plan is a trap, a trap that will capture my colour that is playing that game. The trap will be
a rope.
or a cage.
or a vice.
it will hold a treat, a temptation and when the colour inches closer with its nose sniffing the air and its tongue and stomach yearning for food,
the trap will fall, slamming its victim close in its clutches.
The colour will struggle and thrash but after a while it will subdue and when it does I'll approach it and asked in a surprised voice
"what’s happened here then hey, what's happened here hmmm?”
It will look at me with big wide eyes and it will be won over by my innocence, unawares of my intentions. I will woo it out of the traps clutches and cup it in my hands and say
"there there, its ok, life is ok my pretty colour"
in a soothing voice and it will love me because I saved it.
The colour will be mine then and I won’t have to play games and run around corners and look up trees because I’ll have it with me.
Unless I forget to close the gate,
Or keep the leash on
Or forget to pat it and love it and it wriggles away from my clasps.
That naughty colour will start hiding again, around corners and up trees.
Then I’ll get out the traps and the game will begin again, the search for my colour.

Because is the colour

Today the weather is nice, it is nice because the sun is out and the colours shine brighter because of the brightness of the sun and the heat is out but the heat is not too much too bear, and the air smells of summer because summer smells of grass, and bbq’s and sunscreen and winter melting and that’s what I can smell. Today the weather is nice and the colour I feel should reflect it. The colour should be a green that matches the grass, or a blue that mirrors the sky, or a white that resembles my old car that makes the sound of rust when it moves but can take me on a ride to the beach if I want it to. These are the colours I should feel, but I feel no colour, I feel no colour because I am inside and I can’t go out. I can’t go out because I have to work and working will make those other moments happen, or that’s what I tell myself. Because if I don’t the 'becauses' become redundant, as redundant as my bank account and as redundant as my life. I tell myself all this and although I feel no colour, I will do soon. When my shift ends and even though I missed the day with the weather that is nice, I can hope that it holds out til tomorrow and I’ll feel the colour of the day when work isn’t an action but merely a word.