“Let Me Show You Something” — from the back of the red stallion.

Let’s go back, before this all began. Let’s go back to where we were, where I was, when I rode the red stallion, not you. Can you hear my horse? Hear him snort as I curve his sweating neck so he circles, see the wetness on his coat. You are the one down there on the ground, not me. You are. I stare down at the man below me, and he stares back up, the sun glinting from his eyes. Behind him, watching in horrified silence, stands a woman with a small child. They are both terrified.

I don’t want to go back.

He doesn’t say this with humour or words. He is simply stating a fact. This man is not afraid because I have shown him it’s okay, but I need to remind him.

‘Stay where you are.’ I glare at him, and for a moment I see fear in his eyes. This is my sword, not yours. This is my spear, not yours. This does not mark me as American. I am Australian. I will let you stand there and watch me circling you, and I do not need to draw on any of them at all. This is mine. It is not yours. ‘Must I remind you again.’ I say this with immense calm in my voice.

I am also saying this politely, this time. Last time I refused, and this time I refused as well, but I am doing it politely. I’m not swearing at you, while you stand there on the sand. I watch your eyes get all big, and I can see you remember this well. I do not think I will dismount, not yet, because back here, I remember how to ride, and I think I might have been particularly good at it, even if he believes I am not well-trained.

Now, see, watch my mount change in colour. This horse becomes the colour of clouds. I have indeed done this before, in this life, and you’ll remember I had to jump off him as he took off down a road with the bit in his teeth, with his tail in the air. Do you remember me showing you that? We laughed about this at one point, my friend, and that is possibly where this understanding began. The fact I could dismount as the Anglo-Arab ran for his friends without injuring myself was simply fortunate, and that is all. Perhaps I whispered this story to another rider and he understood its worth.

This man is not afraid, he whispers in this one on one conversation. I remember it too. I wasn’t there. You did show me. I remember it too. He stares up at this golden helm I wear, and he remembers.

‘Well then.’ I have stopped circling my mount, who was red in this past life. His hooves skitter in the dust, but he knows his place. I can slow this down once again then, can’t I. I am just reminding you, after all. I’m not getting down, because I’m not on a “high horse”, I am not on a clothes horse, and I am not on a horse with no name. This is exactly who I am, not you.

‘You are still not quite ready,’ admonishes the one in the distance, but he is completely, and utterly wrong, because I have been more than ready for a very long time, and you do not mean anything to me at all.

So. I look at this man standing on the ground below me. He is not better than I am, and he is not worse than I am. He is equal, this man, and it would serve him well to remember that. He opens his mouth. A sly grin forms on his face.

‘No, you don’t talk. I am talking now.’ I look at this man with a warning in my eyes. He blinks once. He remembers this as well. This is my time, and it has been my time for a very long time, down here, so you will listen. ‘Stop screeching.’ I say this to an arrogant woman with a small child. She does not appear so arrogant now, cowering within my circle of hoof prints. You sound like a little bird with no wings. Unfortunately for you, I have wings, and they are very large, but I’m not wearing them right now. ‘I guess you’re lucky. Sit down, right there, all three of you, and I will consider getting down from this horse.’

If he runs again, I think to myself as I stare at the woman and make this promise for she who has finally sat down on the sand, I will plant this spear in the sand in front of him, so he probably shouldn’t.

If she starts being daft, I look at the woman as she cradles the small child, I will turn her into a little frog again, and she can bury her head in the sand as well. He hears this from me, and his eyes begin to smile.

As for you, I curl a lip at this man. I am going to get down from this horse. I pat the red stallion’s neck, and he snorts. His eyes do not roll like a mad beast. He is my animal and it will serve them well to remember it.

He is beautiful, isn’t he, this one made of clouds. You are quite lucky this one is made of clouds, because that one I had, the one in the last life, he was not made of clouds at all, and I hope you remember him as well as I do.

You’re welcome.

P.S. You can get the children to draw the red stallion, if you like. I rode him in this past life, yes, by moving into his body and helping him be, and he remembers it well. That one, him standing lost with the woman and the child in the circle I made with the hooves of my horse, he remembers it too. Ask him what it looks like, he can tell you. He knows who I am.

The Unicorn Clock

I have an old Unicorn Clock on the desk behind my laptop. It no longer has a key.

This clock belonged to my parents, and was always on display. When it was wound up, and worked, it chimed a lot. But, I don’t remember hearing it too much, and that was possibly because it chimed a lot and annoyed the crappers out of everyone.

It’s quite a loud chime.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s as loud as a church clock, or a town hall clock, but it’s certainly loud enough to be heard through a reasonably sized modern Australian house with no problems whatsoever.

I know this, rather than remember it, because I just picked it up and turned it over to see if there was anything on it other than just the word, “Unicorn”. When I did this, it chimed at me, possibly because it didn’t like being turned upside down, or possibly because I disturbed something of its inner workings. As I’m rather logical, most of the time, I’m going to put it down to the latter.

I found one on the web that looked very similar, if slightly lighter in colour, and that one had a plaque on it. This one does not. What it does have, is handwritten numbers underneath that may mean something, or not much at all, and if it means something more personal, then that meaning has been lost to time, quite literally.

I can safely say it’s not worth much, money-wise, nor is it particularly attractive. The only people it has meaning to, are my immediate family, my siblings, and myself. It’s just an old clock, with no key, that I keep on my desk.

The Desolation

I sang this idea when I was around twenty-two, twenty-three. It had not been a happy time.

My brother was plucking away on his guitar in what one might call a “sitting room” and had come up with a very simple melody. I could hear the echoes in it, if that makes sense.

I “whispered” this in the painted man’s ear many years later, and he didn’t understand this, not at all, but I think perhaps he is seeing the truth of it now. Perhaps. As a singer, not so much, he has been to too many places to see the truth of things. He says I can say this again, not because he wishes it, but because he simply didn’t know what I meant. He didn’t think I was the one who told him. He thought it was a dream.

There is no need for belief. This is just reality.

‘Driving down a dusty gravel road

Has no end

And no beginning

Look at a sky that’s blue and cold

Wonder where I’ve been lately…

There’s nothing to be seen

For miles

In the early hours of this morning

All I can remember now is your smile

Wonder where I’ve been lately.’

— Kate Tew. (this was quite some time before I was married, in the scheme of things, so that was the name I used)

It was a song about, not about dreaming, it was a song about loss. I sat in that room with my brother, and his friends, who were my friends, and these friends now can see this as clearly as I can. You see that long, red-pebbled road, the sound of nothing, the plume of dust rising behind from the tyres on the gravel, the flat plains to the sides of the road where everything is low and scrubby, and this pale, pale blue sky that goes on forever. It is during this time, and at this point, I thought I was lost and alone, for that is how it felt. It was a desolation, a loss, and a reminder.

The reminder is; life goes on after these times of grief. Life goes on. You get back up, you dust yourself off, and just keep going. As I said, I was twenty-two, twenty-three at the time. Something had ended in my life, and I was not at the point of understanding it was a good thing. I needed to go through the stages of grief and loss to move on. I am not referring to anything other than a relationship that failed. This is why you need to get out of those sandboxes and see why other people are here.

I tried to make that person understand but it was not the right time for him. He has separated himself for a reason, and it is not my place to verify his identity, which is why it has been changed. This is his reminder of the dream I whispered to his open soul. He grieved later that I did not explain the words.

Is it too simple for you now/not now — this is definitively the truth and not a “piss-take”.

He doesn’t need to be saved. Sometimes I think you people are very silly. This is his choice, not yours, his life, not yours. It will all be shown quite well in the end. I do not judge. I simply listen.

Clearing the Air.

There are certain things I need to explain. I’m only saying this so those who read it can look outside their own sandboxes for a change and realise there are other people out there who are not the same.

When I speak these things in the early morning, I am taking in the ones who live with me, and their thoughts are not always wise. My house is full of men (my husband included), and I’m the only one who is not.

Besides that, they’re sleeping, so we need to be careful. Do you understand this now?

‘We did not know they were asleep.’

It is very early here. If you looked at the time for where I am, you would perhaps choose to understand this better. We do not endorse gossip or foolishness, and I will not go down that path. It is not who I am, as a person.

I ask the one beside me, who says he is decidedly not female, whether it’s okay to speak about them. You see, this is my kindness to you, to them. We are trusted because we don’t carry on like silly people about all this, that, and the other — we just listen. Not everything should be repeated. I can’t make this any clearer.

We know the poets amongst you are finding it easier to speak your mind through the trickiness of words, and this is very clever, and it’s okay too. Just don’t expect all the “romantic” things to be real for you. They aren’t real for us, and bending for you won’t achieve good things. I have tried to show the younger men, this one beside me included, that not everything is best unveiled. He is laughing, because he understands this now, although it has taken quite some time to show this through my eyes.

We expect there to be a lot of complaints about the simplicity of this explanation. My kindness to you is your saving grace and this has been agreed. I wasn’t picked as a friend or partner because I am soft or particularly gentle. Sorry about that, but this is who I am. It’s also why I haven’t fallen out of any rocking chairs. I haven’t quite reached that age yet. Give it a few more years.

I will tell you it is more often than not I have been put in situations where I have been asked to protect a friend’s back from ridiculous people who don’t speak or write what they are thinking. We hear you anyway.

It’s not quite the same, he says, not quite the same as hearing a friend (someone genuine) say (or write), ‘You look particularly handsome today, buddy.’

I remind him I didn’t quite say it like that, it was quite a bit funnier. It was fine to be laughing with someone, and we are trying to show you what the difference is.

Let me give you an example of how I speak with my own boys. You may see why we all get along.

‘Hey baby, look at you. You look very pretty today.’ (I am definitely a mum and this was definitely one of the boys. He laughs, you see, because there is no underlying weirdness or strangeness here. He is comfortable in who he is, with me. It was also a genuine compliment — not contrived, and people can tell the difference. I was also being cheeky.)

It’s simple confidence, for the most part, or, well I wouldn’t call my own confidence “Charisma” exactly, because that’s something I can turn on or off.

Do they understand this yet? Some of them? I know the ones I’ve come in contact with in person know this well enough to see when I’m playing.

There is a difference between being silly and being creepy. Some people are creepy. Some are slimy, worse than eels. Some are very rude. There is a difference, and to understand that difference, you need to have the right attitude, not the wrong one.

I can hear the mumbling as well. Oh well. I know who will understand this and who won’t, so this will be their decision as much as my own. We appreciate our differences, and we show respect, and that’s just the way of it. I am being a lot kinder than some might think, and that’s possible because they don’t hear what I hear. This has been filtered down quite a lot, to be honest, although the distant holler of “Geronimo” as a silly duffer jumps into a pool of water with a very big splash “just for something to do” is something I would enjoy doing too.

The Real Dream

He says, ‘This is what she saw, when she looked at him on the floorboards.’

She stands there, behind the camera, watching. He is over there, on the other side of the room. Is it a room?

Not really. Not really a room. This is where he lifts his head. You see that. He’s not short. He’s not little. The little one with the darker skin pops his head up in front of me, and his green eyes shine. He is laughing.

‘You see it now,’ he says. I saw it before, I am saying this quietly. I didn’t repeat how they did it, the others would not let me.

‘I couldn’t say I had a crush on him,’ she says. ‘We needed to work together.’

He claps his hands. There are people behind him. The cloths of silk float in the warm breeze. He looks over and tries not to grin. He purses his lips and lifts his chin. He does not say begin. He just nods.

‘I am not stuck here. This is the place between. They always move between this place, and the next place. We just keep drinking our red tea.’

It is very hard not to laugh now.

‘He’s a bloody cheeky shit,’ I say to the one in my dream.

She laughs. ‘I know. I had to work with him.’

it is easy for us to communicate here. We understand all of the each, the others, perfectly. I say it this way, for it is not just the girl who showed me her thoughts. There were three people, and each of them had something to say. I couldn’t write it better than that either, whispers are the right hand. This is just the truth of it.

The little one is dancing behind them now. Behind us. We are the ones watching.

He can’t keep still, the one over there. Everyone is dancing and it’s very hard not to join in, he thinks, and you can see it in his eyes. He lifts his hands, holds them out and laughs.

‘We do it this way, you see/they don’t see.’ They do not have the left hand/right hand. We have that and have shared.

I nod, and the girl beside me is crying. ‘I can’t do this without him there,’ she says. He is not just my friend, she thinks. She will be okay. We know this. He is calming to her.

‘Your “partner in crime”,’ I say, and I hug her in the dream. ‘It will be okay. We are not the only dreamers.’

They heard it elsewhere, too. They decided to show it with the young one in the north. He thought it was wonderful, he said. It took a long time to get there, though. Perhaps too long, he thought once. He doesn’t think so now.

They couldn’t get a boat with a sail shaped like a fish fin. Not like that one. They had to make it up, they said.

The one who writes this story to us, here in the middle of the bottom of the world, as he calls it, wanted “Hakan” to be beautiful in his own way. ‘I didn’t know, quite know, how to fix this particular scene so it was acceptable. I had to ask the man who did the music.’

So, they sent the dream. They sent it, and today I will write the truth of it.

The shining silk sails of cloth that floated in the breeze, the dancing people, the happiness of simply being able to do this one thing, to act it, to write it, to sing it and to share with our friends in the south through the arc of a moon.

Many years ago…

I wrote the beginnings of a story that had so many facets to it, no one knew the ending except me.

I called that story, “The First Door”.

Surprisingly, or perhaps unsurprisingly, the raw, unfiltered, unedited original story was written on WordPress. Last year, due to rather odd circumstances, I pulled my little corner of the site down, stomped on all of it, and basically threw it in the bin. There may have been a few “f*ck you too’s” thrown around for good measure.

I never forgot about Connie, or Harry, Jake or the Major, or anyone else that came into the story. It was a strange mix of history and fantasy, truths and a mirroring of truths, but the most important element of the story, to me at least, were the people themselves. In saying that, it was not in the slightest bit unusual for me to use sections of the beautiful state and country I have lived in all my life.

But, enough about me and how awesome I’m not. Let me just show you a couple of pics. I’m not the most amazing artist in the world, and I’m quite happy to say these were a bit “sh*t”, but they did the job of bringing who these people were in my head out into the world. I never found Connie, but I may have found Harry eventually, and I certainly found Sam the nurse (who was in a later story connected to the first one).

I haven’t got a picture of Sam, but he’s pretty cute too, just so you know.

Connie.
Harry.
An excerpt from the original Chapter Three of ‘The First Door”.

As for Jake, who became very important to the story, well… I asked someone if I could model him off them as I didn’t really have a good idea of who he was in my head. I knew who other people were, to a certain degree and I’m still grinning about who I had chosen to “model” them off, as well. I know these people would have thoroughly enjoyed playing off the smidges of badly written pieces I’d have given them, because to them, that is exactly why they have chosen their occupations.

I suppose, in a way, this is a kind of “goodbye” to that story from me, although I can never really say goodbye to it. It will always be treasured in my heart, and the reading of its sections have been a part of my family over the last however many years it’s been.

I’m not writing it again. It took too long the first time.

I’m just not going there.

Horseplay: a story of clowns

To be very honest with you, I don’t know whether this one should be repeated or not, but we wrote it together, like many other things we wrote together.

I had my own Words once, many years ago. It isn’t the same thing now. Horseplay was written by us for fun.

C.S Capewell and C.D Chevalier.

Citrin du Chevalier was a magnificent stallion of ill repute who wanted to tell a story before his brains fell out.

‘Why would your brains fall out, Citrin,’ asked his rider, a jockey by any other name.

‘Because I have been very silly, galloping around the countryside, and forgetting what I am supposed to be doing.’ Here, Citrin says, “I am better now, this was long ago and far away and I am better but I’m still an idiot.’

‘Is that why you wish to be a goldfish’ the jockey asked gently, rubbing Citrin’s magnificent chestnut neck.

‘Neigh,’ cried Citrin. ‘But, it resonated with me, because I have the attention span of one.’

The jockey pondered this for a little while, then asked Citrin if he would like to try some dressage.

‘To be honest, I am used to racing,’ Citrin snorted. ‘Dressage makes me a little cranky. Can we have a run around the paddock a few times and then, perhaps, I’ll give it a whirl.’

So, the jockey took off her boots and spurs, reminded Citrin he was not a porcupine because they do not exist in Australia, then removed Citrin’s saddle and bridle, unbranded his coat and removed the iron from his feet. She did not let him float off and up into the air, she let his winter coat grow in and he began to look a little scruffy.

‘How does that feel, Citrin,’ she asked, looking into his mismatched yet awesome eyes.

‘It feels like I am free, for once.’ He puffed through his nostrils and looked around the paddock. And, looking back on these words, he says softly “It feels like I am free all over again. Thank you. ‘How big is the world beyond this paddock, oh jockey friend.’

‘The world is a very large place, Citrin, and I am a little concerned you may get lost. But, here in Australia the sky goes on forever and, if you plan carefully, you can run for many kilometres before you need to stop.’

‘I like this idea,’ said Citrin. ‘Would you be too concerned about me running for many years?’

‘It depends on what you want to run, and whether you want to run to something or from something. What would you like to do, Citrin?’

‘I just want to run to something rather than from something,’ Citrin said. ‘That is all I want to do. I haven’t been able to run to something for a very long time and I’m sad. I just need to have a destination.’

The jockey stroked his scraggly mane, and brushed his tail until it shone. ‘Before I open this gate again, Citrin, I am going to let you have a rest in a safe place and think about where you would like to run to. I know you have been a good stallion all your life, now, and I know you just need to have a break. I think you are perfectly capable of being victorious one last time, if you want to be.’

You write it differently today, he thinks. This is not how it went the last time. I have a copy too. I think I am getting fed up with people more often than I’m not, and I really need to talk about it to my friends. Properly this time, I think, not just with you.

This had been a huge step in the right direction for Citrin. The jockey did not sit outside the gate and wait, and she did not need to find the other horses who were Citrin’s friends. They had found him quite soon after this story was written the first time, and have been “coddling the bejesus” out of him ever since. They had spoken of pavlova, and how one should not eat in bathtubs, and had spoken of pools, and how one should sing about scarecrows in pools, and had laughed a great deal about being weird and friendly, all at the same time, and they had reached a point where almost every single one of them was reasonably happy, if not completely whole again.

Little did she know, they had helped her write this one last time as well, and were sitting in bathtubs with rubber duckies, and crying into their noodles, and desperately trying to be patient and not mean, and demonstrating that they could be nice too, if they really wanted to.

What matters the most though, more than anything else, is that they are trying. And, if they’re trying their best, that’s all we ever ask for really, isn’t it?

‘Yes,’ whispered Citrin from atop a distant mountain. He looked down at the chestnut gelding he had “appliqued on his destrier’s blanket” just the previous week. ‘That’s all we can ask for.’

Protection.

‘Will you tell me a story?’

Yes, of course I will. You sit in my lap and I’ll tuck your brothers into bed, okay?

‘Okay. Can we do Jack and the Beanstalk? Or Hansel and Gretel? Or maybe we do inside things today.’

‘It’s sleepy time now. You can fall asleep while I tell the story.’

‘I wanna see pictures.’

‘You make pictures in your head then, okay?’

‘I don’t like that poster. It makes me scared.’

‘The poster on the wall? It’s just a lion at the circus, baby. We’ll tell another story.’

‘Okay.’ He curls up small, little blonde ringlets shining in the lamplight. His mother tells the story, and she does all the voices, and he can see the rabbit with the irish accent in his head.

‘I like the rabbit,’ he mumbles. ‘It’s nice.’

His brothers ask for the blue light. She holds up a finger and traces it around them.

‘It will protect you all through the night,’ she says, and they can almost see it glowing.

‘See,’ says the littlest one. ‘This is my mummy. She protects me.’

Motivation?

He starts laughing. He knows what’s coming.

‘It did take me a while to get used to it,’ he mutters. ‘Go on then.’

Are we driving? Have we just met? What did I say that made you laugh.

They’re friends.

‘You said I had pretty eyes,’ he says. He chuckles again. ‘I think you may have said that a lot.’

‘One of my favourite pastimes.’

We’re driving.

‘Move over.’

‘I can’t move over. If I move over, I’ll have to open the door, and then I’ll fall out.’

‘Fine then. You should probably stop the car.’

‘Stop the car?’

‘Get your hand off your dick, and stop the car.’

He grins. ‘Got it.’

He gets his hand off his dick, and stops the car. She gets out, lifts a finger (it’s the right way round, dude, don’t get offended) and walks around the back of the vehicle.

‘I’m not stupid,’ she says as she comes up to the driver’s side.

‘I wouldn’t run you over,’ he protests.

‘Shush. Move over. Don’t get that handbrake stuck up your arse though, will ya.’

He moves over.

‘Buckle up.’

He buckles up. ‘Where are we going?’ He grins.

‘Where do you wanna go?’

‘I dunno. I asked first.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘Stop being a shithead. Where are we going?’

‘That way.’

‘That way?’ He points down the road. ‘You mean this way?’

‘Splitting hairs now, are we?’ She throws it in first.

‘Handbrake,’ he mutters.

‘I’ll give you a fucking hand brake. I’m surprised it’s not still stuck up your arse.’

There may be no small amount of chuckling. ‘God, you’re a bitch.’

‘Thank you. Oh it sounds good, doesn’t it?’ The engine has that little bit of a whine – the sound you know you are going to have a good time to. ‘I didn’t think the old girl had it in her. Who did her up?’

‘I did.’

‘You might have mentioned that once or twice. I just wasn’t sure, you know? Said something about the VIN?’

‘Yeah. Might have said something like that. I missed her a lot when she went. Didn’t get stolen though. Know we aren’t gonna talk about that, are we?’

‘Nah. We’ll leave that. Second.’

‘Second?’

Yep. Second. ‘She’s got a bit of grunt. Better for a straight road, I think.’

‘You’re probably right. Couldn’t keep up with me down those windy roads, could ya.’

‘Fuck off.’ Third. ‘Wind the window down.’

‘What the fuck for.’

Oh good, he’s starting to relax.

‘Having fun yet?’

‘Ya know what. I think I am.’ He leans back and winds down the window. ‘Where’d you say we were going?’

‘This way.’

Trapped.

Does it think I don’t know how this feels?

I’m trapped here. Or, it feels like I’m trapped. There is one thing between me, and getting the hell out of here, and that’s this bloody barrier. So, I walk. Back and forth, back and forth, every little part of me just wanting to do something to get out. I shake my hands, trying to release that tension and make another half turn. I’m gonna start counting my steps in a minute, or maybe I’m not. This is not frustration I’m feeling at all. I’m just really… I dunno.

Back and forth, back and forth. I can feel it bubbling up inside me, but I can’t make a scene, can I. Nah. That’s not the done thing. Not around here. I need to keep my face still. The cameras are on me. Back and forth, back and forth. I swear I’ll start making a trench in this hard cement floor if I keep this up.

If someone comes in, maybe I’ll roll my eyes when they’re not lookin’. What for though, eh? No effin’ reason really. It’s not their fault. Back and forth, back and forth. Sun’s coming up. I can see that first pink blush out the window through the trees. Can’t get out there though, can I. Back and forth, back and forth. Feels like I’m gonna explode.

So, I’ll get a drink or something. A glass of water? Nup, can’t be stuffed. Back and forth, back and forth. I just wanna move, that’s all. Move a little further than this bloody line. Get out on the other side for a bit. Change of scenery, ya know? Back and forth. Can’t though. I’m stuck here. Stuck here with someone watching safely somewhere in their tiny room.

They’ve changed the music. What’s this shit? Is that supposed to keep me entertained? Back and forth, back and forth. See now, I’ve started thinking about what the words mean. Never much cared before, just listened, or heard, sang it a few times, that’s it. But I’m stuck here now, stuck in this stupid place and definitely not marching to the beat of me own bloody drum. Back and forth, back and forth.

Someone’s coming. I gotta be nice.

Fuck this.

‘Good morning.’

They wander around aimlessly, doing their own thing, making little mistakes I wouldn’t have made. Blah blah, here we go. Back and forth, back and forth. You think I’m in a temper? I’m not in a temper. This is nothing. I’m controlled here.

‘It’s all good, don’t worry about it.’

Back and forth, back and forth. Not lookin’ at the time, not yet. I’ll feel better soon. Just gotta find something to do, that’s all. Back and forth.

Yeah, just gotta find something to do.

‘Have a good day.’