poetry

Flight

A plane appeared overhead at around eleven am. It went over once, turned rather gracefully, and came over again, dipping one wing once as if to say it had seen him.

Bart felt quite exposed. Had Solway been contacting some of those people he’d never met, to save his sorry arse? He didn’t know whether to be pleased about it or not. He decided he was pleased, and even waved as the plane slowly disappeared in a northerly direction.

He’d been making rather boring clips about the boringness of wattle, but the absolute gloriousness of what could live in it, that including many snails (which were white), birds (which were many colours), and a very large goanna who eyed him carefully as if it thought he might be rather good to climb up. The running away very quickly part, which Bart decided he should get a little bit better at, had been rather amusing when he looked back on the very wobbly video of it, and that had been just before he’d spotted the plane that had spotted him.

He was in quite a good mood. Possibly because he could no longer see the goanna.

Splendid appeared in his proper form just after the plane went, and didn’t change into a tall man in a blue suit gone brown at all. Neither did his two remaining girlfriends change into rather attractive women wearing bomber jackets. It was slightly disappointing, but settled Bart somewhat as he assumed he was getting better, mentally at least.

No one spoke in his head either.

He wondered how long it would be before Solway got there. He could kind of do with a cuddle.

Solway, driving along an unnamed highway with her brother in the passenger seat, wondered why he seemed to resemble some kind of large black sheep dog this morning. She should probably not have said that out loud.

‘You what now?’ Hans said. ‘Seeeeeerrriously?’

‘It is fair to say you possibly need a haircut.’

‘Now listen here, you cheeky shit,’ Hans said, not sounding in the least bit grumpy. ‘I’ll have you know that longish hair on men is the thing now, so there.’

‘Of course it is.’

‘Stop laughing.’ He smoothed back his dark brown hair, and shook it, which made her laugh even louder.

‘You look like… well… like a labradoodle now.’

‘You can fuck right off, and watch the road instead of me, because, despite how physically attractive I might be, which I am I’ll have you know, you are supposed to look at the road when you’re driving.’

‘I am merely glancing at you occasionally,’ Solway replied. ‘For, after all, dear sweet little brother of mine…’

‘I am quite a bit taller than you.’

‘Don’t interrupt me… I have missed you a great deal, and it is nice to see my baby brother sitting next to me.’

‘It is also probably nice for your wonderful, understatedly beautiful, and amazing brother to pay for this rather expensive rental,’ said Hans, leaning back into the comfortable leather seat and closing his eyes.

‘It is nice,’ Solway agreed. ‘Thank you, again.’

‘You’ll pay me back, I’m sure.’

‘Unlikely.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ He smiled and Solway grinned as well. This is exactly what she’d needed.

‘Okay,’ she said about ten minutes later. ‘According to Tony, Bart’s not too far from where we left the road the first time.’

Hans sat up. ‘This is the part where I should start navigating loudly in the passenger seat, isn’t it.’

‘It really depends on how fast you want me to go.’

‘Very fucking slowly, if you don’t mind. If you could possibly not scratch the paint work, that would also be desirable.’

‘I’m not quite sure –.’ Solway said, slowing down considerably.’ – whether that is going to be possible. Hang on. Here we go.’

‘Oh. Oh fuck… Weeeeeeeeeeee,’ said Hans as they turned onto the uphill track and he began to bounce around inside the cab.

He sounded happy, and for the first time in the last however many hours, Solway felt not half as worried as she had been. After all, how can one be worried when one is doing things one absolutely loves to do – one thing being seeing if you can get your little brother to hit a part of his body against something pointy in an extremely expensive, well rounded (with no pointy bits whatsoever), four-wheel-drive – and the other thing, hopefully, retrieving her boyfriend.

________________o_______________ ( <– this is representing a rising sun, or a sunrise, or a sunwalk)

It had been some time since Bart had seen the plane, but not quite as long as when he started second guessing himself and wondering if it had actually been there for him.

Nobody did things like that for Bartholomew Branson.

Then he thought about the fact the plane had indeed circled back overhead, and had indeed dipped a wing, and decided not to argue with himself about it. He forgot that decision rather quickly though, and once again started the whole argument with himself in his head until he got to the point he was getting extremely tired of listening to himself, and if anyone could just turn up magically like they were supposed to, that would be grand.

He decided to make himself a long convoluted video on the meaning of life, but had only just got into the revelations of mysterious men on hilltops when a very large and menacing looking four-wheel-drive appeared around a group of tuarts and bumped slowly towards him, making hardly any sound at all. Bart thanked his lucky stars he had put on tracksuit pants three hours beforehand and even then, had decided changing behind a tree would be an extremely good idea, because if there was one thing Bart had, it was decorum.

‘Kitten,’ he cried, and actually tried not to, when the driver of the large, terrifying vehicle smiled widely at him from under a pair of wrap-around sunglasses. 

Then he saw the guy in the passenger seat. He sincerely hoped the man was Solway’s brother, whom he’d only met once several months beforehand, because if it wasn’t, he had serious doubts he’d be able to compete against him in any way whatsoever.

The man put up his hand, wiggled his fingers at Bart in a very unsatisfying greeting then leapt gracefully from the passenger seat while the vehicle was still moving (albeit extremely slowly) tripped over something Bart could not see, and landed face first in a wattle bush.

Bart decided he liked this man anyway, regardless of how good-looking he seemed to be, and, he decided if he was good-looking it was possibly, not obviously, but possibly because he could very well be Solway’s brother because good looks run in families, or so he was told once by a very angry drunk man at a pub.

He wondered why he’d decided to remember that now.

‘Hi,’ said Solway, rolling down the ultra cool, deeply-tinted, electric window of the driver’s side of the vehicle. ‘Wait until I turn this thing off, because I haven’t quite figured it out yet and don’t know which button I’m supposed to press.’

‘It has buttons?’

’It has! Isn’t that exciting?’

‘So exciting.’

 They smiled widely at each other while Solway inadvertently turned the headlights on and off. Her brother had rolled himself athletically out of the wattle bush and leapt to his feet with gymnastic preciseness. Then he spent the next five minutes or so wiping every little piece of dirt he could find on his rather expensive looking clothing off, checked himself in the passenger side rear view mirror, and exclaimed …

‘Oh hey, You’re filming.’

‘Oh shit,’ said Bart. ‘I am too. Do you want to be in it?’

‘No thanks. I have other obligations.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Not exactly, but yeah, I don’t know whether I can or not, as I’m not sure how it would affect my business contract, and I’d have to run it past my new restaurant manager and you know what, fuck it, okay.’

‘I think you could be my new best friend,’ Bart said from under Solway’s rather rough and tumble hugging.

‘Let’s not get too excited,’ said Hans.

‘Do you need a hug,’ said Bart.

‘No. I don’t. Do you have coffee? I’d like one of those.’

~~~o~~~,~’___oo__~~,~’**8)>

“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 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.