Hello, you

Hello my few remaining followers ❤ I’ve been away for a very long time and not giving you the attention you deserve at all, but tonight I’ve written a poem for you all and I hope you enjoy it ❤

Hello, You – By Ali Carroll

 

Scent of you:

Scent of new and scent of old.

 

Thinking of you, I paste my lips

Against the envelope of letters home.

Ink sinks into me as it sinks into pulp,

And I breathe your notes just as I read them,

Flipping through nostalgia.

 

Twisted in memory the feel of water,

The smell of chlorine in tousled hair.

I remember it as I pass by doors,

Open doors of public pools,

I remember summer.

 

Summer days of sand and sea,

A beach of waving wind and sodden towels,

Picnic baskets with the smell of bread,

I open the bottle and breathe in sun.

 

There’s no space between then and now.

 

I remember the burial when I smell the earth,

Upturned earth on polished wood.

The casket smelled of varnished stain,

But the wind smelled sweet and warm.

 

Fluttering lillies on the arm of your mother,

They kissed you, caressed you and took you home.

 

It’s funny,

That a single drop of men’s cologne

Can break your heart with its static jolt,

Yet bring back to life what’s long been gone:

 

You.

 

You make your home in the hollows of my synapses.

You’re in my nose, my hands, my fading eyes,

Ingrained in me with the sun and the beach,

With the chlorinated waft of heated pools,

And the quiet rake of a stippled beard.

 

I eat your memory on a salivated tongue.

 

I know you’re not here anymore,

But I like to think of you.

 

Inside morning coffee brewed past done,

Inside jean and ballcap oiled hair,

Inside fall and dust and musky leaves,

 

I like to think,

 

That all those little sparkling reminders,

 

Are you inside me saying hello.

 

Hello, you.

 

That Poster on That Window

It was one of those times you knew was going to change you. You knew, as you stood in that particular place, that life would never be the same again.

It was on a window. The object of change: the flat pressed, pixelated, faded and tearing monument of a poster, with the masking tape so inexpertly placed on the inside of the window; window so glass-like and mostly un-fingerprinted; window so fatefully exposing this single poster. But oh, the poster! I was stuck in my tracks, my heels glued to the concrete sidewalk, my calf quivering slightly in shock at the intensity of the revelation the poster had just inspired. What is this life, that these moments can be so happenstance and unexpected?!

I had just gotten out of my dad’s bright red, suped-up ‘Kitchener Clean’ work car, shuffling low and slowly in my brooding way, jingling my keys and mulling to myself, “Gee I wish I wasn’t so burdened with self doubt and insecurity that I feel as though I can’t even sing, or dance without society and the government judging me”, when, like an act of destiny, there it was. Taped to the inside of the window of the Ten Thousand Villages, the poster hung there in all its glory, ‘Sing as if no one is listening, Dance as if no one is watching’. The words burned through my brooding and cynical outer core and into my heart, resonating with meaning. The originality of them had taken me aback, shocking me as the new idea came over me, and I wondered why no one else had ever come to the same revelation. The world would be so great if everyone saw these words. But not to worry; change, starts with you.

I whirled away from the poster and happily marched the rest of the way to the door of the closed office building I was to be cleaning. With a skip in my stride, a hop in my step, I threw the door open to the empty hallway of Ten Thousand Villages, pausing with my chest out and my hands fisted, letting the wind blow my sweater tails and the tumbleweed across the parking lot behind me. I was a new human. The engine of the car was still warm and just clicking off. The memory of the radio song still thrummed in the air. The day was electric and I sucked it all in, eyes gleaming and wild and full of new life. I let the door shut and swaggered forward jauntily, raising my eyebrow to the wall then looking away aloofly. “Hey”, I said through body language. “What’s up?”. I cleared my throat. Silence. Tension. Breathe. Pause for effect. Release.

“I,

HATE,

EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU

WHY,

DO I,

LOVE YOU?

I,

HATE,

YOU,

HATE,

I,

HATE,

YOU,

HATE,

ME,

I,

HATE,

YOU,

HATE,

I,

ME,

YOU,

ME,

I—”

I had kick-ran-jumped far. I stood with one hand holding open an inner door, one foot already inside the revealed kitchen, looking directly at a poor, frazzled and scared deer of an office worker, clutching his mug and glancing nervously at the far door below the word, ‘escape’. After the echoes of my heartfelt ballad stopped ringing throughout the building, and the silence had stretched the required amount of time to achieve palpable embarrassment and the ideal shade of pale crimson light hue on my cheeks, I was able to collect myself enough to blurt out a much too loud, “HI! HOW ARE YOU?”. I’ve seen petrified rabbits do brilliant impersonations of this man at that moment. Only, they may not have bested him at speed of retreat.

Now I could have let this be the end of my revelatory high. The end of an only just begun era of self confidence, destroying minutes worth of personal growth progress. But did I? Did I swear to never sing-as-if-no-one-is-listening-even-if-they-really-really-are and to never dance-as-if-no-one-is-watching-or-thinks-you-are-a-manically-eccentric-demon-teen-chased-by-swarms-of-bees? No, no I did not. And why did I not? Well, because it was just too goddamn hilarious.

Prompt 4 (Creative Non-fiction, 10 min.) : The Worst Date You’ve Ever Been On

I can’t stand it anymore; the influx of men upon men that are all the same and never change.

We sat at the expensive restaurant, I all dressed up and charming, as I counted 11 minutes and 32 seconds since he’d last spoken. We’d been there 11 minutes and 32 seconds. I looked stunning, I mean, damn. And had I heard a single word from him? No. It was like he wasn’t even fully present, didn’t even realize where we were. I need a man who’s decisive, who knows what he wants. The menus came. I ordered and the waiter stood waiting, but the man never ordered, never broke his silence. I decided to look for positives in this man. I’m an artist. Out of silence and contemplation can come brilliant – or at least passable – ideas. Maybe I ought to thank him. Maybe it was his intention to push me, to forward my career, maybe he was incredibly driven himself and was already supportive of my work and enamoured with the process, wanting to be a key part of it. He wouldn’t meet my gaze. I trashed that illusion. It was the worst date ever. It was at that moment that I decided that the kinds with men that don’t exist always are.

Prompt 3 (Creative Non-Fiction, 10 min.) : A Time When You Retreated

It was on the front lines during the Iraqi war. Enemies were closing in all around us, we stood no chance. ‘RETREEEAT! RETREEEAT! FALL BACK TO MINISTIRITTTTTHHHH!’ Faramir cried. And so I did. I woke up. It haunts me to this day, as I casually sip tea in a college class, or during long in-depth conversations with friends. Flash guilt feelings. Why really did I retreat in that dream? Was it because I was scared, or because I knew that Faramir, already so misjudged and un-loved by his own father, would feel immense guilt if our death was on his hands? Was I just doing him a solid, or am I cowardly at center? And then I wonder about the real advantage of bravery and whether cowardice instead is simply realistic. And then that starts me thinking about the meaning of dreams and how Freud’s been all but discredited which brings me back to psychology class where I always drank tea, which brings me back to the present, as I casually sip tea in my college class. I love the days of self discovery.

Prompt 2 (Creative Non-Fiction, 10 min) : Where I live now

An alarm doesn’t have to be obnoxious. It doesn’t have to be a pealing repetitive torture mechanism that causes seizures in every layer of your brain. It can be melodious and building, a sweet and soothing crescendo that opens your lids softly like a mothers touch as you blink the sleep out of your eyes and smile as you hear it thinking ‘Ah what a glorious six thirty am. on a Monday!” But it’s not that. It’s never that. I slam my hand down on the military grade interrogation weapon to silence its shots, and it crashes off its precarious perch growing angrier and louder. I groan. Throwing my arm over the side with my face in the pillow I reach around a little for it and finally manage to maneuver the dial to it’s off position. Mornings. Blankets. Sigh.
Alright, It’s waking up time. I roll out of the coffin sized bed, get up, and run into the wall. Confused, cold, and legs-over-head on the floor, I peer fearfully around at the four tight walls and ceiling compressing me… What the hell? When did I get transferred to solitary in the State Penitentiary? Damn that must have been one hangover. I see a door and ecstatically escape… In to Antarctica. My foot hit the darkened hallway floor and stuck. Chiseling my heal off of the frozen laminate, I whirl back into the cell and pant heavily, collapsing against the hastily closed door. I see my bed, and lie back in it, burying myself under the covers and turning the alarm on snooze. I’ll deal with waking up in ten minutes.

Prompt 1 (Creative Non-fiction, 10 min)

Without limbs, without face, you’re there. You wait for me. Like the most mooning and devoted groupie, you wait. You never wander, you never stray; but remain. And I, I take advantage of that loyalty; that un-swaying presence, and I use you. You offer yourself freely to me with no advantage to yourself but disadvantage, simply because I want you, I need you. You aren’t my only, I must admit. I do not share your ever steady fidelity, there are others and I feel no regret. But I’ll always come back to you. My tea leaves.