There Is No Diamond In The Sand

 

He dreamed the most precious diamond in the world was buried on a beach. He set himself the task of sifting all the sand on all the beaches in all the world until he found that diamond. He soon realized he didn't have time to sift all the sand on all the beaches in all the world. He would be lucky to complete one beach in his lifetime. 

He searched his memory for details of the dream, sought a clue, a hint, any reference that might at least tell him which beach. He found nothing, just a dream of himself sifting a handful of sand, finding the most precious diamond in all the world.

He tried to dream the dream again, to no avail. He went mad. All he could think about was sifting sand, finding a diamond.

While he was incarcerated, he wrote a self-help book titled Dreams Are For Fools. He taught people how to avoid dreaming, how to avoid disappointment. “There is no diamond in the sand” became his catchphrase.

The book sold, and sold. The man became insanely wealthy. He could buy any diamond he desired.

One morning he awoke from a new and beautiful dream. He knew what he had to do. He purchased the most precious diamond in all the world, spread a rumor that he had buried it on a beach.

A beach somewhere. 

He travelled, watching people on all the beaches in all the world sifting all the sand, trying to find his dream diamond.

“There is no diamond in the sand”, he would say, but no one would listen.

Parkstreet

Ko-fi

Dazzling

 

Reminiscing about that time I was walking down NE Alberta and a woman stopped suddenly in front of me then turned to give me a dazzling smile by way of apology and the word dazzling came out of my mouth and hung in the air like a caption from a silent movie then the action started again and I kept walking and I never saw her again.

I said dazzling.

Like I’d travelled through time to be an idiot. And now my mind is going back in time and laughing at me.

I said dazzling.

Parkstreet

Ko-fi

Every Step

 

One o’clock in the morning I’m sauntering home after a sweet day full of coffee and conversation and enough work to pay my bills. My old black Chucks are so worn in, they have grown wings. I don’t feel the ground, every step is poetry.

The idea of detachment has been on my mind all day. I'm blissfully detached. As a boy racer makes an attempt on my life at a pedestrian crossing, I have Roger Federer's footwork, I dance around him, then forget he exists. Anger spent on fools is below me tonight.

I weave through the bustling crowd on the strip. My mind pays no attention. My feet know which direction to lead me. They can feel the unknowable patterns in chaos.

My pace slows as I approach the heavy lads between me and my home. To speed up would be to admit intimidation. My gait tells them I'm removed from their world. The sins they have to offer are in my wake.

I smile at happy couples, walking arm in arm, step for step. I'm charmed by them. I feel I have the universe on my arm. Everything and everyone are my lovers. The rhythm of my steps is the rhythm of everything, the rhythm of everything is the rhythm of my steps. How could it be any other way, if everything is me and I am everything? 

My day's thoughts on detachment conclude as my journey home is complete. I have to walk through this world on my own two feet, I can make every step poetry.

Parkstreet

Ko-fi

Student Of Nuance

 

A student of nuance, he is interested in the hinges, not the door. A door is just a wall without hinges, without the fluid, moving parts. 

Let the students of metaphysics see everything as a lock and a key, let the practical folk design and build better doors and locks. Let the artists make the doors more beautiful. The student of nuance is only interested in the subtle movement that alters reality.

Parkstreet

Ko-fi

Local

 

Was she a local?

Damn right she was a local.

Allow me to explain how local she was.

One evening, just before sunset, she told me to don my thickest scarf and come out for a walk with her. It wasn’t that cold, but she rarely wasted words, so I fetched my scarf and followed her down the stairs from our little flat and out onto the street.

She led me down a lane which turned into a slender path between old blocks of flats, onto and across the beach road, through the park, round the back of the yacht club. There was a party on at the yacht club. She saw my eyes light up, shook her head, took my hand and guided me out onto the pier.

The scarf suddenly made sense. It was cold out there.

We wandered to the end of the pier, as far as I’d gone before, but she led me around the back of the kiosk and onto the marina wall. We climbed down onto the large rocks that held the waves of the bay at bay, sat down and looked out at the water.

She produced a sneaky joint from a denim jacket inside pocket. We smoked and snuggled.

As the sun set our eyes adjusted to the dark. I saw a small movement on the rocks below us, she squeezed my hand and held a finger to her lips. We sat in glorious silence as two tiny penguins hopped and fumbled their way up the rocks. They passed right beside her. She could have reached out and touched them.

After we’d scrambled back up to the top of the wall, started walking back down the pier, I thanked her, a hundred times, for such an experience. I remarked on how close they came to her, still amazed.

“They know me”, she said.

That’s how local she was.

For Jacqueline Elizabeth Scanlon

Parkstreet

Ko-fi

Origami Boats

 

He started making origami boats. He needed something to distract him, something to do with his hands.

Large squares of coloured paper, really for children, but suitable for his large, clumsy fingers, turned into cheerful boats at his kitchen table. Why not boats? They seemed the simplest shape to begin with.

He took one in when he visited his mother, with the usual butterscotch and chocolate. She was delighted by it, delighted that he’d made it, delighted that he’d brought it to her.

So he took one with him whenever he visited, until the windowsill and the top of the fridge were covered by boats, until the ceiling fan blew boats around the room in summer, until the staff found a vast glass bowl to be filled with brightly coloured origami boats, a potpourri of the love of a son.

One day she was holding one of the boats when he came in. She wasn’t really sure who he was by then. She just knew that he brought the boats.

“I’ll have to go soon. On a boat. Will I have to go alone?”

“You will”, he said honestly, “but I’ll be here to see you away safely, so don’t worry”.

“And everyone will be there to meet you when you arrive, so you’ll only be alone for a moment”, he lied.

He had no idea what would happen once she sailed away, he just knew that part of seeing her off was telling her this comforting lie.

She pointed to the bowl full of boats. “What will happen to those?”, she asked.

“I’ll look after them.”

“That’s good. I’ve been worried about them.”

She closed her eyes.

He resisted the urge to call the nurse, watched the origami boat fall from her fingers.

Parkstreet

Ko-fi