Smell the flowers while you can. – David Wojnarowicz
You were somewhere deep in the intercourse of a dream
when the alarm went off. You rolled over, killed the alarm,
and glared outside at the low-hanging grayness—then you
pulled yourself out of bed and walked to the kitchen to start
the coffee. You needed more time to sleep, but the time
had already planned its escape, and as the coffee brewed,
you paused for a moment, lulled into a dead stare at the fuel
filling its glass tank and getting ready to ignite. And the vague
lethargy that held you there staring at it knew that you weren't
focused on the liquid but rather the deep, nebulous well its blackness
represented as you watched it climb to the top: the deeper knowledge
that something important was being drained to make room for what
that blackness meant. You forced yourself to look away to the front
door of your small apartment that led to the sundeck overlooking
the boardwalk, and you went to the door, turned the handle,
and stepped outside. The thermometer hanging from the balcony
read 71 degrees. The overcast was immense, and it was the
strangest thing—it wasn’t moving. It was fixed and defiant,
almost laughing, as if a fugitive mass of unconsciousness
had broken free and graffitied the city with thick, heavy paint
stolen from of the sea. And suddenly you forgot—were you really
awake, or still alive, or a disembodied subject for oil and canvas,
smoking a cigarette on the sundeck? The tourists on the beach
were perfect copies of nudes lazing in a steamy meadow, the surf-
boards were bent like blades of wet grass, and even the lifeguards
were lax and luxuriating. The waves tumbled over and over
like playful lovers wrestling in the sand—then a jet liner
leaned into a plush blanket of clouds, and you watched
through scattered breaks in the clouds its fat white belly as it
yawned across the sky. You walked back inside to the kitchen,
leaned your painted figure against the counter, and began pouring
cream for the coffee—but it was so thick and heavy and irrepressibly
sweet, that you left the coffee and filled the cup with cream.
Then you picked up the phone and planned your escape.
Sometimes, their is an irrepressible urge to give in to your anarchistic impulses…triggered by a day that seduces you with its simple yet intoxicating pleasures that have nothing to do with the workaday world. Thank you for making a simple decision to opt for a bit of freedom so wonderfully enjoyable to read.
Creative humour, satire and other bad ideas by Ross Murray, an author living in the Eastern Townships of Quebec, Canada. Is it truth or fiction? Only his hairdresser knows for sure.
I'm Michelle. This is my blog. I write about women and fatness, expound upon semi-coherent thoughts I have in the middle of the night, and offer tough love to those in whom I am disappointed; they are legion.
“but the time had already planned its escape” Beautiful.
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Thank you. True story about the best day I ever called in “sick.”
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Congratulations on being Freshly Pressed.
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Thank you.
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Loved the flow
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Glad you loved it. Thank you.
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This was beautiful.
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Thank you.
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Great , thanks
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Well written, although I can’t believe you passed on the coffee haha. Of course if you were heading back to bed then I understand 🙂
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I know, right? Why didn’t I just take the coffee back to bed? 😉
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Well then you probably wouldn’t have been able to sleep 🙂
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Loved this.
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I love that you loved this. Thank you.
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Love the way you write! The first line itself was so beautifully put 🙂 , loved it!
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Thanks, that means a lot!
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This is absolutely wonderful! I really liked the last line – brought the whole poem to a lovely end.
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Thanks, I’m really glad you enjoyed it. That last line is pretty much what happened, too.
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“time had already planned its escape,” excellent!
fine piece.
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Thanks, I really appreciate that. It’s a mostly-true story about the best day I ever called in “sick” (wink).
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So well written. Like I was right there with you.
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Thank you for that. I’m glad it spoke to you.
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So very well written and thought out. I feel like I was there. Great work.
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Thanks, I really appreciate that. I think we’ve all been there in one form or another.
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Beautiful!
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Reblogged this on lonelylifelikelove and commented:
So touched!! Great writing! Allow me a repost..
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Thank you! Permission granted!
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“A fugitive mass of unconsciousness
had broken free and graffitied the city with thick, heavy paint
stolen from of the sea”, just excellent
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And apparently the line that got it Freshly Pressed. I’m glad you enjoyed it, thank you.
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Freshly pressed brought me here. Fantastic. Just Brilliant.
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Thank you very much. Have a look around, there’s more.
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Absolutely monstrously beautiful. I was looking for inspiration today and now I’ve found it.
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Thank you, I’m glad you’re inspired… perhaps inspired to take the day off! Cheers!
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Well written!
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Thank you!
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Sometimes, their is an irrepressible urge to give in to your anarchistic impulses…triggered by a day that seduces you with its simple yet intoxicating pleasures that have nothing to do with the workaday world. Thank you for making a simple decision to opt for a bit of freedom so wonderfully enjoyable to read.
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Thank you, and you’re very welcome. I felt it was my responsibility to write about the best day I ever called in sick.
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that’s how i feel every morning dude. i’m in the sf bay area. stupid fog.
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