I am trying to tell the future (Hand me my glasses)
There are trends in sex trafficking. There are things to be seen.
But I have not seen them?
There are trends, in earthquakes.
Their position, their timing. I’m sure if you give me enough time I can predict the next one. If I guess the Richter level, perhaps they will give me a prize.
If I guess the story of a hero, who drags the screaming children from the rubble, perhaps they will give me a Pulitzer. Maybe I will give hope. I can do it, but not without my glasses. This is where you come in.
Hand me my glasses and I will mention you in my acceptance speech.
“I sure am glad that my predictions saved so many lives. Those children are alive now. And that is not a problem as I solved over-population too. That was a simple one. Stop fucking.” Careless fucks cost lives.
I will be given honorary degrees from every major University in the Western Hemisphere. They will create new programmes of study around my theories. The art of Prophecy will be as respected as Literature or Law. Schools will have my picture on the walls. I will be the Chairman Mao of saving everyone from everything.
My wife will be beautiful and she will support me. She will accurately identify when to be humble and stay away from the press. She will not over-react to my infidelities, as I will have warned her well in advance. Our marriage counselling will begin on our first date. We will have already named our children before we meet; Pablo and Consuela. They will have to attend public school, of course, just like the other children.
They will ask me for the answers to upcoming tests. I will laugh and ruffle their hair. I will send them to the school bus with an extra large hug on certain days, as I know what is in store. It will be difficult for everyone – but there will be good times.
I can already remember the time when we will visit Lake Tahoe – the sun will shine through the trees and scatter around our feet as the endless passages of time embrace my arms and legs and pin me to the dust.
Wednesday 26 May 2010
Groceries
In the cafe on the main street downtown I can see my ex-husband. He is sitting at the window, with his head down, picking at his food. I recognise him straight away and am suddenly very aware I will be walking into his eye-line if he lifts his head. I ghost between two parked cars and park myself on a bench, just out of sight, beside a tree.
His top section is visible through the window along with his feet, resting on a ledge. I can make out his expression to some extent, but I cannot, for the life of me, place it. He scrapes something off his burger before taking a bite. I watch him as he chews for a moment before looking out of the window, gazing into the distance. I imagine myself there beside him, several years ago. His frame is thinner and his hair is thicker, but his eyes glow the way only I have seen. I could walk into the cafe and act surprised, I could tell him how great he looks, perhaps we will embrace awkwardly. Maybe we will have a coffee, maybe we will laugh about the time we spent in Rome, and how the cheap champagne made him sick; how he sang me a song about maidens and castles as he lay slumped across our cheap, unmade hotel bed. Then can imagine how the conversation will progress. I will accidentally bring up Marianne, perhaps I subconsciously want to, and things will turn sour. He will raise his voice a little and say ‘I thought we were over this’ and he will look away, resignation in his eyes. I will catch them in the mirror and something inside me would shatter beyond repair.
Suddenly I am standing, turning away from the cafe. My feet are guiding me away from the hostile situation. Maybe one day, but not today. I can pick up the eggs from the grocery store on the end of the street instead, it is a little more expensive there, but that hardly matters. And the bread? Well, that can surely wait until tomorrow.
His top section is visible through the window along with his feet, resting on a ledge. I can make out his expression to some extent, but I cannot, for the life of me, place it. He scrapes something off his burger before taking a bite. I watch him as he chews for a moment before looking out of the window, gazing into the distance. I imagine myself there beside him, several years ago. His frame is thinner and his hair is thicker, but his eyes glow the way only I have seen. I could walk into the cafe and act surprised, I could tell him how great he looks, perhaps we will embrace awkwardly. Maybe we will have a coffee, maybe we will laugh about the time we spent in Rome, and how the cheap champagne made him sick; how he sang me a song about maidens and castles as he lay slumped across our cheap, unmade hotel bed. Then can imagine how the conversation will progress. I will accidentally bring up Marianne, perhaps I subconsciously want to, and things will turn sour. He will raise his voice a little and say ‘I thought we were over this’ and he will look away, resignation in his eyes. I will catch them in the mirror and something inside me would shatter beyond repair.
Suddenly I am standing, turning away from the cafe. My feet are guiding me away from the hostile situation. Maybe one day, but not today. I can pick up the eggs from the grocery store on the end of the street instead, it is a little more expensive there, but that hardly matters. And the bread? Well, that can surely wait until tomorrow.
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