Pennied Thoughts...

~Reflections of a life less desired~


He came one night, as silently as the fog that spread across the bay. He didn't have much need for rest here. It was still miles to go before he reached her. But the scent, the scent... he couldn't quite comprehend it. It lingered around the crevices of brick walls, wooden huts, car window sills. Soon, the perfume became stronger but still ever so delicate. He could taste it, slowly, slowly swirling up his nostrils, soaking his pores, he blinked. Do my eyes smell it? He tugged at his coat neck uncomfortably and as he walked on, the visions, they started again.


"My baby!"
"My baby!"

Her mouth was parted, hot vapours of sleep breath escaping. Her brow, was furrowed in deep anguish. Count the lines, the ridges. Her tiny hands clenched the bedlinens in tight fists. It felt like a quick start but her eyes merely opened into an advanced stare. A deep breath. She stared at the white washed ceiling. Stared at the french provencal cabinets that knocked her mortgage two months back. Stared, stared blinked. A singular sweat drop had carelessly traveled down her forehead and found itself by her left eye. 'My baby!' she thought. In a sudden spurt of panic she fell off the bed onto her knees.

"My baby! Someone took her away! Bring her back!"

She got up now. Pulling the nightdress tighter about her narrow waist, she tottered and ran. Out her bedroom door... past the lounge, her urgency renewed with every hasty step. Out onto the communal hallway she lurched, "MY BABY!" she cried. And yet, every where she turned it was just empty, hollow walkways. Plush, bright carpeting ran the length of each hallway, cheery poster reprints of various flower and pottery arrangement paintings decked the walls, soft pastel bulbs gleamed with the same artificial delight, ultimately giving the intended illusion of candy coloured fields and the fairy-tale happy people who live in them.

How inappropriate then that a hysterical, semi naked lady should now run down these fields of gold. Tears streaming, cheeks flushed red with anxiety, shivering and all the while calling out for some lost child. How inappropriate.

Presently she found herself in the arms of a short, stocky woman. The hold was firm, even rough, but the sounds issuing from the woman's mouth dripped with sympathy and care. She was still convulsing after five minutes in this stranger's arms. Her rambunctious wailing however, had simmered to a low cooing and the occassional hiccup.

"Come with me dear" the woman said. "I'll put the kettle on. Let's get you inside", the emphasis was placed carefully on 'inside', where they would both be within the walls of an apartment as opposed to being there, where they stood, 'outside' in the hallway, where the walls had permanent ears and eyes. She obediently followed the still firm grip of the woman. Her head was heavy and she kept it on the ample shoulder of her caretaker. The soft cashmere against her cheek aided the journey from hallway to the kitchen of the woman.

The woman sat her down at the table. Almost instantly she found a hot cup of tea clapsed in her hands. The woman then sat down and faced her squarely. Her jaw was clenched in deliberate concentration, and then she said, " Why do you torture yourself, Catherine? There is no baby. There never was."

Catherine felt her heart would explode. The pain she felt as the woman sat there, boldly lying to her, was unbearable. She knew the woman was lying because she did very much have a child. A beautiful baby girl. The woman, this woman in front of her was with her in the delivery room. She was there when Catherine was weak from child birth and lying in bed and she was there when Catherine brought the child home. She was there each time because it was the least a mother could do for her daughter and her grandchild. Her only granchild. Yet now, she sat there in all sincerity telling Catherine she had no child.


Soon it got too dark and misty to travel any further. He did not want to rest. All he knew, all he wanted, was to get to her. But he knew that he could not risk climbing and slipping over rocks and branches in the pitch blackness if he wanted to reach her alive, strong and well. So he relented and sought a dry, safe spot between an alcove of trees and there he laid his head down to rest. And to dream of her.

To be continued ¬


Don't give in. Don't surrender.
Who said a watched pot never boils over?

Sit and judge a family
Whom and how do you see?
Does time look different to you?

Bury and burn that evil,
Purity equated by greed,
Would any sense made you?

And if understood you that, try to accept this:
What father loves his child?
What mother concieves no baby?

Whence the moment you fingered daughter
Restful spirits come awake
Blackened fingers, skin and sinner
On sale your soul doth make

And her mother lies in slumber
As the father in grief partake
Watchful eyes will leave you never
Her blood, your cum, your stake

And son a mother gambles
To death she place his bet
Honour and love is justified
So they can share your bed?

While others watch to judge and swear
My love to thee I consecrate
A child of pure hope innocence
Will now no longer consummate
The joy and fun of fresh sweet youth

Despair and hate I will not make
My cross to bear to wrong so great
My hands prefer to shred some flesh
But will two wrongs a right create?

Mulling over certain things this week. A close friend inadvertently reminded me of many gross injustices in this world. I feel so angry my eyes burn with tears of rage but I equally feel so exhausted from the constant waterfall of tragedies that I witness everyday. Even more disturbing though is how frightening this has become for me. That before, I was frustrated but now it has become a deeper instinctive worry. Writing and exposure is no longer enough. I truly believe we should understand why people commit the crimes that they do. I assure you they are not pleased with themselves too. Sometimes when I am outraged, I fantasise slitting throats and shooting bodies. That is a personal problem I have to deal with but crossing the threshold of blind fury(which normally subsides after a while)and bloody reality is a different matter altogether. Let me digest this huge problem for awhile and come back with a substantial start to a solution.

What made me write such a nasty poem was because I remembered a case where a certain father raped all his daughters from when they were 7 thru to 13 and killed the eldest when she was pregnant with his child. And more recently, my friend told me of a teacher who raped his pre-teen students but has gotten away unpunished. Or of an uncle who slit his 6 year old niece's vagina open so he could fit his wilted self in. She was split all the way to her rectum. And then I open the papers and read that a mother kills her 9 year old son by continously putting salt into his intravenous drip in hospital. At one point he begged her to take it out because it hurt so much. How do you face a son who knows that you are killing him but still trusts you because you are his 'mother'? My heart bleeds.

I have a throbbing migraine now. It's not the nicotine that I worry about. It's these people that will be the death of me.

In the part of this universe that we know there is great injustice, and often the good suffer, and often the wicked prosper, and one hardly knows which of those is the more annoying ~ Bertrand Russell


I realised many truths about myself for awhile now. I find I understand more about me when others open their mouths. The more they speak the more revelating my situation becomes. I wonder if people think anymore before they start garbling.

Recently, yours truly picked up the nasty habit of taking to the drink. Which means hanging about the bar, smoking continously and listening to the 'pearls of wisdom' that spurt out randomly. You see, I'm not a drinker really, and the winter months have made me yearn for a warming ale but being the precocious Virgoan lady that I am, I don't get drunk. 3 times ever. And never again. So I sit sober listening intently.

I wonder sometimes if people see that beyond my smile and the stupid stories they tell that I really desire a blade to stab myself, ' Oh save me from the agony of being polite. From having to nod my head one more time and utter another "uh huh uhum" '

"Go home!" I tell myself and yet I sip another pint of lager. Silly me. "It's the lonesome quietness that greets you at home that you fear to face is it not? That somewhere deep within you, you long to release that prudent, practical, neurotic self control you have so proudly honed, no doubt? That you are hoping for some perchance trickery of the mind so that suddenly, even under your watchful eye and count, you're on the floor drunker than a sailor and a duck in a barrel full of malt on a hot summer's day. Just so you may then take leave to crawl unsteadily home and pass out in bed and forget about the quiet consuming emptiness within your heart." Poor child. Such a sad face.

But I know I could never allow myself such careless amounts of irresponsibility.

So I wrestle with my own demons, as always, and analyze explicitly the reasoning behind. I already know what it is I lack and need to seek. It's a personal journey so mind your own business. But it might have something to do with me giving up sex, 'oh precious delicious capricious sex' for Lent, the pressure of work and maybe, just maybe, the distance of loved ones. A special case of lovesickness perhaps? I hear the church bells ringing. It's time for me to go. And after, a nice little pint down at the pub...

I envy people who drink. At least they have something to blame everything on~ Oscar Levant


I had a conversation with God early this morning. I was telling him how I thought he had a funny sense of humour when it came to me. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't angry, I was laughing in fact. It's always been this way, he's always had things occur for me in a very, VERY unconventional way. Some people say my life's a drama, and in many ways I believe it and have begun to accept it. Geez, if you only knew how weird things are for me time and time again. People who listen to my stories always have this look of bewilderment and disbelief, some even disdain. Those closer to me know exactly what I'm talking about.

So, I was talking to him right? And this was at 4am this morning when I woke up and couldn't get back to bed. For one reason my tummy felt like a sickle was doing the dj spin in there but truly...this is the funny bit. I awoke to the sound of rustling plastic. Ok, I'm a light sleeper yeah, and slight rustling of plastic shouldn't faze my much beloved sleep. Wrong. It was too deliberate. Rustle, crumple..crumple, stop. Rustle, rustle. AHA! I knew it. I knew it the moment my landlord sent this guy to check the water tank in the attic above me. I have some 'friends' living with me as of last night. Mice. Nice.

So I lay in bed thinking what do I do. They're having a splendid party in my garbage bin, probably dancing to the spins emanating from my poor stomach. I thought to myself, parties in my room after midnight yeah? I was too weak and sickly for this and I debated letting them go just this once. Then I thought shit, what if they decide they've had enough and come snuggle with me in bed? I have this thing about germs yeah? Mice may be cute but their germ and parasite homies aren't. So I had to do what a girl had to do.

Right, so I got up, slowly and carefully reached for my glasses, I'm blind yeah, and it's pitch black but I still like to be able to see, so sue me. Anyway, at this stage the mice were like "oh-oh, the bouncer's coming" so they sorta pretend to be doing nothing, looking the other way, twiddling their thumbs probably trying to look all innocent. I get this huge Sainsbury bag and dunk the whole garbage bin in it, open my door and chuck the whole disco club outside. All this in the dark too. So I put on my pants, turn on the lights, get my flip-flops, right don't ask they were free from a mag, and go outside telling them mice that they've been blacklisted yeah? I don't know if they bolted then or not. But I made a huge show of my might, woke the neighbour up too in the process.

Anyway, the whole gist of this story is, I don't know. Just that God loves me and likes to play games with me I guess. I really am flattered though. He doesn't do it like this to many, you see guys, even number one thinks I have a good sense of humour. Wow.

Oh, and I'm hoping, those damn mice don't try to come back again tonight. I know those types, hanging around the front, pretending they've been guestlisted. Sheesh. Or rather, Cheese.

Who has been a very bad bush?
My ears bleed when I hear his lies. Careful what you say little man. The rest of the world is listening.
One who agrees: Jeffthinks
A Stolen Election: What really happened