Admission.

I completely underestimated the amount of uni work that was involved with my Grad Dip. Total respect to all my Masters friends out there. Or to anyone who (insanely) decides to tackle uni while working full-time. Consider this your high five.

As a result I am a tired-uninspired blogger. My last post was just a day shy of a month ago and yet it feels like I only just blinked. This blog was never intended to be a place where I simply reblog or post pretty pictures without extended commentary (you can see my Facebook page or Tumblr for that). It was meant to motivate me to write. With regularity. And joy. To gain confidence and feedback. I am ashamed to have let it slide into what I consider the mundane.
But. I. Just. Don’t. Have. Time. To. Uni. To. Work. To. Write. To. Blog. 
These people you see, with all this energy, what (legal) substances are they on? What meditation mantra are they humming? WHAT’S YOUR SECRET, HA?!

I am about to cheat. Instead of leaving this blog to cyber amongst the other million floating the WWW, I will begin to share with you sneaks of what is consuming most of my ‘me time’ – uni (don’t worry, there is still wine, love and daydreaming in there, I have not been lost).

Here is the first. A beginning of a short story. My writing for you to lovelikeloathe. Feedback welcome – encouraged – appreciated. Help me get ‘there’.
xmuseandskipx

Veiled                                                                               

Your eyes shock open.  Allowing yourself one last back-arching, calf-cramping full body stretch, you settle back to still.  Your eyes slowly lose their sleep glaze, focusing to take in the patterned ceiling, the heavy wardrobe and the exercise bike-come-clothes-horse in the corner.  Five years of shadowy form and linear detailing in the night’s thin moon thick dark.

            You long to relieve your full bladder but you stay still as your ears fuse in to the sounds your drunken husband makes in the old house.  The kitchen fluorescent whizzes, the floorboards groan under his heaviness and the pipes crackle to unfreeze at his abrupt appeal for water.  His legs falter on the uneven depth of the stairs before a violent cussing recovery.

            You let your lids close and mind wander while you wait.  Many memories etched fragile deep in your pale skin, your fingertips ladder to a fresh wound only but a week made on your collar bone.  You slide your left index finger across its scabby raised surface, before digging in at it with a fist of bluntly gnawed nails.  Bitten to their quicks in hurried nervousness, your hook does little more than wrinkle and re-fragment the crust – a new scab to form and remind you of your toxic marriage.

            A memory you usually swallow away simmers to prickle and unravel you.  You give in to the melodic memories of your wedding day; your eyes quickly spilling to warm your cheeks.

            You are back there now, five years past, back breathing in the cinnamon and oak; moving purposefully to the background acoustic purr.  Butterflies dance lightly at your edges and you sit to capture calm with chamomile.  Your Mother is fussing about you complicating simplicities with each dramatic arm flap.  You share a knowing eye-roll with Lucy, silently thanking the heavens once more for making you twin.       

Chamomile is replaced with champagne and last night’s soothing valium dull is replaced by the intensity of the day.  Sensing your change of rhythm, Lucy slides across the room to fold everyone else away and just be with you.  You inhale her calm as she locks the door on the commotion.

            ‘Hey,’ she says, ‘how’s the bride?’

            ‘Gah,’ is all you can manage, but is all she needs.  Enclosing your palm in hers, her warmth mazes and soothes through you.

            ‘Run away with me?’ You ask, head falling to meet hers.

            ‘My bags are already packed Jas,’ she knows the right answer and you know the truth in it, if ever you needed it to be played true.

            Your thin lace veil catches the warm breeze, reminding you along with Lucy’s love, of your yearning for this very day; your wedding day.

            You bring yourself back to the present, back to him.  Finding his pass-out point inconveniently at your feet, you recognise that sleep served with rum has already taken hold.  There will be no waking him now as his fleshy body heaves in producing sweet sweat, as if summer is stored under his skin.  Weaving your feet out from underneath him, you ready yourself for a new solo beginning.