Conflicted

Every morning, every single morning, I practice some Yoga asana. Now, I read the literature and this is, apparently, not a good thing. In fact it may even endanger physical health. The danger lies in the repetition, day in and day out. In my favour, I do vary the asana although there are three or four postures that I do every, single, day. Sometimes I put in more effort and other days I’m more relaxed.

So, where’s the conflict? Do I carry on as I have for the past two or three decades or do I cease forthwith? I am used to doing this daily practice and I enjoy the physical and mental stimulation.

I tend to believe a lot of what I read on the Internet and that is probably my downfall. Maybe I’m just a silly old woman in need of some different interests. Retirement is not all it is made out to be.

[155 words]

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Biscuit

Like a Marie biscuit divided in half. That’s how I described the moon to myself the other night.

Even though it was the big half, I did think my little phrase bordered on the maudlin.

And then I became so, as I imagined a world without Marie biscuits, and only the big half of one to look at every now and then when the night sky is bright.

©2019 Allison Wright
[89 words]

 

Was für mich Glück ist

Sonntagmorgen 9 Uhr 30
Meine Katze leckt mir sanft
Den Schlafsand aus den Augen

Copyright 2019 Andrea Bernard

Blank, but moving

I am writing an article. Not for me, but ghostlike, behind the scenes.

The Intro. That is where I start.

Some, I have heard — the other ghosts — bash out the middle bits quick-sticks, then tag an intro and a conclusion on the ends, like slices of bread around bacon, lettuce and tomato.

BLT ghosts. They are silent like me, for the most part.

I caught myself staring, half blankly, not at the screen, but at the glowy space between my head and the white wall, some one metre distant.

The small voice – the one in charge of the time and its alarm, neatly dividing what remains of my deadline into quarter-hours, as if oranges, starts thrumming, sotto voce, then booms, crescendo.

You must go on. Continue, stop dreaming.

I am not, replies the Thought. Wait.

And then they come, the keys on the keyboard stutter out aloud, like the rhythm of a fado from my long-ago heart: the perfect words. They’re here.

They stand astonished on the page, and look at their new neighbours, then settle into the space allotted. They agree: We like it here, they say. We’re staying.

©2019 Allison Wright
[192 words]

P.S. In this fado, Barco Negro, sung by the famous Amália Rodrigues, there is a rhythmical, short sequence of notes that helped lend form to the half-sentence that started out life as a blank stare.

Mrs Rouault’s kitchen window

The image of a painting by Sally Swain was hard to track down online, but no matter. In the end, I photographed the image I have.

I have often thought of the wife of Fauvist artist Georges Henri Rouault and my sister while washing the dishes. Let the record reflect that her name was Marthe Le Sidaner. My new abode has the perfect window when engaged in this activity.

The colours are frequently as bright. The colours are either in the glorious sunrises or in my imagination. Sometimes it is a touch of both.

Artist Sally Swain published a book called Great Housewives of Art. The image here is of the greeting card my sister sent me thirty years ago, full of the news of her adventures as a young woman in London.

Alternative caption: Allison does not wash windows, but thinks about it while washing the dishes.

Oh, the dishes I have washed in my life! Oh, the colours I have had the enormous privilege of seeing! The ink of the letter has faded; the colours in my mind’s eye do not.

©2019 Allison Wright
[172 words]

Little known Beckettian facts

The sum of all my yesterdays is all I have. No, that is not true, for they do not form a solidified whole. The patchwork of yesterdays flaps about in the wind.

There is always a new song. Old sounds, altered lyrics. Same rhythm, syncopated rhythm, none. The silence stretches. It is fluid like the yesterdays that come in waves.

I wait, watching for yesterday’s new narrative. Where is it? It is here. Or soon is. It will come to shore. A distant drum. The beat says yes, the voice will tell a story.

When? There is something in the wind.

©2019 Allison Wright
[104 words. I am out of practice. That was longer than 5+5 minutes.]

Westwind

Hast du manchmal auch das Gefühl, dass die eigentliche Geschichte genau in dem Moment anfängt, an dem der Film zu Ende ist?

Zwei Schwestern aus der DDR machen im Sommer ’89 Urlaub in einem Pionierlager am Balaton, und eine verliebt sich in einen Jungen aus Westdeutschland. Sie flüchtet mit ihm über die grüne Grenze nach Westdeutschland, während ihre Schwester zurückbleibt.

Mit der geglückten Flucht endet der Film.

Dabei fängt es doch da gerade erst an, spannend zu werden. Was passiert mit der zurückgebliebenen Schwester und der Familie in der DDR (der Staat praktizierte in solchen Fällen sogenannte „Sippenhaft“)?

Was macht die Entscheidung der einen – zu flüchten – und die Entscheidung der anderen – zu bleiben – mit der Beziehung der beiden Schwestern zueinander?

Und was passiert mit dieser Geschichte, als nur ein Jahr später die Mauer fällt?

Copyright 2019 Andrea Bernard