Vince Bunnyman took a deep breath.
It was something new.
Something untested.
There was nothing to do.
Don’t judge.
Be open.
Let it happen.
He was told to trust his body.
Trust was something that had eluded him.
Especially in recent years.
The thought made him uneasy.
Apprehensive.
Nervous.
Excited.
There was nothing to do.
Explore the feelings.
Explore the responses.
Let the twitches come.
They can’t hurt.
First left.
Then right.
The first sensation is unexpected.
Not ideal.
Go with it.
There is nothing to do.
Pins and needles soon come and the feeling is a welcome reminder of falling asleep on your arm or having your leg elevated for a prolonged period.
Prickly comfort, but comfort nonetheless.
Hands grow bigger with time.
Stronger.
More powerful.
Like he remembers his Father’s.
There is nothing to do.
Pain was always a possibility.
It appears in the most unlikely of places.
Go with it.
But not too far.
Remember it can’t hurt you.
But it does.
Vince twitches.
They’d said it was allowed, and he feels better for it.
Detached from the cause of it all.
There is nothing to do.
Right becomes dazzling.
Shapes that glow and amaze in the darkness.
His childhood is trapped in that moment.
That feeling.
Left is blank.
True darkness.
But it doesn’t bother him.
He enjoys the blindness in the safety of the dark place.
But it doesn’t last.
It rarely does.
There is nothing to do.
Take a deep breath.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Whisper
Vince Bunnyman hears every whisper.
Loud was a blur.
An uncomfortable buzz.
A mixture of syllables and gunshots.
Twenty decibels.
Quieter than a Librarian.
That was his range.
His optimum level.
Quieter didn’t mean easier though.
As a child he always knew in advance what his parents were getting him for Christmas and Birthdays.
They found surprising him difficult at best.
He heard in advance every horse his Father would lose his money on each and every Saturday.
He also knew that his Father’s Bookmaker was planning on buying a brand new, very expensive car.
Vince’s family had only ever had two cars.
Both were gas-guzzlers.
Both were blue.
Both scared him when the engine backfired.
Which it often did.
In Grade 6 he heard every secret that the popular girls would convey between their desks whilst the teacher was writing on the blackboard.
Unfortunately almost every secret involved something at Vince’s expense.
Mostly relating to his hair cut and love of cold Pop Tarts.
When it came time for his senior dance, he knew exactly who would be going with who well before anyone got a chance to say yes.
Vince also got his chance to say yes.
During one of the many slow dances however he was forced to witness his date nibble on Billy Crosswaite’s ear.
At least she didn’t whisper into it.
Vince could not have handled hearing her sweet-nothings caress Billy's ear.
The punch he drank on the side of the dance floor was already bitter enough.
He was soon distracted from the nibbling though as Camilla Jones confessed to her date that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.
On his first day at his first office job he tried his very best to fit in.
He collected their documents from the photocopier.
He made them Earl Grey tea.
He even laughed at their lame jokes.
But they were just like the popular girls.
They thought they couldn’t be heard on the other side of the office.
They could have been another hundred metres away, Vince still would have picked up every word that came out of their scheming mouths.
He didn’t deserve to be treated like this from his new co-workers.
The plotting.
The planning.
The whispering.
Fools.
It didn’t matter.
He’d brought his lunch from home anyway.
Last week a friend took Vince to a gig.
Rock.
And roll.
His friend thoughtfully also brought him a pair of earplugs.
Vince lasted two chords into the first song.
He still managed to enjoy the entire show.
Watching from outside through a small window, earplugs firmly in place.
This was Vince’s curse.
But it’s not always a bad thing.
Now, as he lies in the dark, the volume is perfect.
He absorbs her voice.
Her day.
Her whisper.
Anything more would be deafening.
Loud was a blur.
An uncomfortable buzz.
A mixture of syllables and gunshots.
Twenty decibels.
Quieter than a Librarian.
That was his range.
His optimum level.
Quieter didn’t mean easier though.
As a child he always knew in advance what his parents were getting him for Christmas and Birthdays.
They found surprising him difficult at best.
He heard in advance every horse his Father would lose his money on each and every Saturday.
He also knew that his Father’s Bookmaker was planning on buying a brand new, very expensive car.
Vince’s family had only ever had two cars.
Both were gas-guzzlers.
Both were blue.
Both scared him when the engine backfired.
Which it often did.
In Grade 6 he heard every secret that the popular girls would convey between their desks whilst the teacher was writing on the blackboard.
Unfortunately almost every secret involved something at Vince’s expense.
Mostly relating to his hair cut and love of cold Pop Tarts.
When it came time for his senior dance, he knew exactly who would be going with who well before anyone got a chance to say yes.
Vince also got his chance to say yes.
During one of the many slow dances however he was forced to witness his date nibble on Billy Crosswaite’s ear.
At least she didn’t whisper into it.
Vince could not have handled hearing her sweet-nothings caress Billy's ear.
The punch he drank on the side of the dance floor was already bitter enough.
He was soon distracted from the nibbling though as Camilla Jones confessed to her date that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.
On his first day at his first office job he tried his very best to fit in.
He collected their documents from the photocopier.
He made them Earl Grey tea.
He even laughed at their lame jokes.
But they were just like the popular girls.
They thought they couldn’t be heard on the other side of the office.
They could have been another hundred metres away, Vince still would have picked up every word that came out of their scheming mouths.
He didn’t deserve to be treated like this from his new co-workers.
The plotting.
The planning.
The whispering.
Fools.
It didn’t matter.
He’d brought his lunch from home anyway.
Last week a friend took Vince to a gig.
Rock.
And roll.
His friend thoughtfully also brought him a pair of earplugs.
Vince lasted two chords into the first song.
He still managed to enjoy the entire show.
Watching from outside through a small window, earplugs firmly in place.
This was Vince’s curse.
But it’s not always a bad thing.
Now, as he lies in the dark, the volume is perfect.
He absorbs her voice.
Her day.
Her whisper.
Anything more would be deafening.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Couple
Vince Bunnyman avoided the elderly couple.
He shouldn’t have made fun of them.
He shouldn’t have moved seats.
And he most certainly shouldn’t have judged them.
His heart is now heavier.
Eyes open to bigger pictures.
Today she came alone.
Before entering she stood, stooped at the window, and watched.
Vince couldn’t be 100% sure what had caught her attention.
Possibly a Fly.
Possibly the smooth, calming movements of the man cleaning the window.
Possibly nothing at all.
When she finally entered she was told where to sit.
A common courtesy by the owner to a long time customer.
She had built this suburb.
Her and her husband.
From its humble begins to the thriving community it bears today.
He was a Doctor.
A kind, humble man, quite and reserved.
She was the woman behind the Doctor.
The two of them had settled here many, many years ago.
A time only they could remember.
And they had overseen it all.
The Library.
The Post Office.
The Church.
The small shops and cafes like the one she was now in that bustled with life.
They were there for all of it.
Her food is served.
She holds her head up with one hand, whilst picking through her meal with the other.
She wished he were still there on the other side of the table.
She would have ordered his food and his drink.
Exactly what he wanted without him needing to speak a word.
She would help him cut his Schnitzel before tending to her own.
She would do everything short of chew and swallow his food for him.
But not today.
Once she has finished her meal she ambles through the small paper.
The tiny print made only legible by the magnifying glass she keeps in her handbag.
She looks up, as if to speak, but keeps the interesting piece of the news to herself.
He would liked to have heard about the latest news from their home country.
She would liked to have told him about it whilst he slowly finished his Cappuccino.
She still carries his photo in her purse.
A photo of the two of them taken in a photo booth at the New York World’s Fair in 1940.
Two weeks after they had met.
He looks directly at the camera.
Calm.
Happy.
She has her face turned, gazing up at him.
Admiration and love fill the picture.
Everyone should have one of these photos and she is thankful for hers every single day.
He shouldn’t have made fun of them.
He shouldn’t have moved seats.
And he most certainly shouldn’t have judged them.
His heart is now heavier.
Eyes open to bigger pictures.
Today she came alone.
Before entering she stood, stooped at the window, and watched.
Vince couldn’t be 100% sure what had caught her attention.
Possibly a Fly.
Possibly the smooth, calming movements of the man cleaning the window.
Possibly nothing at all.
When she finally entered she was told where to sit.
A common courtesy by the owner to a long time customer.
She had built this suburb.
Her and her husband.
From its humble begins to the thriving community it bears today.
He was a Doctor.
A kind, humble man, quite and reserved.
She was the woman behind the Doctor.
The two of them had settled here many, many years ago.
A time only they could remember.
And they had overseen it all.
The Library.
The Post Office.
The Church.
The small shops and cafes like the one she was now in that bustled with life.
They were there for all of it.
Her food is served.
She holds her head up with one hand, whilst picking through her meal with the other.
She wished he were still there on the other side of the table.
She would have ordered his food and his drink.
Exactly what he wanted without him needing to speak a word.
She would help him cut his Schnitzel before tending to her own.
She would do everything short of chew and swallow his food for him.
But not today.
Once she has finished her meal she ambles through the small paper.
The tiny print made only legible by the magnifying glass she keeps in her handbag.
She looks up, as if to speak, but keeps the interesting piece of the news to herself.
He would liked to have heard about the latest news from their home country.
She would liked to have told him about it whilst he slowly finished his Cappuccino.
She still carries his photo in her purse.
A photo of the two of them taken in a photo booth at the New York World’s Fair in 1940.
Two weeks after they had met.
He looks directly at the camera.
Calm.
Happy.
She has her face turned, gazing up at him.
Admiration and love fill the picture.
Everyone should have one of these photos and she is thankful for hers every single day.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Remorse
Vince Bunnyman picks up the cigarette butt with remorse.
It shouldn’t be there.
He throws it in the bin and looks for acceptance.
The police officer nods and continues on his way.
Clearly a slow day for crime fighting.
Vince walks on.
“So he calls me in the middle of the night and I’m like, Brad I can’t handle this right now”.
Brad is an asshole, and Vince instantly hates him for what he’s done to her.
Lichtenstein was right.
She was better off without him.
Better off sinking lower than she thought imaginable.
She was right to hang up on Brad.
Vince would have done the same thing.
Or at least, he likes to think he would.
Vince walks on.
“No, don’t worry, I’ll just get my maid to bring out some jelly shots”.
Jelly shots were his answer to everything.
All of life’s pain.
Intimate moments with the maid were a close second.
Vince had once also believed in the healing properties of jelly shots.
Maybe that’s why he now wore tracksuit pants and a stained t-shirt, rather than a three-piece pinstripe suit.
They were also possibly the reason he never had the resources to have someone bring them to him.
He would have liked that.
Vince walks on.
“Oh yeah, I do yoga all the time”.
“No. Not yoga, yoghurt”.
“Oh yeah, I do that too”.
Yoghurt was a mass of bacteria.
Yoga was a mass of awkward positions.
Vince had little interest in either.
Neither did the girl who was admitting to a leisurely pursuit of both.
Vince walks on.
“I can’t remember if it’s Bon Jovi night or not”.
She loved Bon Jovi night.
She wished it were more than once a month.
Her boyfriend did not share her enthusiasm and his posture and facial expression made that abundantly clear.
Vince sympathised with both of them.
He too would like to experience Bon Jovi night, but no necessarily with her.
Vince entered the Milk Bar.
Next time he would drive.
It shouldn’t be there.
He throws it in the bin and looks for acceptance.
The police officer nods and continues on his way.
Clearly a slow day for crime fighting.
Vince walks on.
“So he calls me in the middle of the night and I’m like, Brad I can’t handle this right now”.
Brad is an asshole, and Vince instantly hates him for what he’s done to her.
Lichtenstein was right.
She was better off without him.
Better off sinking lower than she thought imaginable.
She was right to hang up on Brad.
Vince would have done the same thing.
Or at least, he likes to think he would.
Vince walks on.
“No, don’t worry, I’ll just get my maid to bring out some jelly shots”.
Jelly shots were his answer to everything.
All of life’s pain.
Intimate moments with the maid were a close second.
Vince had once also believed in the healing properties of jelly shots.
Maybe that’s why he now wore tracksuit pants and a stained t-shirt, rather than a three-piece pinstripe suit.
They were also possibly the reason he never had the resources to have someone bring them to him.
He would have liked that.
Vince walks on.
“Oh yeah, I do yoga all the time”.
“No. Not yoga, yoghurt”.
“Oh yeah, I do that too”.
Yoghurt was a mass of bacteria.
Yoga was a mass of awkward positions.
Vince had little interest in either.
Neither did the girl who was admitting to a leisurely pursuit of both.
Vince walks on.
“I can’t remember if it’s Bon Jovi night or not”.
She loved Bon Jovi night.
She wished it were more than once a month.
Her boyfriend did not share her enthusiasm and his posture and facial expression made that abundantly clear.
Vince sympathised with both of them.
He too would like to experience Bon Jovi night, but no necessarily with her.
Vince entered the Milk Bar.
Next time he would drive.
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