Eighty Two

Late this August, her embrace has been rare, though today she kissed me, caressed my skin with a warmth that emanates from my midrift. As the sun tends to my skin, the wind weaves her way through my hair. Playfully she teases me, ruffling with kindness. Fluttering and bending the branches to soothe my soul with the hush of the leaves.

Burnt ocre shadows dance in front of my eyes, closed against her brightness. This woman, this angel, Nature, she makes love to me as surely as you would.

Rough cotton needles me to open my eyes, to make some movement, I resist. Until I break this spell, Nature is you. With your languid limbs...trailing touch...gently parted lips...inviting.

Slowly I rise, stretching away from your touch.

Bare feet, sensitive to the heat of the baked tiles, pad towards the balcony. Arms outstretch guiding me to the edge.

At the crack of an eyelid, moment by moment, I let her brightness in. Blindness begs if only...

If only I was at the edge of crisp blue water, if I was King of the World, then your kiss would be real and not a breeze that plays.

Top Hat jauntilty astride his bushy mane, the Ringmaster baits the crowd, as he baits me.

I am the Tiger at your circus. My world, your big top.

A spectacle of wonder, tricked into delighting you for a morsel of what I live for.

A beast I am. Humbled and tamed for your pleasure, entertainment, delectation.

When you leave, the sawdust settles, the hat back upon the stand. I resume my pacing.

Imagine how I might treat you had my life not be contained...6' x 9'

Do you think you would giggle with excitement as I as stalked amongst you then?

Would you, could you even look at me, a powerhouse of the natural world, with pity had your fellow man not enslaved and caged me?

Would you still respect the authority the Top Hat belies if I was to savage him?

Is his finery any match for mine?

Yet,unlike him, as I stalk I am humble. I am bound by your rules. I allow you to bind me. Unlike the wild feline prowling in my chest, I chose captivity. I chose your safety over my freedoms.

So although I may profess a deference to your finery, a courtsey to your customs, remember always my true nature.

Through London you can pass, like mist upon the Thames.

Within your arms you can embrace her but beware she can chew you up and spit you out.

The most fickle of lovers are endlessly intriguing.

Mystery breeds curiousity, just dont mention the cat.

Platitudes and cliches exist to comfort the average heart, their generic sympathy holds no sway with the passion that rages beneath a torrent of tears.

You chose to be who you are.

You chose how you react.

You do not choose how you feel.

Live with the emotion.

Walk amongst it, or embrace it.

Its up to you.

So I have finally succumbed to the lure of the blog, somewhere to generally have a good outpour...sometimes I do like to inflict this out pouring on you, possibly be a friend but not necessarily. Leave your comments, but mind your manners I'm a delicate soul.

I will be taking the time to press on with my ramblings via my new eightytwo blog, so stick with me, maybe eventually I'll write something really good like those typer monkeys are said to be capable of.

But in the meantime, some of my existing work is below.

Riggs.

There was a time in my life when I was one of the happy people. You know the ones I mean, walking hand in hand down the high street in front of you. Pausing every so often to kiss, cuddle and caress each other. Oblivious to the rest of us trudging along, alone in our misery, wondering when we might get our shot at the fairytale.

I was one half of a smug DINK couple, us DINK's, double income, no kids. Taking weekends breaks, enjoying pretentious restaurants and showering each other with pointless gifts but pretty gifts. Always with someone to go home to. I had one of those ridiculously comfortable relationships, where the only thing that seemed to rock the boat was a trip to Blockbusters. We could never agree. Maybe that was an omen or sign I should have paid attention to.

My apologies, allow me to introduce the other half of this smug coupling, Kara. The woman with whom I spent my relaxing evenings and chilled out weekends. Kara was a career woman, climbing the ladder always. Occasionally pausing for breath, but generally speaking, she climbed that ladder for a minimum of 60 odd hours a week. People met her and they were never surprised to learn she was the youngest and most successful executive at her company. She walked with power and she talked with authority. People listened to Kara, or they were so mesmerised by the sharply dressed beautiful blonde in front of them that it just appeared they were listening. She could command a room so well that Goebbels himself would have been proud and envious all at once.

Kara cut through crisis, dramas, issues, hysterics, lay-offs and corporate warfare like the proverbial hot knife through butter. She was a woman I adored, worshipped, loved and, all in all, was besotted with.

Thoughts of my gorgeous girlfriend in Victoria's Secret's finest ensembles meandered through my mind as I strolled home from my averagely paid, averagely demanding job. Ipod trickling chilled out dance music into my ear canals. Sunshine making me squint. I was happy. No other word for it. I just had a smile that screamed H.A.P.P.Y!

I hit the stairs in my building with a spring in my step that took me up so quickly I was surprised when I reached my door. I was even more surprised to find the door ajar. Splintered at the lock. Fear flooded my veins with ice, rendering me immobile. A headphone dropped from my ears and the silence was punctuated with the tinny and distant bass lines still pulsating through my Ipod.

I knew I had to step through the door but I just couldn't door it. Cartoon montages of trapdoors and masked villains streamed behind my eyes. Getting a grip on my panic I pushed the door open with my sleeve, careful not to leave anymore of my own prints.

Each room has exploded into the hallway, contents of my life strewn and trampled on. A cursory glance in the living room confirms my fears. All my 21st century gadgetry is gone. Replaced by dust free spaces where my things once were. With the worst confirmed, I head to the bedroom.

As I cross the threshold my nose wrinkles, raising my eyebrows high as though trying to escape the strange and unpleasant smell that assails me. It's not unfamiliar, just uncommon. Kara designed the bedroom and even now amongst the mess and stench, I'm worried about my shoes marking the carpet. I look down to check I'm going to get away with it when I realise I'm going to need more than an alibi for the marks on the carpet.

On the expensive crisp cotton white sheets lies Kara. Her blonde hair matted to what remains of the left hand side of her head. Turned to the right she is facing me as I edge slowly into the room. Statuesque, she lies there. Eyes wide open, begging and pleading for help. The sodden mattress is testament to how late my arrival is.

Tremor after tremor hits my body, on the third my knees give and I sink to the floor. My eyes trace the arching splatter pattern on the wall. Slowly the cogs in my mind start turning, questions appear. When? How? Who? Why? So many questions. What am I going to do? Stay or go? Fight or flee?

Out of the corner of my eye I spy my holdall from last weekends Prague trip. Clothes, passport, money and all essentials still stowed away inside, ready for the next jolly. I tiptoe past the empty face of the woman I love and I grab the bag.

Feet slapping the pavement, I hear the door to my building slam shut behind me. I keep running. Putting as much distance between myself and this nightmare, that has illegally crossed into my waking life, as possible.

© Copyright Riggs 2007

At the airport you can watch people without them knowing or without them caring. At the airport people indulge themselves in the opportunity to be very emotional in public. It is only this kind of public arena that they do this in. maybe because the chances of their being someone that they know around are very slim. If people were overly emotional in the local supermarket then there is always a chance of a neighbour or work colleague spotting you. It is also somewhat ridiculous to fall to pieces in the fruit and veg section. Call it an act of sheer lunacy. It is expected of people to be irrational at the airport. Departures allow the tears to leave and Arrivals welcomes relief home. Tears and Tantrums, Screams and Hugs as a mandatory as browsing through duty-free.

This is when I realised I might not be normal.

Right now I am sat at the last table in Burger King. The table that maximises the amount of floorspace Burger King can have, by ensuring the table at its legs are right on the edge of the boundary. This means that the chair I occupy is out in the thoroughfare of the food hall. From this vantage point I can watch the world pass.

Lovers clinging to each other, desperate to prolong their bodily contact. Mothers gripping children to their bosoms as they wriggle to escape maternal clutches.

I watch and speculate about their fates, past and present. I do this so that I can busy my mind with worries and concerns of other people's lives. When the throng of bodies slows, my minds eyes turns inward, to the problems that are occurring in my own life and it's the last thing I want. The feelings well up in my and before I can run for cover, I know I'm think and dwelling. In a bid to avoid this I cast aside the remnants of my meal and head for the pub.

The airport pub. Whose patrons are the most desperate of people. Men in business suits looking so uncomfortable, sipping away at a scotch in order to find the courage to even contemplate playing away whilst off on the notorious "Business Trip" that many a wife fears. Old gentlemen sit in the corners while their dominating wives strut through duty-free buying things for the grandkids and no good reason than it's duty-free.

I stand at the bar and feel relaxed in the company of the others who are trying to escape from something. My chosen drink of escape today is somewhat of a classic, to be found on any cocktail menu in the world. It's a screwdriver. The smartarse in me loves to order a screwdriver just to annoy the staff. The old hands sigh or roll their eyes at my perceived pretentiousness. Newbies look nervously into the slop trays for inspiration before sidling off to discover from a colleague its just a vodka and orange. When a newbie finally serves me my drink there is that inevitable look on their face that betrays their desire to call me a wanker. But today is different. There is something about the petite brunette behind the bar that simply stops me and I order a vodka and orange. She seems like a newbie but she knows the drill already, asking if I want a double "for just 30p extra". What the hell I say, after all I'm going to need it. I'm sitting in desperado valley wondering if there is a way out of it all.

Contemplating your future while sat in an airport bar is difficult. Because when considering your options you have to fight the urge to run to the nearest ticket booth and grab the next plane to anywhere that is an elsewhere. Its like standing at the back door and knowing you should really take your leave via the front door.

The whole process is not helped by the indeterminable amount of choice available to a person at the airport. Want to fly? Pick one of 20 airlines. Want to eat? Pick any of the 40 various food outlets scattered about in convenient locations around the terminal. Want to run away from the empty shell that used to be your life? Pick any of the 180 destinations. Obviously this depends on which airport you're at, but for me today, the choices are endless. I'm at Gatwick.

But why am I here?

To be continued.

© Copyright Riggs 2006

I knew I shouldn't have worn the blue shirt. It didn't matter that it was exactly the same shirt as the red or black one. The blue one just didn't seem right. More than the colour, the sleeves felt at odd distances on my forearms, which never happened with the black one. At this particular moment I should have been paying attention to the odd couple sitting across the "meeting room" table from me. I named them the odd couple, well because they seemed it.

He was definitely a dad, the tie with its blue, green and yellow checks, like a hideous tablecloth, could only have been a present from an uninterested teenage offspring. He wore comfy brogues, you know, proper Clarks sensible shoes. You know the type of bloke I mean, he's wore the same pair for an eternity, returning every two to three years to replace them with the exact same pair. His M&S trousers and shirts had seen the inside of a washing machine a thousand times and they looked as washed out and bored as their wearer.

She on the other hand was an aging black woman. Her flawless skin and well-conditioned hair was at odds with his pot marked face and grey, receding hairline. Whilst he looks weary, she looked strong, almost angry. Maybe at me. Perhaps she could she the odd look on my face as I appraised the sharp cut of her suit and the crispness of her collar that looked to have an edge so sharp it would cut her neck if she moved too quickly.

I continued in my sweeping judgements and assessments of them both until she spoke. Which she hadn't done so far.

"Where do you see yourself in 3 years time?" she asked.

I felt my brain switch off as I engaged autocue…

"I'm looking for a career…blah blah blah, a company I can grow in…blah blah blah."

Droning on and on about my so-called aspirations and ambitions. Hands waving around trying to at least add a little sincerity to my words. Then came the question that I hated, because I don't know the answer, but today it came in a new form. Not the typical 'How would you describe yourself?' but 'How would your best friend or partner describe you?'. Did I look gay or were they just being overly PC about it all?

At this point my autocue normally switches into overdrive, as I would babble on about drive and ambition blah blah blah. But I went blank. I didn't know. For someone who worries a lot about what other people think, I realised that I didn't have a clue. I bumbled through. Shook hands, 'oohed' and 'ahhhed' throughout the tour of the distinctly average looking office and its many many non descript desks before being handed my coat and lighting a Marlboro for the walk home.

Stupidly I thought it might be a good idea to ask my best friend/partner (one and the same) the way she would describe me. I say stupidly because deep down I knew I was going to like the answer. But like the foolhardy idiot I am, I asked.

She threw back her head and laughed until she ached and cried.

© Copyright Riggs 2006

It matters to her that I know she loved me.

It matters to her that I remember her, our time together.

That I think back to it, view it through a rose tint. I cant. It feels like a mistake. With harsh objectivity, I see the bad.

Shadows that fall across a room as day turns to dusk and it reminds me not to repeat the error. Good is there, stretching through the room, competing with the shadows.

It isnt much of a fight. An unspoken, unseen harmony exists.

Light and Dark.

Good and Bad.

Her need to leave a mark on my heart, my mind and my memories, is the best indicator of her. One of those who constantly wonders what everyone else thinks of her.

She doesnt want to ensure I dont live my life believing that, for so long, I loved and got nothing in return. She wants me to know it so should I be questioned, I paint her in a good light.

Once more all about her.

No surprise.

Its the way shes always been. Always will be.

Miss Wannabe Popular cant bear the thought that I dont particularly like her.

She detests the fact that I dont want her and it pains her to know that I dont need her.

But most of all she concerns herself with the fact that I might tell people she isnt all she claims.

Then what will they think?

© Copyright Riggs 2006

You have a sparkle in your eyes that comes from deep within.

Your smile lits up your face and never fails to light up mine.

Your deep brown eyes are full of soul, windows to your heart.

I love to look upon your face, as you smile, as you laugh.

I love to watch the laughter spread from the corners of your mouth and reach your eyes.

All at once a diamond sparkles.

I am captivated.

Like a spell that overpowers me, entranced by your gaze, calmed by your touch.

Your kiss, my bermuda triangle that I can never hope to escape from.

Truth be told, I've never tried.

There is a depth between us wherein lies our strength.

A rock to me, an anchor in troubled waters.

One day all I hope is that I can be your rock, your anchor.

© Copyright Riggs 2006

Consumed by you.

Basic need to be as close as I can be.

Desire is not enough of a word to describe the way I feel.

From the moment we part, stood in the doorway, each in our own worlds, divided by the frame that allows access.

I ache for you.

My skin craves the sensation of your skin, so soft and smooth.

My eyes constantly dart around looking for a place to rest.

There is nowhere else. Nothing compares to your eyes.

My lips tingle as I remember the feeling of yours on mine.

My body aches for you, addiction to you and yours.

I am only sustained by your reactions.

They offer relief, ease my fever.

I rest.

Satiated.

Content.

Complete.

Then it comes again.

© Copyright Riggs 2006

The architect of my heart tells me that the plans I have are unrealistic.

The builder of my dreams sighs and tells me it cant be done.

But still I push on, push forward with this labour of love.

Undeterred by a lack of support.

I'll build a castle if thats what I want.

Dont tell me otherwise.

The work begins but the foundations are weak.

I fear subsidance in the future.

I want it all solid so we can move in.

Instead its a temporary abode, as strong as straw or twigs.

If you huffed and puffed, you'd blow it down.

But on I build.

Strengthening, Supporting and Reinforcing.

Plans are altered but the work continues.

One day the architect will sit back and proclaim we started a revolution.

The builder will gasp in amazement at what can be done.

All will envy what we created.

But only we will appreciate the blood, sweat and tears that built it.

© Copyright Riggs 2006

When you bring your world crashing down around you, time in the rubble presents you with time to address your issues.

For me, I lay in the debris of my former life and wondered what the landscape would be like when I picked myself up and dusted myself off.

Would my world be dark and bleak, void of all human existence, deserted by wildlife and nature?

Or would the sun be out, banishing clouds from the sky in honour of my survival?

© Copyright Riggs 2006

The shift in our dynamics has left me altered.

Changed in more ways than one.

For months you've been stood next to me, close to me.

My body always in contact with yours.

Now there is a wall.

You've distanced yourself from me. In your mind, you've just stepped back a few paces, to me it feels like the red sea parts us.

I know it's my fault.

Despite the fact that I moved at a snails pace, for you it still felt too fast.

I should have kept my mouth shut.

That stupid need in my to tell the world that I love you, made you feel trapped and rushed.

For that I couldn't be more sorry, now I hate the barriers that are up in front of you.

Most people think the only reason I can't cope with the change is because I'll miss the sex.

Don't get me wrong.

I will!

But for all my shallowness, I can bear the lack of sex. In fact in might be beneficial to us.

But I cannot cope with the void of intimacy that now sits between us.

The step back makes me equal to everyone else in your life that hurts my ego and my pride.

Stupid I know.

I want to be the special one.

I'm not and to speak from my broken heart and immature mind…

It sucks!

© Copyright Riggs 2006

Its a wonder we can make it through the day. So many pitfalls to be avoided. You wake up and the day is fresh and new. Waiting for you to trample all over it.

As you lie in the warm, cosy comfort the quilt provides, you picture your day ahead. You're happy and you dont suspect for one moment that anything can go wrong. Thats your first mistake.

At least a pessimist is never disappointed. Often they are pleasantly surprised. But an optimist sets themself up for fall after fall.

When it goes wrong, do you sit back and sigh and think "Well I was waiting for that"? Sigh and accept instantly the situation that has developed.

Do you think "What the fuck? Where did that come from?" Get angry and rage against the injustice that has been done to you.

Do you think "Why me? Oh poor me!" Cry and weep and sob until you are exhausted.

Do you do all of these things? Or are you one of the lucky ones? The ones for whom things always seem to skip along quite happily. Are you the person that everyone is jealous of? Is your life the subject of envy? Do you look around and know that everyone covets what you have?

Where can I find the heart to go on? How do I continue to try and make it work? How do I accept the failure that I am?

To be a disappointment is heartbreaking. I always wanted to make them all proud. I wanted to be someone. I wanted to be anyone. I'd rather be so bad that I'm disowned, than the person who is pitied. A could have been.

They build you up, they keep building. They keep your subsidence in check. But they built on sand. It'll never hold.

You think back to the things you said you'd have done by this time in your life and you realise that hope is a childish emotion. Dreams are an escape from a reality that will never allow them to come true.

Too many people stand in your way. You have too many faults to make anything work. You're not good enough. You never will be. But still you try.

Well, you used to try. Now you can't even find the energy to lift your head from the pillow. You wish you hadnt woken up. You pray for sleep to claim you once more. Please Mr Sandman, take me away for a little longer.

Your limbs feel heavy, your head weighs upon your neck, which feels too weak to support it. The heart has sunk from the middle of your chest to the pit of your stomach. You drag your feet as you walk. You look at the floor. No longer facing the world head on.

You dont have the energy for the fight. White towel on the canvas. You duck between the ropes and make a hasty retreat through the baying crowd who want to see you become a bloody pulp on the floor. They dont care that your life is killing you. They want you to bleed for their entertainment. They whistle and boo. They jeer and holler. They throw bottles and coins. They paid for this and as they start ripping up the chairs, you break into a run.

And you keep running, you're going nowhere. You're on the treadmill and the incline is set to steep. You sink to the floor and it spits you off the back.

Curled into the foetal position, you close your eyes and accept your fate.

Your footprints are all over the day. You've made a bloody mess of it again.

Hang your head in shame. You are making no-one proud with this attitude. Get a grip, pull yourself together, pick yourself. Just get out of my sight.

© Copyright Riggs 2006

I want to write but I can't. The words have gone, left, deserted me. How can I write about writers block? It feels like everything is welled up inside me and I cant get it out.

My fingers are moving but no trail left behind. Darting eyes scan the empty page. A mind moves to correct and redraft and finds emptiness. I feel tense with the need to express, like a lost voice, frustrating to speak.

I'll be honest now, I know this is lame. I just had to tell you that I cant feel and I cannot tell you how hard that it. World in a blur, I stop what I'm saying and focus on saying what I'm saying. I focus somemore and focus again. I'm so damm focused I cant see a thing.

Head is heavy, neck feels stiff, eyes drooping and mind slowing...heart rate drops, pulse slows...breathing deep and regular...and I'm gone with the sandman til the morning does come.

On the clouds of my dreams, I float through the night, dreaming of dreaming and smiling and laughing. My wishes come true, right in front of my eyes, I reach out and touch them, holding them tight.

With a tap on the shoulder, it whirlpools away. Leaving me lying in the cold light of day.

Frenetic activity surrounds me.

The throng of bodies to-ing and fro-ing around me seem to never stop.

I sit calmly in the middle of all this.

Content.

Just as you feel after Christmas dinner.

I've dropped off the pace and I'm strolling along.

I've suddenly realised all the things I was missing along the way.

With the sun at my back, warming me gently, I potter along.

Destination Unknown.

As I look down, I notice a pair of shoes walking in time with me.

I straighten up and look ahead.

Tempted to glance to my left to see who you are.

I know who you are.

Its like you've always been beside me, falling in step with me.

You see the same views; you're going the same way.

From time to time, the road forks, we take separate paths but they

always lead to the same place and I find you there, waiting.

Sometimes we cover old ground; sometimes it just seems a familiar path.

Then there are those days where we break new ground and walk through un-chartered territory together.

I know its you next to me.

I can feel that its you.

But I can't help but sneak a look at what I know to be true.

As I grind to a halt, I understand why I shouldn't have looked.

It's a face of beauty, so graceful and elegant, that stops me in my tracks.

Mesmerised, I gaze at you.

All thoughts of walking cast aside.

What I see makes the incredible views pale into insignificance.

I am spellbound by you.

© Copyright Riggs 2007

I used to spend my days admiring the sunshine through double glazed protection.

I saw its effects but I didn't feel them.

I've become an indoor creature, like a spoiled housecat, I luxuriate in the delights of central heating and comfortable upholstery.

Sofas and armchairs, beds and floors, chairs and tables.

I can lounge upon any surface, no matter the fabric.

But since you I find myself lizard-like, basking in the spring sunshine.

I enjoy the touch of your skin on mine as the sun warms us both.

The fresh air flowing over goose bumps caused by you and not it.

You have the ability to make nature jealous.

The winter envies you for making me shiver.

Summer because you can make me sweat, warm me through and make the days seem never-ending.

In spring, you refresh me, adding a bounce to my step.

Autumn comes and you provide a cosiness and security that can only be found in your arms.

© Copyright Riggs 2007

Sitting on a hill, watching as they sail by.

Walking underneath them as they sit above us, threatening to relieve themselves all over us, on the day we forgot the umbrella.

Making mystical, magical and fantastical shapes that endlessly fascinate us and somehow manage to look so different to every set of eyes.

We never pay them much heed, often mentioned but rarely gloried.

They have such power over us mere mortals.

Ambling along so that one after the other, they pass in front of the sun, like a parade stopping the traffic, casting us into shadow.

At other times they speed past us as though we don't exist, urgent business elsewhere, apparently.

White and fluffy, grey and foreboding.

Solely reliant upon a force they can't see.

Having faith that they'll get to where they're supposed to go, do what they're supposed to do.

Some are nice, some are dangerous and some seem so innocent but beneath the fluffy exterior lies a malevolence that is only ever betrayed after the act.

Strolling, frolicking, storming, brooding, threatening, gambolling and yet made of nothing.

All style and no substance.

We pass through them in our flying machines, fall past them as we search for greater thrills and dream of lounging on one in corporeal form, plucking at a harp, watching as the world spins on its axis.

You know of that which I speak of, I wonder if you're as fond as I am?

© Copyright Riggs 2007