Response from the obscure mass of feathers

Resist the urge to avoid discomfort.

One of the most helpful things that anybody can learn is to give up trying to catch the last eight- or the first. These two are the most expensive eights in the world.- Edwin Lefevre: Reminiscence of a stock operation

Trained monkeys could do better

Eye’s stroll at pupil pace. Plucking, gathering, and pondering a pin-up board. This desk. Not the other desk. Never tapped, nor touched. A space always viewed from afar. Folders flounder open; onto telephone doodles, trade numbers. Nudging up against certain portions of an expiration calendar. Her fathers. Her own.

“Pass the Dettol, what doing?”
“I’m being a good person”
“I be cut finger on the pontoon, this morn, early morning”
“what, collecting mussels?”
“yeah, I be doing that, some fishing”
“want to cook some fish over in the shed?”
“you love when I cook fish in the shed?”
Sarcastic laugh
“where’s Dad be gone?”
“To watch what’s her name at kindy, some show or something”
“oh, he be back, yeah?”
“ok, see you later”

His grandpa leg looks sore. The mullet though, looks fresh. They’re fitting nicely today; the fillets, next to one another. Some are a little bigger than the other ones; but they seem to not cause much fuss in the tray today. At least he gets up in the morning, he is becoming antique. The Coorong Mullet, must be this mornings. What a name, Coorong Mullet. Some sort of rap infusion; a bombastic combo of words. The snapper heads are bleeding; draining on the sink. There’s a bit of snapper blood leaked on this shoe. Must wash shoe. The cutlets look plump.

A customer. She seems tired; as if she didn’t want to leave bed, but she did, to get the fish on fresh fish day. Her dog was upset when she left; there weren’t enough biscuits. That’s really the reason she left. Firstly dog biscuits; and secondly, on passing the neon sign fresh fish, she realized, she herself also had to be fed. As no-body else would feed her. She had to rely on herself. Even on days such as today dedicated to the couch. Although, she would call it a movie day. Calling it, that made her feel warm. But she knew, there was no attention span for such motion picture requests. Picking apart a seemingly flowing movie, into segments, pieces, fragments. To analyze them together; but mainly separately. Actors always seemed to be acting, unless it was over the top. Real life acting seemed so made up. The guy in the last movie made her feel sick; as if he smelt like cheese, as if he was being eaten alive by a fungal infection, he looked rotten. She preferred to watch the acting taking place at the shopping mall. It was far more real; far more fake, far more further retrieved from a rupture, the rampaged, the ‘just finished work’ roost, the ‘I’ve got kids, haven’t slept, don’t mess with me, shove this cheese stick in your gob and shut up’ natural mothers. The trolley’s full of pseudo rich food.

“hey, have a look at this”
“yeah, I’ve seen it”
Laughter on this side of the desk
Laughter on that side of the desk

Her eyes felt sleepy. Coffee did something risqué to summon her out of bed at 4 am this morning. Trying to keep all the doors shut, clamped. The mouse had to be confined. It obviously didn’t like the cheese placed on the trap. She knew that when he showed her the set-up. But fathers know best, when it comes to ‘pests’. As do certain songs. She just wanted to hear that song one more time. It just did something to her. Vivaldi, The four seasons: Spring. That first piano note. Stabs her heart, swallows her whole. Head; swallowed, leaning on the inside a pantries chest. Cupboard support. Sauce can sympathy.

“I wish I could sing, as good as a violin”

Always a stream of singular letter responses, from the obscure mass of feathers.

Respond to Response from the obscure mass of feathers

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