Digital Ischemia


Wee Boy at the Window

Filed under: Shorts — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 17:55

There’s a wee boy at the window again. Most mornings when I trundle about, I pass my window several times and there he is at his, gazing fixedly out. I’m fairly sure he’s a boy – he has a short-back-and-sides and blue pyjamas. Gender stereotypes are alive and well in Kinross.

He seems to have remarkable attention for a two-year-old. In my limited experience, two-year-olds are Active. They have not long discovered their limbs and intend to use them as much as possible. (When not stupefied by the idiot lantern.) This boy stands there for 10 minutes or more, in the gap he’s pushed in the vertical blinds, watching out the French window. He never sees me; he doesn’t look up. His focus is the driveway.

On sunny mornings I see him through the reflection of my neighbour’s car. Is that his fixation? Surely there must be some activity to keep his attention, but this early all is quiet. He seems too still and too unlikely to be a young ornithologist. A cat lover? Certainly a couple of cats have been quite active in the shrubbery recently, but they are also very vocal. They combine malevolent and coy in one terrifying howl. Strange times.

Today he’s there again. More animated, miming in slow motion smears against the glass. The relative perspectives must be different because now I see the top of someone’s head, as if sitting on the steps outside. This is unusual in itself because my neighbours all seem so short that I never see any sign of them above the fence. Today I fancy I also see a wisp of smoke. Is it possible that this daily fascination is Grandad sneaking a fag before anyone else is awake? Busted.



Filed under: Shorts — Tags: , , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 15:36

When did I swallow the poison apple?

It’s in my middle, where food should be, blocking me.

I know why my eyes are dry and stung. I heard the pat, pat on my bed.

I like to watch the others through the window: a little girl so joyful in her young body that she drops into lunge poses, over and over, for sheer pleasure of sensation.
A little girl lost, bewildered in a moment. Her bubble of rapture with watching us popped, she turned for the security of parent but it had gone. A whirl of panic. I see both, but their sight line is broken.
The older boy denying his interest for a game of supremacy.
The adults staring but not seeing.
I see this play out over and over. It’s exhausting but it’s escape.

I don’t like to look across to the other windows beyond: others like me stare back.

My parent touches me; it’s time to move: the watchers are bringing food.

When did I swallow the poison apple?

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