Martini

Shaken, not stirred. With a few bruises too, if you might.

"Dry, please," you would have said instead.

I feel shaken -- physically tossed around, bruised and raw. Twilight hours that flowed with such spirit now crank in mechanical labour. Marching on through the communism of events management offered me a reward at dawn-break. Fleeting as a promise, I was offered a peek at the phantom glory of an impending golden hope.

The Sunday that followed was much like an youthful party: a continuous flurry of mindless activities for the sole purpose of fulfilling your mental massage quota. I didn't want to stop moving, knowing that chasing a high from all that activity was at any time better than clawing my way through douldrums of sober fatigue.

Just as I began falling later in the day, the chatter of excited preoccupation and excited clatter of steel on ceremics ceased my waning attention in a slingshot sweep. With a palate of green, orange, black and white, an artist and her apprentice presented a selection of simple tates and well-bodied goodness. They made me miss my mother's cooking; they made me miss home too.

On the note of food and drink, my vagabond imagination teased me of the chatter and clatter with an old friend. An old friend who wore her spaghetti on her head, her heart on her face, and her soul in her eyes. Through her, a cocktail flowed; from her, a heart-aches were grown and bestowed; with her, a mind was opened.

Wordsmith, welcome back. Few things can move us like your words: some move me close to tears while others move us all closer to you. We missed you.

Despite the lyrical puzzle that I find so intriguing, the patchwork of autumn style still offer a home for my stirred-up heart. For your colours are still the ones that paint my horizon, and the bricks my bare-feet follow. Where to? To tomorrow, my dear; to tomorrow, starting from yesterday and today.


JKLM