Simultaneity


When stress begins to take control.

Begin to think of time as whole.

.

Streams keep flowing as you think,

And death takes men with every blink.

One foot in fire; One in ice.

Arms outstretched in depth and height.

.

A child dies within the womb,

A flower dances in it’s bloom.

Love’s first kiss on nervous lips.

Flying birds and sinking ships.

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Midnight, midday, they are the now,

Awake, Asleep, a death, a vow.

.

What are we but selfish beings?

Emotions flow immediately.

Perspective points of different seeing,

Stuck not in time, in sensory.

.

If I were time I’d laugh and cry.

In every second I pass by.

With focus on each lone event,

A flapping wing, a final breath.

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Stress all you want and waste the day.

The trees don’t stress, they only sway.

A butterfly lands on a child’s nose,

And time holds more than what you know.

.

Written by Randall Evans.

Rain

It was a cold miserable morning. The weather’s ice cold winds melted into my bones, yet I hadn’t even left the house. The rain fell all night without any hint of a cozy undertone.

The city was crowded with dreamless faces and deathly stares. The shelters were shoulder to shoulder with slow moving pedestrians that were showered with heavy drops that ran down the sides of buildings.

A few drops of rains and the trains are in chaos.

I hate it. I’m not a winter person, so this is ridiculious. I had to cross the city in the blistering cold to drop off an broken camera lens. Well, not just any lens, a Canon 70-200mm. It was my favourite lens. My baby. My livelihood.

At Wynyard I push past police, army vets, and a long line of corporate stiffs who are waiting to get into some event that I couldn’t care less about. Here is a question Sydney, why is so much of this overpriced city dependent on sunny skies? I didn’t have an umbrella and I felt every drop of the miserable, dirty rain.

Soaking wet, unhappy and ready to face the music. I bring out my lens.

“I’ll test it on my camera.”

The man checks the lens. I didn’t want to force it on my camera, but he has no trouble.

“It’s a bit tight…”

I thought it was too tight. But tell me, how is it?

“It seems OK. You’re a lucky man.”

I put my renewed hope back into my bag and head back to the office. Back through the crowds of zig-zagging people. Back across the roads where the red man overstays his welcome.

An alarm is going off in a building. I wonder why they were evacuated? There was a camera crew across the road. It’s funny how they still use massive rigs.

It’s now 2:00.

I work until 5:00.

A link is sent to my messenger.

MAN STABBED IN THE BACK OF THE NECK OUTSIDE WYNYARD STATION

Right outside my office. Right when I went for a walk.

Suddenly my attitude changed. The cold is just cold. The rain is just rain.

You never know when it’s your time.

Life is precious.

And I love the rain.

Written by Randall Evans.

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Shadows and Shame

The excitements builds rapidly in the invisible space between my lungs and my throat. It’s so powerful that my fingers start to tremble and I’m forced to close my eyes tight. Please, please let this feeling pass!

I have friends who struggle with real addictions. I watch them relapse into substances and thank God I’m not addicted to those. I alway try and give advise and act lovingly towards them, but who am I kidding? How am I any better? I’m worse.

There’s a shadow in my past that follows me. I didn’t know it was there until this moment. It’s impossible to see a shadow in the darkness, but when the light starts to seep into your life, there it is. Following you… Reminding you.

The moment passes. I can breath again…

I go to the local Woolworths for some sort of escape into normalcy. Movement is healthy. Doing something normal is healthy.

The lights of the supermarket seem unnaturally white, but it’s good to see other people shopping. I imagine that this is all they have to do, that their lives are so simple, that they have nothing going on under the surface.

If only I was just there to shop.

No, I was there to escape my shadow.

I fill my basket with one packet of M&Ms, a block of dairy milk chocolate, cookies (reduced to $2), meat pies on special and a 2L bottle of milk. I feel like a woman who’s just gone through a break-up. Actually, I don’t know how they feel, but certainly in movies this is what they do.

I get home and put on the TV. Family Guy isn’t my favourite, but tonight it’s hilarious. I dip my cookies in a warm cup of tea. I’m ok. I’ve beaten it.

I’m ready for bed, but the feeling comes again.

Just do it. Get it over with.

It’s 11:11 and my shadow leads me out the door.

I walk past the stairway. A flush comes over me and I keep walking. Head down, hoodie over my face. It’s a cold night… I look normal.

“Please God, let me bump into someone.”

I walk past a pub that taking the chairs inside. Nobody recognises me as I keep walking into the night. But, there is nothing ahead. I turn around and go back, passing by the Pub again.

“Someone call me. Text me. Something. Save me!”

My heart beats faster and faster as the decision comes closer and closer. My shadow has me by the hand and won’t let me go.

My whole body is shivering.

I pass the stairs again. This time I take a quick glance upward. The pink walls remind me of the smell. The smell of essential oils and fabric softener.

The smell of excitement and shame.

I stand on the edge of the street. It’s freezing. I could just go home.

No.

Let’s get it over with.

I’m not at a bad point in my life. I thought the darkness was a phase, a black hole in my past that I’d overcome. But no, I was wrong. I’m haunted. I’m drawn into darkness. My shadow will lead me. My sin leads me… And I follow.

Lord, forgive me.

I walk up the stairs.

Written by Randall Evans

***

Thanks for reading The Vile Mint. If I was able to spark your imagination, make you think or open your mind to new perspectives, please leave me a comment. I love hearing from readers and building relationships. God Bless.

Rooms – Train Freewrite 


We live our lives in separate rooms.

When the first racing games were developed, it became evident that the car didn’t actually move, it was the track that was moving. Sometimes this is how I feel.


As I write this I’m sharing a room with a Vietnamese family. It’s probably the only room we’ll share in our life. Just now the little girl shoved her tiny hand across her father’s face to shut him up. Slapstick knows no language.


The room is powering down the tracks towards the lights of the big city. I’ll get off at Newtown and jump on a bus back home to Marrickville. I wonder if I’m writing like this because I’ve been reading ‘A moveable feast’. In any case, I don’t own a shotgun.


We form attachments to the people who occupy the same spaces as ourselves. I feel like a busy train is similar to a new seating arrangement in school. We are separate from our friends and the silence is evident. In a few weeks, however, we’ve made new friends and the seating arrangement must change.


Thousands of people have written on trains to try and pass the time and somehow contribute to the oversaturated use of the train as a metaphor for fate or choice, or even a concept as loose as ‘life’. The truth is that anything short of the Orient Express is a waste of time.


The family just jumped off at Cabramatta.


I wonder what the inside of their house looks like? I’d imagine that it’ll still be raining when the father opens the door for his family, his little girl running past him to grab the last thing she was playing. The warmth inside is the closest thing the room can do to say ‘I missed you’. The red curtains, soft carpet, and the dull hum of a fish tank filter are the signifiers of home. Yet, they are nothing special.


It’s association. The rooms we occupy only have significance when memories are forgotten about them. When we can’t quite remember all the stories about high-school, that’s where the nostalgia comes from.


It’s 9:55pm and a woman is getting restless. In a true bogan fashion, the man yelled , “Stop your fu#king bitching”. I know the space they occupy and it’s why they are here. It’s why they are on the move. The forgotten memories that have seeped into the walls push them out. Sadness… hurt… disappointed. It’s why they’d rather be outside than in.


It’s why we crave holidays.


My room is like a cave. It’s dark, damp and ancient. I had a strange feeling when I was eating breakfast of the time I have left. Picturing myself as an old man, but at the same single table… eating alone. It’s a terrifying image.


The happy couple are still fighting. Next stop is Grandville. I remember changing trains there countless times and purchasing chicken rolls. Three people got off. One lady is watching makeup tutorials on her phone. She has purple hair.


Your body is the train, your consciousness is the track. You are right here with me. Your consciousness determines where you go, which rooms you occupy. Your body merely follows your mind.


Not the Orient Express, but hey, I think this bogan behind me might murder his wife.


Written on the train by Randall Evans


This is The Vile Mint

Look Up!

I’m desperate and alone! What beauty there was when we collided, but now I lay staring at the celling. Staring into nothingness.

Pick me up! Let us play and sing!

You don’t know what it’s like, do you dear reader? It’s horrible! For happiness to be completely dependent on an entity separate from ourselves is torture. I was built to transform emotion into music, yet on my own I’m nothing. I’m a tool; rusting in the corner of an old garage.

A strange thing, isn’t it? To have emotion and not be able to express it. I’m literally an outlet with no outlet! I crave to be whole! To be with someone who has the human luxury of being able to express emotion! What a blessing that is!

I despair, and I hope for hope. For what beautiful music we made together! You must understand on some level, for you turned me into a metaphor. When you feel emotional about a movie you say, ‘That really struck a chord with me.’ Well, let me tell you that you have no idea! You have no idea what it’s like to have that emotion as the basis of your entire existence.

Strike a chord with me. It’s been too long. I need you. I’m alone. My strings are loosening and i’m gathering dust.

Dependence. What pain.

When my love returns, I will be free again. Free to feel what I was created to feel. Love.

Ahh, humans. Humans who love in freedom but create their own internal prisons. You don’t know what you have. I have to confess, I enjoy the depression you feel, because you come to me more often. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure I make you feel better in some small way.

So I’ll sit here and wait until the earth stops spinning. I’ll wait because I’m grateful for the chords you strike with me. Even though sound itself exists only as it passes out of existence, it’s still worth the wait.

Life is short. Don’t let love grow stale and dry. Don’t put love down like me, an old guitar that’s lost its warm tone. Don’t let it’s voice be silenced. Look up! Look up to the sky and scream!

You’re human! You’re allowed to feel!

– By Randall Evans.

Look Up

 

Random Liquid Thoughts

The soundscape of water.

The undercurrent tone.

What is reality ?

These waves ?

Waves from wind, wind forms windows, windows into further dimentions of experience.

Under the surface, a expancive melody plays. Can you hear it? I can feel it.

Wait for the sun to set over graveties prisoner.

Wait for the lights to cast over this earths silk gown.

Mirrored reflections of golden light, ever changing, rolling, burning the back of my eyes.

What a strange idea it is, the idea that an object can float in water. How strange are the ships that carry people back and forth over ever changing, overlapping liquid matter. What is this surface?

What is this divide ?

Two worlds collide.

Flip me over, make me drown…

Don’t look down.

Im nothing but a moving shadow in the sun.

Don’t look down.

– By Randall Evans.

Painting Light

While reading this, remember that you are subconsciously decoding written language into thought patterns that are comprised of imagination, memory and experience. The words by themselves mean absolutely nothing.

Image Via http://freerangestock.com
Image Via http://freerangestock.com

“What do you see?”

Josh takes a step back from the painting and simultaneously places his hand upon his chin (the way people do when they pretend to be deep in thought).

“I see…”

The painting on the wall showed a blind man watching a sunset.

“Well, it’s all about experience. You don’t need to see the sunset to experience it.”

Bree tilts her head to one side like a dog hearing a strange noise.

“Huh…”

Josh smiles to himself.

A man sitting on a chair behind Josh and Bree gives his opinion.

“Bullshit!”

Josh and Bree turn to face the man.

“The painting is about illusion verses reality.”

A little rude, but a good point.

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

The old man smiles.

“No, you didn’t. You said it was about experience when It is about illusion. Let me explain it to you this way: you have never seen, nor will ever see, this painting.”

Hand to chin.

“Light does not exist in your brain. We decode light through our eyes and ‘see‘ it in our brains via chemical reactions. You will never, and can never see, light. Therefore, everything you see is an illusion. Including this painting”

Josh turns back to the painting and looks at it for a few seconds.

“Very interesting…”

He then throws a friendly smile to the man and tries to walk away with Bree as casually as possible. He makes it a few meters before the man shouts out to him.

“Oh by the way, the art gallery doesn’t start until you pass through the doors at the end of the corridor.”

Embarrassed, the couple hurry towards the real art gallery and two others take their place.

“Bullshit!”

This is The Vile Mint