A throe upon the features -
A hurry in the breath -
An ecstasy of parting
Denominated “Death” -
An anguish at the mention
Which when to patience grown,
I’ve known permission given
To rejoin its own.

I like the second as well.

In either case 'cement the brick' sounds funny to my ear. Where I'm from, bricks are laid in mortar, but they are mortared up, or buttered up with mortar, not cemented. I point this out because I think the son of a mason would know this. If 'cement' isn't used like this for masonry where your readers are from is going to sound odd.

How about:

He kneel's out of sight
tapping brick into fresh mortar
for the wall he's laying.

[In a Small Town]

In a Small Town  

The wind pushes and rattles the thin tin walls of the drive shed. 
  
Hey
 
Hey
    
Jake closes the metal door behind him and walks across the cold, grease-stained concrete floor to the grease and dirt-smeared white fridge and removes a Red Stripe.     He twists the top off and tosses it towards a green plastic garbage can surrounded by empty auto parts’ boxes, rags, empty bottles and cans and assorted other trash.     He says: What’s that then?

It’s Murray’s, replies Jake's younger brother, Tommy.   
  
Oh? Wha’d he do?

Rings are broke.   You hear anythin?
 
Jake lowers the beer from his mouth and runs the torn sleeve of his tan canvas coat across his mouth; yup, heard somethin today. 
  
Tommy looks back over his shoulder and waits. 
    
Jake tilts his head to the right to get a better sight-line on his younger brother’s work. 
  
Well? Wha’d they say? asks Tommy. 
  
Said I’m shooting blanks, replies Jake.   He drains the beer and tosses the empty bottle into the garbage can.     You mind if I have another?

Tommy picks up a rag and wipes his hands.   He turns and looks at Jake; go ahead, fill your boots.   
 
Jake grabs another Red Stripe and opens it.   
  
You tell Alice?

Nope.   
  
I guess you’ll have to. 
  
I guess, Jake stares at the beer in his hand, not tonight I ain’t.     He tips back the bottle and drains the beer and tosses the empty bottle into the garbage can; right now, I’m goin to bed.     See ya. 
  
Yeah, see ya.   
 
Jake and Tommy are the Burleson’s of Burleson road, Mapleford, Ontario, a small and quiet agricultural community located at the 31 mile marker on the Trent Severn Waterway.     Of the two brothers, Jake is the larger man; he stands 6’ 1” and weighs 240 pounds.     At just 28 years-old, he is already balding.     Tommy is the opposite; he’s thin, 5’ 9’ and has a full head of light brown hair.     The differences in their looks and personalities are so great, that unless you knew better, you’d never guess they were brothers. 
  
A swirl of snow follows Jake inside.     He quickly closes the door. 
  
Hey

Hey

He walks to the back corner of the drive shed and opens the small door of an old, black and rusted airtight stove.     He selects a chunk of maple from a small stack of firewood and places it in the stove.     He closes the door and sits next to the stove on an aged block of red oak. 
  
It’s a little fresh. 
  
Seems like it. 
  
I thought you were done with that?

I did too. 
  
I’m too damn cold to move.     Grab me one of them beers, would ya. 
  
Tommy steps out from under a black ’69 Firebird and grabs Jake a beer from the fridge.   
What’s the problem?

I think there’s air in the line. 
  
Need any help?

Naw, I got it. 
  
Good, I wasn’t about to anyways. 
  
I know.   
 
Jake takes a sip of his beer.     I talked to Alice.   
 
Oh, how’d that go?

‘Bout as good as you’d think.     He takes another sip; by the way, you didn’t say nothin to Cindy, did ya?

Nope. 
  
Good.     I wouldn’t think you would. 
  
Why? What’s up?

I dunno.     I gotta think about it some more.     Maybe nothin. 
  
Tommy goes back to work while Jake sits and finishes his beer. 
  
After awhile, Tommy asks; so when do ya think you’ll know?

Know what?

What it is you’re thinkin about. 
    
Oh, I dunno, maybe after the hunt. 
  
The Burleson’s are one of only a handful of families left in the area that have farming roots that date back prior to the town being incorporated in 1831.     Their downfall, like that of so many others, wasn’t the result one defining moment but rather, the slow erosion of success and the inevitable and continual need to sell off parts of their farm to stay ahead.     What was once a prosperous farm of 750 acres is now nothing more than two side-by-side 5 acre lots, each with a small, ranch-style bungalow on it.     The only original building that remains is a falling-down barn that sits on Jake’s lot.     Both of the houses are heated by outdoor wood-burning stoves that have large woodsheds built next to them.     Behind Tommy’s house is the small tin drive shed where he runs his repair shop.     For the past 9 years, Jake has worked at the locks. 
  
Hey

Hey

Jake closes the door and walks to the fridge.     He removes a Red Stripe and twists the lid off.     I don’t know about you, but I don’t think too much of this thaw.     He tosses the lid towards the bin. 
  
I guess not, replies Tommy. 
  
That Dale’s truck?

Yup.   Driveshaft’s broke. 
  
Jake takes a sip of his beer; I was at Randy’s and he’s already got the head of that 10-pointer mounted on the wall in his garage. 
  
I guess he does. 
  
Jake finishes his beer and tosses the empty in the bin.     He grabs another beer from the fridge and has a seat on the block of oak.     Tommy, I need to talk you, he says.     He twists off the lid of his beer and tosses it towards the bin. 
  
Tommy turns and leans against the work bench.     He grabs a rag and starts to wipe his hands.     What’s up?

You remember when I said I had to figure out what to do.     You know, about what the doc said about me. 
  
Yeah, I remember. 
  
Well, this is gonna sound a little crazy, maybe at first anyways, but when you really think about it, it ain’t that crazy. 
  
What’s that?

Jake takes a sip of beer.     Course you know how much Alice wants kids. 
  
Yup. 
  
Not that I don’t, cause I do.     I mean yous got your two and they’re doin okay, right?

Right. 
  
Jake finishes the beer and tosses it in the bin.     He runs his sleeve across his mouth.     Shit, I’m just gonna come out and say it. 
  
Why wouldn’t ya?

I don’t wanna adopt some stranger’s baby and say it’s mine.     Alice don’t neither.     We could get her artificially knocked up, but we can’t afford it.     Anyways, we wouldn’t want to. 
  
So, whaddya thinkin?

I want you to do it.   
 
What?
 
You heard me. 
  
You’ve lost your goddamn mind.     You want me to do Alice?
 
That’s what I’m sayin. 
  
Does Alice know about this?

Yup, we talked about it. 
  
Well that’s great, but do ya think Cindy’s gonna be okay with me walking next door and havin a go with Alice.     Cause I got news for ya, she ain’t. 
  
She don’t gotta know.   
 
Whaddaya mean she don’t gotta know.     How the hell is she not gonna know?

‘Cause we ain’t gonna tell her.     That’s how. 
  
For Christ’s sake, Jake.     This is nuts.     I can’t do Alice. 
  
Whaddaya mean you can’t do Alice.     She looks good.     Hell, she’s a lot better lookin than that Petheram girl yous was doin back in high school. 
  
She wasn’t that bad. 
    
The hell she wasn’t.   
 
Come on, Jake.     You gotta get serious with me.     You don’t mean this shit, do ya?
I’m as serious as the day is long little brother.     Look, it won’t take more than a time or two - didn’t ya always tell me alls you had to do to knock up Cindy was ta hang your pants on the bed post? Think about it.     At least the kid’ll be a Burelson.   It’s the only way Tommy.   
  
Jake stands and walks to the fridge and grabs another beer.     He twists the top off and tosses it in the bin.     Anyway, I got it all worked out.     We’ll just get up a little extra early one day, you walk to my place and I’ll come here.     I’ll do up your morning chores while you do Alice.     After your done, you come back here like nothin ever happened and I’ll head back to my place and get my chores done.      He pauses and takes a sip of beer.     Don’t say nothin now, just think about it.     He finishes the beer and tosses the empty into the bin.     He walks to the door.     Before he leaves he looks back at Tommy; Alice says she’ll be droppin eggs again in the next day or so.     See ya. 
  
Tommy, still a little stunned by Jake’s request, waits till Jake is gone: See ya.   
  
Several days later, Jake and Tommy execute the plan.     In the cold predawn dark, they cross paths; they do not look at one another and they do not stop and talk. 
  
And so it goes, on through the varied seasons of the coming year: once, sometimes even twice, every 28 days, followed by weeks of waiting and wondering. 
  
And then it snows. 
  
Hey

Hey

‘Bout time things froze up.     I was done with all that goddamn mud.     Jake walks to the fridge and grabs a beer.   
 
Garb me one too. 
  
Jake pauses and looks back at Tommy. 
    
Don’t worry, says Tommy, I’m just havin the one. 
  
Jake grabs another beer and joins Tommy sitting by the stove.     He passes Tommy the beer; how come you ain’t workin on Jessie’s spilter?

I dunno.     I guess I don’t feel like it. 
  
They crack open their beers and toss the lids towards the bin. 
  
Cheers, says Jake. 
  
They sit and they drink.   
  
After awhile, Tommy says; I never told ya, but I went and saw the doc. 
  
Why? You sick or somethin?

No, I ain’t sick.     I got tested. 
  
Tested? Why would you get tested? You got Noel and Lea. 
  
I know I got Noel and Lea.     But don’t it seem a little strange to you that it’s comin on a year and nothins happened. 
  
Yeah, I guess.     I checked with Alice to see if yous was doin it right. 
  
And?

She said ya was.     Wha’d the doc say?

Said I’m just like you. 
  
What?

Yup.     Nothing but blanks. 
  
Shit, says Jake. 
  
You got that right, says Tommy. 
  
They drink some more. 
  
Suddenly Jake sits up and turns and looks at Tommy; that means Noel and Lea…

Tommy doesn’t reply and Jake’s words hang and linger in the warm, fire-stoked air.   
After awhile, Jake asks; so whaddaya gonna do?
 
I dunno, relies Tommy.     I ain’t got it figured out yet.     I’ll tell you one thing, I ain’t gonna be doin Alice not more.     Less you think she might miss it too much?

I dunno, I could check. 
  
Tommy smiles, you do that, he says. 
  
They finish their beer and toss the empties into the bin. 
  
Fuck it, says Jake, we need another one.     He stands and brings back two more beers.     He opens one and passes it to Tommy then opens the other one and takes a drink. 
  
I’ll tell ya what, says Tommy. 
  
What’s that, says Jake.     He sits back down next to his brother. 
  
I’m gonna miss you doin up my morning chores, that’s for sure. 
  
Jake smiles.     He takes a sip of his beer then turns and looks Tommy; this is one hell-of-a-deal, ain’t it?

Yup, replies Tommy, seems like it, don’t it. 
  
They continue to sit in silence and drink their beer. 
  
Finally, Jake says; you know, I bin thinkin, maybe we oughta go see mom.   
 
Yeah, says Tommy, I bin thinkin about that too. 
  
And so two men sit, next to a small airtight stove in a small tin shed, and together they drink beer and ponder the absurdities of life.     And so, I imagine, it shall always be; in a small town.   

[Urram Hill]

Urram Hill

Standing alone as he is now he knows and only by his own awareness does he know that death awaits patiently behind this particular type of perfect stillness.       He thinks other people might call this darkness.  To him however it does not appear to be a question of light or dark but rather a simple question of circumstances, random or not, for what does that matter when there will be blood.     

     
 The late afternoon sky has drifted low and has darkened such that it now roofs the dirt and gravel road and the travellers upon the road in a manner that makes this aged and distant Arcadian world appear constrictive, the travellers entrapped, a moment somehow suggestive of past worlds and of all the others who have been here before them and who remain here yet, their lives harrowed deep and forever into the vacancy of this land.  They’re close to home and the road they’re on now is their own; at least that’s what everyone calls it.  They walk apart and they do not speak and the boy’s mind for the most part wonders nowhere certain or particular.  He stops by the wayside and toes a faded and blackened blood stain that spills forth from a thick cluster of tall and dried out horsetail and grass; blood and dirt and nothing more than that.       He looks to the north-east and watches a red-tailed hawk commence a predatory spiral high above a hay field with a second cut taken, the few remaining wayward square bales waiting to be picked up and utilized before they expire.  He's watched this hawk hunt before.  It misses.  It calls to the darkening quiet.
      
  Coming on just beyond the mixed hardwood and windswept soft maples that line the road are the still partially green but heavily worked-down rolling pasture fields of their farm, Urram Hill.  Weathered and crumbling dry stone walls encased in thistles and other common field weeds rise and fall and intersect like some well thought out testimony to purpose and will.  Dark smoke catches his eye.  Before he can look back he hears a gunshot and then another.  He drops a paper bag filled with assorted groceries and truck parts and moves quickly through the trees and over the low stone wall.       He runs across the pasture.  He moves well, fast, his 15-year-old legs striding and his feet pounding the uneven ground.  He stops.  Their house isn’t burning.
      
His mother follows.  They hear another gunshot. 
   
The flames are fuelled by sheep, sheep and the damp heavy air of this overly hard and forgotten place.  A tall man with a long dark coat and a hood stands watch over the flames of his own making; a blood soaked sheep stretched across his right shoulder.       
For the son, this moment will last.
      
Dad, put it down!
 
His father doesn’t answer and he doesn’t look back.  The son knows that his father’s awareness of this place and time can often be like nothing more than a quick glimpse of something that possibly was, or was not, there.  He tries again.  Dad! Put it down!  

Shadowed by his hood his father’s retreated and pale, weathered and fire-smoked sweaty face looks partway over his shoulder.  A dark and hollowed eye welled from eternity and impervious to the measures of reason and method views the boy.  He’s not sure if the boy has spoken or not.  He turns back.  He reaches his left arm across his chest and grabs the back of the sheep’s neck.  He tries to lift but cannot.  His weakness and exhaustion made visible and he knows not to try again.  He becomes aware of the extreme heat and sweat upon his face.  He thinks to himself; his father would have done the same.  The fire explodes and sends a spray of burning embers and bits of flaming sheep into the fading day.  He leans forward and lets the sheep fall from his shoulder.  The boy watches the sheep’s blood exit the many shot holes in its neck.  He watches too the small particles of dirt that drift to the thick running surface of the blood before the blood is soaked into the ground and claimed  by the dirt as its own.  God's own bounty.
    
The thick dark smoke mixed with the smell of burning sheep drifts over them.
      
Connor, Jonathon’s father, speaks: They're poxed.
      
Jonathon steps further into the smoke and closer to his father; the good smell of his father that was there his whole life is gone.  He wants it back.  Not this, this smell of wet heaviness, of smoke and certain death.  There's nothing wrong with em, he says.       
There is, his father replies.  I’ve seen it before in my father’s time.  They need to burn.  They stand like this, both tall, the son only just shorter than the father.
    
 He’ll do it. 
     
 Jonathon looks at his mother, I won't.
      
She walks past her son.  She seems so much younger than her husband yet they are the same, not only in age but in most ways.   Everything that they are is right there, visible.  She places her hand on his mostly vacant face.  He has no fight.  No will past hers.
      
The son knows it.  He knows too that for his father this moment is gone, but he's not thinking about that, he's looking at the lack of recognition he sees and hates in his father's face and he thinks to himself; I'm your son, you know it.  My words too, you know them.  He likes to think it's just the meaning of things his father loses.  I'll do it, he says. 
     
He takes the Winchester 20 gage O/U shotgun from his father’s hand and he knows he’s lied and he hates that too.   He has so much hate now; real hate.  Whereas before he never did but now he does.   He cracks the gun and removes the spent shell from the upper chamber and places it in his shirt pocket and takes the unspent shell from the lower chamber and places it in the upper chamber.  He closes the gun.  Next to him the fire continues to consume the last of what the sheep have to offer.  He looks and sees his parents walking slowly up the winding dirt path worn deep into the rocky grass hill that leads to the back of their stone house.  Should they look back, either one, they would see a boy with a gun standing alone outside of their love for one another, their love for him a separate love, a different love, a love just as deep and just as full but incapable all the same of saving him from the unavoidable and pending truth of all that is unseen and unanswerable despite the intense desire otherwise that the last of his youngness still harbours.
      
He looks down at the sheep, its eye bulging large from its socket as if the uncertainty and fear pumping through its blood had crystallized it and turned it to glass.  He places his boot over the sheep’s eye, puts the gun to its head and pulls the trigger.  The top of the sheep’s head sprays forward leaving a trail of blood, brain matter and bone fragment.   At the sound of the gun firing his parents stop.  They don’t look back. 
     
She is slender and falls just on the side of tall and is still of a good shape.  Her thick light brown hair runs to a length just past her shoulders.   She finishes putting up her hair as she steps into a tub venting steam from hot and scented water.  The room is filled with a low soft light spilling out from a shaded lamp.  Beyond the thin glass of the window the coming darkness brings a fog, a harbinger perhaps from an abyss unknown of all things to be feared, real and imagined.  She slides her legs beneath the water and leans her head back.  She closes her eyes.
      
Beyond here: lies nowhere.
    
In the distance moving slowly across the vacant pasture is the rider set upon his horse; his hands folded over the pommel, his shoulders hunched forward and his head down, such that the horse and the rider appear silhouetted as one against the last low  light of the day and engaged in what looks to be like the entrusted burden of carrying upon their backs the evening darkness from out of the east.
    
Kathleen stands at the bedroom window and watches her son herd what is left of the sheep up and over the rough and rolling pastures that hold the hearts of the ones she loves but that will never own hers.  And she thinks to herself; where did it go? All that time? And the parents of the boy she sees before her now, where are they? The one’s with everything to give to him and all the time in the world to give it to him with.  And she feels her anger returning, anger she thought had passed and gone and given way long ago to the acceptance of what they had become; gutted and hollowed sleeves of what they once were and worse yet, of what she always thought they might become.   Anger nurtured by her own shortcomings, by her own self-betrayal.
      
And then she realizes that the boy has long been gone from her sight and that now there is only darkness. 
   
Jonathon stands the horse.  By the light of the moon and stars he studies the pastures of Dignity Hill, in the old language, Urram.  He waits, and he thinks to himself; these moments now, here, quiet and alone, he likes the best.  Everything is right and as it should be and there is nothing not to understand. 
     
The panelled room is small and shadowy with only a bedside lamp on.  The air is still and somewhat stale.  Connor sleeps.  His breathing is faint and shallow and has a slight sporadic rattle.  His head is covered in splotches of dark hair that have only just begun to grow back in.  On the bedside table are several pill bottles of different sizes, a hyperaemic needle, a small bottle of morphine, a glass of water and a bowl filled with warm water. 
     
Kathleen sits on the edge of the dark, wood-framed bed and wrings out a washcloth.      She gently wipes his face, rinses the cloth and wrings it out again.  She places the cloth over the edge of the bowl and turns out the light.       She gets into bed and her body immediately accepts the warmth that surrounds her like some form of healing that she wishes she could will deep to her bones or beyond, should such a place exist.     
 From the darkness comes a faint whisper that sounds as if it only just managed to escape from the weak flow of Connor’s strained and raspy breathing; how’s Jonathon?
 
He’s still out there, she replies.
      
When this is over, take him and go away.  He pauses, his sickly breathing filling the darkness.  I know it’s what you wanted.
    
Shhh, she says, don’t talk.
    
We should’ve done it.
      
It doesn’t matter.
    
You were right.
      
Please, Connor.
      
There should be more to this than just what we inherit.
    
I inherited you, didn’t I?

A slight smile breaks across his face; I guess.  There wasn’t much to choose from, was there?

No, maybe not.   But if there had been more to choose from it would have only made it harder to find one another. 
   
And Urram Hill?

We’ve had a full life, Connor. 
   
There’s still Jonathon.
    
Is there?
 
He’s young yet.
    
He’s not as young as you think.  Now shh, she says again.  Go to sleep.
      
At the northeast corner of their farm, where the land ends, Jonathon works at splitting blocks of hardwood that have been cut from a large jag of logs piled next to a bonfire pit that is both wide and deep and where a small fire burns.  The pit is surrounded on three sides by benches that are made from raised logs. The fourth side is open to a high, rocky cliff and the fast-moving waters of a great and unforgiving seaway.  The saddle, saddle blanket and bridle rest at the end of the back bench next to the Winchester that leans against the log. 
     
He begins to pitch the wood he split into the fire sending a myriad of embers with each log he tosses into the black and starry night that tonight is his and his alone, for what is an evening sky if not a celestial map of the past setting alight the way of the future.  His future; a future determined this very evening as written in the stars above.
    
She opens her eyes and is momentarily uncertain and confused.  When her eyes adjust to the darkness she sees Connor awake next to her with his left hand pressed flat against the blankets and his other hand attempting to steady the hypodermic needle above a vein in his flattened hand.  The chamber of the needle is filled with only air.     

She takes hold of his wrist.  No.         

He continues to struggle. 
     
Please, Connor. 
     
She lowers his hand to the blanket.  Neither one moves.  Neither one speaks.
    
And then finally from the very heart of the blue black bedroom darkness, Connor whispers to his wife; I wanna go.
    
She lays her head down next to his; I know.
      
They stay like this, aware as they are that their moments together are few.
      
Death waits patiently.
    
The fire he builds burns large and loud and reaches far into the night.  A fire to light the way to what, he does not know.   Eternity is not a question for the young.    And so he burns the night like a scream for help consumed as he is by darkness he does not understand.  A darkness fuelled by his hatred and inability to comprehend the reasons and methods to the events of his life that are now being laid bare before him like the slow death of familiar and constant sounds and the awareness that follows of new sounds that once heard are difficult to ignore and harder yet to contain.  They burn and they blind and they have lead him here to this field alight as it is with all the glory of the heavens and the stars and the moon such that it be a perfect night for the taking of a stand, yelling: Fuck you God!
 
And then there is nothing; just a perfect stillness.
    
Against the vast and heavy grey sky a hawk screams and dives from view over the edge of a cliff.
      
Somewhere in the distance a piper plays Amazing Grace.       
  

Hi everyone, I have a quick question on the proper use of person within this example; my question being, it's written in 3rd person, with one character thinking about another character.     .     .     .      she does this, she does that.     .     .      can I then make the sift to.     .     .      you are this, your are that.     .     .      see below, and thanks.     .     .     

The man, the father, the husband lies ravished by disease withered and decayed beneath crisp white sheets.      His days and nights are a feverish blend of confusing death dreams intermingled with bits of reality that are to him indistinguishable from one another.    
His wife sits at the end of their bed in this darkened room that holds no value to him or any connection to anything from his life.      It is a meaningless room, small and paneled and unfamiliar.      Why is he here? And then there is nothing, just the black emptiness that comes and takes him and that is so much of his life now.     
He sees his wife.      She is lovely and she is beautiful.      She is small with long black hair and light blue eyes.      Her skin is pink and smooth and she looks warm and weary after a hot bath.      She is wrapped in her heavy white terrycloth bathrobe that he knows brings her comfort.      She is not aware that he is watching her.     
She stands now and walks to the dresser and pick up a pile of clothes she placed there earlier.      She carries them back to the bed.      He sees her robe fall open as she selects from the pile a lace and silk g-string that she bought earlier and just for this occasion.      She slips her legs through the thin lace straps and pulls them up.      He knows she feels the coolness of the fine red silk front against herself.      She puts on the black lace garter.      She rolls up one of the silk black stockings, then the other.      She puts on her new black and red lace bra, it fits well and he knows it makes her feel better, more assured.      She looks amazing, but there is no one there that can tell her that.      She turns and looks at him, but he cannot say speak and she cannot tell that he is watching her.      She walks back to the dresser and finishes the glass of red wine that she started while in the tub.      She places the empty wine glass back on the dresser.      She puts on her jewelry; all fake, of course, nevertheless it shines and it glitters and it too, he can tell, makes her feel good.      She applies her red lipstick and dabs on her perfume.    
You’re downstairs now and it’s just slightly past the time you should have left.      If you’re going to back out, now is the time to do it.      You look in the long hallway mirror and you’re happy with how you look.      The short tight black dress fits well.      Your high black boots are on and you know you’re ready.      You put on your long black coat and take one last look in the mirror; go, just do it, please, you tell yourself, and before you can change your mind you open the door to the cold winter darkness and you go.    

Nothing to really dislike here, but I definitely didn't feel any sense of completion. Maybe this is the beginning of a longer piece poking its way out of your brain? 

Brief, like I like them.... Bukowsiesk..... Like I like 'Um.....
 

I like it.... it has lots of promise. I know Olaf can write some pretty good stuff.

The only weakness I would look at is:

"Strike out and flame like a sure match." &

"You are a part of the fabric of cloth
life is a table cloth Son, a clean sheet of infinite stain"

These line's stand out as a little weak in an other wise strong piece.


Let's hop the oncoming Spring season can propagate interest in 're MARY!!!

I dig it. Seems maybe a bit dense (I mean that in terms of pace, etc, not dense as in stupid), but still pretty dang good. The vibe I get from it is, this is what we think of when our grandmother's wisdom is recalled from memory as opposed to what a gran might have actually said. Tally ho.

(Grandmother Mother Aware Idealism)

Don't be such a cardigan, Son.
Get out there into the world.
Make it tremble to meet you.
Take great strides through crowds.
Don't be shepherded into enclosures.
Strike out and flame like a sure match.
Gamble your chances on intuitive charm.
Gather your skill as hidden treasure.
There are doors in the world that open
before you even push. These are the doors
of destiny, the doors of chance, the doors of a
God indicating possibility. Take it son.
Run with your spirit flaring in the dark night
of so many quiet lives. Do not be ashamed
of your peculiarities but do not let them own you.
You are not governed by a corporation of shadows.
You are a part of the fabric of cloth
life is a table cloth Son, a clean sheet of infinite stain
and you must let all your limbs burst with the flowers
of your being. But you are not a solitary piece of biology.
There is so much love you have yet yo receive from those
who have already given so much. Take love as your task,
pour your waves of affection outward into good works
to the even sea of people surrounding. There is much
gold in simplicity. There is so much care
to be aware of in a quiet minute.



(Aye Gran...
Whitever you say.)