I was doing my tax return. Sifting through receipts to see which ones I can actually use.
I came upon a rogue purchase bill amongst the genuine ones. It was for three bars of very expensive chocolate.
My mind said, ‘I can’t put that through.’ My mouth said, ‘Yes I can. I just have to think creatively.’
I’ve receipts for magazines, publications to do with writing, books, inkjet cartridges, paper, pens, paper and all manner of products that pertain to my self-employment as an Art Practitioner.
How ambiguous is that?
So, I went to the cupboard in the kitchen and rooted through the sugar, baking powder, flour, vanilla extract and maple syrup, and found the treasured confectionary. Three blocks of ‘Willie’s Cacao.’
I ate half a bar.
This chocolate is the best chocolate I have ever tasted. Sure it is pricey, and I can only buy it in Britain’s most expensive Supermarket, that takes me forty-five minutes to drive to.
But I don’t care.
I ate the other half and began to see things differently.
So, back to my dilemma. How can I justify putting chocolate through my books?
A flash of inspiration.
I can say it helps me with my creativity. When I eat it I become more productive and my writing improves.
Do you think I’ll get away with it?
This is what I wrote after my eyesight returned to normal
They come down from the clouds when there is a storm.
We, the children left behind by those less brave,
catch them in our mouths.
Once inside, they sputter like fire crackers,
burning our tongues with a taste
of something primal.
The adults don’t understand our tight-lipped quiet
and shout for us to hide. To get away from the rogue
bolts of electricity.
To run from the bangs and crashes that whoosh around
our heads. But we just stare at them
with big button eyes, all innocence and light.
One by one we move our limbs and go into
an unmeasured dance, wild,
some would say chaotic.
But they’d be wrong. Each step we take
is perfectly choreographed to keep in time
with the boom, boom, boom.
Breathless we gulp in static and sulphur.
Our bellies bulge with a glut of spark and fizz;
and we slap our hands
upon our distended stomachs echoing
the drumbeat thumps.
Until, we can stand no more.
Lungs fill with heavy air, our faces turn red.
So we tilt them up and scream.
Their offspring spurt out,
carried away on our ear-splitting howls.
The rumbles die away, the flashes weaken
Exhausted, we lie
on our backs and watch them wave to us
as they fly towards the boiling sky.
Returning to their mothers and fathers.
We wave back and let the grown-ups shake their heads
and think us mad.