Peril At Steadfast.

She asked me how my day was; I wasn’t interested in a reply, it was a day like each before, and therefore, I grunted, thinking how fine she looked, as she stooped, and retrieved the broken remnants of a vase, those that would have glanced a chance at her elbows as she passed; for who doesn’t kind oneself to Ivy’s elbows.

I was bewildered; for the next day I found her looking at me, longingly, when Bears In The Wild was playing, and the white beast was staring down a curious Alaskan, or a Red Indian, but her, she just looked at me curiously. And I shifted uncomfortably in place, in keeping with my stance, of course, for she laughed, having been married to me just for that, but I, I said no more. I turned, watched the sun begin his journey down South, and thought then, how fine it was, to be admired by an Ivy, who cared not for a reply in affection, and was to be satisfied simply by my dismissive approach to partnership. But even for a fellow as me, the sun holds miracles, and then, I turned for the briefest, and encountered an Ivy, and permitted myself a smile, and she remained steadfast in expression. Not a flicker of change, no abrupt surprise in response to this sacred feat of mine, just plain old love. She is one of them, don’t you know, Ivy.

And then we approached the kid’s jumping ground-Treewood Elementary High, and they’re like little boulders with the heckest of pink on their cheeks, unlike their mother of course, who carries a shade of green on her skin; I don’t know how she manages it. She really must be one of them. And she hums along, as we watch our offspring approach, and she asks me, “Have you missed them?” It’s been just the four hours since I bid them a happy day, and therefore, without waiting for an answer, she smiles, knowing what her John is like. But I, I wish to tell her, that how glad I am that they are pink and not green, for in her I see one that you or me may not be. Just the one, my one. My Ivy. But, bravo, I may not relay this to her. I am John Blackwood after all.

And my colleagues, they’re a happy bunch. They see something amusing, they permit themselves amusement. Unlike a John Blackwood from Rover’s Park, of course. John Blackwood from Rover’s Park is stern, entirely black in humour, and therefore, a man to be spared the rigmarole passed around on a wet Monday morning when it is entirely needed, for John, he knows how to take care of himself. He’s John Blackwood. From heaven knows where. But oh, there is a concern thriving in John, that he may be lacking in his appreciation for fellow staff; batch mates, and that how he thought Rick’s joke involving a castle priest and a prince last week had seen him through an entire weekend, down and out when he was, and he looked at Rick, this Monday, expectantly, and Rick was surprised, and belted one out involving a train- man and a passenger drunk, and that, the others laughed, but John quietly erupted inside.

There is a lot more to John than you can see. I wish you knew. I wish it was evident. I am unable to do away with a foundation, after all. Has anyone managed it? But John Blackwood; he’s the creature of thought now. Plagued by ideas and revolted to a certain extent by action, always a reacher, never a grabber. But this John, he has seen it as his fairytale. He saw to it, that the departure of parents wasn’t to be his curse, but rather a stepping stone, to step away from what he knew himself to be, and to be someone he may have scarce an estimate of. He did okay for himself, thought John Blackwood.  Yes, I’ve done just superbly.

I think of Ivy every night, and her heavy bosom, and her lips, and these are all vulgar imaginings of a man who is in love with a wife, for what follows is that I picture her walking through the kitchen on a beaming Saturday morning, carrying pancakes and love for the pink sheep, and three for me, her husband. Oh Ivy, you are a Sunday in a Saturday. No bigger compliment I can pay. You think me aloof, and I am. But I persist for it is the man you love, and if I should choose to show some other version through him, I shall be tempting a change of heart. But John Blackwood doesn’t give Ivy Carrie much credit. She does do a good job at everything now, simply everything. I think she should manage to find her husband gazing longingly at her, instead of the cursory glance, peek, and that she should be spurred on by the idea, and look at me simply as she always does.

As for Matthew and Elizabeth, the haunts of my nights, and the doings of my day, I spare them a measly father’s affection, and hope instead, that frisbee and baseball on a Sunday might help, in that regard, for nothing can compensate love. Nothing, whatsoever. None, John Blackwood tells you. The golden locked angel is a prairie girl, and the boy a sight for hermits in the mountains, and the two, combined, they are capable of running down a forest. They think a father to be someone who protects, who looks after, but little do they know his credentials to hold the admirable quality of gazing out into the wide open, observing two spirits soar through the night catchment, just extracting contentment, joy, and wonder, all while sitting down in chair of straw. His credentials go further; he is jealous of their ability to weep, and often when they are away, he will boldly venture forth into their room, breaking laws left right and center, and he will sit down, and search missing, melancholy, for he is John Blackwood. He will look at the prairie girl’s bed, and then at Matthew’s, the boy of the heavens, and he will smile, and Ivy will catch him doing so, a troublemaker herself, and she will gently coax him into a way with sorrow. Joyful sorrow it is, I, John, tell you.

He reads comics, does John Blackwood, and he derives pleasure, one of the few activities he is proud to show an attitude of. He keeps them in his drawer, and enlarges his world every night, expanding it, showing some ambition, to become more than some unbeknownst John Blackwood in Elsmorton. He fails every night, and succeeds in waking up to be himself again, but he tries. He will battle steadfastness, the enemy, with a sword, sharpened by his knowledge of self’s willingness to change. He wishes to be a consolatory whisperer, a sweet whisperer, a whisperer in the day as well as night. He wishes to dance when jazz plays, and when the hummingbirds arrive to make breakfast a complete affair each morning, and to learn to hum along with Ivy, or a passing stranger, preferably the former, not too far too soon. He reads to be someone else, and there lies a problem. Fundamentally, he is John Blackwood. He is to be him, and all by himself. The trouble with that is, that the world is full of infinite possibilities. I say John Blackwood should reach. He has been told otherwise, but the prairie girl and Matthew cornered him, one Wednesday afternoon, after hasty lunch, demanding just so.