Circle

Little circles

turning round my head

like wheels spinning

like a line reread

clicking and clacking

ticking and tocking

overwhelming

yet comforting

a race never-ending

a space never filling

circle, circle, circle

dizzying in its

repetition

like a roundabout

hold on tight

or let gravity

have its part

turn, turn, turn

painted smiles

spiral down my face

laughter

hidden in that disgrace

STOP

and no more circles

just straight lines

give me a push

I’ll take the spin

a line is just a line

but a circle leaves a grin.

Advertisements

And I.

And I raised my voice

Against the rising Humm

Of indifferent spinning yarns

And I clenched my fists

Against the rising tide

Of those that would do harm

And I shake my head

Against the ignorant hoards

That lean towards insanity

And I shed a tear

Against the frozen ground

At the loss of our humanity. 

Turn-impediment.

The way the road twisted and turned made my stomach churn. The driver, if you wanted to call him that (I preferred mr death wish), sped along barely looking at the road.

“You be here log? I be here manny yers. I born in bar on farm.”

He prattled on with his odd manner of speech pretending he wanted conversation. By the sheer speed and number of questions unanswered, I soon realized he spoke mainly to himself.

“You com for dis turn impediment?” He said.

I jumped in, “tournament? Yes”

It was like talking to a reverse spell check. I sighed wondering how all this happened,
“It is rather surreal if you think about it, no?”

The mad driver laughed, “no, no it is still Rome, I never go to this Surreal place…they mak some good eatings there?”

I blinked realizing my inside voice escaped from the mushy prison of my brain. Perhaps I needed to sleep a bit more. Between the flight and this lunatic, I felt like Alice, looped out on the acid fed to her by that distrustful rabbit. I smiled at that visual, drug dealing bunnies.

The buildings and narrow streets were a blur and the odd man driving was still prattling on about the new town of Sureal. I didn’t have the energy to correct him, I just wanted to be at my hotel and maybe under some nice clean sheets in a nice comfy bed. I don’t even like chess.

Yes I said it, I hate chess. No matter what anyone thinks of the game and its players, I hate it. The travel, the fans, the players and the unbelievable amount of pressure put on someone who is apparently “good” at it.

I have spent years now travelling here and there for this game. I have played in basements, gymnasiums, classrooms, auditoriums, and any other structure you can name. I have played people with names I cannot pronounce. I have won and lost, but do you know how awesome it feels to win against a 12-year-old when you are 34…better yet, do you know what it is like to lose to one. I swear the game plays with your psyche in ways that most could never understand.

Here is the thing about chess players, they are weird. Not just odd, but severely strange. Most are genius nerds that have been escalated to some strange level of celebrity in their countries. I mean chess is a big deal in some parts of the world, not so much in a small town in Ontario, Canada. Even so chess players are a bunch of wankers.

Do I sound harsh? I am dead on though. I make a living playing chess. It is a meager and brutal life of travel and pressure. If I don’t win, I do not have money to go to the next game. Think of this as a sad rock star on an endless tour where his fans are mainly middle-aged men and women that are completely insane.

These women I have labelled as Chessdolls, and I still marvel at how they are created. I can not even fathom what goes through a woman’s mind when a chess player becomes some sort of grey matter god. These women will follow you anywhere and usually have some sort of weapon they will happily use to show you how dedicated they are. I say dedicated instead of obsessive because it sounds less scary and will hopefully not remind me of the moments in my life that actually make me look over my shoulder in fear.

The players range from kids, to middle-aged men, to old farts. The word fart also is literal, chess players smell. I am not sure what part of genius leads to a lack of hygiene or the love of bodily gasses being shared openly, but fuck, they can rip one down your throat if you are not prepared. I had this discussion once with a fellow player once. He said simply that the mind is focussed on one thing, the game, nothing else.

How sad is that? I really don’t fit in and even now as the car pulls up to a little building crammed between two other buildings, I just do not understand. I know my parents are strangely proud of their son the professional chess player, but listen to that description. Professional Chess Player, it’s a joke!

“I bing you to this grotto. You room with the buggies, yes?” My driver says in that interpretive English of his.

“Buggies? You mean my bags?” I throw out there, completely confused.

“No, you spak this English? I say you room with the buggies. This place know from us, full of buggies…you know, the ones that bitty you all time.”

I let my mouth hang open, awesome, the rock star scores a bug infested hotel on a side street of a foreign land. If only I could say this was new. My life as a pawn, never a fucking king. I pay him, I take my bags, and pray the bugs kill me.

Check and Mate.

Rain Rain go Away…and Then Away You Stay.

washed as the rain

cascades through the pane

a window left in time

an echo of some crime

in the distance I see me

only I don’t know what I see

is it the past from before

or a vision of what’s in store

for the rain keeps running

and my heart keeps racing

and the window doesn’t close

the rain seeps in like lost woes

I use my shirt to dry

this rain that I cry

can I scream at the clouds

can my voice be that loud

or can I live with the rain

with buckets filled with pain

and still I push to try

to clear the greying sky

confused and almost dead

I lay myself to bed

force myself to sleep

with secrets I will keep

perhaps the rain will dry

with memories that must die.