04COTJ Lake View Home S Ripples

7/31/2019 04COTJ Lake View Home S Ripples

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pieces of a mental puzzleIn a system of evolution, moments appear to standstill, the perspective of motion is

perceivable after a lapse of time. This is life, to see the unfinished pieces of a puzzle fitonce the latest in a scene of events has wrapped the routines that the conscious mindchoses to ignore. There is another aspect that is outside the mind, that spot at theepicenter of our existence. Home, the house we live in, the only Hotel where all thenew comers laid their heads down on a pillow for the first time after a long journey tothe eye of a continent. Kindergarten, were places where I left the ripples of my stepsand the blisters of my Soapy-Bubble grow wider and bigger in the atmosphere.

Pinpoint HotelHotel of the great lakes center. there that home with a view on the lake

was to wrap up a period that sums up with an anecdote for living; "If you areunhappy in a spot, uproot yourself and move."

this uprooting the family did. But, I needed a three dimension picture torest in peace. In outwit my mind, with the last moment that linked me to the

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Blowing the bubble

that map

our existen


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epicenter of the house with a view on the lake. I emerged from thin air intoexistence standing in a somber conference room of the hotel. The hotel thatbore the name; 'Avenue des Grands Lakes.' the room was chock-o-block at anage when everything is still four fold the size of sight by an adult. a convincedveil over my shoulders pushed me down the sight aisles along the wall towardthe stage. Approached the angelic girls turning and swirling in their and wideskirts as if they were music box dolls all along my approach to the half a dozenflight of steps. I climbed, and on stage moved to the rear. I didn't spare athough to the lyrics I was chanting; "On the bridge of Avignon we are dancing,and dancing..."

childhood obsession

four decades later, while posted in France, in a job to survey the fork of a SouthernFrance highway that lies in my tracks to Marseilles as a toddler migrating to Africa.

These living lyrics that arise in mind to possess me every so often as I aged. That, onmy first weekend, I took the opportunity to drive with the service van up to Avignonlaying off the highway south. I visited that famous bridge and lay to rest a moment of

my tender childhood.

Misunderstood mischief

At the moment I emerged from thin air to existence on a scene walkingon the grit of straight driveway to the street. the house must be behind and outof sight and interest was the stage of construction work. A moment I realizedthat were I headed wasn't where I was going to go. I felt a sudden push in thehollow of my lower back. Glanced sideways, to realize mother wasn't inagreement with me, as she pushed me into another step forward through myresistance. And the next step. I turned around, mother pushed me on forward

toward the street. I sulked refusing to look up and forward. but, mother at myside pressed me on, along a stage that gripped me in a state of shock.

I glanced past mother in the direction of the sinuous street. Over rise theschool bus appeared and heading for us. I hung through mother's flimsy shirtonto her leg, to no heed. Dragged my feet, but mother was stead fast anddetermined to get me where I refused to go.

A school bus that had evolved with time gleaming these pressed metalsthat metamorphosed the pointed hood through round tubish mudguards modelsquarish around the grill directly imported school bus from the United States.The next moment the bus pulled up. The black man straightened in the driver,

from bending over reaching out for the lever that had swiveled the pair of glassdoors pivoted. the interior somber hollow opened wide with welcoming arms ofdoors. the few treads grew too high, and to no avail. The black man sat twistedin his seat, patient and square to me, elbow on his lap, and chin cupped in hishand while staring at me. I kicking and juggling with my feet from under mybody and slipped time and again with stretch out arms I slipped along her leg tothe ground from mother's grip. Mother no sooner grabbed me back. She

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dragged me along, my feet trailing in the grit Against my will I approached thesmirking black face, featuring his language, eyes fixing me, saying; 'Are wehaving fun?' Then the risers came into focus. The treads filled my field of sightunderneath the veil of a gazing driver. in a hop I was standing in the tunnel ofno return facing the staring black face. mother stood back. disappointed Istepped on. I continued a way under the white rolling eyeballs which laid itsgaze on my neck until I stepped into the dark foot well and slipped out ofexistence in a row of seats.

Returning home from school

In front of a Porte Cochere cutting through the low and saddledcorrugated iron roofed building, a male marshal teacher had us kindergartenchildren waiting behind wide spread arms. Moments later, the truck grill andcabin appeared beyond the shade cast by the thick wrinkled bark. a loner oldtree trunk encircled by tropical flowers and the white granite stones that

outlined the driveway in diagonal right across the sunlight flooded front yardgrass to the main street.

The vehicle came off-side down the steep shoulder embankment to theelevated road line that passed across the property and against a background ofbushy rolling hills. Guided by the white curb stones, down a sandy grit on aslight slope, the five tonne truck shining a pressed metal cabin from a roundinto cubic style approached with a massive wooden crate body. As the vehiclemade its way by the flowerbed island with the giant ostrich foot of the tree. Igauge by the teacher's arms the giant roller blinds slats that rolled the uppercorners lengthwise that passed close and headed back to stop in the middle of

the path. As the marshal's arms came down and behind him we headed for theT-shaped dark hollow tailgate, a black driver appeared around the left corner.The men met at the middle ladder, and within moments in pairs. the whitemarshal teacher and the black driver took hold under arm and forearm of thefirst child. in a hop the child stood on the ladder to take a grip on the low sidedpair of a split tailgate and vanish into the dark interior.

At my turn, I faced the ladder. A moment later standing and climbing theremaining few wooden treads while facing the wooden flatbed sliding a gleamof light to disappear into the darkness. I stood tall with a choice. There theslatted bench modeled after a cushion seat, against the sides that stretched tofade away into the depth with a diminishing daylight. light persisted with an

eyes squint peering through the horizontal interstices all around the interior. Inthis gigantic crate, and indecisive growing confused in a multiple choice, I cutshort the dilemma, turning my back to the left to be seated in the corner.

Another child appeared in my line of sight, I glance right, overbearing thetailgate void. I watched the sheep leap of boys and girl while leaning with anelbow on the tailgate armrest. each boy and girl a moment of reflection. some

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http://www.dyslexiaaction.org.uk/


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seated opposite me, others spearheaded to disappear in the far front andmiddle rows.

Assimilating to a period

in those early years of ripples spreading from the cradle off this new town

to its neighboring country a settlement by merits. make do carpenters mounteda bus structure on a truck chassis, which couldn't have lasted for long. Becauseafter that period I jumped conscious to a proper American bus fetched me athome.

In this moment for reflection, counting the female teacher holding backher flock of little boys and girls in who I gaged my age. The nursery teachersmatched in number the class room on either side of the dark hollow of the PorteCochere. left the door exposed to my class room from which I had emerged,shaded from bright daylight by a heavy thick foliage that spread across a partof the schools corrugated iron roof.

the other door on the right shadows shy in the shade of the passageway.Neither had I, a notion that the marshal was my teacher, because in bothschool years I had a female teacher. Neither was this moment of a consciousexistence the first nor the last. A good day at school, the afternoon light, or thedriver arriving late must have inspired me that day.

Earlier crate-bus period

I was interrupted by a dominant voice ordering us to sittowards the middle. I moved and while waiting that we moved

toward the middle. I turned around in an attempt to glance

through the slats. When I sensed that my knuckles gotcaught between the slats next to me. I wrestled undoing myright hand from the grip. we pulled offwith the whine of the

engine, and a subtle creak andsqueak. every strip of wood

hurting the eye ofdaylight to the stakeof the cageproliferating overheadas we moved up thedriveway along the

rutted tracks by thelast rains, that Iwatched slip behind

the tailgate. As theengine began a roaring

drudging up the steep road shoulder. the crate began to spread in theshadowing grip of giant invisible hands in a slow twisting force. The lining

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swayed and creaked. By sight I attempted to catch those creaks from theceiling in the opposing front corner. As the five tonne truck front wheels rolledover at an angle the embankment of the street shoulder. The roar of the enginelet be heard the sudden drudging climb. Inside the wooden cage dangeroustilted over sideways. swayed right back with an anti-twist cringe of force to leanto the opposite side. But, the crate held good as the rear wheel drive mountingthe hump when the roaring engine released it drudge to a whine. At whichmoment I wonder; 'Why we're heading right towards the hills and course awayfrom home?' and, a short while later we turned left, and left again. I relaxedrealizing we U-turned for home and lost my interest in the stop-and-go ensuingroutine.

My first classroom

At once I wake up to the notion of a figure standing next to me, andshaken by the presence from a sweep of sight of the classroom. The woman

stood next to me obliterate in my line of sight over my left shoulder the faithfulsentry of the door to the classroom. her eyes lined up the plain crone run alongthe ceiling in the background. As our eyes met, from my nursery chair to hearin a harsh and curt tone voice; "Give me that!"

I felt the torture at heart handing the teacher my spanking new Dinky Toyambulance, of which I had been so proud to show the boys in class. I didn'tleave the white ambulance by sight, as she stepped away down the aisle, everystep echoed her words; "It's confiscated." wordthat drummed in my head, and firstvocabulary word never leaving my

mind as long I lived.As I yearned for my

ambulance, the teacher in anindifferent step headed back. Shemoved down the aisle across thefront and up to the wooden tablein the far right corner raised onthe wooden platform across thefront of the classroom. In herpassage to the chair, she leftbehind on the closed corner the

ambulance. I was tortured for thewhole day, staring, andwondering about the meaning of'Confiscated.' thinking it wasgoing to come back at one timeor another. the class was ordered

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to cross arms on the square wooden table top and lay our heads down for anap. I keep on glimpsing over my arms at the teacher lolling in her chair behindher kitchen table.

At break, I stayed behind the storm of classmates running out onto the

front yard. The movement went around through the Porte Cochere. Came out ofthe shade in the backyard. there where the red brick building with windowsextended a wall punched out with a run of windows underneath the wide roofoverhang.

Back in the class room, and for long days, across through a flock of sometwenty girls and boys I kept the corner of the table in sight. Where the teachermoved and her voice echoing, impregnating and arising 'Confiscated' from thedepth of my brain to the forefront. Then, one day, my Dinky Toy was standingalone and forgotten on the top corner of the pressed metal filing cabinet. Thetwo door cabinet otherwise dissolved in the dcor standing up to the door jamba blending outlines.

My simmering dislike for the teacher was momentary alleviated as Ipreoccupied myself pushing a table up. placing a chair on the tabletop. With ayard in mind, I measured that none of the furniture with me on top, andstretching out on point toes, and outreaching arm was getting halfway to myambulance. Every day of the weeks, and months I was tortured and waiting forthat day of restitution until the school year end when I didn't return.

Second year at kindergarten

one morning I emerged from thin air onto a stage of existence steppingthrough a doorway amongst a flock of children eyes on the tall and imposing

back of the woman teacher. The scars of my confiscated and obsessive over myDinky toy anddislike of theteacher that werecontrary to theaffection motherhad towards meleft me reticent tothose dominantfigures. I didn'tbear grudge since

encountering anew classroomentering into thefuture from theshy door in theshade of the PorteCochere.

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Skeptic of the genie that any of the stranger in the flock children and theinattentive female teacher had in them. I was turned away for a moment fromthe metamorphosing kinds of werewolf, to the numbers as we lived in apopulated needle bush suburb. I wasn't going to spare a thought that beyondthe rippling circle of sight, there were on the undergrowth there were the red-mushrooms of white walls and red roof houses sprouting.

I hadn't the foggiest idea that we were of a white race, in th e habit ofseeing the Black's laboring. But, struck that the nursery classroom was differentfrom the row and columns of square top wooden tables and chairs on metallegs. We flocked after the teacher into the pen of a horseshoe catchment. sowere arranged the wooden furniture to blend with the raised wooden platformacross the front of the room. There the wall were posted with water colorpaintings, cutout letters of the alphabet portrayed by a fruit of an animal and adcor that linked both rows of tables.

Model of attraction

From the flock of children, the teacher suddenly turned around to face uswhere we paused in the middle. She said; "Get a chair at a table and sit downto face your table partner," immediately we children were in a soft and chaoticmotion and a rising wrestling of chairs before settling to silence. It occurredthen and raised to mind my indecisiveness, when I was the last standing up, orso it appeared. With everyone seated, I gripped the nearest vacant backrest bymy side. Sat down and pulled my chair up, square, and closer to the bullnoseedge of the tabletop. By sight I was measuring in the continuation of thebullnose the limitation of my space. Either adjacent touching tables with adefinite dark straight edge grove breaking the wood grain beneath a light

gleaming surface. when a crawling shadow moved in from the right and wipingthe daylight from the varnished surface, I rose my eyes and followed the sourceof the shadow beneath the distant high and bright daylight squinting run ofwindows.

As my eyes adjusted to the bright morning light, to see a bright moonfaced self assured girl, light in her fair pageboy hair style, a broad smile andpiercing witty eyes darting me, and saying; 'Here I am!' I was left to watch hernext move waiting for the genie of her spirit to surprise me.

While, over my right shoulder, on the far distant platform the teacher wasspeaking. Like me before her, she gripped the vacant chair, and seated she

shuffled herself up to the table. She released her grip from underneath thechair seat. Her hands came into light, and lifting her elbows, she brought herarms to lie elbows wide spread territorial on her half of the table. I imagined herto sit back, instead myopic she brought her eyes closer and her chest toimpressed into the bullnose edge.

while I didn't leave sight the gift of an exuding mischief from the sprightly

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girl's round face.

Behind me, I followed the teacher by hear sightalong the row of children,

speaking on her round. The

teacher came by behind mehanding out each of use a pairof child safety scissors. Afterwhich, she was meant to dodistribute on a round sheet ofhighly glossy purple paper,each of us children a differentcolor. But halted on theplatform and in a militaryeducation system keep theclass to attention explaining a

collage that I was going tointerrupt. I was going to rockthe social foundations with

shocks waves into my familycircle my existence indisillusion.

The bright smiling moonfaced girl didn't relent from

staring at me. I thought thisnoticeable by the sweeping sight of the

teacher as by proximity class mates as was her avatar shadowy paws crossingthe virtual territorial line to pounce on me.

yolk and shellChinese have an anecdote about characters born in the Golden Boar year; 'With a

little of aggressiveness in their being, these characters would excel through life.'though other elements come and compensate one deficiency with another strengththat balances nature. These backslashes through the living of life is aboutunderstanding oneself, what belongs to our soul, and has evoked a personality theyolk with our spirit in the driver seat. It is means to change the model the cabin of oureggshell to the mode of comfort.

backdropping a wall with high bright daylight windows to the front yard,

the moon faced girl filed my field of sight. And, while I was blind to theclassroom, apart from hear sight, of the teacher's movements. Her hands leftscissored arms, to slip the palm flat on the table. Her elbows moved to leaveroom, and through an opening gap of clearing arms, her hands side by side andin slow motion withdrew. Her eyes fixed on me, with glass suction cups facilitypulling the virtual film of varnish off the surface from my space. I watch, her

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smirk reading in disbelieve mischief. of something I don't dare to do. But, herhand slipped away from me, while keeping her eyes anchored, and in a slowfeline crawl her apple green floral chest moved back slipping her hands alongto the edge.

I waited with an audience patience to the curtained rise for a stageoverture, as her subtle fingers curled off the wooden bullnose to disappear toher lap. Her eyes didn't move off me. Eyes firm on me, left me to wonder whather fiddled fingers were up to. After a while I was stunned to see the cloth ofher dress appearing from under the table and stretched along the straight edgefront. With catty paws at both extremities and as subtle and slow she withdrewher hands. The cloth rolled sleek over the wooden bullnose. Her clipped fingersreleased their pinch. The flat of a set of rolling fingers, left me to wonder wherethis was leading to.

The wide seam of her dress slipped up toward me with the cloth of herdress resembling a table cloth she dressed for a girl's tea break. But, she likedher lips, and her head was down with her eyeballs rolled up in their sockets.The next moment, She teased me saying; "Tu peu...1"

Though not conscious, in time I will know that I played with my cattysisters, and associating the girl's feline moves. But, she outreaches beyondcomprehension her arms stretched. behind hands flat on the material andpushing under my face, on the verge of crossing the imaginary middle line asshe repeated, Tu nosera pas... couper ma jupe?2 I suppressed a mountingwater up my legs, as she pushed slow and steadfast the cloth of her skirt undermy nose, until it had a drown effect on me.

I sat silent, watching, and bearing out, feeling my right hand fingerspushed through the scissor handles the metal hurting my knuckles. Whilefidgety under my skin kicking arms and feet for the surface, the double widehem seemed to cross the borderline. Whether it did or, not she insisted.Hustling me with her words; "Ma maman ne dira rien3..." and her darting gaze;'I date you!' in the next few moments and drowning, I gasped for air, andthought; Alright you think I wouldnt dare! I she kept grinding me with herwords, eyes filled with excitement; Tu nose pas!I surfaced and in a show ofcourage, scissors wide open, my fingers snipped but the double folded materialheld good. Frustrated, I continued snipping, and again, until I saw the materialfray. her mouth opened, and instead of panting in horror, in a breath emptiedher lungs with a silent exclaiming; "Woah-hah!"

It was too late, I acquired a technique to holding the scissors at rightangle, every snip of the scissor blades progress through the seam. I snippedacross the seam under the girl agape with goggled eyes on the single material.

1 You can (French)

2 You wouldn't dare... cut my dress (FR.)3 Mother wouldn't say anything (FR.)

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she jumped up, scream and took me out of my skin. Instead of stopping,standing in front of me, her screams proliferated through the classroom, withsqueaky word; "He cut my dress!" all in arms in front of me, behind her chair, Ihad a wish. But, she didn't stop and her scream with shifting eyes calling theteacher. I despaired in the fire of her ongoing screams, and sunk deep into mychair. Glanced over my shoulder, to notice the teacher and her flockflabbergasted. I withdrew sight, to stare at my tabletop waiting inert for an icecold downpour.

Moments later, the teacher's werewolf shadow rose over my shoulders, asover the tabletop I searched the next moment in the girl standing square up tome behind her chair, pointed a steady accusing finger at me. I didn't dissolvefrom my existence. I had a humiliating moment standing up from my chair tofaced the teacher. The next instance worse than the previous, I stepped up theplatform to face the class. I was there long enough to read each pair of eyes,with a girls dress hanging from my right hand, while feeling my scalp heating

werewolf gaze a teacher's mental atrocities.

A loner, aloneAt this tender age when the shell is soft, every backflash is a vicious mental

reminder of caution coating the shell, that made me realized man shouldn't becondemn on appearance. It's not me who said it, old writing already evokes morality man will condemn himself. I have learned to call on my sixth sense to swirl the wingsof my existence through the thunderstorms of society.

I lived in my head, appearing and dissolved onto conscious stages andguess the moon faced girl had to have gone home to bring her dress back the

school. I didn't shame over the dress, especially not the girl, neither theteacher, nor the whole class that punished me.

To my surprise Mother entered the classroom, and stepped up to thefront. Short of the wooden platform dedicated for a superior rank. the teachermet mother. The teacher looked down on her, as the equivalent mischiefcharacter of her son. But mother had that shrewd Monkey of the Chinese yearunder her skin. The women exchanged a few words, which body languagesufficed.

I was sad that mother wasn't on my side, and that sewing the clothes herentire family wore, she needn't dress some strange girl, too. It was that finalstroke of events when I brought up to the teacher a soft wrapped up brownpaper package. there wasn't a sign of gratitude for the damages that wererepaired. the package varnished no sooner from sight as I walked awaysaddened by mother's silence as an accusation.

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04COTJ Lake View Home S Ripples