ACT I: Collecting Jigsaw Puzzles

My life has been a series of jigsaw puzzles, the first as pretty a picture as you could wish to see.  It never occurred to anyone that anything could mar the image of a bonny baby in all her glorious honey-hued, gurgling perfection.  

They never found out who crept into the playroom and stole the first piece. It was only one little piece – the size of a sixpence on the baby’s left ankle.  Hardly noticeable. A pity though that such a pretty puzzle should be incomplete.

The next piece to vanish left a leaf-shaped hole in the baby’s back. Did someone accidentally knock over the board? Perhaps the lost pieces are on the floor or down the back of the sofa.

But if that is so, why could they find no trace?  Surely it had to be the work of a thief because it did not end there.

The next puzzle was a toddler.  How strange that the same pieces were missing here too.  Not only that, but a third and fourth piece had gone – the other ankle this time and now a tiny gap at one corner of the child’s mouth.  Why would anyone want to remove random pieces of the puzzle? And how did they do it without getting caught?

No one had any answers.

Successive puzzles depicting a panda-eyed schoolgirl, a shy adolescent, a carefully groomed young woman – all plundered by unseen hands – revealed more and more of the blank surface beneath and ever less of the subject herself.

One day I opened a new box and asked myself “Is this puzzle half here or half gone?”

There comes a point when a puzzle ceases to be a picture with gaps and becomes a blank space strewn with fragments like the excavated remnants of an ancient mosaic.

Would some archaeologist dig me up and fill in the blanks to show posterity what I once looked like?

The jigsaw of a woman in her 40s would have been quick to complete, since so few of the pieces actually connected. Scattered across the board, it was impossible to decide if they, or the space between them, were the real object of the exercise.

I suppose it all depends on how you look at it.

Over the course of 50 years my unplanned jigsaw collection progressed from Bonny-Baby to Can-You-Tell-What-It-Is-Yet? What would the next puzzle be called… The-Invisible-Woman perhaps?

If you think jigsaws are frustrating, try my next hobby…

ACT II: Painting by Numbers

Number 1 was the original skin tone, a light golden beige, my favourite pigment.


Number 2 was the colour of nettle rash, mottled and roughly textured.


This was closely followed by number 3, a stark white, applied almost symmetrically in random patterns, some clearly delineated, others splashed carelessly across the canvas like spilt milk. (No sense in crying over it. There is no cure. It won't **** you.)

There’s nothing quite like summer for bringing out the colours of a painting.  A hat and long sleeves were no match for the persistent sun and by the time the picture was finished, the numbered paints ranged from 1 to 20 with a different abstract brush stroke to go with each one. My canvas contained a tortoiseshell patchwork of shades from brilliant white to violet, golden ochre, burnt sienna, chestnut and scarlet.

And yet this was the height of my blue period.

I had to paint by numbers for 50 summers before I could enjoy my third (and final?) pastime…

ACT III: Joining the Dots

By sheer fluke, at the age of 51, I discovered the secret of the missing jigsaw puzzle pieces. They were there all along – just not visible to the naked eye.  


They had been starved into transparency but, as I began to feed them, atoms of them materialised like specks of golden ink on blotting paper.  Tiny dots like pixels on a grainy satellite image, jostling, overlapping and joining together until they looked something like the missing jigsaw pieces - if a little mottled with mildew.  

And gradually the mildew has faded - along with the sense of loss - to reveal glorious, even colour.

Of all the activities I ever found in the playroom of my life, the most cherished, the most miraculous, the most deeply longed-for and appreciated has been this game of Join the Dots - an unremarkable pastime, you may think (if you have never walked in my shoes), but one which has brought me on a return journey along a jigsaw road from
Almost-Invisible
via Can-You-Tell-What-It-Is-Yet?
past Half-Here-Or-Half-Gone?
by way of A-Pity-That-It’s-Incomplete
and finally – if not quite back to Bonny-Baby – then at least back home to a grateful woman of a certain age who can look in the mirror and smile to see her whole self.


   Vitiligo: A Play(room) in 3 Acts © August 2013 Vitiligo Protocol

My Jigsaws Missing Piece


Dad?
I still remember.
I was just 5 when you left us.
I asked every day for a week when you'd be home.
I missed you, I hurt, I ached...


...But you never came home.


I missed your voice Dad, your smile and your laugh.


Dad?
I still remember the fun that we had.
Before you left, we had our one family holiday.
Me, perched on your shoulder.
I was invincible and happy. Carried on the shoulders of a giant.
My Giant.
My Dad.


But Then something happened Dad.


Dad?
I don't know what happened.
I was too young to notice, too young to understand.
One day we were family,
The next you were gone.


Dad?
Can you help me?
How do I recall that jigsaw piece that happened so long ago?
It's the only piece I'm missing from my old broken home.




All the things that I recall during every waking hour,
They're all pieces, of a part of me, they're pieces I hold dear.
I close my eyes and hold you there,
You're still my shield and my guide.
You help me through my darkest hours, when I feel I'm most in need.
Your laughter and your smile and the funny names you gave,
They are all pieces of my broken jigsaw.
They're my memories of you, my Dad.


Dad?


John Flanagan 4/1/2017

You were always a grand mystery to me
Just like that ten thousand piece puzzle I had always attempted
Scrambling on the floor
Trying to fit a million jigsaws together
That were from different puzzles

There was one in the corner of the room from a puzzle
Of a few cats sitting in a wheelbarrow
And ones from a dolphin in mid air
Trying to flip through a hoop
As mesmerizing as it was to finger through the pieces
It sure was hell trying to shove them together

But that's just it
We can never shove the pieces of life together
Especially someone else's
It never works out
So perhaps if you let that person be
They'll figure out their own jigsaw
Complete the cats in the wheelbarrow picture
And finally see that dolphin jump through the hoop

It's curious to think
our individual body parts
do very little
to tell our stories
or reveal our identities.

But when added
together and contextualized,
we comprehend more
than words can bear.

I wonder how many
pieces it takes
to recognize
a puzzle as such
and for fragments to
heed deeper meaning.

I wonder at what point
the soul enters and attaches
itself -- and at what point
we dignify ourselves
as more than
mobile jigsaws.

I hate jigsaws,
****** happy pictures
cut into shapes
so we can
put them back together
and smile at how far we've come,
only to rip them apart
and scatter their pieces
haphazardly
without a shred of care.
I hate jigsaws
they remind me of what we've become
they remind me that the word human has no place within the word humanity anymore.

"Write fourteen lines on Growing Up, a sonnet,"
the teacher told us. "Don't forget, the rhymes
must make a pattern; I've told you several times.
The subject's easy. You've all got ideas on it."

Who does he think I am? Some second Milton?
Another Shakespeare? An Eliot? A Tennyson?
Compared to theirs, my mind's as dead as venison,
slightly less fresh than over-ripened Stilton.

"A poem's the equivalent in words
of something I once felt," the poet said.
Clues to another's feelings, like the sherds

of ancient pots, or jigsaws in the head.
A few curt words my feelings clearly tell,
one simple sentence: Growing Up is hell.

I call it the Changeover;
like an analogue radio searching for a signal
sometimes it's clear
sometimes it's static
sometimes it's in between
somewhere between far away and near
somewhere lost in the middle
between Signal and Static.

Clear Day the signal reaches out its arms as far as the eye can see
and the ears can hear
and the senses can feel
and taste buds pop and linger
and revel in new experience
and comfort in knowing
and wrapped in wonderment.

Changeover Day is somewhere between Clear Day and Nowhere
struggling to tune in
backwards or forwards
or sideways or upwards
to something
to anything that resembles a signal
like hearing voices in another room
an argument through a wall
the indecipherable murmur of music
the clamber of ushered noise
the mishmash and cacophony
like a symphony of Morse code.

Static Day is dark day
there is no signal
no senses
no sound
only indeterminate fuzz
and the crackle of broken glass
and the foghorn
and the white noise
the confusion and delusion
the paranoia of shifting jigsaws
changing pieces that never fit together
can almost make out a face through the frosted glass
the smear like bird **** on a window
halfheartedly wiped with lackadaisical whimsy
and greasy chip shop newspaper.

In the Static there is no wind
no heart to beat
no empathy or sympathy
just
cold
hard
steel
out of place in a room of feathers and feeling.

You just have to ride out the storm
tell yourself:
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon

The Changeover
from Static to Signal
and the welcome return of voices
and breathing
and beating
and feeling.

I hope you find it brave girl
i hope you find someone that does more than embrace your flaws
no, i hope you find someone that colors outside your lines
someone that sees your rough edges and jigsaws themselves to fit into you
i hope that you find that brave girl
i hope you are loved like you deserve

Courage is something I will never have.
Like Christmas presents,
I will never get what I asked for.

Content is something I never understood.
Like history and math,
I never really bothered learning.

Truth is something I can never believe.
Like magicians,
They put you at awe with a pinch of misdirection.

Passion is something I can never maintain.
Like Swiss watches,
Too much effort, too much time, too much risk.

Games are things I will never play.
Like Scrabble,
I have too little vocabulary for too many variables.

Greed is a part I can never avoid.
Like speed,
The faster I go, the faster I go.

You are something I will never get.
Like poker,
I must never cash in more than I can afford.

I guess you are something I truly regret.
Like soap opera,
I cried for something unreal, tear for nothing surreal.

I guess you are something dismay.
Like rainy nights,
Sad songs drummed the rain drops.

I guess you are you, ultimately.
We disconnect like two unfit jigsaws,
We reconnect like two fit strangers.

We reflect, deflect and subject to many a change,
But at the end,
We conclude in silence.

As the curtain drop to a close,
Stillness filled our hearts.
Emptiness filled our dreams.

While speechlessness filled our mouths,
We forget every nip of attraction lost.
Lost to, not mine, but your utmost desire.

Take a trip inside of my mind
But be warned that there are worse things than
Lions, and tigers, and bears.
The monsters that guard this jungle mind
Aren’t soft and nice when they choose to be
They are horrifying,
Bloodthirsty,
Larger than life,
All sharp teeth and horns.

Take a trip inside of my mind
But know it’s easy to get lost in
Mazes, and illusions, and metaphors.
The jigsaws aren’t easy 50 piece puzzles
They are thousands of broken words
With no guarantee
That they will fit together
Nicely-
Or at all

Take a trip inside of my mind
But remember that you will find memories
Broken, and wonderful, and messy.
These recollections will tell you who I am
They say where I came from,
fears,
dreams,
hopes,
And lack there-of.

Take a trip inside of my mind
But it isn’t overly charming between the
Monstrosities, and mazes, and memories.
If beautiful is what you were searching for
You can only find it in glimpses between
Sharp teeth,  
Broken words,
Lost hope,
And jumbled jungle vines.

So if you decide
To take a trip inside of my mind,
Take note of the
Beautiful disaster,
Organized chaos,
And sweet sorrow.
Be gentle,
Be cautious,
Be aware.
Because this is one mangled mind,
And you are one of the first
To go inside.

I am a jigsaw of many different
Pieces, all of lost instants never
Quite fitting into the moment.

But never the less I am a distorted
Picture of my true self, a frame of
Pieces never quite right but whole.

Whatever floats your boat they say
But hey,
kinda hard to reach them anyway

Sir, my ideas and dreams were hue yesterday.
Today, it's blue and grey
Where are my happy colors?
Will you folks ever be back anytime, today?

My goals,
are thousand pieces of jigsaw puzzle.
Hard to connect each other.
Some pieces are missing.
I know. I know.

Young man, always remember
Your dreams are just scattered jigsaws
Nail it to your soul
You're not a broken mirror.

Escaped, is that truly the objective adjective
A feeling perhaps everyone has projected
Or are we seeking within filling to feel secure
Are we affixing words for our selfish cures

Let us take our thought and dissect its pieces
Fit the jigsaws, does it compliment with ease
Photographs stuck on milk cartons like cement
The directive is the fleeting human element

Living in ones past, shadowed assurance from last
Foibles of human inquiry questioning with haste
Lapsing the collective logic of the inner sage
Soul bombarded, thwarted, strengthening with age

Examine not observe nor merely think your being
Vignettes to films are you truly sure your seeing

Dear shattered moon
Let your pieces drag the sun
Shooting stars forming rainbows
Untill the dawn has begun

Jigsaws in formations
Millions of dreams to explore
Basking in the rays of you
Reflecting the waves on shore

Towers leaning, obtaining
The warm décor
Flowers on the open air
The smiles painted under a dusty floor

Little whispers of art
Black holes in empty rooms
Constellations in the moon
Loves evaporating fumes

To be not one with ones self
Half and half inside your coffee cup
A difference between
Six feet under and a million miles up

Never disturbing
The content of the beast
The savaging lust
The constant of the feast

Patient of a rendering love
Picture frames holding foreign lands
I could only roam in silent days
When darkness and light came hand in hand

Drown not just the stars
But the strings attached
Puppets of a sinner
The bridge collapsed

Mighty hands are the only hands
That could build the moon again

life can be a jigsaw you make the pieces fit
live it day day take bit by bit
make your self a picture of how your life should be
put the pieces in so you can plainly see
when your jigsaws finished very nice and neat
then you will see your life now it is complete

I fear a day
When you'll sit next to me
And my phone will vibrate
A message from you asking what's for lunch?

I fear a day
When talented beings
Educated with graduate degrees
Will work in MacDonalds
For minimum wage

I fear a day
Where I'll need to take out a mortgage
For a parking fee
Daylight robbery

I fear a day
Where kids will no longer
Play at the park
No one ever heard of jigsaws
And wooden train sets

I fear a day
When strangers would be able to see
My every post
People I don't even know
Will know all about me

I fear a day
When people will drive to the gym
To run on the treadmill
And we'll all forget
The luminous glow of the moon

I fear a day
We'll forget about stars
And handwritten cards
When we'll care more about cars
Than our counterparts

I fear a day
When the world will all speak English
And read shakespeare
Wear the same high street gear
And eat KFC

I fear a day
Where honour and dignity
Respect and modesty
Will be a thing of the past
And those who hold steadfast
To their culture and traditions
Ways of life
Will be mocked and ridiculed as backwards

I fear a day
When all my fears
Come true
And that day a part of me will die inside
I'll lose the sound of your voice
And mums special home-made recipes with secret ingredients
I'll lose the way your letters felt
Slanted and joined so rounded together
The way the cross on the t and the dot on the i's leaned to hug one another
I'll lose the rush of the wind
As I felt how it was to fly on a swing
The reassuring touch on my back as you pushed and held me back then helped me to stop
I fear a day
I will breathe but cease to exist
Lost in mere memories of a past
Where I was meant to be

noise and confusion front
centre of pure light
rolling grey mass obscures
it
mills white into frequency
that has peaks touching
lows
it
steals night pricked into
spectral stall spaced out
on god labels and sci-
gobbledygook
so
dreamers can dance
fragile hearts into hope
lies

grey is white
rainbows are gold
names are cures

passionates lean hard
fragments that lore's
peddle as jigsaws
boxed with image
of whole

complex puzzles rattle
the futility of :

cover
whole and virtuous

open
inside is the same : broken

fix
me


(no bits missing
the grey is my underside)

frustration until
completion then
frustration with
maintenance of
completeness

(Back in the box)

reality reels results in
fondness for familiarity
played on
simpler puzzles

when we knew the shapes
by touch
and we put ourselves together
in the dark

smaller than anything, no talk or touch
on the inside you’re growing a rose bush, a thorn in your side
i know this, because i helped grow it there.
it is dying now. you forgot to look after it, its drying up in your gut
hardly red at all
black and tarred and all *******.
i lean in and i ask it sadly  “do you need some help?”
but it does not reply, and you are sleeping though
you do not reply anyway.
your skin tells me that you are warm, alive, but by the way you’re breathing
on my shoulder, and the nicotine stains in-between your fingers loose across your cheek
tell me that you have never felt the warm at all.
and then maybe i pull you closer
to keep you from freezing over like the iceberg
bodies fit like jigsaws when they are in love but ours do not fit at all and the bits in between where my skin lacks your’s make me want to arch and die in-between the white.
and in my frail effort, in your limpness, pale, it occurs to me that
you are the white, the iceberg
half-asleep with you my eyes are closed but even when they weren’t
i couldn’t see you anyway
you are bigger than anything i’d imagined.

i haven’t felt anything in 7 weeks and 1 day and if i woke you up i think i might cry.

the cold killed the rosebush and where my palms try desperately to hug your stomach
im crying, saying
*i cannot bring the sunshine back to you
i cannot bring the sunshine back to you

Faith is like breathing.
You can rest assured that
no matter what you are doing,
your lungs will keep on
drinking the air and
carrying oxygen through your blood and to
every last vestige in your body.
Give up trying to control it,
as it will do as it pleases
regardless
of your attempts to slowly **** yourself or
extinguish all ambiguity and randomness
in the world around you.
Control out of chaos?
Your eyes waking up in the morning is chaos.
Each lash bending
slightly in proportion
to every other lash it is connected too.
We are like plants,
where our roots interconnect and
stretch back further than
recorded history to a time where
we planted the seeds
in fear
that our family would splinter and
mutate into a massive **** of
imaginative constructs like
nations and creeds
which we knit so tediously into
every new idea or situation that attracts itself to us.
Like mirrors to the world,
our eyes only reflect
what they have been shown.
Both in distorted waves of fantasia and
in clear pictures and representations of
our fragmented pasts.
Our memories are jigsaws,
putting them together only to realize
that the reward looks nothing like
the picture we thought we were building for ourselves.
No matter how dark and dismal some pieces may appear
they are only there to keep us from
going blind in the light.

You darken light
so shine bright

oxymoron's juxtapositions finding oneself in pondering situations
humor in each step , fairy lights guide the path less traveled
feeling the peace pieces fit together
jigsaws of unabridged meaning

simply seething with the intimate feeling of moonlight
hopping from idea to idea to thought to thought

love's boundaries are naught and love's hugs are many
loves kisses flow plentiful
indigo rivers on far off archipelagos snake into brown rivers flows mixing merging
the same happens in the soul

culminations and starters
Pudding just a little while after

A lot around , a lot within , a lot in addition to the whimsical nature of life's flight of fancy
floating feather drops.

With hair strung down like
Arachnid spit
Sleeping lakes ripple in terror
At your feet
Jigsaws torn by frustrated agonized
Hands
Pieces that will never fit
Never did
I want to polish it like a trophy for the sun
But instead watch it spoil
Dry tangerine in a humid attic
It's just never good enough
Make like the chimera
Like the souls of iguanas
It's just never good enough
But you don't have to be
That
No, not at all

life can be a jigsaw you make the pieces fit
live it day day take bit by bit.

make your self a picture of how your life should be
put the pieces in so you can plainly see.

when your jigsaws finished very nice and neat
then you will see your life now it is complete