Since at the moment I am not writing, I have turned to the words of others.
An adult is one who has lost the grace, the freshness, the innocence if the child, who is no longer capable of feeling pure joy, who makes everything complicated, who spreads suffering everywhere, who is afraid of being happy, and who, because it is easier to bear, has gone back to sleep. The wise man is a happy child.
-Arnaud Desjardins 18 June 1925 – 10 August 2011
I will soon be relaunching the blog with some new segments.....stay tuned!
And in the meantime, be a happy child!
October 25, 2011
August 28, 2011
Woken
You may recognise this piece. It was re-worked and submitted for a local magazine but alas not up to the standard this time around. Enjoy.....
Woken
I wondered what she was doing there, walking the street alone.
I had stirred from my sleep and looked out the window, unsure at first what the white shiny object was, moving in my grey morning. My lazy eyes and lazy brain on waking were unsure of the world. It was 5am, and the light was dull as if the colour spectrum has been sucked from the air.
I had pulled the blanket up to my face, cloaking my presence. Why had I done that?
Her long black hair glistened as if mist had fallen ever so lightly, but there was no darkening of the road to suggest any moisture. The plain white dress hung loosely over her frame, bony shoulders showing through thin straps.
It was like a slow reckoning.
Coolness fell on my skin, a strange sensation under blankets with the warmth of the night’s sleep cocooning me. Similar to when you are surprised by a spider and in that horrible second you suck in your breath quick and hard. My skin was taut. I was ready to run but horribly cold with shock.
Michael who lived next door always left at this time. I bit the inside of my lip straining to hear the familiar latch of his door. The acrid taste of blood hit my tongue. I hoped all my neighbours remained in their homes. The morning seemed menacing somehow.
Morning birds that greeted the day were silent, all except a crow sitting on our street sign staring at the girl with long black hair as she moved along the centre of the road following the white line. It cawed a single cry and then fled the scene. It seemed to struggle to beat wings through the air, dropping slightly then with a mad flurry managing to turn and disappear to a dot in the sky.
Woken
I wondered what she was doing there, walking the street alone.
I had stirred from my sleep and looked out the window, unsure at first what the white shiny object was, moving in my grey morning. My lazy eyes and lazy brain on waking were unsure of the world. It was 5am, and the light was dull as if the colour spectrum has been sucked from the air.
I had pulled the blanket up to my face, cloaking my presence. Why had I done that?
Her long black hair glistened as if mist had fallen ever so lightly, but there was no darkening of the road to suggest any moisture. The plain white dress hung loosely over her frame, bony shoulders showing through thin straps.
It was like a slow reckoning.
Coolness fell on my skin, a strange sensation under blankets with the warmth of the night’s sleep cocooning me. Similar to when you are surprised by a spider and in that horrible second you suck in your breath quick and hard. My skin was taut. I was ready to run but horribly cold with shock.
Michael who lived next door always left at this time. I bit the inside of my lip straining to hear the familiar latch of his door. The acrid taste of blood hit my tongue. I hoped all my neighbours remained in their homes. The morning seemed menacing somehow.
Morning birds that greeted the day were silent, all except a crow sitting on our street sign staring at the girl with long black hair as she moved along the centre of the road following the white line. It cawed a single cry and then fled the scene. It seemed to struggle to beat wings through the air, dropping slightly then with a mad flurry managing to turn and disappear to a dot in the sky.
My shoulders began to ache with the effort of remaining rigid. I was not sure how long I could remain still.
She moved with purpose taking small steps on dirty bare feet, walking away from my home where I hid. She stopped and I had seen her face in partial profile as she turned her head slightly toward the window of no 12. I could make out a dark eye, unblinking before she turned a blank gaze back to the road.
Then she turned the corner and out of my sight.
The blood began to return through to the smallest of veins, finding the way through a path that had been frozen and locked, as if everything for a moment while I watched her walk was dead.
Then she turned the corner and out of my sight.
The blood began to return through to the smallest of veins, finding the way through a path that had been frozen and locked, as if everything for a moment while I watched her walk was dead.
June 05, 2011
Ornamental pear
I have not had a lot of time to write recently. But I did take this shot of our beautiful trees out front of the house.
The small russet colour fruit are inedible but delightful nonetheless!
The small russet colour fruit are inedible but delightful nonetheless!
April 26, 2011
Of persimmons and pomegranates
The first of three installments....
The persimmon is a perennial plant, meaning it dies back in autumn and winter and returns in the spring. Despite this the plant itself still looks to me like a barren twig, the fruit overcompensating with jelly like lushness when ripe. That is what I felt like in the last relationship, sweet and glutinous and he a dry unforgiving branch, dead to the eye. Yet I lived off him for a while, drawing what nutrition I could.
I felt abundant but the longer I sat on the twig the less I felt like treacle. I was shrivelling up.
I had seen a beautiful pool cue made out of the wood of a persimmon tree. It was an amazement to me that something so beautiful could be made out of this parched twig. I struck the cue ball with force sending it spinning at the red triangle of balls, crashing into them, creating chaos. Why could he not crash into me, send me spinning and reeling, waiting for the next blissful collision.
So I decided I must free myself, drop from the tree and see what might become of it.
For a time on my own I enjoyed the freedom. They tell us that to be disconnected and solitary are conditions that one must endure, but I revelled in my time. I experienced the touch of many men and in this way began to feel alive again, as if I could sprout my own orchard. I was warned that if continued I would be branded a harlot and no one wants to marry that. Rotten fruit fallen from the tree lying on the grass helpless and decaying.
Then I met the next one.
The persimmon is a perennial plant, meaning it dies back in autumn and winter and returns in the spring. Despite this the plant itself still looks to me like a barren twig, the fruit overcompensating with jelly like lushness when ripe. That is what I felt like in the last relationship, sweet and glutinous and he a dry unforgiving branch, dead to the eye. Yet I lived off him for a while, drawing what nutrition I could.
I felt abundant but the longer I sat on the twig the less I felt like treacle. I was shrivelling up.
I had seen a beautiful pool cue made out of the wood of a persimmon tree. It was an amazement to me that something so beautiful could be made out of this parched twig. I struck the cue ball with force sending it spinning at the red triangle of balls, crashing into them, creating chaos. Why could he not crash into me, send me spinning and reeling, waiting for the next blissful collision.
So I decided I must free myself, drop from the tree and see what might become of it.
For a time on my own I enjoyed the freedom. They tell us that to be disconnected and solitary are conditions that one must endure, but I revelled in my time. I experienced the touch of many men and in this way began to feel alive again, as if I could sprout my own orchard. I was warned that if continued I would be branded a harlot and no one wants to marry that. Rotten fruit fallen from the tree lying on the grass helpless and decaying.
Then I met the next one.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
