What would it be like to sleep forever?
They ask this, without really comprehending what it means.
When I ask, I know.
Or, I know that I want to know.
Last night, the stars threaded themselves, like a daisy chain, through my hair.
I fell asleep in the sky, wrapped in bohemian rhapsody.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Documents in an Attempt to Save Her Life:
including:
The Diet That Nobody Does
Once, Penelope ate an entire mud cake. It was white chocolate, and melted smoothly in her mouth, covering her teeth with itchy sugar. (This was by the end of it.)
She felt sick for the rest of the day, and didn’t eat a thing, tucking herself into bed early in the hopes of sleeping it off.
I bought a cake today, but I didn’t eat it.
I stuck a pin in it, and left it on the kitchen counter, to stare back at me in wonder.
also including:
A Scrap of Paper With a Proverb On It
What they don’t tell you, at cooking school and in the military, is that you CAN have your cake and eat it too.
This is something you discover, on the night of your twenty eleventh birthday, walking knee deep in sand under a starless sky.
It is something, in other words, that comes unawares. The best realisations come this way, like a black cat, that slips sleekly through the darkness and into your house.
The Elements of Having One’s Cake and Eating It Too:
- Patience;
- Perseverance;
- Luck; and
- Audacity
The Elements should be combined in roughly equal quantities, and then blended thoroughly. In this way, slowly a certain amount of a potent elixir known as Good Fortune will distil.
Collect it gently, in a small glass vial.
Keep it in your soul box, and use generously. (One drop is good for an entire year of Eating One’s Own Cake and Other Business In The Same Vein.)
The Diet That Nobody Does
Once, Penelope ate an entire mud cake. It was white chocolate, and melted smoothly in her mouth, covering her teeth with itchy sugar. (This was by the end of it.)
She felt sick for the rest of the day, and didn’t eat a thing, tucking herself into bed early in the hopes of sleeping it off.
I bought a cake today, but I didn’t eat it.
I stuck a pin in it, and left it on the kitchen counter, to stare back at me in wonder.
also including:
A Scrap of Paper With a Proverb On It
What they don’t tell you, at cooking school and in the military, is that you CAN have your cake and eat it too.
This is something you discover, on the night of your twenty eleventh birthday, walking knee deep in sand under a starless sky.
It is something, in other words, that comes unawares. The best realisations come this way, like a black cat, that slips sleekly through the darkness and into your house.
The Elements of Having One’s Cake and Eating It Too:
- Patience;
- Perseverance;
- Luck; and
- Audacity
The Elements should be combined in roughly equal quantities, and then blended thoroughly. In this way, slowly a certain amount of a potent elixir known as Good Fortune will distil.
Collect it gently, in a small glass vial.
Keep it in your soul box, and use generously. (One drop is good for an entire year of Eating One’s Own Cake and Other Business In The Same Vein.)
Saturday, April 26, 2008
When I...
According to Ralph Waldo Emerson:
There is no darkness that cannot be penetrated. There are no secrets that can be kept in a civilised world. Life is but a masked ball, in which people hide their true faces, and then reveal them, by hiding.
A shiver covers Penelope’s skin, as she reads this. Her hair curls, chilled, over her ears.
When I write, little slivers of multicoloured sparkles shimmy through my fingertips. They congeal, sticky, on the keys, like shining toffee. They make me shiver, make my heart ache, and my eyes water. There is no known cure for this affliction. They say the best thing for it is time.
But I am sick of waiting.
There is no darkness that cannot be penetrated. There are no secrets that can be kept in a civilised world. Life is but a masked ball, in which people hide their true faces, and then reveal them, by hiding.
A shiver covers Penelope’s skin, as she reads this. Her hair curls, chilled, over her ears.
When I write, little slivers of multicoloured sparkles shimmy through my fingertips. They congeal, sticky, on the keys, like shining toffee. They make me shiver, make my heart ache, and my eyes water. There is no known cure for this affliction. They say the best thing for it is time.
But I am sick of waiting.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Otis & Max
One thing Penelope remembers about Thomas:
She didn’t exactly feel entirely enveloped, completely worry-free.
Sometimes she would glance across at him with a look of astonishment, that she could find herself with a person with such perfect collarbones.
‘How could I end up with you?’ she would wonder, but not aloud.
He would never notice her staring, but would glance over himself, and smile gently.
With Max, the atmosphere is so thick with safety that she drowns in it deliciously.
‘How could I ever end up with you?’ Max says, regularly, turning to her with wide eyes. She kisses the tip of his nose, at that point.
Otis’s opinion: There will never be anyone like Tom, but surely Max is a better match? Overall.
Unfortunately, Thomas was a fabulous cook. Penelope’s favourite recipe of his was a seafood stew he made with prawns and other delicious things.
‘This is for my little kipper,’ he would say, setting down a bowl in front of her. She would grin, at that point, but it made her feel like she had sharp teeth, and her jaw would ache for a while afterward.
If Penelope had a choice, she would run away to Dubai. Once, Thomas had gone there on a business trip for two weeks, and sent back photos outside expensive buildings and desert scenery.
But would she take Max with her?
Otis’s opinion: You should ask Max if he wants to go! For all you know? He might not even like Dubai?
Penelope considers the idea carefully, toying with it, like a string of caramel on her tongue.
Otis also, is an accomplished cook.
When Max arrives, that evening, Penelope imagines she is walking on a cloud. She imagines stepping deeply into the warm, fluffy cotton of clouds, and smiles at Max indulgently.
‘Why, hello,’ he says, his eyes sparkling. ‘Your eyes look sleepy, but I must say, poignant. What are you imagining?’
‘That I am on a cloud,’ she says, but her voice is so serene that she imagines it’s lost on the horizon, like the sleekest of mists.
Otis has cooked their meal.
‘I simply must get you a Jamie Oliver,’ Otis said earlier, throwing a tea towel over his shoulder like Gordon Ramsey.
Otis has broad shoulders and eyes the colour of chocolate. Also, he reads a lot, and runs his own website. He teaches Tai Bo at the local gym, and completes charity marathons.
When Penelope told Max this, he whistled softly.
‘Lucky I’m not competing with him, then, hey?’ he chuckled, and kissed Penelope’s shoulder.
With a sigh, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
Tonight, there is butter chicken, mounted on high piles with fluffy white rice underneath, and an accompaniment of cold apple juice.
‘That Otis,’ Max grins.
Suddenly, there is something askew.
According to Dan Scott:
if once he could go back to the beginning
and go over it all slowly
then perhaps he could find that thing he was missing.
Penelope’s breath catches at the back of her throat, suddenly. She gasps for air, like a flailing fish. Throw me back into the water, she says, her eyes tearing up, throw me back in for God’s sake please the water throw me back into the water the water for
‘Are you all right?’ Max is in front of her now, clutching a serviette and a glass of water.
‘Can you breathe?’
She shakes her head.
‘Are you having a panic attack? Where are your paper bags?’
She shakes her head again, and points to the fridge.
Miraculously, Max finds a packet of paper bags in the cupboard across from the fridge, tucked neatly behind the cans of soup and tuna.
‘Breathe into this!’ he instructs, shoving the bag over her face.
She breathes, and slowly the fish slides into the water, flicking its tail. The world rights itself.
‘Do you like Dubai?’ she rasps, finally.
‘Dubai?’ he sucks on the end of his fork, at that point, and looks at her inquiringly. ‘Well. That’s to say.’
She stares back at him.
‘Would you want to go to Dubai with me, if I had blonde hair?’
She hasn’t told anyone about the week after Thomas left on his business trip, where she went to the hairdresser and had her hair coloured an impressive, rich caramel blonde. She’d died over it immediately, of course. She wasn’t a show pony for God’s sake!
‘Are you insane? You have beautiful hair. Why would you dye it blonde?’ Max chuckles into his chicken.
‘Well, let’s just say.’
‘I am not having this conversation.’
‘Well, you don’t know. What if it happens? What if I won tickets to Dubai in a raffle?’
‘How many raffles offer two tickets to Dubai? What sort of raffle is this? Have you been associating with known criminals?’
‘Please answer the question.’
‘I would then, yes, I would go to Dubai, if you won two tickets in a criminal raffle. But absolutely NOT if you had blonde hair!’
Penelope blinks at him, once, and he blinks back, then grins, slowly. ‘What?’
The chicken is delicious.
She didn’t exactly feel entirely enveloped, completely worry-free.
Sometimes she would glance across at him with a look of astonishment, that she could find herself with a person with such perfect collarbones.
‘How could I end up with you?’ she would wonder, but not aloud.
He would never notice her staring, but would glance over himself, and smile gently.
With Max, the atmosphere is so thick with safety that she drowns in it deliciously.
‘How could I ever end up with you?’ Max says, regularly, turning to her with wide eyes. She kisses the tip of his nose, at that point.
Otis’s opinion: There will never be anyone like Tom, but surely Max is a better match? Overall.
Unfortunately, Thomas was a fabulous cook. Penelope’s favourite recipe of his was a seafood stew he made with prawns and other delicious things.
‘This is for my little kipper,’ he would say, setting down a bowl in front of her. She would grin, at that point, but it made her feel like she had sharp teeth, and her jaw would ache for a while afterward.
If Penelope had a choice, she would run away to Dubai. Once, Thomas had gone there on a business trip for two weeks, and sent back photos outside expensive buildings and desert scenery.
But would she take Max with her?
Otis’s opinion: You should ask Max if he wants to go! For all you know? He might not even like Dubai?
Penelope considers the idea carefully, toying with it, like a string of caramel on her tongue.
Otis also, is an accomplished cook.
When Max arrives, that evening, Penelope imagines she is walking on a cloud. She imagines stepping deeply into the warm, fluffy cotton of clouds, and smiles at Max indulgently.
‘Why, hello,’ he says, his eyes sparkling. ‘Your eyes look sleepy, but I must say, poignant. What are you imagining?’
‘That I am on a cloud,’ she says, but her voice is so serene that she imagines it’s lost on the horizon, like the sleekest of mists.
Otis has cooked their meal.
‘I simply must get you a Jamie Oliver,’ Otis said earlier, throwing a tea towel over his shoulder like Gordon Ramsey.
Otis has broad shoulders and eyes the colour of chocolate. Also, he reads a lot, and runs his own website. He teaches Tai Bo at the local gym, and completes charity marathons.
When Penelope told Max this, he whistled softly.
‘Lucky I’m not competing with him, then, hey?’ he chuckled, and kissed Penelope’s shoulder.
With a sigh, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
Tonight, there is butter chicken, mounted on high piles with fluffy white rice underneath, and an accompaniment of cold apple juice.
‘That Otis,’ Max grins.
Suddenly, there is something askew.
According to Dan Scott:
if once he could go back to the beginning
and go over it all slowly
then perhaps he could find that thing he was missing.
Penelope’s breath catches at the back of her throat, suddenly. She gasps for air, like a flailing fish. Throw me back into the water, she says, her eyes tearing up, throw me back in for God’s sake please the water throw me back into the water the water for
‘Are you all right?’ Max is in front of her now, clutching a serviette and a glass of water.
‘Can you breathe?’
She shakes her head.
‘Are you having a panic attack? Where are your paper bags?’
She shakes her head again, and points to the fridge.
Miraculously, Max finds a packet of paper bags in the cupboard across from the fridge, tucked neatly behind the cans of soup and tuna.
‘Breathe into this!’ he instructs, shoving the bag over her face.
She breathes, and slowly the fish slides into the water, flicking its tail. The world rights itself.
‘Do you like Dubai?’ she rasps, finally.
‘Dubai?’ he sucks on the end of his fork, at that point, and looks at her inquiringly. ‘Well. That’s to say.’
She stares back at him.
‘Would you want to go to Dubai with me, if I had blonde hair?’
She hasn’t told anyone about the week after Thomas left on his business trip, where she went to the hairdresser and had her hair coloured an impressive, rich caramel blonde. She’d died over it immediately, of course. She wasn’t a show pony for God’s sake!
‘Are you insane? You have beautiful hair. Why would you dye it blonde?’ Max chuckles into his chicken.
‘Well, let’s just say.’
‘I am not having this conversation.’
‘Well, you don’t know. What if it happens? What if I won tickets to Dubai in a raffle?’
‘How many raffles offer two tickets to Dubai? What sort of raffle is this? Have you been associating with known criminals?’
‘Please answer the question.’
‘I would then, yes, I would go to Dubai, if you won two tickets in a criminal raffle. But absolutely NOT if you had blonde hair!’
Penelope blinks at him, once, and he blinks back, then grins, slowly. ‘What?’
The chicken is delicious.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Excitement
Laura and Cat have invited me away for the weekend! I am thrilled!
The sunlight hits differently when I am with those two.
The sunlight hits differently when I am with those two.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Music, Badges & Pizza
Eden sent me a badge with a sheep on it.
My mother said, Why the sheep?
My mother does not understand things.
The badge said I had a bright future.
I wish I could put music in a packet, and push it inside my chest. So that my heartbeat was filled with the sounds I love most.
Andy has moved. Andy has moved far away. And Troy? Troy has now been lost to my dreams.
Actually, he crops up there quite often. The other night, he was dressed in black pants and unwashed hair, with bright skin.
‘He-ey,’ he said, ironically, grinning at me.
He was standing in the corridor, outside my door.
‘You hungry?’
The grin enticed me outside, for pizza, even though I was wearing bright floral leggings and a baggy grey sweater. It appeared that Troy had returned from his sojourn simply to ask me out for pizza.
What deliriousness, no? What simple pleasures.
According to Aerosmith:
My my baby blue yeah
I’m thinking bout you
my my baby blue
yeah you’re so jaded and
I’m the one that jaded you
It is funny that Troy knew so well in advance the contours of the shape he would imprint on my heart. He spelled it out to me, many times, in songs and notes, and the words he spoke. I was the one who chose not to listen, then.
Leave Troy to the dust! they whisper. Andy (even though he would have to shout because he’s so far away), and Eden and Belle. Even Maddie, though I don’t speak to her anymore.
Katy Rose holds out hope that ‘You might just turn into something I like’. Which is really, the optimistic attitude I should have. So. Focus! Taylor! Focus!
But the only thing is, I have forgotten how to focus.
So how will the sheep be right, if I cannot focus? It is a quandary.
Poor sheep. I should tell Eden that animals on badges cannot accurately predict the future (a slow, lonely tear, will slide down my cheek as I say this.)
My mother said, Why the sheep?
My mother does not understand things.
The badge said I had a bright future.
I wish I could put music in a packet, and push it inside my chest. So that my heartbeat was filled with the sounds I love most.
Andy has moved. Andy has moved far away. And Troy? Troy has now been lost to my dreams.
Actually, he crops up there quite often. The other night, he was dressed in black pants and unwashed hair, with bright skin.
‘He-ey,’ he said, ironically, grinning at me.
He was standing in the corridor, outside my door.
‘You hungry?’
The grin enticed me outside, for pizza, even though I was wearing bright floral leggings and a baggy grey sweater. It appeared that Troy had returned from his sojourn simply to ask me out for pizza.
What deliriousness, no? What simple pleasures.
According to Aerosmith:
My my baby blue yeah
I’m thinking bout you
my my baby blue
yeah you’re so jaded and
I’m the one that jaded you
It is funny that Troy knew so well in advance the contours of the shape he would imprint on my heart. He spelled it out to me, many times, in songs and notes, and the words he spoke. I was the one who chose not to listen, then.
Leave Troy to the dust! they whisper. Andy (even though he would have to shout because he’s so far away), and Eden and Belle. Even Maddie, though I don’t speak to her anymore.
Katy Rose holds out hope that ‘You might just turn into something I like’. Which is really, the optimistic attitude I should have. So. Focus! Taylor! Focus!
But the only thing is, I have forgotten how to focus.
So how will the sheep be right, if I cannot focus? It is a quandary.
Poor sheep. I should tell Eden that animals on badges cannot accurately predict the future (a slow, lonely tear, will slide down my cheek as I say this.)
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Breathing and Cockroaches and Orange Cleaner
One more thing I have forgotten.
How to breathe.
They say it’s easy. They say it’s a function of life. They say you shouldn’t have to think about it.
But I do, I think about it all the time.
‘Don’t speak, please, I’m thinking about how to breathe.’
Stephen R. Covey will be at my side then, touching my shoulder gently.
‘You know,’ he will say, ‘that’s probably the first true thing I’ve heard you say.’
‘Shut up!’ I will scream, throwing a book at him. ‘You’re disrupting the thinking!’
How many times are we divided?
How many people are stacked inside our minds, all shouting, all vying, for a voice? Like sheafs of paper, like reams of fabric, we pull at them, and watch them float to the ground.
They touch down softly, weightless. They look back up, with eyes as huge as planets. Don’t you want us anymore, their eyes say. Why didn’t you choose me.
I stare at them, their frail limbs, and lank hair.
There’s not very much breathing space, inside one mind.
‘You didn’t make it,’ I whisper, and my voice carries on the breeze. ‘You didn’t make it because I didn’t like what you had to say.’
You took us too quickly, they implore. You didn’t give us a chance.
‘I have no time,’ I say sadly. ‘I have no time to wait.’
What you are saying is: I have no time to give out chances. They don’t grow on trees, and I have no rations for them. I take them when I can find them, and so should you.
It is not a compassionate thing to say, but you have forgotten what compassion is. You forgot it a long time ago.
You breathe them in, these delicate creatures of transparency.
Won’t you try a little harder, they ask. For us, won’t you try a little harder to make sure we don’t fade into the wind?
I have no time. I have no time. I have no time.
Quietly, defeated, they fade.
Jack’s friend Rhys said, ‘Do you want us to lie about you? Do you want us to say you’re cool?’
‘No one’s asking you to lie,’ I said, and stared hard out at the water.
‘Don’t ever watch a war movie with her,’ Jack said. ‘She’ll make you explain the whole thing.’
Perplexed, I said nothing.
‘And another thing, what’s with the cockroaches? I walk into the shower, and there’s four litres of orange toilet cleaner everywhere, and this one cockroach in the middle.’
Jack grabs his crotch.
First of all, it wasn’t four litres.
How to breathe.
They say it’s easy. They say it’s a function of life. They say you shouldn’t have to think about it.
But I do, I think about it all the time.
‘Don’t speak, please, I’m thinking about how to breathe.’
Stephen R. Covey will be at my side then, touching my shoulder gently.
‘You know,’ he will say, ‘that’s probably the first true thing I’ve heard you say.’
‘Shut up!’ I will scream, throwing a book at him. ‘You’re disrupting the thinking!’
How many times are we divided?
How many people are stacked inside our minds, all shouting, all vying, for a voice? Like sheafs of paper, like reams of fabric, we pull at them, and watch them float to the ground.
They touch down softly, weightless. They look back up, with eyes as huge as planets. Don’t you want us anymore, their eyes say. Why didn’t you choose me.
I stare at them, their frail limbs, and lank hair.
There’s not very much breathing space, inside one mind.
‘You didn’t make it,’ I whisper, and my voice carries on the breeze. ‘You didn’t make it because I didn’t like what you had to say.’
You took us too quickly, they implore. You didn’t give us a chance.
‘I have no time,’ I say sadly. ‘I have no time to wait.’
What you are saying is: I have no time to give out chances. They don’t grow on trees, and I have no rations for them. I take them when I can find them, and so should you.
It is not a compassionate thing to say, but you have forgotten what compassion is. You forgot it a long time ago.
You breathe them in, these delicate creatures of transparency.
Won’t you try a little harder, they ask. For us, won’t you try a little harder to make sure we don’t fade into the wind?
I have no time. I have no time. I have no time.
Quietly, defeated, they fade.
Jack’s friend Rhys said, ‘Do you want us to lie about you? Do you want us to say you’re cool?’
‘No one’s asking you to lie,’ I said, and stared hard out at the water.
‘Don’t ever watch a war movie with her,’ Jack said. ‘She’ll make you explain the whole thing.’
Perplexed, I said nothing.
‘And another thing, what’s with the cockroaches? I walk into the shower, and there’s four litres of orange toilet cleaner everywhere, and this one cockroach in the middle.’
Jack grabs his crotch.
First of all, it wasn’t four litres.
Grey
When Troy first floated away, to land softly in the meadows of sweet memory, I didn’t even notice his departure.
It was only later, in the quietness, that a thought planted itself in my mind.
Where was Troy? said the thought said
Gone, memory answered.
A small smile lit my lips, briefly, until it too floated away.
The weather is heavy, with a hundred shades of grey.
Nick Earls could write a book of it.
What does Jack think about, those nights when his arms are not wrapped around Alice? Does he worry about where she is? Would I, if I were him?
Were these questions with answers, I would not be asking them.
Another memory: Eden.
She doesn’t write.
Where is she? Where are her Jacks and Troys and Alices and Lauras and Cats and Maddies and Belles?
Where are her Taylors?
As for Andy, he is fickle. We all knew this. He is sometimes better than Belle, sometimes worse. When he traces the charts of Troy’s travels, he is worse. When he bakes triple tiered cakes with edible flowers and passionfruit glaze, he is better.
He hasn’t called me for a long, long time. I wonder if it’s one of those things that sparks, and then frizzles, from too much moisture?
But of course I know it’s not. I know it’s something else.
I know that Andy has left.
Andy is in Melbourne, now. Closer to the Palace on the Water than I. No, of course, that is a lie.
I don’t know when Andy is coming back. Perhaps too soon for me to sadden. But perhaps so long that we will forget the contours of one another’s voices. When we do speak again, it will be a sharpness that straightens our backs, and perks up our ears. It will be the smell of water after being lost in the desert, and we will reach for it, desperate, dying with thirst.
Perhaps I imagine it. But the people who once walked with their bodies close to yours do not leave quite so quickly.
Last night, I fell into the pure, exhausted sleep of the weary.
It was only later, in the quietness, that a thought planted itself in my mind.
Where was Troy? said the thought said
Gone, memory answered.
A small smile lit my lips, briefly, until it too floated away.
The weather is heavy, with a hundred shades of grey.
Nick Earls could write a book of it.
What does Jack think about, those nights when his arms are not wrapped around Alice? Does he worry about where she is? Would I, if I were him?
Were these questions with answers, I would not be asking them.
Another memory: Eden.
She doesn’t write.
Where is she? Where are her Jacks and Troys and Alices and Lauras and Cats and Maddies and Belles?
Where are her Taylors?
As for Andy, he is fickle. We all knew this. He is sometimes better than Belle, sometimes worse. When he traces the charts of Troy’s travels, he is worse. When he bakes triple tiered cakes with edible flowers and passionfruit glaze, he is better.
He hasn’t called me for a long, long time. I wonder if it’s one of those things that sparks, and then frizzles, from too much moisture?
But of course I know it’s not. I know it’s something else.
I know that Andy has left.
Andy is in Melbourne, now. Closer to the Palace on the Water than I. No, of course, that is a lie.
I don’t know when Andy is coming back. Perhaps too soon for me to sadden. But perhaps so long that we will forget the contours of one another’s voices. When we do speak again, it will be a sharpness that straightens our backs, and perks up our ears. It will be the smell of water after being lost in the desert, and we will reach for it, desperate, dying with thirst.
Perhaps I imagine it. But the people who once walked with their bodies close to yours do not leave quite so quickly.
Last night, I fell into the pure, exhausted sleep of the weary.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
A Fairy Tale
Do you know, the story of Alice and Jack?
It is this:
Yahn, with a heart full of cotton and candy, fell in love with a princess. She had wide, soft eyes, the colour of chocolate. Her hair fell in silky tendrils to her elbows. Her smile lit up the sky.
Jack knew all this.
He watched Yahn and the princess grow up together.
Over time, Jack played his hand.
The princess and Yahn would steal moments:
in dusk, in bedrooms, in store rooms.
Innocently.
Jack waited.
One night: he asked the princess to a fairy tale dinner. She accepted.
Four years later: and no one is happy.
The princess and Yahn love one another.
But they both love Jack. And Jack loves them both.
What to do? What to do with this heart split thrice?
Jack keeps the princess close. But she steals away from under his fingertips, and slips through the open windows of nighttime. Yahn welcomes her, gently, gathering her melted chocolate eyes and hair of silk.
Jack, outside, knows this. His heart cracks a little more, crumbles a little further, til what is left is bitter and broken. He has made his choice, and now he will pay his dues.
He cannot name what it is that makes him stay. It is a formless void, a slate of murky grey. It has neither name, nor form, but a great deal of persuasion. It is the most dangerous kind of Thing.
To Jack, it is the black dog that stalks his dreams.
Is Jack the prince? Or is it Yahn, with his fingertips of sky?
And as for the princess: why so indecisive? What makes her stay?
What am I missing?
There is something here that I am failing to grasp.
There is a link that I do not yet see.
A Fact of Relevance
Jack, if he knew I wrote these words, would strangle me and leave me to die, in the cool puddle of a gutter drain.
It is this:
Yahn, with a heart full of cotton and candy, fell in love with a princess. She had wide, soft eyes, the colour of chocolate. Her hair fell in silky tendrils to her elbows. Her smile lit up the sky.
Jack knew all this.
He watched Yahn and the princess grow up together.
Over time, Jack played his hand.
The princess and Yahn would steal moments:
in dusk, in bedrooms, in store rooms.
Innocently.
Jack waited.
One night: he asked the princess to a fairy tale dinner. She accepted.
Four years later: and no one is happy.
The princess and Yahn love one another.
But they both love Jack. And Jack loves them both.
What to do? What to do with this heart split thrice?
Jack keeps the princess close. But she steals away from under his fingertips, and slips through the open windows of nighttime. Yahn welcomes her, gently, gathering her melted chocolate eyes and hair of silk.
Jack, outside, knows this. His heart cracks a little more, crumbles a little further, til what is left is bitter and broken. He has made his choice, and now he will pay his dues.
He cannot name what it is that makes him stay. It is a formless void, a slate of murky grey. It has neither name, nor form, but a great deal of persuasion. It is the most dangerous kind of Thing.
To Jack, it is the black dog that stalks his dreams.
Is Jack the prince? Or is it Yahn, with his fingertips of sky?
And as for the princess: why so indecisive? What makes her stay?
What am I missing?
There is something here that I am failing to grasp.
There is a link that I do not yet see.
A Fact of Relevance
Jack, if he knew I wrote these words, would strangle me and leave me to die, in the cool puddle of a gutter drain.
the Palace on the Water
Like all good stories, this one doesn't have a happy ending. I believe Leo Tolstoy would be proud.
Just under my left shoulder blade, there is a massive knot, pulling all the muscles in my back into a painful, twisted ball.
Forty five minutes away, Jack sits with his arm around a beautiful Alice, who sits with her hands in the lap of a Yahn who is so tall he can brush the sky with his fingertips. This is what they told me, about love and about life.
That there are those to whom a silver spoon is given especially for the cake.
Last night, the light danced over the water and made me wish, so hard, for a silver spoon. It is the one thing, above all else, that you cannot buy.
Can someone lend me one? I'll give it back, a little bent and bruised.
Jack tucked me into bed last night. When he said my name it was a caress, like the wash of a spring breeze over new buds. 'Taylor,' he said. 'Taylor, you'll catch a cold.'
Just under my left shoulder blade, there is a massive knot, pulling all the muscles in my back into a painful, twisted ball.
Forty five minutes away, Jack sits with his arm around a beautiful Alice, who sits with her hands in the lap of a Yahn who is so tall he can brush the sky with his fingertips. This is what they told me, about love and about life.
That there are those to whom a silver spoon is given especially for the cake.
Last night, the light danced over the water and made me wish, so hard, for a silver spoon. It is the one thing, above all else, that you cannot buy.
Can someone lend me one? I'll give it back, a little bent and bruised.
Jack tucked me into bed last night. When he said my name it was a caress, like the wash of a spring breeze over new buds. 'Taylor,' he said. 'Taylor, you'll catch a cold.'
Friday, April 4, 2008
An Unrelated Answer
Once, Troy told me he only read to "exercise his mind".
Not for enjoyment, but as some sort of perverse masochistic sacrifice.
I am beginning to wonder what I ever saw in that boy?
Not for enjoyment, but as some sort of perverse masochistic sacrifice.
I am beginning to wonder what I ever saw in that boy?
The Book Thief
When Markus Zusak writes, he takes little chunks of your soul, and feeds them through a meatgrinder.
Then, he strikes a match to light what's left.
It is a thoroughly vicious, ravishing experience.
Then, he strikes a match to light what's left.
It is a thoroughly vicious, ravishing experience.
A Third Afterthought
Children are very ungrateful toward their parents.
He would probably be happier if I named him Jack.
That, of course, would be impossible.
Perhaps I should name him Troy
if I really wanted to set him up in life?
He would probably be happier if I named him Jack.
That, of course, would be impossible.
Perhaps I should name him Troy
if I really wanted to set him up in life?
A Second Afterthought
Ambrosia: Refers to the mythological 'food of the Gods'
I have always wanted to name my son Ambros.
He will win at everything, with a name like that.
I have always wanted to name my son Ambros.
He will win at everything, with a name like that.
An Afterthought
I liked Maddie a little more today, as though she were a cool breeze passing through.
But for how long can we expect this new weather front to last?
I would give anything to lead a life like Alice and Jack.
I believe it is news to Ambrose Bierce that in fact integrity can be the spice to win.
I think it is doubly funny that I gave Laura a book on personal integrity, when I harbour so little of it myself.
But that, I think, can be our little secret.
But for how long can we expect this new weather front to last?
I would give anything to lead a life like Alice and Jack.
I believe it is news to Ambrose Bierce that in fact integrity can be the spice to win.
I think it is doubly funny that I gave Laura a book on personal integrity, when I harbour so little of it myself.
But that, I think, can be our little secret.
Alice
It is hot, and my fringe sticks to my forehead in a worried tangle.
Alice has plush lips, plump and pink. Tonight, when I see her at the Palace on the Water, they will be stained with the juice of berries.
Acknowledging The Problem:
I have a love of symmetry.
When I read The Book Thief I always turn back to the beginning of the chapter, to check the progress of events.
When I see Jack and Alice pressed up against each other tonight in the darkness, it will not be enough to know this. It will instead snap something inside me, something duplicitous, and brittle. My love of symmetry will be my downfall.
Her'es hoping that writing about it will dispel the kotted dark energy that hangs around my shoulders, like a malevolent shroud.
Ambrose Bierce had the right idea, I think.
Alice has plush lips, plump and pink. Tonight, when I see her at the Palace on the Water, they will be stained with the juice of berries.
Acknowledging The Problem:
I have a love of symmetry.
When I read The Book Thief I always turn back to the beginning of the chapter, to check the progress of events.
When I see Jack and Alice pressed up against each other tonight in the darkness, it will not be enough to know this. It will instead snap something inside me, something duplicitous, and brittle. My love of symmetry will be my downfall.
Her'es hoping that writing about it will dispel the kotted dark energy that hangs around my shoulders, like a malevolent shroud.
Ambrose Bierce had the right idea, I think.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
a Fact about Moths
Moths lay their wings out flat when resting, unlike butterflies, which hold them up over their backs. Moths don’t fly toward light; in fact they actually try for the darkest spot, which is directly behind the light.
Sparkles shoot out behind my eyes.
Do I lead the life of a moth?
At this point, my eyes begin to hurt, from the sparkles.
Sparkles shoot out behind my eyes.
Do I lead the life of a moth?
At this point, my eyes begin to hurt, from the sparkles.
the history of chocolate
here is the history of chocolate:
the history of chocolate
The importance of the cocoa bean to the Aztec culture was immediately obvious to the explorers of the sixteenth century. The bean was used for currency and trade, as well as in religious rituals. Often nobles enjoyed a drink made by roasting cocoa beans and crushing them to a paste to be mixed with water. This was known as ‘xocolatl’ in the local language, coming from xococ, meaning ‘bitter’, and atl, meaning ‘water’.
The Spanish explorers took supplies of cocoa beans back home with them. The word evolved to ‘chocolate’, and the drink became enormously popular at court. For about a hundred years Spain enjoyed the cocoa monopoly, but gradually the secret leaked out.
Chocolate was probably introduced into England in the 1650s. It was available as a drink in coffee houses for quite a price, but before long specialist chocolate houses were opened, like the Cocoa Tree, one of London’s most fashionable society men’s clubs.
And thus began the world’s love affair with chocolate.
- a Fact about chocolate -
In experiments, scientists have found that the experience of chocolate melting over the tongue caused a higher rate of heart acceleration than sharing a passionate kiss with a lover.
the history of chocolate
The importance of the cocoa bean to the Aztec culture was immediately obvious to the explorers of the sixteenth century. The bean was used for currency and trade, as well as in religious rituals. Often nobles enjoyed a drink made by roasting cocoa beans and crushing them to a paste to be mixed with water. This was known as ‘xocolatl’ in the local language, coming from xococ, meaning ‘bitter’, and atl, meaning ‘water’.
The Spanish explorers took supplies of cocoa beans back home with them. The word evolved to ‘chocolate’, and the drink became enormously popular at court. For about a hundred years Spain enjoyed the cocoa monopoly, but gradually the secret leaked out.
Chocolate was probably introduced into England in the 1650s. It was available as a drink in coffee houses for quite a price, but before long specialist chocolate houses were opened, like the Cocoa Tree, one of London’s most fashionable society men’s clubs.
And thus began the world’s love affair with chocolate.
- a Fact about chocolate -
In experiments, scientists have found that the experience of chocolate melting over the tongue caused a higher rate of heart acceleration than sharing a passionate kiss with a lover.
Life is Unlike Cleaning Your Nails
Many secrets are kept behind closed doors. But the saddest and most fearful of them are those that are hidden in public, out in the open, right in front of everyone who walks by them.
Everyone has secrets.
Perhaps, it may eventuate, that Stephen R. Covey was wrong?
‘Don’t worry,’ he would say, a little sternly, gathering up his books. ‘There isn’t anything wrong with you, it was my theory.’
Then he would walk away, and everyone would sigh, a little sad, but also relieved.
Well really, they would whisper. Shouldn’t theories be proven before they’re put into books that people read?
Jack has hair the colour of sunrise, and eyes the colour of summer days. His voice, on the other hand, has all the dark mystery of a midwinter night.
If a bit of moisturiser gets under my fingernails, I grab an orange stick, and using the pointy end, I scoop it out.
I wait there, patiently, with the orange stick, until every last trace of moisturiser is gone.
Everyone has secrets.
Perhaps, it may eventuate, that Stephen R. Covey was wrong?
‘Don’t worry,’ he would say, a little sternly, gathering up his books. ‘There isn’t anything wrong with you, it was my theory.’
Then he would walk away, and everyone would sigh, a little sad, but also relieved.
Well really, they would whisper. Shouldn’t theories be proven before they’re put into books that people read?
Jack has hair the colour of sunrise, and eyes the colour of summer days. His voice, on the other hand, has all the dark mystery of a midwinter night.
If a bit of moisturiser gets under my fingernails, I grab an orange stick, and using the pointy end, I scoop it out.
I wait there, patiently, with the orange stick, until every last trace of moisturiser is gone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)