what is it with #snow, anyway? everyone who lives where there is such a thing falling from the sky complains about it constantly. even in the summertime when it’s somewhat warmish. wait until the #snow comes. oh the #snow kept coming late this year. didn’t even get to go camping until july this year. was so cold. and places where it doesn’t #snow? they can’t get enough of it on vacation. people are odd. it was with this in mind that i got on the plane at heathrow, thinking i’ve seen plenty of #snow in my life for a dozen lifetimes but of course i have to be heading off to alaska. why, you ask? see, now there is an intelligent question. it could even be deemed smart if you thought there was going to be a sensible answer. mostly to freeze my ass off, i believe. i’d say balls but, well, girls seem to be lacking in that department. all the guys coming, though, they will be lacking in that area if they stay outside, anyway, so i don’t feel too bad. to see the #northern #lights. what is it with #light shows? a school trip? to the frozen #north? in america? what the actual fuck are they thinking about.
it’s when the #rain stops falling that we have to worry, not when it begins. as it #rains, green leafs spring from the earth and raise their bodies skyward to feed #mouths wide open to catch the drops, even by way of taps and pipes. the #rain gives color to the death that would become those who fear its floods more blatantly than could any medicine created by the hand of humans intervening. simple #raindrops fill our minds and our flesh and give life where life was not. when it stops, though. that’s when we must worry. when there is no more #rain; if it comes not, there shall be drought. there shall be heat. there shall be open #mouths awaiting droplets and leaves and they shall be dry and empty of all but feet. the earth is a moist and sultry flesh upon which we are but miniature hairs, preparing to fall. its skin grows warmer, more brittle with age and is burned in the sunlight, drying it and allowing the hair to fall from its no longer smooth surface. nothing turns back time, only slows the process but #perhaps that is enough for skin to recover and #rains to return to replenish the droplets, the leaves, fill the #mouths and satisfy the moist awakenings of the goddess within the land. #perhaps we will be witnesses to the awakening. #perhaps it will be too late. #perhaps it already is.
somewhere, over the #rainbow, they tell me the bluebirds fly. curious, that, as they can’t even see the #rainbow from where they are. but true it may be. i saw a #rainbow this #morning and over it were these unmistakable birdlike forms. wait. those were airplanes. at least they were blue. i guess you can’t have it all. makes the song seem a little less romantic but definitely a lot more practical. under the #rainbow and those planes may have had a bit of a rough ride and an ocean landing, i expect.
sometimes you have to #wonder about the #rain. it was one of those times today. i #wondered about the #rain as i lay there on the grass. we always think of #rain in england as a cold, miserable experience, wind blowing it under umbrellas as we gather together outside tube stations and under bus stops. but this is not that #rain. how can the same #water falling from the same #clouds be so different in here? there is no wall, no border. we are still in england. nothing has changed. everything is different. it is warm, a bath that doesn’t #simply surround but floats in the breathless air and sticks to what can only be called #clouds of breath that can’t be seen but can be felt as the swirl around us. i am certain that i will be soaked just as thoroughly by this #rain as i would by the #water that breaks umbrellas and earns the curses of commuters but there is no frustration, no annoyance here. i feel enjoyment in a way that #water in the #sky should never in my mind be capable of creating.
there are those who would say that it is childish. i agree wholeheartedly but i’m not sure why that is such a problem. sure i might be twenty but who says i can’t do things that don’t require vast amounts of worldly experience or high school graduation? #painting is #perhaps the most respected of the fine #arts. blatantly professional, viewed with such talent, provided the #painting is done with oil, #canvas, and exactly no numbers over which to place the #brush. graffiti has become an #art to be reckoned with even if the vast majority of so-called #artists are simply tagging things with their name and making buildings desperately require cleaning instead of #painting something striking or beautiful or contemplative or even creative that could give #art to a city desperately in need of it, as all cities everywhere are. still, if one says something negative about spray#paint in polite #artistic company (does such a thing exist somewhere?), there would most certainly be cross words and the speaker would most likely be covered in said spray#paint relatively quickly. or whenever he next sleeps. #perhaps both.
so, in a #world before #smart, there was this #swan who gave birth and #completely didn’t #notice. in that same #world, there was a #duck, curiously enough, giving birth in the same lake at the same time. can you #imagine the noise that was to be heard that morning with the honking and quacking and the father birds trying desperately not to get seen edging away in search of television sets and motoring magazines? i assure you, there were feathers to be seen flying and water churned to near boiling #point. that being said, six ##ducklings and seven #signets entered the #world that day, almost as wet and sticky as the day they were conceived. this, of course, being a #world before #smart, is a #world without counting. we shall ignore those numbers in exactly the same manner as their mothers.
it was the best of times; it was the worst of times. time, in fact, stood still for her, peering longingly into the #water as it circled the drain. it was her custom to step out of the #bath and be dry by the time the #water had finally gurgled into the arcane pipework but she felt stunned to the point of inaction. time not only stood still but stopped her from standing at all. it was, after all, bedtime and darkness had fallen on the small cottage as #water poured hot and steaming from the antediluvian faucet, moistening porcelain and warming the cold room as bubbles and salts mixed with steam and caused apple blossoms to fill the december night as it would be in september. plunging up to her neck in the #water, splashing the #floor without even noticing, holding her breath and her head under the #water until it would appear to an observer that she was testing the limits of her lungs’ capacity to spontaneously cease respiration. she was typically calm. it was different this time. calm had not given way to mania, happiness, relief, or even their sad counterparts. this was shock. carla sat rigid watching the #clock on the wall #simply say seven minutes past eight, #morning or evening making no difference, realizing only after minutes’ contemplation that the #clock itself had no power to move and was stuck, much like carla herself. it was that #morning that gin had left her. left in the conclusive sense, that is, not in the leaving for work as they had done every day since their wedding. when carla awoke, gin was already dressed, sitting on the end of the bed, suitcase at her feet. she #simply said “i don’t need time. i don’t need to think. i know that it’s over. #please try to #survive without me. i won’t stop loving you but i cannot stay.”
there was a girl. an average girl. for a princess, that is. so not so average. but she looked fairly normal, a little tall, curly #black #hair, surprisingly foreign. amazing that her #father didn’t suspect her mother of having an affair with the #tailor. but that’s a story for another day altogether. they raised her as their own and her mother said nothing about it at all. her #father quietly had the #tailor dropped in the #river behind the castle without anyone really noticing except that the quality of the suits in the city was definitely at an all time low. but nobody said anything about it at all.
They tell me that war changes men, makes them wild. That’s only the weak ones, though. He was sad when it was unavoidable, happy when it was ended. A lifetime of harsh realities, defeated by laughter. Memories depart quickly but I always feel at home there. Continue Reading…
Truth is overrated. Take her for example. She’s always here but we speak only in meaningless rhetorical questions. Continue Reading…