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.
I like to think of myself as outwardly accepting of others, regardless of my thoughts and feelings on their behaviors, beliefs, and beings. But there are three things that truly dishearten me about humans, myself included, I hasten to add and they’ve slotted themselves nicely into the unique-little-snowflake culture that has engulfed us millennials. They call themselves, in the style of a generation raised on spasmodic adspeak “body positive”, “you do you”, and “intellectual differences”. I’ve talked about the second and third before and intend to do so again in the near future but, for now, I’m going to focus on the first one.
There is a certain circularity to these things. They bite you in the ass just as you’re wrestling the tail into the ground, so to speak. I recently had opportunity to be asked if I were a Muslim. Perhaps a little background would be helpful. I frequently comment and post in a left-wing feminist online group on Facebook – at times weekly, at times a dozen or more times a week, depending on the topics that come up and, often, how far afield the discussion has strayed into territories that touch on my areas of expertise and show no signs of understanding that feel like they need a little direction to help along without everyone getting confused. That, of course, is where this began.
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.
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.
jumping from her chair as she heard the grating sound of metal upon metal, angela reached the window of her cottage on the south downs in time to see a vision that had only appeared possible as a theory in her mind, not something to happen in real life. there was perhaps one #train a day this far out from civilization, two at the most but never running at even similar times. the collision between two, one obviously a passenger #train and the other a flaming mess of burning liquid, was something that she could not understand, believing her eyes or not. running through the door into the snow hanging limp in the air, she called out to her sister without even thinking that she had left for the weekend and could certainly not hear her from her hostel in amsterdam. angela pounded one step after another in the direction of the flames, #fire pouring high into the darkening sky. how could this have happened? there is not another cottage for #miles. by the time anyone else sees the #smoke or expects the #trains to arrive, it will be too late for the passengers.
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.”
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…