“Don’t let it fool you.” His breath smelled like old vanilla cigars.
The end of the show was near. The curtain closed and the magician was shut away from the curious audience awaiting the answers to all the questionable acts he had just performed.
Fin sat quietly, pensive, wholesome. She was oblivious to the reality of it all--the fact that there was no magic, but mere tricks.
The old man sat with his hand resting crookedly over his knotted wooden cane. A bright light appeared from the left side of the stage and a young woman dressed in sequins and feathers danced onto the center. In her hand she held a bell. She rang it three times. Suddenly the room fell completely silent. Not even a heartbeat was heard. The lights dimmed, and the drums slowly and quietly filled the theatre. They quickened. A thick, broody, heavy base drum grew louder and louder, as if it were a monster anxiously dawning it’s prey. A loud clang ending the drum beat and the magician appeared behind the audience, under the exit sign. He laughed, and the audience ‘Ooohed’ and ‘Aaahed’, then the room went completely black. A young child squealed with delight and in five seconds the lights flickered on in unison, and the magician was hanging from the chandelier above the stage. He was lowered slowly and gracefully in a harness, which followed with the traditional bowing and waving in great pride. The crowd cheered, rose to their feet in amazement and respect, and continued to applaud with great enthusiasm.
Fin left the theatre, her small hand in her grandfathers great big mit of a palm. He walked her to the corner of the street, fleeing the hustle and bustle of the end-of-show theatre doors. Fin’s mother awaited their arrival in their small car near the corner. Her name was Elouisa. Sweet, darling Elouisa, with a temper hot like the sun and the blues like the rain on a cloudy day. She leaned against the side of the vehicle, casually smoking a cigarette. Her lips finely painted red, her hair dark and messy, swooping over her eyes. Even to Fin, her mother was a great mystery. Without words, Fin’s grandfather stood before Elouisa.
Even though she was only small, naïve and really didn’t know much of life at all, Fin could see, and could feel the great tension between her mother and her grandfather. A long delicately memorized story that Elouisa kept inside her soul. It was deeply pressed against the surface of her entire life, her entire being. Fin’s innocent ears had never been acquainted with such family secrets. She only knew they were there.
Elouisa cupped Fin‘s shoulders and led her to the passenger seat. She ushered her in, as Fin glanced upward and met her grandfather‘s eyes. Mere tricks.
It was very late, and raining now; a cold, lonely drizzle. The street was busy with splashing, dashing cars, tall city towers lit up with reds and greens and blues. The neon lights were reflected all over the wet streets.
The car ride home was silent. Elouisa asked many questions, but Fin was lost in her own world--a world of sequins and feathers and drums and cigars. She fell asleep before they arrived home. Elouisa turned on the radio and listened to old blues. All the while it rained and rained and rained.
31.7.10
29.7.10
There's a lot of pressure to be something nowadays, to pay the bills that I didn't even need in the first place, to drive a car that's a whole lot nicer than anything else I've ever owned. To go to university, build a stable career for myself, to own a house, to find a man to spend my life with, someone who isn't going to stab me in the back, to have a good, solid marriage that isn't going to go flying like a pingpong ball at the first tap of a paddle... to make sure my friends and family are supported by me, keeping up my end of relationships. I have to feed the cat, clean the pool, remember to eat, remember not to eat, keep myself healthy, don't smoke, don't drink, don't swear, make lots of money, and be very responsible.
But see, the truth is, sometimes I don't clean my room for weeks. Sometimes I forget to tell my mother that someone called for her that morning. Sometimes I can't even remember the birthday of a family member or a friend. Sometimes I get so lost in my imagination that I forget, completely, where I am. Sometimes I want to run away -- away from all the things that whiz by me. Away from all the things that act important but aren't. Away from all the facades, the wastefulness, the self centered defensivness and indignation. Away from a place where wealth and worldly prosperity seem to be all that matters, a place where paying unnecessary bills is far more crucial than visiting the sick in the hospital and having a coffee with a friend so she can talk and cry and I can listen and pray and love her. Sometimes I want to turn off a light, just sit in a silent room, feel the floor beneath me, feel the walls around me, and know that my God and I, we're together, and I'll find my way. Sometimes I want to turn off the furnace and build a big fire. It's so cold in this house.
But see, the truth is, sometimes I don't clean my room for weeks. Sometimes I forget to tell my mother that someone called for her that morning. Sometimes I can't even remember the birthday of a family member or a friend. Sometimes I get so lost in my imagination that I forget, completely, where I am. Sometimes I want to run away -- away from all the things that whiz by me. Away from all the things that act important but aren't. Away from all the facades, the wastefulness, the self centered defensivness and indignation. Away from a place where wealth and worldly prosperity seem to be all that matters, a place where paying unnecessary bills is far more crucial than visiting the sick in the hospital and having a coffee with a friend so she can talk and cry and I can listen and pray and love her. Sometimes I want to turn off a light, just sit in a silent room, feel the floor beneath me, feel the walls around me, and know that my God and I, we're together, and I'll find my way. Sometimes I want to turn off the furnace and build a big fire. It's so cold in this house.
27.7.10
edges, lumps, trials
Her memory was slowing down, pushing forward with a great struggle like an old train in the dead of winter. Her skin sunk deep into the concavely structure of her tired bones. She wobbled with barely balanced steps, and carried her head with a shake in her neck. She couldn't remember much anymore.
He sat in his old leather armchair. His mind drifted from one thing to the next as he finely pondered his own life, moment by moment, year by year. He cradled an old photograph of her in his left palm, clammy and cold, shaky and abraded. The evening news blared on the television in front of him, but he didn't listen. He heard it all, but didn't listen. His attention was, instead, devoted to the beautiful young lady he held in his shriveled hand.
She carried herself lightly, as if she were the wind. She waltzed and swayed through life with twists and swoops and swift movements. Her eyes were the essence of grace, every inch of her skin was incandescently wrapped around her smooth and dainty bones. He could smell her. She was familiar to him then, that girl in the photograph. She was his darling, his light, his crown.
He wondered what she smelled like now. He wondered what pains life had taken her through, what pieces of her heart were missing. His eyes traveled over the photo--over her hair, her eyes, her nose, her shoulders, her chest, her waist, her knees, her feet. He wondered where in the world she was, what great many things she may have accomplished. He could see her dancing, and feel her.
As she stared out the window into the cold night, her head nearly falling from side to side, she watched the sky. The stars were out tonight. They reminded her of someone -- someone she might have loved once -- but she couldn't remember who. She held on to the stars. Clutching her cane with the weight of her small self, she stood and tried. She tried to remember who. She tried to remember a face, a name, a postcard, a hat. There was nothing familiar -- only the stars and a deep, quivering sensation that there was a part of herself that she was missing. But his face never came. Nor did his name, or the postcards he sent her for months, or the hat he wore to the train station. She held on to the stars, until she said goodnight and slowly walked the hallway to her quaint and quiet bedroom.
His face was loose and wrinkled, but his mind was sharp and wandered across the edges and lumps and trials of life and time. He missed her. He really did. But see, he thought, isn't it strange how love doesn't age? And yet I'm about ready to kiss the world goodbye, and to rest in my grave as an old, weathered man?
He pressed his tired lips onto her beautiful photograph. He whispered that he'd find her somewhere, and that he'd never stop loving her. Not ever.
But there she rested, silent and sleeping, forgetting it all.
And there he sat.
They had lost each other nearly 60 years ago and still...
They were apart now.
He sat in his old leather armchair. His mind drifted from one thing to the next as he finely pondered his own life, moment by moment, year by year. He cradled an old photograph of her in his left palm, clammy and cold, shaky and abraded. The evening news blared on the television in front of him, but he didn't listen. He heard it all, but didn't listen. His attention was, instead, devoted to the beautiful young lady he held in his shriveled hand.
She carried herself lightly, as if she were the wind. She waltzed and swayed through life with twists and swoops and swift movements. Her eyes were the essence of grace, every inch of her skin was incandescently wrapped around her smooth and dainty bones. He could smell her. She was familiar to him then, that girl in the photograph. She was his darling, his light, his crown.
He wondered what she smelled like now. He wondered what pains life had taken her through, what pieces of her heart were missing. His eyes traveled over the photo--over her hair, her eyes, her nose, her shoulders, her chest, her waist, her knees, her feet. He wondered where in the world she was, what great many things she may have accomplished. He could see her dancing, and feel her.
As she stared out the window into the cold night, her head nearly falling from side to side, she watched the sky. The stars were out tonight. They reminded her of someone -- someone she might have loved once -- but she couldn't remember who. She held on to the stars. Clutching her cane with the weight of her small self, she stood and tried. She tried to remember who. She tried to remember a face, a name, a postcard, a hat. There was nothing familiar -- only the stars and a deep, quivering sensation that there was a part of herself that she was missing. But his face never came. Nor did his name, or the postcards he sent her for months, or the hat he wore to the train station. She held on to the stars, until she said goodnight and slowly walked the hallway to her quaint and quiet bedroom.
His face was loose and wrinkled, but his mind was sharp and wandered across the edges and lumps and trials of life and time. He missed her. He really did. But see, he thought, isn't it strange how love doesn't age? And yet I'm about ready to kiss the world goodbye, and to rest in my grave as an old, weathered man?
He pressed his tired lips onto her beautiful photograph. He whispered that he'd find her somewhere, and that he'd never stop loving her. Not ever.
But there she rested, silent and sleeping, forgetting it all.
And there he sat.
They had lost each other nearly 60 years ago and still...
They were apart now.
20.7.10
Monday, now it's Tuesday
Here are two songs for summer,
And not just for summer, but for love that comes with it.
Fruit Bats - When U Love Somebody by maria nguyen
The Tallest Man on Earth - The Gardner by indiana129
And not just for summer, but for love that comes with it.
Fruit Bats - When U Love Somebody by maria nguyen
The Tallest Man on Earth - The Gardner by indiana129
14.7.10
the fourteenth of july
In the evening, while the sun was still sitting low and golden in the sky, I packed some things: a quilt, a book of thoughts both deep and nonsensical, a drink, my camera, and my journal. I often used to go to the graveyard a few blocks from my parents house, where there, waiting for me, was a tall lady willow tree, strong and beautiful, sad and hunkered over with limbs of grace and humility. I used to go there to sit, to read, to write, to sing, to pray, to think and to wonder.
I walked toward the graveyard, where only the silent lay still; My anticipation to meet my willow again was great. But the townspeople cut her down. They plucked her from the soil that made the earth her home.
I nearly cried for my tree. I carried on walking, but only in deep sadness.
Instead of the graveyard, I chose to place myself in the soccer field -- the bleak and open soccer field, where men with silver crowns groaned and grunted as they played their tennis sport, and where unruly pre-pubescent boys kicked a soccer ball in all the wrong directions.
It's a funny thing, though, that as I crossed the river bridge and landed on this soccer field, I was greeted not by a willow, but by an elderly maple whose arms swept down low, as if they were inlove with the grass and simply wanted to be close to it.
I instantaneously chose this tree and spread my quilt under its swooping canopy.
Though it was no lady willow tree, it was there and it was beautiful and old.
And perhaps that soccer field was exactly where I needed to be.
I walked toward the graveyard, where only the silent lay still; My anticipation to meet my willow again was great. But the townspeople cut her down. They plucked her from the soil that made the earth her home.
I nearly cried for my tree. I carried on walking, but only in deep sadness.
Instead of the graveyard, I chose to place myself in the soccer field -- the bleak and open soccer field, where men with silver crowns groaned and grunted as they played their tennis sport, and where unruly pre-pubescent boys kicked a soccer ball in all the wrong directions.
It's a funny thing, though, that as I crossed the river bridge and landed on this soccer field, I was greeted not by a willow, but by an elderly maple whose arms swept down low, as if they were inlove with the grass and simply wanted to be close to it.
I instantaneously chose this tree and spread my quilt under its swooping canopy.
Though it was no lady willow tree, it was there and it was beautiful and old.
And perhaps that soccer field was exactly where I needed to be.
13.7.10
It's been a while
I read the words He'd left on the page. As I did, all of the stale, stagnant emptiness I had been feeling vanished for a moment so rich, so pure and so real.
I read the words He'd left on the page, and all the hardness, the bitterness that life had buried in my face, the weight of a burden I had carried that pulled at my skin, leaving tightness and strain -- it melted. It dripped down my cheeks and my chin and my chest.
I simply smiled. This smile cracked the hardness, the tightness that had been suffocating it. I know I had just accomplished something so real. It was spiritual, it was wholesome, from a fresh, virgin place in my spirit. I smiled with heart and somehow felt that my body, my mind, my soul and everything that was touching me was new. I felt beautiful.
And even more than this, I felt as if I were a great explorer, dawning a new and never before seen phenomena. A sensation so good, so jovial, it nearly peeled away every single inhibition I have, that over time had crept into my being, gripping me and holding me.
I smiled, and it changed me.
In that moment, I was reborn, I was repeated.
I was carried and counselled by joy.
I was me.
I read the words He'd left on the page, and all the hardness, the bitterness that life had buried in my face, the weight of a burden I had carried that pulled at my skin, leaving tightness and strain -- it melted. It dripped down my cheeks and my chin and my chest.
I simply smiled. This smile cracked the hardness, the tightness that had been suffocating it. I know I had just accomplished something so real. It was spiritual, it was wholesome, from a fresh, virgin place in my spirit. I smiled with heart and somehow felt that my body, my mind, my soul and everything that was touching me was new. I felt beautiful.
I smiled, and it changed me.
In that moment, I was reborn, I was repeated.
I was carried and counselled by joy.
I was me.
10.7.10
We Are Willows
Ricky and I are starting to write music and record together. We've just begun... So it's pretttyyy roughh! Please please please take note of that. But we've titled ourselves ' we are willows ' and we started by doing a few covers... this one is a Ryan Adams cover.
We Are Willows >> Winding Wheel cover.
Click here to hear it.
XX Jan
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