When Apples Were Golden and Songs Were Sweet but Summer Had Passed Away by John Melhuish Strudwick, 1906.
Early Winter, June 2014
Taken on 60mm Macro, Canon 600D
Everything changed direction post the golden couch.
I don’t know what I expected. To fly away? To turn this couch into the magic bus?
Explore intestines? The inner-workings of white blood cells?
I got lost in the entrapment of which role i was playing.
Teacher, or student? Excuse me, which one am I?
Shouting it into the echo of the canyons…
Which one, which one, which one.. Am I, am I, am I?
In which case, no one learns.
Without direction, the course seems never-ending..
I miss reading plays. Heavy dialogue. Subtext.
Putting faces to ideas.
Imagination being endless and all.
The importance of a well placed vase.
The importance of pronouncing it vase.
Would it hold snapdragons or orchids?
Lillies or Chamomile?
What would this tell you about this character’s current situation?
Who brought them?
Are they freshly cut? Are they wilting?
Do they symbolize grievance or betrayel?
Celebration or Love?
The tar burns down thick between my fingers. Feels weird, once you’ve had something hold that place between the pointer and middle for so long to not hold anything there at all.
The smoke swirls up and around, the way I imagine a delicate dragon’s smoke to do after it’s unrelenting fire-breath.
The village is scared and.. without good reason.
The brittleness of my hair - it’s broken ends, neglected and sad, smelling faintly of apple cider vinegar and persian roses, soak up the ash with quiet desperation.
Tomorrow I’ll wake, disappointed in the smell I can’t seem to kick.
My dog itches with fleas. She’s on steroids to quell the instinct, making her sleepy and cuddly like a baby lamb.
The roommates are asleep and the chandelier inside flickers through the iron gate, bragging with each flash, showy with its two newly replaced bulbs.
The others look on, jealous, trying to keep up. They’re on their last limb.
Athena stands, coyly in the garden, shy, a come hither look in her eye, and a blue yarn around her neck. I’m afraid to take it off, in fear that her granite head might fall off , tumbling to the ground, smashing on the bricks below. Bricks covered in fluorescent chalks to mask their antiquity. Or at her feet, it might crash, upon the soil, above the donuts my itchy dog has buried in the dirt. That have learned to co-exist with the worms and the jerusalem crickets.
Nervous of destroying the only clear conscious she has left.
So it seems another year has passed by. Another pink moon, blessed by the red moon eclipse, followed by Easter as most people call it.
"This happens. This is something that happens."
— from “Magnolia” by Paul Thomas Anderson
I’ve never heard a sweeter betrayal.
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