I project my dreams on you and you do the same on me. I look at you as how I want to be when I grow up; I model myself after you. You, you through me, your window into another world. I look at you as a person that I can never be and at the same time you angle me as a foil, a prime example of the person you never want to become - you learn from me how not to be. You are me when I was younger, a younger me within my reach and my control, and I urge you to accomplishments that I had never dreamed of at that stage.
I am you now. You feed of my drive and I feed off you feeding off me. We are in a beautiful, grotesque dance, our minds entwined and tapeworm suckermouths firmly, desperately hooked into a kiss that goes beyond kisses acted out onscreen, beyond kisses that end clean and cut neither lips nor insides of mouths. We are feeding, we are animals. If we must re-enact some model somewhere, we play the textbook mutualistic relationship - but between parasites.
Never ever going back to store-bought tortillas. These may be a bit thick because I used my hands to flatten out in midair because I couldn’t find the rolling pin, but hey it was fun. They tasted pretty good with crappy cheese, egg, frijoles, and a cob of steamed corn from the farmer’s market. The rest will be frozen for later delicious consumption.
Fingers tracing rivers, contour lines. “We’re lost,” you announce. “No no, it’s right,” she insisted. I follow wordlessly, content to clamber over tumbling stone walls and wool-studded wire fences. With this landscape before me, I’d rather not puzzle over a map. Still…
“I think we’re here, and we turn here.”
50 words 2#: Maps, written by S
S and myself are doing this 50 word writing challenge. While we live on different continents we want to keep creative writing in our lives, and this challenge is our way of doing so. One topic, 50 words. Let’s see how that goes.
A song is a heartbeat, an articulation, a concerted collaboration of the language of words and music, if there are words at all. It is a cry distilled and disciplined or raw, straight from the dirt. A song is a story, a poem, a dance and an angry, bruised thing.
50 words 1#: A Song. By R
We parked the car on the road shoulder, hoped that we wouldn’t get towed and scrambled up the incline into the forest. It had just rained the night before; droplets of water thickened the air and lay a carpet across the grass trail. A flycatcher sallied up above from its perch, its large eyes scouring the mid-canopy for insect as its head made quick, darting movements back and forth. The little barbs that grow from the side of its flat but pointed beak were barely visible through binoculars. The trail took us further in and past a stream and then to a stretch with an open canopy. It was in the late morning now and the sky was overcast in shades of charcoal, lead finger smears. The resonant hooop hooop hooop of a coppersmith barbet filled the silence. We walked on. There, there was the pipeline. We climbed on and the ground slowly fell away from us, lower and lower, until the water took place of soil. Then, we found ourselves balancing on the pipe, elevated above a freshwater swamp where nippy fish darted around in mixed schools and the trees grew out of the water. I looked up and a nymph, a tissue paper of a butterfly with black spots, drifted absentmindedly past above our heads. A red sign rose out of the water: Live Firing Range. It was getting darker as the clouds rolled into a thickening collection, thunder beginning to make threats. We were reluctant to leave, but leave we did. (The car was as we left it).
The hills are tiring to pedal up but on the way down it feels so good, you say, your eyes becoming slightly unfocused as the words tumble forth from your mouth like water pouring from a fresh cut in a PVC pipe. As you talk I imagine you imagining the mountains that you know to be home. You are conjuring up a memory that has been reused and re-examined and re-lived for four years now, a memory that is kept from becoming stale by things more powerful than calcium propionate and mold inhibitors.
If only the world is as it is in the chessboard of the mind, where the board is carved up neatly in squares of polarizing color. There is no cohabitation because the little carved statues do not share their allocated space; to occupy that of another is to displace them completely. But what if I told you that the lines are dotted, are fading and being erased with disuse and misuse or, the worst, curving inwards on themselves? What if I told you that the pawns of your army are plotting to overthrow the king? What if I told you that the king is cheating on the queen with the rook, what if I told you that the bishop moves in diagonals because it is obsessed and is, like you may have done, avoiding either the lighter or darker tiles because it wants to avoid an unknown catastrophe?
Weekend cure for the week that just went by. Used double portions of maangchi’s recipe but did away with all pretense of presentation.
Recipe here: http://www.maangchi.com/recipe/bread-rolls