eighteen seconds before sunrise
"i'm afraid that hiding beneath our skin are such tiny, uncontrollable compulsions."
"bah, it's only your imagination. you are a blackguard and a fool, you know," the other said, "have a drink."
two grimy, older men with longish beards, jeans rolled up mid-calf, one with headphones, spoke amiably on the street corner as the sun restlessly, clumsily, especially died in dilapidated shapes of marigold colors, leaving behind a mellow lacuna of evening - velvety.
bubbles floated from above in a gratifying interplay with the sky, in other words, someone was blowing bubbles, as i walked toward ryles jazz club, entered, and ascended the stairs.
violet was in the kitchen, diddling carrots, preparing a meal.
"how was the match?" she asked, as i dropped my tennis bag in the corner.
"it was fine." i said. "i should probably quit smoking, though."
"yeah, probably."
"what can i do?"
"can you handle the carrots?"
"sure."
we prepared dinner, some sort of epicurean fancy, i don't remember what. she placed the dishes on the pecan-green table, and god how she resembled -
we sat down, began eating, and in the next room i could see her piano and schiele's painting of his wife in an enticing pose. i turned to violet, her profile partially tinted by the sunset, and knew i'd never be able to feel the love and pain within her walls.
what do you talk about at night?
let's do something sinful.
i knew her thoughts were straying somewhere else. we ate peacefully and talked about art.
"that schiele. it's a style for me, a feeling, a tingle in the spine." she said.
"definitely. and it makes us glance back at our past, reflects a future image we'd like to attain and inspires a beauty in the world we feel within ourselves."
"i just want to break plates, smoke cigarettes in bed, and dive into the pillows to keep the light away for a little while."
what do you talk about at night?
let's do something sinful.
we laid in bed. it felt like being with an intimate stranger from some ancient island. we smoked in bed, two tongues crossed and trailed across the room in a haze.
"you should come to vermont with me this weekend."
"i can't... i should stay with oscar."
"i understand."
"there's really nothing i can do, though. i don't know. i'm tired..."
"i'm leaving in the morning. stay with him or get away for a couple days. you'll be back before he goes in... it's up to you."
"bah, it's only your imagination. you are a blackguard and a fool, you know," the other said, "have a drink."
two grimy, older men with longish beards, jeans rolled up mid-calf, one with headphones, spoke amiably on the street corner as the sun restlessly, clumsily, especially died in dilapidated shapes of marigold colors, leaving behind a mellow lacuna of evening - velvety.
bubbles floated from above in a gratifying interplay with the sky, in other words, someone was blowing bubbles, as i walked toward ryles jazz club, entered, and ascended the stairs.
violet was in the kitchen, diddling carrots, preparing a meal.
"how was the match?" she asked, as i dropped my tennis bag in the corner.
"it was fine." i said. "i should probably quit smoking, though."
"yeah, probably."
"what can i do?"
"can you handle the carrots?"
"sure."
we prepared dinner, some sort of epicurean fancy, i don't remember what. she placed the dishes on the pecan-green table, and god how she resembled -
we sat down, began eating, and in the next room i could see her piano and schiele's painting of his wife in an enticing pose. i turned to violet, her profile partially tinted by the sunset, and knew i'd never be able to feel the love and pain within her walls.
what do you talk about at night?
let's do something sinful.
i knew her thoughts were straying somewhere else. we ate peacefully and talked about art.
"that schiele. it's a style for me, a feeling, a tingle in the spine." she said.
"definitely. and it makes us glance back at our past, reflects a future image we'd like to attain and inspires a beauty in the world we feel within ourselves."
"i just want to break plates, smoke cigarettes in bed, and dive into the pillows to keep the light away for a little while."
what do you talk about at night?
let's do something sinful.
we laid in bed. it felt like being with an intimate stranger from some ancient island. we smoked in bed, two tongues crossed and trailed across the room in a haze.
"you should come to vermont with me this weekend."
"i can't... i should stay with oscar."
"i understand."
"there's really nothing i can do, though. i don't know. i'm tired..."
"i'm leaving in the morning. stay with him or get away for a couple days. you'll be back before he goes in... it's up to you."
posted by liam at
11:03 PM
12 Comments:
There is something about the situations you carve out...like something explosive is awaiting on the periphery. I like it. It's like the characters (or the actuals...I'm not wholly sure) are all secretly brooding, or solving puzzles, or looking around mental corners...
...I don't know. It's just a feeling.Maybe I'm projecting. But either way, I enjoy your posts. Thanks again for the read.
that means a lot, chum. thanks much.
Singularly piercing; somewhere in the shadows, I see a sparring session between letting go and holding. Then again, that is what is so good about nights. I like your subtle craft, liam. Very sensitive and sensual.
Stormy.
thanks a lot for dropping by, stormy. i appreciate your words.
*happy jitters*
love your work.
I must say I'm surprised to hear that you don't diddle carrots..
Of course, it does sound very lewd, especially if you're doing it in the kitchen..
Anyway, the story seems to move incredibly slowly.. I don't know if it means 'relaxed' or you've reached a point where you have to stop and ask; 'where the hell are we??'
claire - thank you.
arvind - the persians didn't build estonia in a day, my friend.
i'm just living and scribbling as i go.
as if smoking in bed isn't sinful enough... tongues crossing and trailing about the room in a haze?
very, very jazzy. i'd snap an applause if you could hear it, dig?
why yes, i do dig. thank you.
btw, you know that part about the evenings in the northeast being cool. it was a vicious lie. enjoy the non-grimy, non-heat!
I wasn't going to rub it in, you know. But yes, it's so amazingly lovely in the Northwest right now-- clouds and all.
your new name seems very official. like a roman tax collector or a royal grain merchant...
where have u vanished to?
ygwin - oh, i'm jealous. i've never been to the great northwest.
ha. nice assessment, but the name has gone the way of hillary: out.
prixie - i've been busy using my unclean powers in unsavory places. don't ask.
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