A plain flat tone lingers somewhere to the north, and wind pushes itself along the curved bottom of the earth. The trees shake a little, teasing the leaves, tempting them to drop. Amidst those leaves who daringly drop down and the wilting, floury skies I can’t stop thinking about the simple things, about fuzzy memories and knitted cardigans. The door to the garage had been left slightly open and now, admittedly with no mean amount of terror, had startled me as it bounced off the radiator just behind it. The wind had been picking up over some period of time, my feet were cold and birds which had momentarily alighted on the feeder were now flown, as had my interest.
Pulling the photo album out from the bottom shelf, underneath the book on German grammar and the atlas, I peruse the pictures and their scenes as though looking through a catalogue of cheap home furnishings. Those happy faces and nonchalant stares have long lost their meaning. The youthful cheeks and eyes are no longer important. Their value has been lost in their enhancement of their surroundings and their inexplicable relationship with the photographer. Why did anyone bother? That tone has now all but lost the ability to penetrate walls and fixtures but either due to the wind fluttering its dross at the windows or the mechanisms inside the clock on the wall. The distant noise is punctuated into staccato like phrases as though one were cleaning the strings on a violin, or cleaning the pipes on an organ, preparing it for some performance, as yet to be organized.
The regularity with which I lingered on each picture and moved to the next one, came perhaps as a result of the noises around me, or rather as an automatic response. It is one of those days where I feel I ought to have an itinerary made up, a battle plan readied or a score with which to play, but as is always the case it never happens. Flitting from packing books into boxes to the click of the keys under my finger, the photos ought to be a diversion. Yet the sense of timing cannot escape me and often tugs along in tow, the mixture of guilt and apathy. Why can’t I be bothered?
Amidst all of this I still can’t shake from my mind that childhood inertia, the swells of reflection, the other distant flat tone which neither emanates from the north nor has ability to be tempered by the pluck of nature or technology. It is a yearning I have not felt in some time. The yearning that the video camera still worked or that I still had some more of my precious toys and cuddly animals to look at, to touch. Yet still not to reminisce, purely to just be. To be short enough that I can’t reach the fake granite worktops in the kitchen.
wow, word banquet truly seems to have been lost amongst everything. i apologise greatly for the lack of well, anything… i think in a short or long amount of time this will again amount to something but before that i need to talk to the other contributors and see how they feel about it.
thank you for sticking with us, it’s appreciated.
-sarah
You look quite dashing, standing there by the door. You’re practically raping me with your eyes, why don’t you just come over here and introduce yourself? We could talk a little, and dance out on the ballroom floor. And you could caress my neck and I could rest my head on your shoulder while you hummed the notes to the song we were dancing to. You might just get a big smile on your face and look me in the eyes, and offer your hand for me to take. And I would grasp it and you would whisk me away to your limousine and your chauffeur would open the car door for me. We would just kiss and listen to the radio, because of course you love classical jazz music (and it sets the mood perfectly.) By the time we reach your place I’m probably all hot and bothered and you offer your hand again and lead me up to your apartment, happily located on the second floor, so we’d take the elevator and accidentally press the emergency stop button and get stuck between floors. You’d kiss me deeply and I’d get a burning passion in my heart and you’d be quite aware of it. We’d take turns undressing each other and kissing the newly naked places on our bodies. There’s an electric feeling radiating throughout my entire body, and I’d know you felt it too, perhaps because of that look in your eyes that just screams for me, that wants me to do to you what you want to do to me. You’d open your mouth a bit and whisper in my ear “I want to be in—” “Hi, could I ask for a dance?” I’m snapped out of my daydream. “Sure, I’d love that.”
(Andrea)
We sit and stare at living rooms that we can’t afford
We’ll make plans that won’t happen just because we’re bored
I’ve changed, and so has everybody else
I’m no longer sitting alone on the shelf
I’ve evolved, and become somebody new
Compared to what I was a year ago or two
I’m still the same on the outside of course
For instance, I’ll never ever purchase a Porsche
I still have one kidney, and I still laugh funny
And I still haven’t found any one that would love me
Most of all, I’m happy for once
I’ve made new friends and got rid of the cunts
Admittedly, I get high quite a bit
Thats because theres nothing to do, this area is shit
I’m still single, nothings changed there
And I’ve still got my afro, same old hair
I’ve got the same flabby torso and skinny limbs
I still overthink a lot of things
One things changed, I now read Harry Potter
And England is getting a little bit hotter
I found an undying love for Bloc Party
I also really like Hendrix and Jamie T
I haven’t changed when it comes to music
Changing subject, I’ve also discovered Stanley Kubrick
A Clockwork Orange is one of my favourites movies
I’ve also acquired a taste for Innocent Smoothies
I’m rather happy with myself, and how I’ve turned out
Best of all, I can control my emotions, and I very rarely shout
Unless I’m playing a video game, but thats understandable
I’m so high up on my pedestal, I never want to fall.yeah, untouched, but I don’t mind this one so I might retouch it in the near future and make something out of it. I highly doubt this though. it’s also the first thing I’ve wrote that has something to do with me.
i dream tangerine
skylines, bright
and whole-
some dreams are better than others.
(frankih.)
i try and imagine you in your hospital bed. what are hospitals like in cambodia? i close my eyes, and picture white walls, green outside the window, and you - you skinnier than when you left, the respirator on your face, your hair maybe longer than the last time i saw you.
the last time i saw you, you were swearing because you couldn’t find dan, and you were supposed to be at the airport “half a fucking hour ago”.
my pride couldn’t let me ask you to stay again. i’d already asked twice.
i keep my eyes closed and imagine your shallow breath, the movement of your chest. imagination changes to memory: the end of fall, 2008. your garage. you and i at one in the morning, laying naked under a blanket, staring at the christmas lights strung from the rafters.
you lit my cigarette for me, then lit your own. you were so much taller than me, your arm wrapped all the way around my waist, holding me to your side. you rested the ashtray on your stomach, and we laughed about how much like an indie film it all felt like, boards of canada playing on in the background.
i loved you. i loved you, and when you heard that i did from lolita, your precious lolita, you asked me. i laughed. i thought i was going to die from the aching in my ribcage, but the aching wasn’t from laughing hard and forced.
“you’re my best friend,” i said. “of course i love you.”
my love wasn’t enough to stop you from overdosing a month later, from dying and being resurrected by paramedics and defibrillators. “you’re like jesus,” i told you. “you died and came back.”
i wonder if you’re going to come back this time. you’re in a coma far from home. you were far, and i couldn’t be there to tell you to take a smaller dose, to quit for a while or to focus on work.
you were everything to me, that night in the garage. and on nuit blanche, holding your coat sleeve and trudging down the museum stairs at 7 am as we saw our last exhibit and the night finally wrapped up.
i could not save you this time. i can’t, now. you probably won’t ever even come home. i imagine a hospital room with white walls, and green outside the windows, and you with a respirator on your face, your shallow breaths.
i imagine your funeral. i imagine your mother, your brothers. i imagine flowers, an empty coffin. i imagine what we all say to each other. “he was good, but he was lost, and he didn’t want to be found.”
i imagine thinking, not saying, suicide slowly, over years, is still suicide. you cannot stop a train wreck if it’s five hundred miles an hour or just five.
i imagine trying not to cry in a black dress, but when i open my eyes and i’m in my room again, my face is already wet.
(frankih.)
I love your work, you’re a genius,
I don’t get how you don’t find it tedius,
Doing the same thing, day in and out,
Finding inspiration by just lazing about,
Roll another spliff, light up and blow rings,
You always got happiness off the little things,
Relax your body and let your soul drift,
Travel through time and space rifts,
Beauty is found in every person,
Don’t wallow in self pity, or it will worsen,
Be happy, and enjoy what you do,
Don’t lie to yourself, keep everything true.
(Josh)
The way your eyes wander. I like it. I like the way you can give me a single glance, but in that glance there’s a world of thoughts and interest. Your eyes, they’re an entrance to your soul, but only for me. I know you better than anyone. You could ignore me for weeks, but I’d still be closer to you than anyone ever will be. I like this. I like the fact I can know so much about you, but still yearn to know so much more.
(Julia)
Long legs, big breasts,
Pretty face, floral dress,
Ginger hair, pale skin,
Video games, I’ll let you win,
Blue eyes, plump lips,
Hypnotized by those hips,
Flat stomach, perfect nose,
Your stomachs alright, I suppose,
Light voice, cute laugh,
Your favourite thing is bubble baths,
Late night films and ice cream,
I love it when I make you scream.
(Josh)
anything there, was fated to end.
bruised not once, but twice again.
just like seasons, shifting back into each other
we couldn’t stop the pattern as lovers.
the days passed quickly
weather was changing
and so were we.
summer’s dry heat,
like breath on my cheeks
fall’s crisp air,
wandering eyes despair
winter’s sterile snow,
hands wandered below
spring’s rainy days,
don’t go, but don’t stay.
and you finally confessed
that things once loved
you’d grown to detest
nothing will stop changing
someone keeps switching on and off
the darkness of night
the day
and my mind
(submission by miriam)
