Was it safe out there? After prying open the cellar door I peeked outside. I was met with a wall of faces and of bulging eyes and hands pointing and voices crying and stampeding towards me feet and legs.
I slammed the hatch shut again, locked it, barricaded it, quivered in fear. I shall stay down here for a while. Should anyone need to reach me, they may slip a note through the slat on my door.
30 November 2009
25 November 2009
Indecision
"Here," says the wizard, handing me a ladle bubbling with liquid. "Drink this."
What is it?
"Why, a magic potion!" He clears his throat. "Brewed painstakingly for many weeks, it is my finest work, a paragon of excellence and craftsmanship. May I draw your attention to its vivid colour, its subtle hints of elm and oak. No wizard alive could produce its better."
Yes. But what does it do?
"It works, my dear girl, as a sort of catalyst. Its exact outcome is difficult to predict, owing to its potency and great complexity. But there is a chance it will fulfill your dearest desires and lead to great happiness."
Just a chance?
He looks at me with impatience. "Well, yes, what do you expect? I did my best to filter out unwanted consequences, but there was only so much I could do. You must understand that in so potent an elixir it is impossible—it is against the very laws of nature!—to entirely eliminate risk."
What risk, exactly?
He sighs. "The potion may give you great happiness, but it may instead cause intense—though, I must assure you, shortlived—humiliation."
I look down at the ladle and at the eerie green liquid swirling within it. That faint whiff emanating from it—is that sweetness or is that rot?
"Well? Don't be such a coward, girl. Drink up!"
Still I hesitate. I bring it to my lips, then stop and lower my arm. If only I had more information. If only I knew for sure.
What is it?
"Why, a magic potion!" He clears his throat. "Brewed painstakingly for many weeks, it is my finest work, a paragon of excellence and craftsmanship. May I draw your attention to its vivid colour, its subtle hints of elm and oak. No wizard alive could produce its better."
Yes. But what does it do?
"It works, my dear girl, as a sort of catalyst. Its exact outcome is difficult to predict, owing to its potency and great complexity. But there is a chance it will fulfill your dearest desires and lead to great happiness."
Just a chance?
He looks at me with impatience. "Well, yes, what do you expect? I did my best to filter out unwanted consequences, but there was only so much I could do. You must understand that in so potent an elixir it is impossible—it is against the very laws of nature!—to entirely eliminate risk."
What risk, exactly?
He sighs. "The potion may give you great happiness, but it may instead cause intense—though, I must assure you, shortlived—humiliation."
I look down at the ladle and at the eerie green liquid swirling within it. That faint whiff emanating from it—is that sweetness or is that rot?
"Well? Don't be such a coward, girl. Drink up!"
Still I hesitate. I bring it to my lips, then stop and lower my arm. If only I had more information. If only I knew for sure.
22 November 2009
Familiar Things
Each day I walk into my classrooms and I sit where I sat last week. I squint at my prof from the usual angle; see the usual side of his head. The people around me (who are always the same) say some things they've said before. And then it so happens that the lecture has ended and I walk out the very same door.
(Inevitably, of course, there is given some new information. But I note it down with the pen that I always use.)
(Inevitably, of course, there is given some new information. But I note it down with the pen that I always use.)
27 September 2009
Solace from Solitude
I work in a library where nobody goes. It is quiet and the sun shines in. When I am here alone I expand outward solipsistically until my head brushes the rafters and my fingers bat against the ceiling fans. The sun touches me (reaching its rays through the skylights) and like a chubby baby I giggle and squirm. I swell warm and roly-poly into the room and flatten the freestanding shelves. The space is all mine; there is no one else but me.
I remain expansive until there comes a noise. Noise pricks my ballooned happiness and shrinks me back into the meanness of myself. I do not like noise; I much prefer silence.
I remain expansive until there comes a noise. Noise pricks my ballooned happiness and shrinks me back into the meanness of myself. I do not like noise; I much prefer silence.
19 May 2009
Digesting the Past
It takes about a decade for my life experiences to process through my gastrointestinal tract. At time of writing: my stomach leeches nutrients from my early college years; high school still squeezes through my intestines. (Thank goodness, I am shitting out my adolescence. It gave me bad gas.)
Just last June I bit off another chunk of my lifespan. I'm almost done chewing it now. It was not bad, but a bit tart, also maybe too much salt. I will wash it down this summer with red wine and white noise.
Just last June I bit off another chunk of my lifespan. I'm almost done chewing it now. It was not bad, but a bit tart, also maybe too much salt. I will wash it down this summer with red wine and white noise.
12 April 2009
Ah, Romance!
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She was sweet on him too. They went on a date, kissed, and fell immediately and passionately in love. They got married and lived happily ever after.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She was sweet on him too. He was shy and never expressed his feelings, and neither did she. They never discovered their affection for each other, and they went through their lives feeling lonely and alienated.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She fucked him only because she was lonely and he was there. Afterwards she found him hard to get rid of. She tried not to think of how she had hurt him because she preferred to forget that she too could be cruel.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She found him attractive enough and his attention flattered her. But he soon got bored of her and began to ignore her. Suddenly cut off from her source of validation, she became obsessed with getting him to notice her again. He never did.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. Her love for him waxed and waned: sometimes her heart overflowed with affection for him, but sometimes she would look at him and feel only disgust. There was something vaguely sickening about his clinginess and his childlike faith in her. But she didn't want to hurt him and so she faked her love. She felt guilty for living a lie.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. He was loving and kind to her but he rejected her sexually. Was he gay, she wondered, or was there just something wrong with her? She was frustrated and unhappy, and her self-esteem withered.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She took him for granted until he was forced to break up with her. Only when she could no longer have him did she find that she wanted him after all.
There once was a boy and he wasn't sweet on a girl. She threw herself at him so he slept with her a few times, but then he rejected her. Afterwards it was exceedingly awkward between them, and even worse, she had to see him every day. It hurt her to watch him act friendly towards everyone else but distant (though scrupulously polite) to her.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. He hit on her even though he was already engaged. She liked him but felt morally uncomfortable with their involvement. After she moved away he called her and left a message but she never called him back.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. They had a beautiful romance but it turned sour. When they broke up she cried for days. She indulged frequently in nostalgic thoughts about the way things had been between them. Though she was too stuck in the past to find someone else, he had soon fucked several new girls, all more attractive than she was. She stalked them on facebook, and although she had never met them, she was certain they were bimbos.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She was sweet on him too. Maybe this time, she thought to herself, it would work out. Then it didn't. Well, shit.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She was sweet on him too. He was shy and never expressed his feelings, and neither did she. They never discovered their affection for each other, and they went through their lives feeling lonely and alienated.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She fucked him only because she was lonely and he was there. Afterwards she found him hard to get rid of. She tried not to think of how she had hurt him because she preferred to forget that she too could be cruel.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She found him attractive enough and his attention flattered her. But he soon got bored of her and began to ignore her. Suddenly cut off from her source of validation, she became obsessed with getting him to notice her again. He never did.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. Her love for him waxed and waned: sometimes her heart overflowed with affection for him, but sometimes she would look at him and feel only disgust. There was something vaguely sickening about his clinginess and his childlike faith in her. But she didn't want to hurt him and so she faked her love. She felt guilty for living a lie.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. He was loving and kind to her but he rejected her sexually. Was he gay, she wondered, or was there just something wrong with her? She was frustrated and unhappy, and her self-esteem withered.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She took him for granted until he was forced to break up with her. Only when she could no longer have him did she find that she wanted him after all.
There once was a boy and he wasn't sweet on a girl. She threw herself at him so he slept with her a few times, but then he rejected her. Afterwards it was exceedingly awkward between them, and even worse, she had to see him every day. It hurt her to watch him act friendly towards everyone else but distant (though scrupulously polite) to her.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. He hit on her even though he was already engaged. She liked him but felt morally uncomfortable with their involvement. After she moved away he called her and left a message but she never called him back.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. They had a beautiful romance but it turned sour. When they broke up she cried for days. She indulged frequently in nostalgic thoughts about the way things had been between them. Though she was too stuck in the past to find someone else, he had soon fucked several new girls, all more attractive than she was. She stalked them on facebook, and although she had never met them, she was certain they were bimbos.
There once was a boy and he was sweet on a girl. She was sweet on him too. Maybe this time, she thought to herself, it would work out. Then it didn't. Well, shit.
12 February 2009
Allegory pie, allegory pie
Imagine my brain is a countryside and through it run many electric impulses, or messengers.
One day from outside my ear there comes a message. My ear receives a collection of sound waves—or perhaps a telegraph arrives by Morse code, top secret, to be delivered to the centre of my consciousness straightaway. The messenger, roused from soft slumber to do his duty, is ready as always: he grasps the sealed envelope in shaking hands, mounts his fine steed, and gallops away into the night.
The countryside is at war: corpses litter the roadsides and everywhere orphans bewail the loss of life. Doggedly the messenger rides past the wreckage, narrowly escaping gunfire and the eerie screech of stray arrows. His proud stallion spooks at the fires in the distance and balks at the booming of canons—until finally he must dismount and continue on foot.
He runs, he walks, he runs again. At last he reaches the palace and, being brought inside, bows before the grim, war-wearied face of his sovereign. "A message, my lord, from the land of Ear."
He collapses in exhaustion and dies on the spot, but—thank Providence!—not before he delivers to his betters this important message: That Letterman said something funny last night, and isn't that neat.
[All I can do is depetal millions of metaphorical daisies.]
One day from outside my ear there comes a message. My ear receives a collection of sound waves—or perhaps a telegraph arrives by Morse code, top secret, to be delivered to the centre of my consciousness straightaway. The messenger, roused from soft slumber to do his duty, is ready as always: he grasps the sealed envelope in shaking hands, mounts his fine steed, and gallops away into the night.
The countryside is at war: corpses litter the roadsides and everywhere orphans bewail the loss of life. Doggedly the messenger rides past the wreckage, narrowly escaping gunfire and the eerie screech of stray arrows. His proud stallion spooks at the fires in the distance and balks at the booming of canons—until finally he must dismount and continue on foot.
He runs, he walks, he runs again. At last he reaches the palace and, being brought inside, bows before the grim, war-wearied face of his sovereign. "A message, my lord, from the land of Ear."
He collapses in exhaustion and dies on the spot, but—thank Providence!—not before he delivers to his betters this important message: That Letterman said something funny last night, and isn't that neat.
[All I can do is depetal millions of metaphorical daisies.]
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