She was named Fall after the American season, but I faded into her. Slowly. Scented grip. Laundry detergent and damp umber. Then it was winter. Rosemary, fish curry, lentils, sprouts and whiskey. I shouldn’t have admitted I needed someone to break my fall — yet I did reveal I fall rarely so when I do, I fall hard.
Let’s meet on an Indiana Jones bridge over water; where the darkness meets the light; and I’ll pull you back into my night
Radiohead’s No Surprises was playing over the PA in the varsity bar yesterday. Until that moment I realised I had completely forgot one of the first things I loved about. A Fake Plastic Tree moment – when you revisit something so amazing yet has rested for so long you senses tune in, arrested by what feels like a new discovery.
Patrolling the oesophagus of her temporary new home, Laurie would be feeling more ashamed if she wasn’t already feeling so sorry for herself.
The Anarchist Crab mindlessly watched a fog bank roll across a distant and uncertain sun. Through the distant roar of waves and whisking winds it could hear the Bipolar Jellyfish passionately explain its common and concerning happenstance of being beached.
A Tale of Winter and Samsara on Sullivan’s Island: The Anarchist Crab scuttled back and forth in a fury of panic. This occurred daily. Yet, it never altered or dented the vexation and venom with which the Anarchist Crab put into the monotonous task of digging a new home – because it was a job, and a joke, (which many of us can sympathise) to accommodate something out of its control.
The rain stops as suddenly as it starts. The sky clears and the Grand Basin quickly turns dry and brown and crusty again. A familiar cycle sloughs in the leaves with the warm breeze, wafting into the joints and hearts of all creatures.
The Morose Blue Gorilla appeared at the beginning of the wet season. Scattered showers rode indiscriminately overhead and the long, dark green grass quickly returned. Its copper tinted stems glinted in the sunlight. It was said to be caused by Mt Thirsty – some claimed alchemy in the soil.
The Tedious Giraffe wasn’t to blame. She was taller than most giraffes and covered in big, brown, woolly oblong patches. She was well beyond the sharp pinch of loneliness that compelled other creatures of the Grand Basin into complex arrangements of company and elaborate communities based on caste and status.
In the town I grew up people combated the daily heat and ennui with unremitting talk about the weather and weekend sports results. It would be considered a feat of phenomenal endurance to outsiders if the remote, coastal palaver didn’t bore them deaf. Then, one day a monstrous blue house was built on a hill by the beach.
