I couldn't resist posting it in the end.
December 13, 2008
December 12, 2008
I set out to write a piece, about canning jars and preserving hearts, surrounding them with vinegar, according to a dear friend's instructions. Apple cider vinegar specifically, because it burns, burns.
Wanted to freeze it, numb it, get rid of it. Any jar would do, but I would like it to be relatively pretty. Keep it preserved in a pretty canning jar, heavy solid clear glass and tarnished metal lid, store it up high somewhere until it gathers dust, and be discovered, one day, by someone else, who would wonder, why, and yearned to know how.
Perhaps tie a ribbon round it, with a rolled up piece of paper, with the same instructions.
Cider vinegar, the perfect ending. That I should have tasted the sweetness of warm apple cider on a cold Germany night, after a cold walk from the bus to the picturesque cottage, real wooden logs and strong warm fires lighting up the windows, licking at the sizzling fats - bacon, sausages, various meat chops, a delicious heaping of mashes potatoes and diced potatoes.
Coming in through the door and being greeted with friendly, "hellos!" and warm cups of a beautiful golden liquid that was sweet, sweet, sweet, and cups of warm wine afterwards, even, beautiful burgundy purple and warm to the touch.
Going up to see a tapestry of stars, a surreality of inky blackness that just stretches out far and beyond, no street lights projecting artificial illumination, just pure glorious inky darkness, and stars and more stars littering the entire place, like someone had taken a pail full of white glitter and fling it happily to the sky.
The warmth of sharing, of new friends, and old friends in the mind, of a shy good-looking boy who was not eloquent in English but charming as could be, even with a lack of words to say. Of walking in the dark, out to the lonely roads, eyes cast upwards all the time, taking in the glitter, the sparkle, the blanket of stars. So, so many beautiful little pinpricks of light.
A beginning that becomes the end. Sweet to sour.
But at the very last second, a pause. I don't want to hurt myself anymore.
Wanted to freeze it, numb it, get rid of it. Any jar would do, but I would like it to be relatively pretty. Keep it preserved in a pretty canning jar, heavy solid clear glass and tarnished metal lid, store it up high somewhere until it gathers dust, and be discovered, one day, by someone else, who would wonder, why, and yearned to know how.
Perhaps tie a ribbon round it, with a rolled up piece of paper, with the same instructions.
Cider vinegar, the perfect ending. That I should have tasted the sweetness of warm apple cider on a cold Germany night, after a cold walk from the bus to the picturesque cottage, real wooden logs and strong warm fires lighting up the windows, licking at the sizzling fats - bacon, sausages, various meat chops, a delicious heaping of mashes potatoes and diced potatoes.
Coming in through the door and being greeted with friendly, "hellos!" and warm cups of a beautiful golden liquid that was sweet, sweet, sweet, and cups of warm wine afterwards, even, beautiful burgundy purple and warm to the touch.
Going up to see a tapestry of stars, a surreality of inky blackness that just stretches out far and beyond, no street lights projecting artificial illumination, just pure glorious inky darkness, and stars and more stars littering the entire place, like someone had taken a pail full of white glitter and fling it happily to the sky.
The warmth of sharing, of new friends, and old friends in the mind, of a shy good-looking boy who was not eloquent in English but charming as could be, even with a lack of words to say. Of walking in the dark, out to the lonely roads, eyes cast upwards all the time, taking in the glitter, the sparkle, the blanket of stars. So, so many beautiful little pinpricks of light.
A beginning that becomes the end. Sweet to sour.
But at the very last second, a pause. I don't want to hurt myself anymore.
She scatters her rose petals casually over the table.
There is, imperfection. So, she painstakingly shifts the position of some petals. Takes some up and let them fall again. Turn some over. Spread some out with her hands. She wants the backdrop to be perfect.
She places a glass on the table. A baby bloom rose like a newborn babe gently rests in its self-contained glass, a broad variegated green leaf wrapped round it, brought up, curled up, seemingly specially created just to create a safe little arbour for its fair young charge. Soft whispery moss surrounds the rose, gentle strands of green hair forming so soft a bed.
Nestled deeper into the various petals and moss strewn around lies a rosary - the carved figure of Christ crucified on a cross, arms stretched out, head bowed down, acted as a pendant. A small pendant. It is on a string of small wooden beads, with string coiled round occasionally. Two and a half rounds around my thin wrist, less if it was on a bigger wrist.
Usually unremarkable unless they're made from some notable material perhaps. But here she was, an Anglican, with a glass cup that contains a rosary, placed prettily among other stuff.
A rosary given by a little boy with charmingly beautiful eyes and blonde golden hair, among the seats of one of the tallest cathedrals, a beautiful Gothic church with soaring ceilings, a boy who may or may not have been a a little pickpocket more than anything else really, a boy who, who..
Who she would want to see in heaven.
In the after-life.
There is, imperfection. So, she painstakingly shifts the position of some petals. Takes some up and let them fall again. Turn some over. Spread some out with her hands. She wants the backdrop to be perfect.
She places a glass on the table. A baby bloom rose like a newborn babe gently rests in its self-contained glass, a broad variegated green leaf wrapped round it, brought up, curled up, seemingly specially created just to create a safe little arbour for its fair young charge. Soft whispery moss surrounds the rose, gentle strands of green hair forming so soft a bed.
Nestled deeper into the various petals and moss strewn around lies a rosary - the carved figure of Christ crucified on a cross, arms stretched out, head bowed down, acted as a pendant. A small pendant. It is on a string of small wooden beads, with string coiled round occasionally. Two and a half rounds around my thin wrist, less if it was on a bigger wrist.
Usually unremarkable unless they're made from some notable material perhaps. But here she was, an Anglican, with a glass cup that contains a rosary, placed prettily among other stuff.
A rosary given by a little boy with charmingly beautiful eyes and blonde golden hair, among the seats of one of the tallest cathedrals, a beautiful Gothic church with soaring ceilings, a boy who may or may not have been a a little pickpocket more than anything else really, a boy who, who..
Who she would want to see in heaven.
In the after-life.
December 9, 2008
Everyday my heart draws closer and closer to yours, in ways I could never imagine, at all.
Despite all wounds, or hurt, or pain. Despite all troubles, or ailments, or just the times when I feel frustrated and angry. Despite my moodswings, despite the moments of depression now and then, despite the times I get so weary...
In times when I see a crowd of people, a messy throng of humans all scattering about to their various destinations, the flashing neon lights of various advertisements, the towering buildings of such, such, immense! height, dearest. In times like these, when I feel so small and alone, a little speck that would be lost, unnoticed, snatched away and made to vanish. In times when I wish I had something, anything, a little fan, or hat, or clothes the brilliant iridescent electric blue of the Ulysses butterfly, if only because it could be spotted far away. In times like these, sudden lonely cold moments, it is you I think of.
So long as you're with me, dearest, it seems like I'll never get lost.
Everyday my heart draws closer and closer to yours, in ways I could never imagine, at all.
Despite all wounds, or hurt, or pain. Despite all troubles, or ailments, or just the times when I feel frustrated and angry. Despite my moodswings, despite the moments of depression now and then, despite the times I get so weary...
In times when I see a crowd of people, a messy throng of humans all scattering about to their various destinations, the flashing neon lights of various advertisements, the towering buildings of such, such, immense! height, dearest. In times like these, when I feel so small and alone, a little speck that would be lost, unnoticed, snatched away and made to vanish. In times when I wish I had something, anything, a little fan, or hat, or clothes the brilliant iridescent electric blue of the Ulysses butterfly, if only because it could be spotted far away. In times like these, sudden lonely cold moments, it is you I think of.
So long as you're with me, dearest, it seems like I'll never get lost.
Everyday my heart draws closer and closer to yours, in ways I could never imagine, at all.
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