An American in Paris ~ Alexander John White
We contain chords someone else must strike
– John Updike
– John Updike
Zarathustra strikes blue-black shadows across the pale square, throwing the sour-faced statues into sharp relief.
Axis uncrosses her legs, the warmth that seeps through her silver suit causing her skin to prickle uncomfortably.
The afternoon breeze brings the ripe smell from the offshore plankton farms in to mingle with the traffic ozone.
She opens her clenched fist, allowing the imp to expand and glow pale crackling white in the sunlight; suspended in her palm, it begins whispering – just above the level of the city’s voice.
Within the space of syllables tears fall from the ledges of her lower lids as the imp dredges her emotions, turning the facts over like a farmer turning soil in a fallow field, exposing worms of anger and regret to the pale blue sun and allowing the carrion birds of self-doubt to pick at her grief.
Her tears gather between her booted feet, dark pools creeping viscous outward onto the permacrete – oases in this desert of corporate desolation.
Trees spring from the edges of these new lakes whose depths remain mysteries to the startled passersby.
Fish of various colour and mood approach the surface and the light, some for the first time, and taste the cold air of the world where everything must be taken into consideration for fear of missing the point.
And so the shadows are gradually cornered and chased from the bottom of the pools as irises contract toward lucidity.
Axis jerks back.
Back into Zarathustra’s warmth and the statues of dead leaders, back to the plankton pollution and prickly heat skin beneath her suit.
The imp has gone; it has stolen off with a part of her.
She is aware of the space where, for so long melancholia has shadowed her; filled her life with meaning; and already, she misses it.
Axis uncrosses her legs, the warmth that seeps through her silver suit causing her skin to prickle uncomfortably.
The afternoon breeze brings the ripe smell from the offshore plankton farms in to mingle with the traffic ozone.
She opens her clenched fist, allowing the imp to expand and glow pale crackling white in the sunlight; suspended in her palm, it begins whispering – just above the level of the city’s voice.
Within the space of syllables tears fall from the ledges of her lower lids as the imp dredges her emotions, turning the facts over like a farmer turning soil in a fallow field, exposing worms of anger and regret to the pale blue sun and allowing the carrion birds of self-doubt to pick at her grief.
Her tears gather between her booted feet, dark pools creeping viscous outward onto the permacrete – oases in this desert of corporate desolation.
Trees spring from the edges of these new lakes whose depths remain mysteries to the startled passersby.
Fish of various colour and mood approach the surface and the light, some for the first time, and taste the cold air of the world where everything must be taken into consideration for fear of missing the point.
And so the shadows are gradually cornered and chased from the bottom of the pools as irises contract toward lucidity.
Axis jerks back.
Back into Zarathustra’s warmth and the statues of dead leaders, back to the plankton pollution and prickly heat skin beneath her suit.
The imp has gone; it has stolen off with a part of her.
She is aware of the space where, for so long melancholia has shadowed her; filled her life with meaning; and already, she misses it.
8 comments:
very nice.
Why would she miss melancholia if I may ask?
Not better to be :)?
;)
Candie: perhaps her melancholy was an important part of her life; perhaps it was the engine of her creativity; perhaps the imp was forced upon her by a society that places too much emphasis on 'happiness'
:}
Perhaps she can still go back to that at times to do some "creativity" even though she feels like that :);perhaps no one is never happy all the time and she knows that;perhaps she will be able to create something else,something even better on new grounds;perhaps she doesn't care about what society expects but only what she really wants to be.
But there are just suppositions.This is your character,the one you've created,you must know better.
What's that smile? ;D
All things considered, there is no point and happiness can be no greater than one's experience of grief. Loss of melancholia is a loss of caring, point or no point.
Word varification: "plogic" - pedantic analysis
Candie: there are infinite possibilities :]
Dood:"Loss of melancholia is a loss of caring" good point!
"I shall not go your way, O despisers of the body! You are no bridge to the overman!"
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
Hey Subtorp! It appears that I unconsciously used the correct name for my planet's sun - fits perfectly! :0
Pisces, your subconscious is very well informed; spot on!
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