Tag Archives: Week 4

2014, Week 4: Cycling

Unravveling Fire

There is a woman who I know whom I love who is close to me in ways I cannot possibly define. Oh, how I wanted to become her, to be as brave and as fearless, to be as shocking and clever and wily. Flames kindled on her red tongue. She chomped at the bit and crashed into lovers and drank long and belched hard. A million friends, every one of them in rapture. She told me secrets and I worshiped and I worshiped her. Embers rose into the air and she always jumped she always caught them she always fell.

She is cycling again, he says. Scraping knees, mystery bruises. Hospital visits, therapists, psychiatrists all lining up to douse this rogue fire, swiping at a chance maybe even to catch it to study it. Pills line the bathroom sink. It has been years. There is a woman who I know whom I’ve tried to love who is so close to me that I can no longer untangle her breath her thoughts from my own.  She is burdened and ashamed and heavy and her fire is old, old, no hearth fire, no bobbling lantern in dark night. Just a weak candle, sputter, reaching, reaching for air, waiting, thinking this is my time. Thinking this is it, this is it and then the fall.

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2014, Week 4: Cycle

ouroboros

 

Bicycle tires going ’round, the medicine wheel, seasons turning, compass spinning. The wheel of fortune, mine or yours. Menstrual cycle, moons waxing and waning, lemniscates looping endlessly, ouroboros tucking into his own tail. What goes around comes around. The ring on my finger. The orbit in your eyes. Last year, the years before, the years after.

Have at it, darlings.

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Genevieve’s Cycle Two, Week Four: Reminder

Rooster-medium-file

 

I knew a man who could touch fruit with his bare hands.
I knew a man who could hold the sea on his tongue.
His shadow stretched like the fig tree’s in afternoon sunlight,
the bristles on his jaw stung like pina. His voice curled,
curled up, shrill with the rooster, though it was past daybreak and morning
had already faded onto the knees of his blue jeans. His hunger was my own.

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Week 4: Reminder

It is late at night on the day I am supposed to post the new theme.  I had played with a few themes over the last week, and decided on this one this morning.  The word reminder is not good enough at describing exactly what made me think of this theme, but it will do.  And I suppose it will keep options open, which is always a good thing.

I feel like there must be a German word for what I am thinking of.  Something specific, with at least twenty letters in it.

The reminders I was thinking of were of the more fleeting kind.  The kinds that cause a spark or twinge.  Here are some examples…

  • When, as you are dreaming, you realize that you have the most brilliant idea possible and concentrate on soaking up every last detail, but then when you wake up you can almost hear it spilling out of your ears as you scramble to find the pen that rolled under the bed after you knocked it off the nightstand in your sleep. You are devastated.  And then, either three hours or three weeks later, someone says a word on the radio and you at least have pieces of the dream back.  And okay, maybe now that you’re thinking about it while awake, it’s not as brilliant an idea.
  • When the opening note of a song can make you travel through time to one very specific and probably uneventful day that you wouldn’t have had cause to remember otherwise.
  • When maybe you’ve had too much to drink, or were too tired to go out but you went out anyway, and weeks later you find pictures on your phone of events you thought you had dreamt.  And suddenly you remember the next thing that happened, and the next, and you either grimace or sigh.
  • When you write a note to yourself and lose it, then find it later and realize that even that is not enough to make you remember why you did that.  Why did I write “Smart Alec” in the middle of a page in my notebook?
  • When a scent brings you back to a specific time in your life, or when it reiterates that the life you are living is reality, and not just a plan you have thought of for months.
  • When you see someone write something down on a piece of paper and realize they have the same handwriting as your first boyfriend, and anyway where did that mix tape run off to?
  • When I was little I was a very eager student, who always wanted to get a word in with the teacher, whether it was a question, a related story, or an answer to a question.  Naturally my teachers wanted to give everyone a chance, so I would wait to be called, sometimes feigning patience.  How humiliating it was to finally be called upon and completely forget what I was going to say.  My mind’s eye would strain, and I could picture a window that was open, like in the school attic in The Neverending Story, with curtains blowing in the wind, suddenly shut.  Suddenly quiet.  Suddenly the thought was locked outside and I was fogging up the glass as I breathed.  In retrospect I would pray for one of these reminders that I’m talking about.

I cannot wait to see what this theme produces.  I could probably write a series of books on this.  Also, if anyone either knows the right word for this (in English or otherwise), or would like to make one up, please share!

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I Am The Girl

So while trying once again to wrangle my beast of a manuscript, I noticed that I have quite a lot of female characters in my novel. As an exercise I tried to distill each girls essence into three sentences, loosely based around the tarot model of past, present and future.

Here’s what I came up with.

Ophelia

I am the girl with a soul like a star-gazer lily, and a mouth like an open rose. I am the girl who can line your skin with magic, embedded in ink. I am the girl who is certain to drown.

Keira

I am the girl with the spark and the tinder.  I am the girl who takes her beatings like a man. I am the girl who will be forced to believe in revenge.

Arabella

I am the girl with a heart born broken.  I am the girl dressed in cornflower blue. I am the girl who will get what she deserves.

Frankie (Francesca)

I am the girl from the black and white movies. I am the girl who wants you the most. I am the girl who is gone.

Perdita

I am the girl who was raised by the wild. I am the girl taking shots from the cacti. I am the girl with the healing hands.

I’ve also just noticed that all the names I’ve chosen for my girls end in ‘a’. Coincidence? Most definitely!

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The Woman Within

The Woman Within

She is beautiful. She is strong. She has a deep sadness. She has infinate knowledge. She is the woman within.

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by | January 29, 2013 · 9:09 am

The Artist, and her Sentry

She sits on the edge of her chair as if it were a diving board at the edge of the earth. Her straight, flaxen hair piled on the seat behind her, spilling over the sides like a waterfall frozen in time. She toiled and tapped, putting pen to paper, pouring her heart and soul into the pages of her notebook. Her toes clench when she dedicates all of her concentration to translating her thoughts to the paper, sometimes so hard they pop, and she doesn’t even notice how she smiles a bit when it happens.

She stares at the pages through deep grey-blue eyes, biting lightly on metal jewelry placed on her plump lower lip. She wants to break that habbit, but doesn’t even know she’s doing it until it starts to hurt. Nothing could pull her from this moment. The house could burn around her, and she wouldn’t even feel it’s warmth. Everything  that makes up this girl is dedicated to her art. In this moment she is free.

She doesn’t moisten her dry throat, though the water sits just to her left, because she doesn’t even know she is thirsty. Her fingers are dusty, and grey from graphite deposits…she won’t realize there is war paint across her strong cheek bones until she washes up for bed. It’s beyond late in the night, and well into early morning, but she doesn’t think it’s been more than an hour since dinner.

Once a lost soul, now found bound between pages by the words and images that meander through her mind.  Art is her saviour. Art is her friend. She is an artist. She is art. Tonight she works on something special…it won’t be for sale. Tonight she draws her nightmares, and the one who saves her from them. She struggles to show such deep darkness, and contrasting light. She know’s this image well, but struggles to show put it on paper.

She seems entranced as her right hand twitching left, jotting up, rushing down, swirling in circles, and her left, constantly adjusts the notebooks position. This will likely be her best work, but she will never put it on display. Tonight she works for herself, her nightmares, and her gaurdian. Tonight she draws her demons, being fended off by her angel.

Snakes, spiders, animated cadavers, and scaly skinned creatures with sharp claws, fangs, and horns came in droves from the bottom left corner of the page, destroying everything in their path as theyspread to fill the page. She didn’t even notice the few tear drops splashing across them, she was too busy. In the bottom right corner she drew herself, sitting timmid in a chair with her knees to her chest, tucked inside her sheer nightgown, her long hair loosely braided, eyes aflame with terror.

She knew that drawing this was risky. Everyone has demons, but if they knew what her sentry looked like, she would be viewed with disgust. She was scared, but she pressed on. In the top right corner, she began to set upon the pages her paladin.

Though this was a creature of pure love, and light, it’s features were dark. Supended in the air on the wings of a raven, the creature’s image was captured in midswing of it long, broad overly-embelished sword. Long dark curly locks brushed the surface of the armored shoulders. Heavy gauntlets, and greeves protected the wrists, and shins of this olive skinned, loin-cloth clad warrior. Something was different about the Faulds and breastplate of this armor, the waist was thin, the breast full and round, like a corset or bustier.

She stopped for a moment, trembling in fear, to contemplate weather or not to burn it now. If her family knew she sought the love and protection of another woman, the might cast her away, or attempt to cure her of her impure thoughts. She pressed on. She drew a snarling mouthwith a full bottom lip, and a thin line of one on top. She drew a long nose with a wide base, and slender, low-swooping  bridge. She drew strong cheekbones resting under dark eyes with a strong epicanthic fold.

The pencil hit the table for the first time since she sat down, which she could now tell was much more than an hour by the suns early rays breaking through her window. Her toes now relaxed, she no longer chewed the metal of her body jewelry. She sat content, staring at her Mangum Opus, she realized that she had never been happier than seeing her beloved set upon that piece of paper.

She closed her notebook, and tucked it away from prying eyes. She didn’t even care to wash up before she went to bed, anxious to envision her heaven-sent heroine’s brave battles. One final thought passed her mind before her conciousness faded…”Tomorrow, I shall tell the world who I am. Tomorrow I will begin to live, thanks to you, my sacred sentinal.”

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