Writingy things.
Apr. 6th, 2006 10:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beccatoriaI still haven't gotten the hang of this whole plot thing, so I'm trying it again, from the other direction. While at work.
Dear Cassandra,
You come to the sea every day, without shoes. You never cut your feet on the barnacles, and you never hide your knees; your skirt hangs an inch too high. Sometimes I stare at the horizon so that I will not stare at your knees.
You think I am lovesick and about to embarass myself (but not you, you could never be embarassed; your expression has not changed, your hands are firm around the edges of this page). You would never hide yourself or yield to practicality. I remember your knees against the snow.
I am not in love with you (well, perhaps a little). You do not belong in your brother's world - books and an early death. You do not belong with me either. You belong on the rooves of buildings with more than your share of the rice porridge, sharing with the gulls. Or scaring them away and eating it all yourself.
I have lived in a time when the hint of a stomach and the curve of a hip meant wealth. And in a time when it meant poverty. And in a time when it meant nothing at all (until you were sketching yourself in the poor mirror of a rock pool, and then it meant everything).
I shouldn't tell your story.
I was born in a time of crusades. The blueskins held the machine. My city was beautiful, and my city was ruined, and it has not been built yet, and it has not crumbled, and I ache to speak of the spires that crept with ivy, and the way they fell in flames. My city was glass, and it was boiled away.
(I ache to speak of other things. I shouldn't tell your story, but the words for my own are expensive. They may cost me your tolerance and respect. While I pay this price, can I be blamed for letting your life slide in at the edges? These might be the last pages of our friendship. I murdered something.)
I grew up between panes of glass, ancient, thicker at the base than the top. Glass is liquid, and in the end, everything sinks. Glass, water, bodies, light. (Shall I be cliched and add hope? Shall I be callous and add remorse?)
I was born in a time of crusades, between panes of glass. Here I am again.
I need to work on my sudden parenthesis addiction...
Dear Cassandra,
You come to the sea every day, without shoes. You never cut your feet on the barnacles, and you never hide your knees; your skirt hangs an inch too high. Sometimes I stare at the horizon so that I will not stare at your knees.
You think I am lovesick and about to embarass myself (but not you, you could never be embarassed; your expression has not changed, your hands are firm around the edges of this page). You would never hide yourself or yield to practicality. I remember your knees against the snow.
I am not in love with you (well, perhaps a little). You do not belong in your brother's world - books and an early death. You do not belong with me either. You belong on the rooves of buildings with more than your share of the rice porridge, sharing with the gulls. Or scaring them away and eating it all yourself.
I have lived in a time when the hint of a stomach and the curve of a hip meant wealth. And in a time when it meant poverty. And in a time when it meant nothing at all (until you were sketching yourself in the poor mirror of a rock pool, and then it meant everything).
I shouldn't tell your story.
I was born in a time of crusades. The blueskins held the machine. My city was beautiful, and my city was ruined, and it has not been built yet, and it has not crumbled, and I ache to speak of the spires that crept with ivy, and the way they fell in flames. My city was glass, and it was boiled away.
(I ache to speak of other things. I shouldn't tell your story, but the words for my own are expensive. They may cost me your tolerance and respect. While I pay this price, can I be blamed for letting your life slide in at the edges? These might be the last pages of our friendship. I murdered something.)
I grew up between panes of glass, ancient, thicker at the base than the top. Glass is liquid, and in the end, everything sinks. Glass, water, bodies, light. (Shall I be cliched and add hope? Shall I be callous and add remorse?)
I was born in a time of crusades, between panes of glass. Here I am again.
I need to work on my sudden parenthesis addiction...
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Tease!!!
Date: 2006-04-06 11:51 pm (UTC)(Also, there's nothing wrong with a parenthesis addiction. (Except when you overdo it.))
Re: Tease!!!
Date: 2006-04-07 04:27 pm (UTC)(And if there's nothing wrong with a parenthesis addiction, I still need to deal with my first-person pitfalls of starting every paragraph with "I" or "you". (I forgive myself because I wrote it in work, and work is too dull for paying attention to details. Nyah.))
no subject
Date: 2006-04-14 10:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-15 11:09 pm (UTC)It's, err, hard to explain what it's about because while I have problems with plot, I apparently have no problems coming up with ridiculously convoluted backstories. Although I think you might have been the person
...wow, that makes it sound like I get that kind of feedback a lot. Really. I don't.
And thanks for the comment.