Life Is But A String

It’s so easy to cut yourself.  The skin, so tender, splits beneath the blade like water under the keel of a boat.  Your body, at first, is too shocked to know how to react, then blood fills the new gap like a field of poppies at spring.  Then the pain comes.  It starts as a dull throb then scales up until it’s reached a couple of octaves higher.  You grit your teeth for a moment.  Then you tell yourself, hey, this isn’t so bad.  I could get used to it.

You concentrate on the scarlet drops sliding down your sun-kissed skin in rivulets until the whole world around you dissipates in a blurry cacophony of colors.  Even the noise that’s kept you up for months’ on end like the tonal variant of Chinese torture seems to fade in the sound of your slowing heart’s beats in your ears. 

Your head feels heavy.  You lie down, or recline against something.  You’re not quite sure anymore.  It doesn’t really matter.  You smile to yourself, the first time in…  well, for the last time, surely.  You think of all your childhood memories, little nuggets of happiness that melt away like chocolate on the tongue.  It’s funny, really, how the world works.  Would you ever have imagined yourself this way?

The world feels heavier and heavier.  You’re not sure whether you’re breathing again.  Your sight is gone.  Or have you closed your eyes?  All you know is that soon enough, this terrible, oppressing weight will be lifted, and you’ll be free again.

The last thought that comes to you as you enjoy the final taste of your memories is…

I’m sorry.

The Eye Of A Spy

Whenever I read a book/story, I like to see how the author goes about his or her descriptions. Reason is, that's usually the "slow" part of the reading for me, and one I often find myself skipping...  unless something about it catches my eye.

I am now in the midst of this lovely novel, The Scarlet Pimpernel, written by the Emmuska Baroness Orczy (what a terrific name!).  A precursor to the masked hero stories, it is filled with action, intrigue, life-threatening situations (which abound in a revolutionary France overshadowed by the guillotine), and marital bliss (or lack thereof).  A definite recommend for those who enjoy both thrillers and old classics (a la Jane Austen).

And now a small excerpt that describes how a talented spy pays attention to the smallest details...

"Half-empty glasses littered the table, unfolded napkins lay about, the chairs--turned towards one another in groups of twos and threes--seemed like the seats of ghosts, in close conversation with one another.  There were sets of two chairs very close to one another--in the far corners of the room, which spoke of recent whispered flirtations, over cold game-pie and champagne; there were sets of three and four chairs, that recalled pleasant, animated discussions over the latest scandal; there were chairs straight up in a row that still looked starchy, critical, acid, like antiquated dowagers; there were a few isolated, single chairs, close to the table, that spoke of gourmands intent on the most recherché dishes, and others overturned on the floor,that spoke volumes on the subject of my Lord Grenville's cellars."

Back In The Olden Dayes...

In the olde dayes of Kyng Arthour,

Of which the Britons speken greet honour,

Al was this land fulfild of fairye.

The elf-queene with her joly compaignye

Daunced ful ofte in many a grene mede.

This was the olde opinion as I rede...

Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales

Have you ever wondered whether olden tales were actually based on truth?  That the fey walked the earth like we now do, except for their hidden (and sometimes not-so-hidden) talents… that dragons really did fly overhead and that, but for the courage and devotion of valiant knights giving up their lives for our rescue, humans may no longer be around?

But where are they now, the fey and the dragons, the small folk and other spirits of yore?  What happened to them?  Have they ever even existed?  And if they have, did they truly disappear, or are they now lurking in some dark corners of the earth, biding their time for the right moment to strike back at us?

PS: all the great art has been painted by Howard David Johnson