Who has not felt envious of sightless peasant writers in goatskin boots- those ocean hyacinths gracing chesire ponds some blue neighbourhood of the sea? Who has not felt envious of their kindred windswept gardens and salty driftwood worlds- that blithe, lithe, intangible kitsch? A pagan burning of opium leaves would play like fire-proof butterflies of which abrupt bursts of heat clouds dilate their blindness and it is a walnut twilight all over again. Their pages do not feel like paper- words come out of the ink- any less would be literature's surrogate of night and should their wings be painted on a mural it would be the prettiest thing. They fail at becoming gods but what good are eyes when one refuses to see?
"Let me tell you about the human heart. When I was a child a silly sort of touchiness and false pride chided me from ever going out to look for raspberries or stooping down over katydids. A city of mourning, lacklustre equations and louvre doors later, a strangely diabetic episode finds myself wallowing knee deep in a plastic cupid. You can tell from the fleeting feather weight glances and the terse piano conversations- we were in a poem. So we waltz to the boundless music box jazz, two polystyrene dancers slave to a makeshift tune and an open lid sepulcher; caring only to see as far as the balcony of our lusts stretched us- myopic so the heart turns deaf with age. It seems a thief has stolen you from your plush toy bed," seastreet tells Eponymous.
Time is trite and I am her prodigal, prolific varlet. Days are days a little longer, nocturnes a little more sombre and preludes a tad gently forgotten. You pelt me with paper origami cranes and leave them creased and beautiful in the rain- swollen with neglect; water logged and heavy with shame. But who am I to blame?
Some passions are so disconcerting they rebuild my world; They captivate me like a dinosaur jigsaw- they chance into a cabaret hoax and like timeless epiphanies, I am made maudlin. These are not strange equestrian dreams nor intricate firefly whims but rather the mornings you awake on a foreign bed watching how her hair looks under young playful sun chords. Downstairs the room is curtained by a silent coffee movie and the quaint sizzling of lily-livered eggs- it makes the both of us smile. There are stillframes that pull slightly at your heart strings to eternally move you for the moment so when the moon is on the wane it would have been snugged in deep like a secret. Is there anything to say about providence on a pretty red letter day? So lovely it hurts like a miscarriage and somewhere along the way, you leave the ivory tower for the brilliant sky.
Come the epic summertime there is no need for kid gloves. Discretions will be shelved, reservations mortgaged, phantoms birthed and there is sentiment enough to coin a schmaltzy heart song. The wallflowers are in sequential bloom. They are cascading waterfalls and a myriad of paints; a technicolour swirl of cryptic proportions. All other pleasures are not worth its pains. Everyday is a season, truly.
Lately it occurs to me that words are mere beasts. They are pent-up passions bottled in the crevice of a seashell swimming ashore, the bridge between a flannel dress and a ballroom gown, your dazzling vertigo or crestfallen ghosts. So today I am a taciturn chinese ornament and a russian water nymph; today I scoff spectres of windswept paper hearts- foolish, sanguine affections. I am a vespertine theif of tragic cantos, an oblong box of lofty idylls, a looking-glass and a mistletoe key. Today is no inspiring lyric nor an unassuming fantasy flight. Tomorrow shall be wild and uninhibited for the mind is an artful dodger. Tomorrow words sail home.
The remote and desolate years catwalk by with an unhealthy tranquility. You would stand at the center of the world and marvel at strange glass apparatus and shapeless childrens' shoes. The theatres still work for you- they provide you with an insane hope. You play on the finest horse on the thoroughbred carousel. Scribbling is better than writing. Your fabulous heart is forever drenched in a vodka prison. You are too myopic, too sentimental, too conceited, too ravenous and you love your clandestine wedlock to dreams. You acheive the genuine canon of a true writer and become literature's mortal enemy in the most ordinary sense- life is all of a sudden not a personal struggle.
" From October on, nights are neon bliss and daybreak is a sonata's second draft- earthbound and piercing. This particular evening was laced by a pretty shower and the rain would paint the morning sky an alabaster hue. So I wake up to an empty room in a vacant house to watch breath condensed in droplets slip sliding down muffin-man windowpanes and the schoolgirl shyness of a begonia sashay. This brooding miasma would last until midday so given that one is devoted to useless things, I take it that grey skies make me blue," said the boy who could not love.
The decline of a poverty-stricken gypsy king is a slow cancer. He sits in a cut-glass salt cellar nursing wounds which recollections have made young again and the rest of his fabulous, independent life, time is in no accordance to an hourglass.
The nineties had deceived us so come the turbulent night we are already at the grimy bar sucking on chewy Havana cigars and green pistachio bits- a brilliant concoction of quiet martyrdom and a watermelon emptiness. There is a streetcar bazaar at Debauchery Avenue and everything which ever meant something to anyone is in the bonnet- a bow legged wooden prince is a discrete logarithm of a painful past. The bus driver chauffeurs a carriage full of dreams around town and at a startling red footnote dispatches one to fetch another. It chugs along guilt's expressway and under an overhead bridge spilling violets. The triptych mirrors grace a fashionable tailor house. They lacquer quaint hearts draped with sweet, sweet satin lace and you cannot tell the man in the mirror from the mirrors.Our buoyant childhood left us gaping at her curtain call- an abrupt finale of cicadas playing hummingbirds and gravity claiming spacemen. We were to be taken in by one elaborate lie.
Hope is no eternal spring. It is in children who zealously hunt for poppy wings in the grass, the wide-eyed mirth of a dirty-faced gamine; the off white picket fences and in languid russian poetry. It is a spacious balcony of dandelions and a window pane in rain. It also fades like the growing of boys.
There is a stirring in the affairs of men and it is under the street beneath the city proper. No avant garde wunderkinds nor two convoluted trumpets, a clarinet and a trombone, just false brass notes and makeshift tablature rifts glazing cold walls with a rustic quality- very much unsophisticated yet too cherubic to frown upon. He stood there as if at the music stand overlooking an orchestral shell: a slight frame of a man housing a strange perculiar heart. So we watched him for a while- how he carefully withdrew the coin from his vest pocket so as to not make a sound for making a sound would spell the plundering of some or another virgin isle. What captivated me was his profound reverence for a dead, still scene- roses that must be cut in the morning, unusually young tea roses- and the wry smile he wore on his face. I took it that he too was blind, for the blind is not deaf to the beauty in passion's muse.
The mind is an entire country in itself. The boardwalks, flower beds, private front gardens and decorative glass bells stretch out in a huge endless city. On the grounds of your everyday opus she was for the moment almost invulnerable. So I stripped her of her velveteen wardrobe, robbed her of her secret medallions and chanced upon whole fields of wild strawberries(also the marriage dance of phosporescent insects.) Afterwards afflicted by her hazy scarlatina airs I saw a bouquet of seasons in a year and many cashmere days a week; I saw the poetry in a lifetime and the empty pride in a tobacco smoke; I saw a piano scale tragedy and a London love story. The mind is an entire country in itself and she is my architect.
"It was a faint whiff but the charming china wood fragrance lingered like a patriarch and you'd know this musky perfume from the lovely places. It graces the quaintest art gallery and the humblest of bookstores. Today it unlocked more than words, but one sincere stillframe of someone seas and seas away. I thought I would have lost her in the noise of time. But i'm happy i did'nt," said seastreet.
