Blue indian ink
When night falls it swallows you in blue indian ink, a swirling, silent tornado blinking out yellow window squares like sulphur flushed by moon. The fake saxophone plays and breathes shadows on brick walls, dropping notes like dripping fears.
Everyone asks, "What news?" What news ... what makes news? I've been reading a couple of Chekhov plays - I grabbed the three cheap slim volumes I could find, firstly "Uncle Vanya", now "The Cherry Orchard", as a result of a book called "Corfu", by Australian author Robert Dessiax. The more one reads, the more there is to read, if only to gain a more complete picture so that the world might make a bit more sense.
Magic is captured in failed whistling techniques, insane tongue twisters, walking the long way home or in noticing the colours of a bracelet on a beautiful girl. Magic breathes under streetlights with the discovery of secret hidden places and stolen joy.
On the grassy slope near the main road, I sat down with Chekhov in the sun whilst three boys rumbled down the hill at breakneck speed on their bicycles. Days torn between inside and out, feeling depths and shallows, living on borrowed time.
Posted by sniffles at September 24, 2002 11:38 PM