He stands outside your bedroom window all night. Cocking his head, shifting from one foot to the other. Silently hoping everything turns out alright.
Posted in The Drawn
Pines like sawteeth shrouded in dusk and my beautiful white wine sadness. In the darkness the buoy of a bus stop, a side road diverging. This is as close to home as they’ll take me after the last bus home is long gone. I am the only passenger and as the bus slows to a halt I’m compelled to bid the driver farewell. To thank her for the silence we’ve shared. But I step off saying nothing and she resumes her solitary journey. I linger a while to watch the windows fade like a shipful of lanterns.
I take off my heels and walk barefoot, sleepward bound. One foot on the asphalt, one foot on grass. A car races by like some primordial creature, aluminum clad. This is automobile country. The modern wilderness. A desert of weeds and concrete where man was not meant to walk. The trees spared, not to be seen, but merely forgotten. I could lie down to die right here by the roadside. I could cover myself with gravel beneath the unseeing smile of a billboard and surrender my flesh to the kingdom of roadkill. Passing drivers taking my sky blue gown for discarded plastic.
See the full post if for some reason you want to read a brief rant about pop culture. I kinda diss Star Wars, so that’s something.
Drawn at a rather lovely post-apocalypse LARP.
I’m starting to think maybe I should stop drawing things like anatomy and elastic objects until I manage to get at least a cursory understanding of how those things work.
I’d like a Cobb salad please, I say, and then add: but no bacon, I’m Muslim.
None of it is technically speaking untrue. I was raised a Muslim and, while I follow none of the tenets, I never bothered to revolt. And I would like a Cobb salad without bacon, because I don’t think salad and bacon go well together. I’m not quite sure why I said the Muslim part. I guess I just don’t want to make a needlessly picky impression. Who am I to question the judgement of the late great Mr. Cobb, whoever he was? I also don’t know why I felt the need to stay within the realm of the technically true. I have nothing against lies, ethically. Just like to keep my stories straight I suppose.
It’s a silly habit, to be honest. Being honest. When Amy called to say that she was having a picnic with Lou and the Dutch twins and asked if I wanted to join and I told her I couldn’t, told her that I was having lunch downtown but that I hoped they would have a great time though – in a friendly but hurried voice meant to imply I was meeting someone, a date perhaps, or an old acquaintance – when I told her that and hung up I could have just stayed at home. Would’ve saved me some time, some money. Instead of the Cobb salad (sans bacon) the waiter is bringing me now, I could’ve bought like half of a paperback novel. Or vaccines for several Ethiopian children. But I didn’t spend the money on those things. I went out to have a Cobb salad for lunch, by myself, in this downtown cafe, on, I suppose, the off chance that Amy and Lou and the Dutch twins forcefully break into my flat to verify the truth of my claims.
Discussing the ‘coolness’ or ‘badassitude’ of fictional characters is a pointless and childish pursuit as such traits have no relation to actual artistic merit. But if they did, Yara Greyjoy would by far be the best character on Game of Thrones.
I have seriously made up an entire movie in my mind which is basically just Gemma Whelan in a leather jacket shooting bad guys with a sawn-off shotgun for two hours.
Gemma, if you, like, google yourself and stumble upon this post I sincerely apologize for being creepy.