those were days of roses/ poetry and prose
So, we had this thing in CW where we had to pick assignments about images, and I, determined to preserve the wonder of last weekend in writing, decided to take one involving describing shoes so that they became a metaphor for death and somehow mix in spazzy weekend-ness. So I wrote this prose thing that was intended to depict death in a positive light as the freeing of the soul, but it just came out kinda weird. So, here it is:
Something in the way the light cast down my shape, mixed with not knowing I was there, made them ask how he'd changed so quick into a schoolgirl until it didn't make sense to keep the joke from switching to how one had seen the exact field, there, in a country of nothing but fields and crumbling walls. Anyway, I stood for a bit and then tried to sit so my skirt would be decent and not stick on the soles of my shoes.
I saw his shoes though, black carriages of his soles that then were on bathroom tile, they said. on account of a Dixie cup bladder. There was something young and strange about them, the way the black of them, whether real leather or not, was caged in bands the color of cicada shells to match their hollow shape.
And they weren't just tossed aside. Or they might have been then. but later I watched him take them off and caught the quick way he banished them past the border we made with flashing toys. He couldn't dance on carpet in them, but I didn't know that from just the shoes. They were too clean to start. I might have known it from the stretch of his frame when he finally came back, but it was dark and warm in the basement, and I could barely see the whites of his stocking feet. When he danced it was clear, the white on blue carpet, the shoes so still. They were slick and matched the deadpan of his voice, but it was so better when they were off, forgotten to the side, and he danced so that his shirt fell against the bones of his chest and back in a thin veil.
The air grew thick and our energy fought against the walls so in the dark they seemed to bend in time to our breath. The seal broke, light sloshed in, and we resigned ourselves, strapped on cold, confining shoes, and climbed the stairs. The cold was more perfect for it.
+ manip of Saturday night drawing, put on the red light
Something in the way the light cast down my shape, mixed with not knowing I was there, made them ask how he'd changed so quick into a schoolgirl until it didn't make sense to keep the joke from switching to how one had seen the exact field, there, in a country of nothing but fields and crumbling walls. Anyway, I stood for a bit and then tried to sit so my skirt would be decent and not stick on the soles of my shoes.
I saw his shoes though, black carriages of his soles that then were on bathroom tile, they said. on account of a Dixie cup bladder. There was something young and strange about them, the way the black of them, whether real leather or not, was caged in bands the color of cicada shells to match their hollow shape.
And they weren't just tossed aside. Or they might have been then. but later I watched him take them off and caught the quick way he banished them past the border we made with flashing toys. He couldn't dance on carpet in them, but I didn't know that from just the shoes. They were too clean to start. I might have known it from the stretch of his frame when he finally came back, but it was dark and warm in the basement, and I could barely see the whites of his stocking feet. When he danced it was clear, the white on blue carpet, the shoes so still. They were slick and matched the deadpan of his voice, but it was so better when they were off, forgotten to the side, and he danced so that his shirt fell against the bones of his chest and back in a thin veil.
The air grew thick and our energy fought against the walls so in the dark they seemed to bend in time to our breath. The seal broke, light sloshed in, and we resigned ourselves, strapped on cold, confining shoes, and climbed the stairs. The cold was more perfect for it.
+ manip of Saturday night drawing, put on the red light