tension is to be loved
2006 is nearly over; to the grave with it, I say. I've had enough. I'm quite ready to wipe the slate clean. Preferably with wire-wool and disinfectant.
I've had my triumph, though, I reckon, but I can't think of this year without seeing Baby Jabez's makeshift grave in my mind, and Dad's office empty and the walls painted over, and sometimes it seems that the world is so thin and sharp and fragile, and I might cut myself on the bits of it, and yet other times it feels so vast and wonderful and also very strange, but not--quite--awful.
You've had your glory moments, Banui, you stupid git; you know you have: Virginia Beach, being swept out of all that mad aftermath into a sort of dream world (even if your CD player did die from sand inhalation) and romping with
midenianscholar; standing on that rooftop with the dim purple thin-sharp-smelling softly glowing city below you and the wind pulling the water from your skin. You've had glorious bicycle rides and those magic Saturdays cosied up with quilt and cocoa and chocolate and Neil Gaiman for the very first time, and that burning October, kicking up leaves in the road, and you are living in a hundred-year-old rectory: what could be more romantic than that? You can finally really call your musical tastes eccentric, you've sung in public twice, you've got several songs, words and music, to your name (even if you only wrote the lyrics to two of them), your writing voice is finally distinctive, you've got a fountain pen, you've got a kitten, you're wallowing in fandoms, you've got the best friends in the universe, and somewhere, even if you're having difficulty lifting the curtains, there is a God who loves you tremendously. Don't be daft. Sometimes, life is a marvellous thing. And grief and pain and struggle might be--oh, like all the rubbish you've got to put into soil in order for things to grow, or like, perhaps more aptly (even though you've stolen this one), the waves that smooth out driftwood into something beautiful and unusual; you've got to learn to ride them, is all, or learn how to float, or breathe, or something, and maybe the trick is that you haven't got to do your own breathing; maybe that's the only reason anybody ever gets to shore.
Here's to a new year, with--so far--no mistakes in it.
but tension is to be loved
when it is like a passing note
to a beautiful, beautiful chord
I've had my triumph, though, I reckon, but I can't think of this year without seeing Baby Jabez's makeshift grave in my mind, and Dad's office empty and the walls painted over, and sometimes it seems that the world is so thin and sharp and fragile, and I might cut myself on the bits of it, and yet other times it feels so vast and wonderful and also very strange, but not--quite--awful.
You've had your glory moments, Banui, you stupid git; you know you have: Virginia Beach, being swept out of all that mad aftermath into a sort of dream world (even if your CD player did die from sand inhalation) and romping with
midenianscholar; standing on that rooftop with the dim purple thin-sharp-smelling softly glowing city below you and the wind pulling the water from your skin. You've had glorious bicycle rides and those magic Saturdays cosied up with quilt and cocoa and chocolate and Neil Gaiman for the very first time, and that burning October, kicking up leaves in the road, and you are living in a hundred-year-old rectory: what could be more romantic than that? You can finally really call your musical tastes eccentric, you've sung in public twice, you've got several songs, words and music, to your name (even if you only wrote the lyrics to two of them), your writing voice is finally distinctive, you've got a fountain pen, you've got a kitten, you're wallowing in fandoms, you've got the best friends in the universe, and somewhere, even if you're having difficulty lifting the curtains, there is a God who loves you tremendously. Don't be daft. Sometimes, life is a marvellous thing. And grief and pain and struggle might be--oh, like all the rubbish you've got to put into soil in order for things to grow, or like, perhaps more aptly (even though you've stolen this one), the waves that smooth out driftwood into something beautiful and unusual; you've got to learn to ride them, is all, or learn how to float, or breathe, or something, and maybe the trick is that you haven't got to do your own breathing; maybe that's the only reason anybody ever gets to shore.
Here's to a new year, with--so far--no mistakes in it.
but tension is to be loved
when it is like a passing note
to a beautiful, beautiful chord