Of Chiselled Cheekbones and Soliloquys
Date: October 7 2000
Time: 0600 to 0900
Location: St. Margarets, Middlesex
Characters: Myron Wagtail
Rating: PG
It was lightness-- from non-eating, he guessed, but it didn't matter. He felt like floating above the Earth's surface, like a gentle weary wind, withering away at the lack of...
What it started off from was: a bluish sunlight peeking through the cobalt drapes. An oaken clock in the corridor beat six, a silver echo of it reverberating around the empty house, washing on and off the walls. There was a woman sitting opposite him in a velvet chair, sucking savagely at a jade cigarette holder. She looked straight at him, unblinking, her soft lips - the only moving part of the statue. Dressed like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's-- Myron felt his eyes dilate as he realized-- she was the Diva! He blinked a few times, lips parting in surprise. "How unexpected, how surprising," he muttered, trying to gather the sheets around him to cover up the nudity. It was merely six in the morning, so of course he wasn't prepared, - whoever visited people so early?
"You don't sleep too well," Audrey said, cocking her head to the side. She had gorgeous cheekbones, Myron noted, as he searched for his dressing gown.
"What? Ah, yes, well," he stuttered out frantically-- oh, there was the gown! "Why do you say so?" he then asked, finally settling himself on the edge of his bed, before jumping and moving over to open the balcony door. "Sorry."
"Your linens are all crumpled," she replied, wrinkling her perfect nose.
"Well, I haven't been sleeping too well," he said, shrugging apologetically. Unnoticeably to himself, Myron tried smoothing out the sheets - long pianist fingers traveling across the vast expanses. It was a matter of honour (and holding to what tidbits of sanity he had left) now - to be up to the greatness that was Audrey Hepburn, who was magnificent even at such an early hour. For a second, Myron wondered if it would be allright to ask her how she managed that. But instead he asked:
"Would you like some tea?"
He was afraid she'd disappear with the first yawn of Kir a few corridors away from them, which she, of course, did with the first yawn of Kir a few corridors away from them. Blast! Myron thought, collapsing on his bed for a few moments, before noticing the subtle smoke rising from the cigarette holder she'd left.
It was a soliloquy, if you were wondering.
And then it was a flashback to a scene in future, only several hours ahead, wherein he was dressed in white cotton robes, walking down the alleyway in St Margarets. The bypassers, as he heard, were discussing news from the Parliament, where one of the House of Lords folks had been convicted and publically persecuted for parsimony. Tsk-tsk, he thought, shame on you Mr Lord - parsimony? Myron did, of course, notice that those bypassers were also dressed very strangely for such an early St Margarets morning. Maybe they were ninja Wizards, but Myron did not know if they ever existed. He'd only heard faint rumours passed around in the Bohemia amidst the decadent hookah toking fests and the brightly dressed circus artists cum the forlorn unpublished poets. Those were the moments of prosaic inspirations for tanka pieces - what was it, 5-7-5 and 77 for a lower phrase? He shrugged, gliding onward like the gentle wind too tired to be anything but.
The breeze coming from the North was chilly, invigorating even. He walked on, muffling himself up in the cotton - when had October come? It was around every corner, beneath every tree, glued to the area (the cut-up technique, you see), from Norfolk. He'd never been to Norfolk, of course, but it did not matter in the Grand Scheme of Things. Oh no, Myron frowned, fingers deep in his grown hair - no talk of Grand Schemes, please! Or those strange evil symbols hanging above the Leaky Cauldrons and people dying everyday unable to feed themselves. An Indian Guru had told him once, during his travels through aboriginal Australia: "We all have different measures of joy and suffering; it's absurd to try and compare." So what was offered was to: "Yes, Myron, you heard it right, leave it to them and enjoy what you have. Buddha knows I don't envy you and neither should you."
But I never envy myself-- or did he mean ... Oh, linguistics!
Still a soliloquy, you know.
"I think, I think I know what's wrong." Myron halted, an index finger pointing upward. He frowned, looking around, which made him frown even more. The street was empty on that Saturday morning - no strangers to talk with! - and the trees were dressed far too brightly for such void. He was about to leave, head hung and disappointed, when he detected a bench with an occupant. Frowns, get lost! and hello, sunshine!
"Salute," he said, sitting down. "Beautiful morning, eh?" he added, beaming a warm smile at the old man with a cane. "Just the right one to ponder the meaning of life, I think," he continued, settling around - leg over leg and elbows on the bench back. "For example, why on earth do beautiful people exist? I had a moment of enlightenment a few... weeks ago - WEEKS, can you imagine? It was all apples in blossom and gossamers of sunsets, as she walked toward me. We danced and talked and danced again, and then there was the starry night and cellos all around, and my hand over hers, and the silk of her hair - but nothing, nothing more, you realize." Myron fell silent, a shimmer of a smile ghosting over his bluish lips. It was cold, remember?
"All, as millions of people died in their invisible wars, cold, bloodshed, sadistic smirks of Nazis, all throughout the time we spent together, enjoying music and my meringue - you imagine? How could we, how could I allow this - what happiness can we talk about when there is so much suffering out there? These- these worms, they eat at my heart from the inside and I can't help it: I tried clawing them out, but all I could do was scratch myself. And my friends - they don't understand it either." Myron shook his head, tears clouding his vision, as he finally turned to look at his chance interlocutor. There was a moment of silence reigning between them and for a second Myron thought that-- but no, no: the old man rose from the bench and hobbled away, muttering about psychos running amok and how impossible it was to get a bit of peace even in the mornings now. The sight of his ever diminishing figure stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, wounding, the vital energy leaking out, melting him.
"Oh, for crying out loud!" Myron exclaimed, before collapsing. His angular shoulders shook and he didn't know if it was from laughter.
It was a soliloquy and no one heard it.
Time: 0600 to 0900
Location: St. Margarets, Middlesex
Characters: Myron Wagtail
Rating: PG
It was lightness-- from non-eating, he guessed, but it didn't matter. He felt like floating above the Earth's surface, like a gentle weary wind, withering away at the lack of...
What it started off from was: a bluish sunlight peeking through the cobalt drapes. An oaken clock in the corridor beat six, a silver echo of it reverberating around the empty house, washing on and off the walls. There was a woman sitting opposite him in a velvet chair, sucking savagely at a jade cigarette holder. She looked straight at him, unblinking, her soft lips - the only moving part of the statue. Dressed like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's-- Myron felt his eyes dilate as he realized-- she was the Diva! He blinked a few times, lips parting in surprise. "How unexpected, how surprising," he muttered, trying to gather the sheets around him to cover up the nudity. It was merely six in the morning, so of course he wasn't prepared, - whoever visited people so early?
"You don't sleep too well," Audrey said, cocking her head to the side. She had gorgeous cheekbones, Myron noted, as he searched for his dressing gown.
"What? Ah, yes, well," he stuttered out frantically-- oh, there was the gown! "Why do you say so?" he then asked, finally settling himself on the edge of his bed, before jumping and moving over to open the balcony door. "Sorry."
"Your linens are all crumpled," she replied, wrinkling her perfect nose.
"Well, I haven't been sleeping too well," he said, shrugging apologetically. Unnoticeably to himself, Myron tried smoothing out the sheets - long pianist fingers traveling across the vast expanses. It was a matter of honour (and holding to what tidbits of sanity he had left) now - to be up to the greatness that was Audrey Hepburn, who was magnificent even at such an early hour. For a second, Myron wondered if it would be allright to ask her how she managed that. But instead he asked:
"Would you like some tea?"
He was afraid she'd disappear with the first yawn of Kir a few corridors away from them, which she, of course, did with the first yawn of Kir a few corridors away from them. Blast! Myron thought, collapsing on his bed for a few moments, before noticing the subtle smoke rising from the cigarette holder she'd left.
It was a soliloquy, if you were wondering.
And then it was a flashback to a scene in future, only several hours ahead, wherein he was dressed in white cotton robes, walking down the alleyway in St Margarets. The bypassers, as he heard, were discussing news from the Parliament, where one of the House of Lords folks had been convicted and publically persecuted for parsimony. Tsk-tsk, he thought, shame on you Mr Lord - parsimony? Myron did, of course, notice that those bypassers were also dressed very strangely for such an early St Margarets morning. Maybe they were ninja Wizards, but Myron did not know if they ever existed. He'd only heard faint rumours passed around in the Bohemia amidst the decadent hookah toking fests and the brightly dressed circus artists cum the forlorn unpublished poets. Those were the moments of prosaic inspirations for tanka pieces - what was it, 5-7-5 and 77 for a lower phrase? He shrugged, gliding onward like the gentle wind too tired to be anything but.
The breeze coming from the North was chilly, invigorating even. He walked on, muffling himself up in the cotton - when had October come? It was around every corner, beneath every tree, glued to the area (the cut-up technique, you see), from Norfolk. He'd never been to Norfolk, of course, but it did not matter in the Grand Scheme of Things. Oh no, Myron frowned, fingers deep in his grown hair - no talk of Grand Schemes, please! Or those strange evil symbols hanging above the Leaky Cauldrons and people dying everyday unable to feed themselves. An Indian Guru had told him once, during his travels through aboriginal Australia: "We all have different measures of joy and suffering; it's absurd to try and compare." So what was offered was to: "Yes, Myron, you heard it right, leave it to them and enjoy what you have. Buddha knows I don't envy you and neither should you."
But I never envy myself-- or did he mean ... Oh, linguistics!
Still a soliloquy, you know.
"I think, I think I know what's wrong." Myron halted, an index finger pointing upward. He frowned, looking around, which made him frown even more. The street was empty on that Saturday morning - no strangers to talk with! - and the trees were dressed far too brightly for such void. He was about to leave, head hung and disappointed, when he detected a bench with an occupant. Frowns, get lost! and hello, sunshine!
"Salute," he said, sitting down. "Beautiful morning, eh?" he added, beaming a warm smile at the old man with a cane. "Just the right one to ponder the meaning of life, I think," he continued, settling around - leg over leg and elbows on the bench back. "For example, why on earth do beautiful people exist? I had a moment of enlightenment a few... weeks ago - WEEKS, can you imagine? It was all apples in blossom and gossamers of sunsets, as she walked toward me. We danced and talked and danced again, and then there was the starry night and cellos all around, and my hand over hers, and the silk of her hair - but nothing, nothing more, you realize." Myron fell silent, a shimmer of a smile ghosting over his bluish lips. It was cold, remember?
"All, as millions of people died in their invisible wars, cold, bloodshed, sadistic smirks of Nazis, all throughout the time we spent together, enjoying music and my meringue - you imagine? How could we, how could I allow this - what happiness can we talk about when there is so much suffering out there? These- these worms, they eat at my heart from the inside and I can't help it: I tried clawing them out, but all I could do was scratch myself. And my friends - they don't understand it either." Myron shook his head, tears clouding his vision, as he finally turned to look at his chance interlocutor. There was a moment of silence reigning between them and for a second Myron thought that-- but no, no: the old man rose from the bench and hobbled away, muttering about psychos running amok and how impossible it was to get a bit of peace even in the mornings now. The sight of his ever diminishing figure stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, wounding, the vital energy leaking out, melting him.
"Oh, for crying out loud!" Myron exclaimed, before collapsing. His angular shoulders shook and he didn't know if it was from laughter.
It was a soliloquy and no one heard it.