Cat's Eye.
Title: None, as yet
Author: gracheness aka me
Fandom: the novel Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood
Rating: G
Word count: 920
Notes: My creative response for Lit. Not my style... remotely. Like a good fiction author, I'm mimicking the style of the author.
The last time I visited Toronto, it wasn’t like this. There were diners with tasteless décor on corners and cinemas almost beyond repair littered along the city streets. The air smelt of the dust thrown up on makeshift roads and of geraniums lining the paths. The sense of community has been stripped away by this cheap, materialistic commercialism and the influx of people. There were never this many people in Toronto. Now the bitumen roads smell of car fumes and already stepped on air. The thick, unrelenting odour of the subway percolates up as if the road had pores.
Before, everyone looked the same, but not for the reason they do now. Everyone looks the same because there are too many to differentiate individuality. What are these people like? What are their passions, their ideas, regrets? A bomb could fall from nowhere. These people would cease to exist instantly; forever. Nobody knows anyone. If they do they are detached, unfeeling, false. I look at those eating lunch in cafes. Their friendships are a product of their work environment. Or, worse, convenience. I see their laboured smiles and conversation. It’s better then being alone. This is what Cordelia and I were. We were thirteen. We thought we were friends. If I were to see her now, we would dine, create forced small talk, squabble about who pays and leave.
I wander the streets alone. I enjoy being alone; there is no one to impress. No Cordelia. No one knows who I am. There is a poster of my self portrait. I avoid walking past it, but get inadvertently pushed near it. No one makes the connection. No one noticed the poster. Soon I will be defaced by someone who thinks they are indestructible. I wonder if Cordelia has seen it. It’s so easy to become part of the teeming masses. I wonder if people come here to hide; to avoid themselves. Despite the lack of recognition, I take comfort in my anonymity.
I don’t know what possesses me, but I find myself strangely drawn to a nondescript ‘new age’ restaurant. The interior of the noodle bar smells of baked soy and unprocessed seaweed. I see myself and Cordelia wrapping seaweed over our hair. We are mermaids; we are lost in the moment. That never happened. I order the most conservative thing I can see. This is teriyaki beef. I don’t know what teriyaki is. The waiter writes down my order in the characters of another language. Promptly, I’m presented with Chinese tea. It’s weak and has leaves swimming in the pot. It comes with two petit round cups. They assume I’m expecting someone. Everyone else here is attached. People are looking at me. They see through my disguise. I don’t belong. I can’t work out if I’m a young person trapped in an older person’s body or an elderly person trapped in a middle aged body.
My meal is brought to me. It comes with chopsticks and a fork. The chopsticks have red characters engraved smoothly on one side. Each stick is different but they’re a pair. I’ve never used chopsticks before. If I were to try my fingers would get confused and they would end up clattering on the floor. I take my fork and dip it into the noodles. I swirl them around. The brown soy drips off and flicks onto other noodles. I have never tasted soy sauce before- I only recognise its distinct smell. It’s salty, obviously an acquired taste. I think I might like them if I could resign myself into stepping into the present. If that is at all possible. If I’m not already too far gone.
The washroom has tar soap. Not Smeath tar soap; more a glorified version. This tar soap came in an unadorned orange packet. The Smeath soap did not come in a package but directly from the dusty shelf. When they had used most of the soap, they would collect the remnants and melt the soap together to make a conglomerate block of the year’s soap. You could see the lines where the soap had been mashed together. I don’t know how it stayed together.
I pay and leave. I don’t realise how warm it was in the restaurant until I step outside and am blasted with small wisps of cold air- like individual icicles aimed with perfect precision at my face. I remember it being muggy before I went in.
I turn the now rusting key in the lock to Jon’s studio. It’s not late, but I lie down on Jon’s mattress; it’s beginning to feel like mine. It only belongs to him when my consciousness makes me aware of it. I think of Jon and what would have been different if we didn’t have Sarah. I wouldn’t be occupying his studio; I’d be staying in a cheap motel that would smell of microwaved cheese and stale take-out. I should arrange to meet him. I want him to see the success of my exhibit; that is, presuming it is a success. Or do I? I didn’t want him part of my first exhibit, why would this be different? I know one thing. I have no desire to see Cordelia. I know I will; I know I will be drawn to her and search for her. I know I will see her but I do not want to. I would like her to see the images of Mrs. Smeath. But I don’t want to be there when she does.
Author: gracheness aka me
Fandom: the novel Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood
Rating: G
Word count: 920
Notes: My creative response for Lit. Not my style... remotely. Like a good fiction author, I'm mimicking the style of the author.
The last time I visited Toronto, it wasn’t like this. There were diners with tasteless décor on corners and cinemas almost beyond repair littered along the city streets. The air smelt of the dust thrown up on makeshift roads and of geraniums lining the paths. The sense of community has been stripped away by this cheap, materialistic commercialism and the influx of people. There were never this many people in Toronto. Now the bitumen roads smell of car fumes and already stepped on air. The thick, unrelenting odour of the subway percolates up as if the road had pores.
Before, everyone looked the same, but not for the reason they do now. Everyone looks the same because there are too many to differentiate individuality. What are these people like? What are their passions, their ideas, regrets? A bomb could fall from nowhere. These people would cease to exist instantly; forever. Nobody knows anyone. If they do they are detached, unfeeling, false. I look at those eating lunch in cafes. Their friendships are a product of their work environment. Or, worse, convenience. I see their laboured smiles and conversation. It’s better then being alone. This is what Cordelia and I were. We were thirteen. We thought we were friends. If I were to see her now, we would dine, create forced small talk, squabble about who pays and leave.
I wander the streets alone. I enjoy being alone; there is no one to impress. No Cordelia. No one knows who I am. There is a poster of my self portrait. I avoid walking past it, but get inadvertently pushed near it. No one makes the connection. No one noticed the poster. Soon I will be defaced by someone who thinks they are indestructible. I wonder if Cordelia has seen it. It’s so easy to become part of the teeming masses. I wonder if people come here to hide; to avoid themselves. Despite the lack of recognition, I take comfort in my anonymity.
I don’t know what possesses me, but I find myself strangely drawn to a nondescript ‘new age’ restaurant. The interior of the noodle bar smells of baked soy and unprocessed seaweed. I see myself and Cordelia wrapping seaweed over our hair. We are mermaids; we are lost in the moment. That never happened. I order the most conservative thing I can see. This is teriyaki beef. I don’t know what teriyaki is. The waiter writes down my order in the characters of another language. Promptly, I’m presented with Chinese tea. It’s weak and has leaves swimming in the pot. It comes with two petit round cups. They assume I’m expecting someone. Everyone else here is attached. People are looking at me. They see through my disguise. I don’t belong. I can’t work out if I’m a young person trapped in an older person’s body or an elderly person trapped in a middle aged body.
My meal is brought to me. It comes with chopsticks and a fork. The chopsticks have red characters engraved smoothly on one side. Each stick is different but they’re a pair. I’ve never used chopsticks before. If I were to try my fingers would get confused and they would end up clattering on the floor. I take my fork and dip it into the noodles. I swirl them around. The brown soy drips off and flicks onto other noodles. I have never tasted soy sauce before- I only recognise its distinct smell. It’s salty, obviously an acquired taste. I think I might like them if I could resign myself into stepping into the present. If that is at all possible. If I’m not already too far gone.
The washroom has tar soap. Not Smeath tar soap; more a glorified version. This tar soap came in an unadorned orange packet. The Smeath soap did not come in a package but directly from the dusty shelf. When they had used most of the soap, they would collect the remnants and melt the soap together to make a conglomerate block of the year’s soap. You could see the lines where the soap had been mashed together. I don’t know how it stayed together.
I pay and leave. I don’t realise how warm it was in the restaurant until I step outside and am blasted with small wisps of cold air- like individual icicles aimed with perfect precision at my face. I remember it being muggy before I went in.
I turn the now rusting key in the lock to Jon’s studio. It’s not late, but I lie down on Jon’s mattress; it’s beginning to feel like mine. It only belongs to him when my consciousness makes me aware of it. I think of Jon and what would have been different if we didn’t have Sarah. I wouldn’t be occupying his studio; I’d be staying in a cheap motel that would smell of microwaved cheese and stale take-out. I should arrange to meet him. I want him to see the success of my exhibit; that is, presuming it is a success. Or do I? I didn’t want him part of my first exhibit, why would this be different? I know one thing. I have no desire to see Cordelia. I know I will; I know I will be drawn to her and search for her. I know I will see her but I do not want to. I would like her to see the images of Mrs. Smeath. But I don’t want to be there when she does.