not doing Yuletide this year
Nonetheless.
He thinks his own wife is beautiful. Cristina is spectacularly beautiful: her shoulders are dusky curves over which the dawn of her smile, of her beautiful face, rises on a long neck. On first meeting her, he had been distracted by her collarbones, the freckled skin across her chest; she had turned to view him, and he had not been able to do more than greet her, so impressed was he. She was like a painting from the eighteenth century: stunningly beautiful, dark-eyed, sublime. It is easy to always love her: she is smart, and never looks back on her own merits, but always on accomplishing something new. He knows that he is too prone to resting on history: this is why he is in Barcelona, and she in Neuchatel. She lives for the new, and brings it close to herself. It is a production of infinite variety. Infinite variety: even were they to be married for decades upon decades, he would still not have the time to uncover every facet of her beauty, every crag of her wonderfully complicated mind.
They are coming on two decades now, and she is not the same woman who smiled at him in the church, the white lace of her veil resting over the dark sway of her hair. That day, he had lifted the veil, and her eyes were bright and beautiful like he had never seen anywhere off the pitch before. She laughed at him, and they had kissed. He is not the same man who was not sure how to touch her, how to touch the woman he had dreamed about, the kind of girl he had hypothesized as a teenager: her legs around his shoulders, her hands brushing chopped shallots into a pan, her voice reading out Vinyoli, her her her every day.
He knows now, what she likes in bed, how she turns to one side if she finds a conversation interesting instead of fixing a look on the speaker so that she can think her own thoughts without tension, the brush of her eyelashes when she's awake early to keep him company. The feeling of her hipbone is familiar, the way she breathes before kissing him, the slightest intake of breath like a child ducking under water, is now known to him. He knows, like she does, of the crinkle of skin at her smile, the way his knees have rounded out of muscle. They are growing old together, and their bodies change. It will never happen that he will know what she is thinking. She is like the painting of a storm: ever mutable, and if he can trap her thoughts for a moment in oils and canvas, she has changed in the next moment. It overawes him.
He loves his wife, the way a man at sea loves his boat: he cannot survive without her, and he would never desert her. She is stunning and she is his safety, both the storm and the boat.
This is part of a larger piece with the thesis that El Clasico would be best served by some 'Freaky Friday' shenanigans.
Differently and equally thrillingly, there is this article, which I basically wrote last year. Something in Pavel Bure inspires us all to wonderful speculation. And by "us" I suppose I mean "Gino Odjick and myself" because Jason Botchford was merely reporting, rather than dreaming up delights & defences & dubious fixations on memory and history. All of which are potentially (actually?) false, but like that's ever stopped me or anyone else. No one here cares about substance, let's shore up our collective wretchedness and read on:
“I can remember the books I would see him reading, things like the history of Russia,” Odjick recalled. “I could relate because I always liked to read about great chiefs.
“He was proud of his history. I was extremely proud of being First Nations and where I was from. There were things in common with us even before words were ever spoken.”
“After the first road trip, we asked for adjoining rooms [Bure roomed with Igor Larionov]. It was special. We spoke about things in private and they always stayed private. I never had a brother growing up. He was here alone. We basically became brothers over the years.
“We knew with the connection we made, it was going to last the rest of our lives.”
Canucks owner set to retire Bure’s No. 10
I mean, There's Good in Everything, which I wrote last Yuletide for slowascent, is essentially as speculative. But mostly I'm pleased that they appear to actually talk about these things, and spend time together. It makes me pleased that they are such people, pleased that I got to write about them, and shrill that I guessed on-point.
ha ha perhaps I will produce a facing-page edition of these two, and privately treasure it. My nostalgia for the NHL of the 1990s is a powerful little drive. That can be my Christmas morning writing present to myself.
Hello Livejournal, it's very exciting to see this all. It is only a month to my (and Danny Cleary's) birthday, a period during which I need to study. let's get real, I will probably waste it writing fragile things and being miserable and cranky that it is not snowing.
He thinks his own wife is beautiful. Cristina is spectacularly beautiful: her shoulders are dusky curves over which the dawn of her smile, of her beautiful face, rises on a long neck. On first meeting her, he had been distracted by her collarbones, the freckled skin across her chest; she had turned to view him, and he had not been able to do more than greet her, so impressed was he. She was like a painting from the eighteenth century: stunningly beautiful, dark-eyed, sublime. It is easy to always love her: she is smart, and never looks back on her own merits, but always on accomplishing something new. He knows that he is too prone to resting on history: this is why he is in Barcelona, and she in Neuchatel. She lives for the new, and brings it close to herself. It is a production of infinite variety. Infinite variety: even were they to be married for decades upon decades, he would still not have the time to uncover every facet of her beauty, every crag of her wonderfully complicated mind.
They are coming on two decades now, and she is not the same woman who smiled at him in the church, the white lace of her veil resting over the dark sway of her hair. That day, he had lifted the veil, and her eyes were bright and beautiful like he had never seen anywhere off the pitch before. She laughed at him, and they had kissed. He is not the same man who was not sure how to touch her, how to touch the woman he had dreamed about, the kind of girl he had hypothesized as a teenager: her legs around his shoulders, her hands brushing chopped shallots into a pan, her voice reading out Vinyoli, her her her every day.
He knows now, what she likes in bed, how she turns to one side if she finds a conversation interesting instead of fixing a look on the speaker so that she can think her own thoughts without tension, the brush of her eyelashes when she's awake early to keep him company. The feeling of her hipbone is familiar, the way she breathes before kissing him, the slightest intake of breath like a child ducking under water, is now known to him. He knows, like she does, of the crinkle of skin at her smile, the way his knees have rounded out of muscle. They are growing old together, and their bodies change. It will never happen that he will know what she is thinking. She is like the painting of a storm: ever mutable, and if he can trap her thoughts for a moment in oils and canvas, she has changed in the next moment. It overawes him.
He loves his wife, the way a man at sea loves his boat: he cannot survive without her, and he would never desert her. She is stunning and she is his safety, both the storm and the boat.
This is part of a larger piece with the thesis that El Clasico would be best served by some 'Freaky Friday' shenanigans.
Differently and equally thrillingly, there is this article, which I basically wrote last year. Something in Pavel Bure inspires us all to wonderful speculation. And by "us" I suppose I mean "Gino Odjick and myself" because Jason Botchford was merely reporting, rather than dreaming up delights & defences & dubious fixations on memory and history. All of which are potentially (actually?) false, but like that's ever stopped me or anyone else. No one here cares about substance, let's shore up our collective wretchedness and read on:
“I can remember the books I would see him reading, things like the history of Russia,” Odjick recalled. “I could relate because I always liked to read about great chiefs.
“He was proud of his history. I was extremely proud of being First Nations and where I was from. There were things in common with us even before words were ever spoken.”
“After the first road trip, we asked for adjoining rooms [Bure roomed with Igor Larionov]. It was special. We spoke about things in private and they always stayed private. I never had a brother growing up. He was here alone. We basically became brothers over the years.
“We knew with the connection we made, it was going to last the rest of our lives.”
Canucks owner set to retire Bure’s No. 10
I mean, There's Good in Everything, which I wrote last Yuletide for slowascent, is essentially as speculative. But mostly I'm pleased that they appear to actually talk about these things, and spend time together. It makes me pleased that they are such people, pleased that I got to write about them, and shrill that I guessed on-point.
ha ha perhaps I will produce a facing-page edition of these two, and privately treasure it. My nostalgia for the NHL of the 1990s is a powerful little drive. That can be my Christmas morning writing present to myself.
Hello Livejournal, it's very exciting to see this all. It is only a month to my (and Danny Cleary's) birthday, a period during which I need to study. let's get real, I will probably waste it writing fragile things and being miserable and cranky that it is not snowing.