Still & Constant
He made the guitar sing tremolo with his hands.
I remembered a conversation with Dulce about a boy's hands. The room had been a little fugged with weed smoke but we were fresh and cold to it. It must have been one of the few conversations that found Dulce, a moody idealist, with her words eternal as pearls. Rufus, the thinking girl's crumpet, sat blithely between them. Rufus was firstly an artisan, latterly a philosopher; he could sculpt and paint impeccably and had, in most areas, been well ahead of even his most intellectual peers. However, he was most notable for his sexy, careless low voice. With it, he astounded, entranced and startled young bohemians of both sexes. Dulce was no exception. She commented that her favourite part of Rufus was his hands. I agreed and us two girls turned them over, listing their qualities. Hands: clean and not too hairy; had short nails; dark with the sun; full of ribbons, underneath the skin, that twisted and moved. His hands bore a tiny tremor, not enough to shake a cup of tea but still noticeable.
I remark again that I've found a philosopher and an artisan. The hands were further off, and dark with gloom and not the sun this time. The boy's face was down-turned, deeply engaged in working the guitar strings. The white hands worked and she saw them as the coloured lights swung overhead.
Out from the guitar came a melody, and then an ache. A low groan rose out of the bass on the other side of the stage, and Patrick's guitar continued to ache on his hip. Its voice wavered. I can't go on; I'll go on: Samuel Beckett's song. It was like a viscereal flutter. I felt like there was something going on which couldn't be talked about, that wanted to fight and dance it out. Boy dragged his fingers along its neck, while the right hand brushed. Unchanging, the tremolo.
I was not fresh, but I had a chill up and down my arms. Was I now, like Dulce, the moody idealist? There was a constant swing inside Dulce, between tempers bittersweet and fullmouthedly-serene. I am not the same, now. I am no idealist, unless you let the body be ideal, and neither am I moody. Waiting for the single Patrick's body, I had become still and constant.
I remembered a conversation with Dulce about a boy's hands. The room had been a little fugged with weed smoke but we were fresh and cold to it. It must have been one of the few conversations that found Dulce, a moody idealist, with her words eternal as pearls. Rufus, the thinking girl's crumpet, sat blithely between them. Rufus was firstly an artisan, latterly a philosopher; he could sculpt and paint impeccably and had, in most areas, been well ahead of even his most intellectual peers. However, he was most notable for his sexy, careless low voice. With it, he astounded, entranced and startled young bohemians of both sexes. Dulce was no exception. She commented that her favourite part of Rufus was his hands. I agreed and us two girls turned them over, listing their qualities. Hands: clean and not too hairy; had short nails; dark with the sun; full of ribbons, underneath the skin, that twisted and moved. His hands bore a tiny tremor, not enough to shake a cup of tea but still noticeable.
I remark again that I've found a philosopher and an artisan. The hands were further off, and dark with gloom and not the sun this time. The boy's face was down-turned, deeply engaged in working the guitar strings. The white hands worked and she saw them as the coloured lights swung overhead.
Out from the guitar came a melody, and then an ache. A low groan rose out of the bass on the other side of the stage, and Patrick's guitar continued to ache on his hip. Its voice wavered. I can't go on; I'll go on: Samuel Beckett's song. It was like a viscereal flutter. I felt like there was something going on which couldn't be talked about, that wanted to fight and dance it out. Boy dragged his fingers along its neck, while the right hand brushed. Unchanging, the tremolo.
I was not fresh, but I had a chill up and down my arms. Was I now, like Dulce, the moody idealist? There was a constant swing inside Dulce, between tempers bittersweet and fullmouthedly-serene. I am not the same, now. I am no idealist, unless you let the body be ideal, and neither am I moody. Waiting for the single Patrick's body, I had become still and constant.