Spare parts and tea and jam.
If you're on my friends list you may have noticed I comment far more than I post. I'm not after reciprocity: it's just my way. Occasionally, I post a comment made elsewhere that I want to keep in my journal, because, well, it’s a place to hoard my words.
The following is a comment I made in response to a post by Wookiepocket:-
your perfect girl
if you had to build me out of spare parts, what would you need? what would you leave out?
Bleached white bones from the desert.
Dark red play-dough that you can push your thumb deep into.
Bitter sweet liquorice that's been squeezed through the tiniest grater, giving you your curly hair.
Oyster shells turned inside out to make perfect pearlescent cheekbones.
The prized marbles from the playbox for your eyes.
The most powerful computer rewired by a clever, naughty child, so its logic follows different paths from standard.
Slabs of steak to slap on where your arse will be.
All wrapped up in milk made solid.
And lots of batteries - solar powered so they don't leave a toxic trail.
I'd leave out the chocolate - because otherwise I'd have to eat you.
If anyone wants to know what spare parts I’d use for them, just ask.
Also, I was reading Ivor Cutler (go listen to his radio sessions and rummage to find stuff of his to read) and was touched by his delicacy of his language, and the tenderness he captures.
Prune jam - for Phyllis King
He waited. She entered and sat at the table. Her finger opened the notebook. She lifted the pencil, and jumped. “What are you doing here?” His face went soft. “I want to watch you writing.” “I don’t want you to watch me.” “I’ve got to. I want to see what you look like when ideas come into your head.” “Well, you can’t. And you can just get out of here.” He stared at her face, lapping up her expression. She was irritated and exasperated. “I want to see what you look like just being alive. I get excited just imagining I can sense thoughts developing in your brain, then you lean forward and make marks with your pen in the paper.” “Go and make me a cup of tea and I’ll let you watch me as marvellous thoughts move about my brain.” It was an old trick, but he always sensed fairness. “Do you want a biscuit?” “A water biscuit with that cheese you bought and one with prune jam.” He went off happily. She had destroyed his desire but he was pleased to do something for her, something slightly irksome. He made the biscuits carefully and with love, and her smile was a reward. She was a simple, direct woman, though oblique and complicated. He kissed her with gratitude, while she let tea move about contentedly in her mouth.
Ivor Cutler - Fresh Carpet
Coincidentally, I had started writing a tiny piece about love and thoughts and writing and tea, but when I read what others write, I return to reading.