( Fic awaits, my good man! Tally-ho!Collapse )
When I was very young,
a "rough-and-tumbler," as you called me
kicking up dust, invigorated with the spark of the eyes
and the strong fists and the fearless bravado of youth,
I couldn't have known.
But then, one day, when I realized I was taller
than I once was, and the dust had settled around me,
and the lion in my heart had taught himself to behave,
When the dust had cleared, I saw you standing in its wake
windblown, tangled, and fine, just fine.
You smiled at me.
I had never realized how you eyes shone before.
It wasn't a sudden whirlwind of love,
like you used to read about in your stories.
It blanketed out like steady rain over a garden.
You knelt on the ground to tie my shoe.
I brushed your hair when you were sick.
A drip here, a drop there, and one day we looked up
And realized we were drenched in love.
Now, I understand.
So please, allow me to love you as you love me.
Shield me from my shadows
I will fight monsters while you lie in sleep.
Selfish pride has left me in its wake
Help me stand when my legs are frail
Teach me to walk again
Lie awake with me when I cannot sleep.
I stand before you, no longer a prideful man
You taught me to need again.
I will sing with you in the mornings
I will stand with you on the front lines
I will eat lunch with you in the quiet house
And I will be brave with you when the bombs explode.
Feeling the cold, moist dirt underneath the soles of his feet
Chasing about rare little patches of sunshine.
Fine gold flecks of dust to be found beneath.
Speaking with spiders and dormice,
addressing the great old council of trees
That stand so tall and regally, kind and willowed
Bestowing crowns of flowers and stems upon his head.
He burrows into the forest floor, sometimes
Under the curling roots of some kind old watchful tree
Under the leaves, into the sweet, rich soil
And he sleeps like a field mouse, in the deep
spirit of the forest, watching the stars blink and glimmer against the watery indigo sky.
In the summer nights, the whole forest sleeps
beneath shadows and scattered light.
The size of a spiderling in a glorious, overgrown world.
I had a baby doll, the sort with a torso made out of fabric but the head, arms, and legs made out of... whatever it is dolls are usually made of. She had a little white and yellow onesie that you could take on and off so you could switch out outfits. Anyway, I got her for my first birthday from my aunt and uncle, and I loved her. I named her Baby Eyelashes... still don't quite know what led me to choose that name, other than the fact that she had eyelashes (and not even actual ones, just little itty bitty ones painted on her face). But Baby Eyelashes she was, and I took her all over the place. She went through it all. Ketchup stains from the McDonald's Playplace. Being confiscated by airport security and run through the little luggage car-wash to check her for deadly weapons before Papa left for his flight while I watched with a mixture of confusion and fear. Getting accidentally thrown against walls, dropped on the floor, slept on and occasionally forgotten about. She's a good doll. Currently, she's with my other stuffed animals in my room.
So, over the past few days, me, K, and Mama all made s'mores and watched North & South, and it was lovely. The plot, the characters, the cinematography and setting and music—it was beautiful, it was all beautiful. I love this breed of film, the sort that puts you in another place and weaves you in with the characters, all their joys and sorrows.
Watch it. Just watch it.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep."
My heart dreams at Christmastime.
The sentry of nutcrackers on my mantel comes to life: tiny, laconic, but otherwise faithful Peabody; standoffish but good-hearted Meriwether; Ambrose, tall, young, new to the house and quite unsure of himself, but all good intentions and bright intellect; Old General, from the times of my mother's childhood, Andy Williams and Christmas parties, stout and sure and of good sense, as in his youth; and then Nutcracker. Closest to my heart. I received him in the December of my eighth year. Taller and younger than Old General, shorter and older than Ambrose, he is brave and kind-hearted and will give anything for the good of his friends. He is wonderful, and he is mine.
In my mind, I am an explorer of the Endless Snow, walking among hills and across rippling gray lakes in snowshoes and parkas and woolen scarves, blowing clouds of breath up into the air, waking snow-swans and sables and great cetaceans from the deep.
Maria and the Nutcracker
She stopped when she saw him, pushed the hair out of her face and grinned narrowly at him, drenched in her glory. How could a girl so stone-hard make him so weak?
We made it, her smile said, written across her pearly teeth and in the corners of her eyes. It was something so victorious, a silent girl standing in the rain. It was her rain.
Suddenly, she was running to him, and her hand was pulling his—her hands were so cold—and she led him out into the rain, smiling. Both her hands were on his, and she squeezed them.
"Thank you," she said, "thank you so much," as they stood there, their hearts beating and their clothes ruining and their souls rising.
"No, thank you," Tobias said. "It was all you, Marlena."
They looked up into the rain, the blinding gray-white sky. And at once, Marlena began to laugh, softly at first but slowly building, until it was so delighted and pure and happy that all he could do was stand and listen and not dare to breathe. He never wanted to forget the sound, laughter amidst rain. It was a beautiful thing.
So many stories in my mind, shy glances and tender hearts, birds and spiders and tiny toy soldiers falling in love with humans. "One day," he says, with the wood of his hands together, click click click, with his broken leg and his soft, soft eyes, "one day, Peabody will be a human too." And wood would turn to flesh, and a small, small soldier would turn tall and strong, and then Eleanor would never turn away again.
A sparrow falls in love with a young man in the city, a porch-sitting boy with eyes in every shade of blue, with a soft glance at her as she sings on the telephone wire. She holds his hand after gray feathers turn to blond hair, sweet black eyes turn hazel. "I'm terribly sorry," she says, turning her head side to side as birds do, and her voice is a bird's soft song, lovely. "You're the only human I know, I'm afraid, and I'm so very lost—"
"It's alright," he says, his bare feet matching hers. His voice feels hard and bristly against hers, so delicate and feathery, but he can't know, he can never know how disarmingly gentle his voice is. "Do you like tea?" he asks, as he slides back the door, and the warm deep smell of tea leaves and peaches and humans meet them at the threshold. Everything smells like him, and she breathes in so deeply, barely able to take it in.
"Yes," she says, "yes, tea would be wonderful."
"Some say they touch the sky,
Some say they see the wind,
A whisper of Spring is near,
Can you hear it say,
These are Mulberry days?
Some say they'll understand,
Some hold an open hand,
A shimmer of moonlit haze,
Can you hear it say,
These are Mulberry days?
These are Mulberry days."