Category Archives: Pretty Things

Tidbit: Circe

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Zero

Directed to the couch I swaddle myself in velvet and recline awkwardly.

I can hear my heart in my chest. Thud-thud thud-thud, it tells me. Thud-thud thud-thud.

One Hour

A spotlight shines from behind her. It illuminates her shadow on the canvas and forms a wall between us through which I can see faint outlines of paint and oil pastel. Thick phthalo blues and glowing desert oranges seep, faded, through the dusty cream of raw canvas. I want to stretch out on the couch. She scolds me if I move. I lie still. Still as the dead. The velvet smells like the elderly, and yet I lie still.

Two Hours

I think about her voice and how I haven’t heard it for an eternity now. The scolding would be worth it. I think instead about what I could say, what could prompt her from her reverie. Silhouettes of her arms move in a jagged dance across nowhere space. The canvas wobbles in an uneven bass beat and enhances my trance-like state. It’s nice, but not perfect.

If I spoke, the situation could change. It could go like this:

Me: You look like you’re dancing.

Her: It feels like dancing.

(That accent, the gentle vowels and clipped consonants  of the northern countries, distracts me more than her movements. In my thoughts she speaks slower than usual, drunkenly, purposefully. Her eyes are heavy-lidded.)

Me: Is it nice?

Her: It is frustrating.

But I don’t speak. I don’t dare.

I lie still, and I lend her my silence.

Three Hours

Something has changed. The scratching of the brush has ceased for a moment as she peers from behind the easel, kicking out her hip, a scowl of irritation lending her an almost Pre-Raphaelite appearance. Her hair has come undone and harsh halogen light dribbles over her shoulders in knotted, greasy curls. For a moment she looks like Circe, cruel and beautiful. The witch of Aeaea. I am helplessly enchanted and dozing on the couch, beneath her glare, I wait for her to speak.

Androgyne: Work in Progress

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I started a new painting today. I’m not certain what I’ll call it but I’ve settled with “Androgyne” as a working title.

This is the result of about three hours work.
(It’s a bit skewed because I had the camera at an angle, so it’s all… bwerk.)

 

“Androgyne”
Oil on Board
Work in Progress

Muses (WiP) Update

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8 hours worth of painting yielded this:

 

This was after about 3 hours.

Also, look at my half of the studio. Isn’t it awesome? :3

End result for the Honey Muse. She’s tempermental and difficult to paint, so I have a looooong way to go with her.

And my camera apparently can’t deal with glare.

“Muses” oil on board.

Quote

“I can’t do this without you!”

The wind whips my voice from my lips and casts it out into the dark, ripping over the rooftop, catching in Sierra’s hair, echoing in her ear. She turns her head towards me slightly, her eyes unmoving from the city below. She refuses to meet my gaze. This yearning I feel, this need, it hinges on that glance. Those stunning green eyes, so sharp, so clear. She looks at me and knows who I am, who everyone is. One of a kind.

She’s perched on the edge of the roof, barefoot, clad in silky lingerie and a rough brown farm coat. The coat catches in a powerful gust, making her stumble, and for a moment my heart is in my throat as I wait for her to tip, to windmill, to fall into the oblivion nine stories below. She heaves up onto her tiptoes at the edge. I throw my hands out to catch her but pain shoots through my belly- like needles pushing through my hips- and in that horrible, fatal moment, I can’t move. I can’t do anything but grit my teeth and glare through tears at her wobbling silhouette… But then she catches her balance, splaying her fingers in the air, a stifled gasp escaping those smudged, ruby-red lips.

Tidbit: Trite Nonsense

Book Review: A Density of Souls

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Having not yet finished reading the book when I started writing this, I can only comment on what I have realised so far. When I have finished it, no doubt I’ll write some more. ^_^

The reviews for A Density Of Souls differ largely, fluctuating between 1-2 star ratings with bitter comments, and 5 star rave reviews. This book is a troublesome one that covers a lot of incredibly unpleasant realities, bundling up a dozen serious experiences that happen to people everyday, and then wraps them all up in a wonderfully written (if complicated) story. My guess is that the people who enjoyed the book are probably people who have experienced one or more of these- whether the destruction of friendships, the emotional damage of abusive relationships, the trauma of death and suicide, the difficulties of mental illness or the social otherness of being gay- and these people find themselves drawn to the characters they feel the most connected to. It takes a talented writer to involve the readers in what has been written, to absorb them in the story. I think those who didn’t like the book didn’t feel that connection, hadn’t felt those feelings.

When I picked up A Density of Souls, I expected Christopher Rice’s writing to be a pale imitation of his mother’s. I couldn’t have been more wrong. He has his own style and while some of the places mentioned are familiar to Rice fans, everything is somehow different. Intense and beautiful and ugly all at once, and sometimes, incredibly uncomfortable. I would recommend anyone read it, regardless of how they might feel about it. It’s certainly an experience to be had.

That said, they say that an author’s first published novel tends to be heavily autobiographical. The way some of this is written… Well. I wouldn’t be surprised.

5 stars.

Adventures in Queerdom

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So perhaps I am finding my feet on this rainbow-brick-road that I have discovered myself wandering, dancing awkwardly, unfamiliar with this new beat. I haven’t been sure, but I’m finding myself steadier and steadier these days. My feet aren’t shaken on their helter-skelter travels.

The girl.
A first in my exploration of fearlessness.

She was cute, rectangular glasses, blue neckerchief. Her hands were soft and cold and brushed mine like an electric shock. It made me giddy and silly and I babbled something about being obsessive compulsive about organizing things. She laughed and said I could obsessive-compulsively organize her table anytime. I think I swooned. I fled.

Jai teased me and flicked a game cover at my head, chastising my shyness. He pointed out the neckerchief. He repeated her words as he had heard them, tinged with his arrogant certainty.

It was the neckerchief that convinced me that maybe all would not be lost if maybe… This once… I grabbed my girl-love-lust and ran with it. One must be fearless, no? Fearlessness in all things, not just adversity and the unknown.

We (Jai and I) went for dinner. I wrote my number and a brief apologetic compliment on a scrap of a receipt. My fingers were slippery with avocado and sweet onion sauce.
I fought down the feelings of terror and nausea, uncomfortably aware of the fact that what I was doing was not only something I could never see myself doing, let alone do with a (socially acceptable) male, and certainly never with a girl…

But with Jai’s hand in the small of my back and his laughter in my ear, I made my way to her work and stood there, furiously blushing, enveloped in awkward silence. She was busy.

I handed her workmate the note.
I fled from the store.
I watched Jai peer over shelves and customers for a few minutes before he returned to my side.

“She’s looking around,” He said with his trademark cocky grin. “and she’s smiling.”

I got her message this evening, after I got home and was able to charge my exhausted phone.

She wants to meet for coffee.

I feel fearless.

Lover, Lover Lover

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I want so badly to be in love again.

I’ve decided to stay single (well, to stop pursuing relationships) until valentine’s day next year. I need to work on me, I need a break. I need to know who I am before I can know another person.

I don’t like this. I’m determined not to settle for someone out of loneliness or the desire to be part of someone’s life. I want to fall in love. I want to chase someone because I desperately, intensely need them. I want to find a lover who rocks my world and a who wants me like I want them. I don’t want to do this trial-and-error dating stuff, it feels like it cheapens the concept of love.

I’m such a romantic. I believe in true love.

I don’t know if there’s someone out there who fits into my complicated and picky view of love, but I have to hope they exist. True love has to exist. Romance has to exist. I need it to.

 

Wish me luck.