Yellow and White
Angela Finch wore a yellow dress in the early spring and she was not cold. She set up the rusty metal chairs with attention to detail, the kind of precision that was not something that could be learned. The tea was set on the dusty glass table, small and round where it was secured on the forest floor, legs mingling with deep, loamy, fecund earth, the scent of worms and eggshell blues in the morning.
The napkins were folded and the forks and knives placed, teaspoons above the little saucers. There was no cake to go on the baby china plates, only hot, anxious tea whining in the kettle and then calming itself in the rose-bedecked pot. Angela moved soundlessly, the folds of her pressed dress stiff and perfect and crisp like the air as the morning mist lifted slightly. Beyond the forest was the green of the lawn, the pristine rows of roses on the far side by the white of the outdoor furniture, cool and clean.
Angela’s shoes tapped the earth as she worked, a drone bee, a liveliness and a coldness all in one, entangled and confusing. Her brow and jaw were set in concentration. She moved a teacup a fraction of a degree to the right.
The forest with the old furniture was alive. Her house was vast and empty, clean and bottomless and she couldn’t stay there without getting goose bumps and headaches and a lulling sense of void that made her flee into nature. She never looked out of the trees, for her mighty reverie would be broken by the deep and polished wood deck, the French doors and spiral staircase from the second floor, the whiskey in the crystal in the parlor. She’d rather feel a wildness, a realness, a sense of peace, and risk being alone inside herself. She was alone, yes, but never as hollow as the large white house made her.
The sound of impending doom came in the outcry of her mother, shrieked and pained. Her head whipped around in an instant, and as she turned, she smelled the acrid scent of flame and sweet smoke, black and ruinous. It was not coming from the perfect white house, but from the forest. She turned again and stood watching as the tower stacked high above the trees, all-consuming, so separate from her sanctuary, yet threatening to devour her. She looked at her tea party, then at the glowing walls of the forest, alight in the vague and hazy distance. Her mother was calling out again, desperate for her. She stood, stolid, fracturing down her center as her pupils grew like great disks and her spine swayed, a pendulum to the ticking tock of peril.
Angela Finch watched as her haven was eaten up before her, never making a sound, her fingertips brushing the starched stiffness of her yellow dress in early spring. She waited and watched until the constricting, red fingers of her mother clapped her wrist and strung her away, out of the burning forest and pulling her towards the emptiness of the white house, Angela’s neck ever-craning backwards, watching the destruction, her only ally fallen. Her tea party left un-had.
to do list for when i get back home:
1. go to the boardwalk; purchase assorted tie dye
2. see doc ♥
3. go have wildcrazyfuntimes with nicoleeee :D this involves hookah, NO PUBLIC BUSES, topanga parties, b00ze, sushi, slutty lace attire, our music, and anything else we can find ahahah.
4. practice some songs with mah broski, then perform in mammoth
5. write s’more
(via bambi-crosses, l0velydays-bluewaves)
Reblogged from kahr-mah-deactivated20111231-de with 4,385 notes
Reasonless
He hated that there was no reason. Or, he would… just, he didn’t have an ounce of self left with which to care. The melancholy overcast skies performed for him daily, echoing the vastness of the void behind the grey-blue pearls of bleary tiredness, fastened to his skull. There was nothing there, though he knew there used to be, he just couldn’t remember what.
He liked to watch his fingers, little complexities, their own microcosm. They played with each other, fidgeting like squirming young puppies, newly born. But his hands were tired and sad, weeping behind handkerchiefs and never making a sound. His hands did not play the violin anymore, his hands had grown old, like the insides of his organs, like the little holes of his pupils that led to nowhere, black holes, patches of celestial nothingness.
His hands were emblazed, bleak light leaking through the cracks in the drawn shades, intruding upon his solitude from everything earthly, everything human and natural. Everything he couldn’t belong to anymore. He could not complain, because he didn’t know how. His mouth was sewn shut with iron wire and his blood was white, reflecting the ashen sky that created an endless dome over his world.
His arms were littered with unseen bruises and pricks and gashes, trailing his milky blood empty of content, empty of selfness. He could barely lift them anymore, for the immense weight that was constantly dragging them down to his sides where they hid, parallel to his body, woven into the threads of his flank, unwilling or unable to relinquish their feverish grip.
His voice was an endless stream of quiet murmurings, resonating only in his head. He did not let his voice escape him, lest it cried out, lest it betrayed him. Instead, he let it pile up inside, spilling over his moist tongue swallowing inside his mouth, his swollen throat and stressed sinuses, until his mind was fogged up with the heat of it, as if against a window on a cold winter evening. There was too much in there, but none of it meant anything, and he still hypothetically hated how there was no justifiable answer, no solution, no explanation. He just was. It just was.
