Is there a colour preference?

Last year I wrote a list of 'Things I Will Do', and then I forgot about it. Literally. I sort of opened up my head as if it was on a hinge, reached inside and scraped out my brain. Oh! How light but magnificent it felt! I was holding a brain, a living, pulsating, slimy, slightly warm part of the body that helped me with everything all throughout my daily life.
I thought, 'Maybe I could sell this.' I signed onto Ebay. I scrolled and sighed and clicked and sighed again, and I had the feeling that something was wrong. I kept glancing at the little brain sitting on my desk.
I got up and made a sandwich. Halfway through I thought, ' A sandwich? Am I not above this notion of lunch? Can it not be time for steak?'
I sensed a growing fascination with food that also made me stand solemnly, as if in church prayer, for I am not one with food. I am not two with food. I am probably not even ten with food, although maybe ten is too high and nobody is. If there is someone out there who is ten at the food life, I would love to greet them halfway up the steps of a large, wooden temple with water trickling from spouts shaped like lions and two birds chirping occasionally but in sync, because birds should unite in pairs.
I would say: "Please! Allow me to pee! I've been standing here for three hours, THREE HOURS MAN, and the water fountain has just broken me, as I would assume it would break even Bruce Lee, however great he was," and then I would berate myself for showing ignorance in a place of worship and serenity. 
"Hmm, yes, these water fountains," he would reply, stroking his long, white beard slowly, "the missus is quite fond of them. It would be such a shame."
And I would nod in agreement, very fast, because of the peeing thing.
He would continue stroking his beard.
I would clear my throat, and he would suddenly notice me. "What an honour to have you!" he would claim, like a grandfather would claim to his oyster supplier three days before Christmas. "Would it help you at all if I were to switch them?"
"Eh?" I would reply, looking up from his long white robes. "No!"
He would stumble backwards a little with a hand over his chest at my harsh outburst, and I would worry for maybe eight seconds about his footing as he is old and he is wearing long curling slippers on slightly wet steps.
"No!" I would cry again, "They're the same statue!"
He would straighten, mumbling something about wax or the seventh sun, and say to himself, "But, the switching... it could happen on Saturday, not four o'clock? Not seven o'clock?... hmmm."
"The design would stay the same."
He would reply with, "Most likely. But the wife..."
"Oh, sure," I would agree in an entirely new level of 'not caring' as a coping mechanism for my strenuous circumstance.
"But do come in!" he would suddenly declare, clapping his hands together, "Come and enjoy roast potatoes with us! My wife sprinkles herbs on top, God only knows why, but she makes them taste divine all the same." 
So my point is, that while I was stranded in this uncomfortable situation, I rather forgot the list I had prepared and lost all energy to attempt.
And you can't blame a girl when nature calls.


THINGS I WILL DO THIS YEAR:


+ Ace my Uni course ^_^. Acing did happen! :D


+ Make one piece of jewellery a week.


+ Make one monster a month (because last year's goal was absurdity of the Cerri kind)


+ Watch all of Walking Dead.


+ Watch all of Once Upon a Time. What a time


+ Learn to play a tune on the guitar (just a tune!) The Hokey Pokey


+ Start cooking healthy, veggie-loaded meals.


+ Watch all Disney movies again, also including Brave, Tangled and Frozen. The best! Except maybe Brave, that was a tad slow for me


+ Grow a small veggie plant like tomatoes, cucumbers, or even parsley. Tended to a strawberry plant until I left it out in a four-day heatwave one week and a three day downpour the next (--_--). Delivered two batches of strawberries though, so worth it!


+ Attempt at writing a fanfic! >_<.


MOVIE:

6__6v

Why can't I do the 'eye thing'?

"You know, it's not even that I'm hungry. I just eat sometimes because it's there."
"Mmm?" Amara nodded. Her elbow was propped up on the table with her head resting in her hand while her other hand drummed impatiently on the flowery tablecloth. She was almost quite literally bored to tears.
"Yes, it's concerning," Adrian went on, staring off at some gardenia bush or hibiscus hedge. "But it's also the blues, are you getting me?" he turned then and looked sharply into Amara's vacant, expressionless eyes.
"Yes," Amara slurred with tiring effort, "I most definitely..."
"It's the cakes!" Adrian went on. "Green and yellow! Pink! You've never seen the pinks!"
"Adrian," said Amara, "when will you be pouring the tea? Or am I to sit here without ingesting anything whatsoever?"
"Tea!?" Adrian cried (rather ferociously and far too dramatically, Amara felt).
"This is a tea party, yes?" she turned her gaze to the long, rectangular table set up with platters of cakes and scones, tea pots and cups, jars of jams and cream and chocolate and sugar, and bowls upon bowls of berries. So many berries that Amara was suspicious of what Adrian actually did for a living. "Frivolous in the events of the now!" Adrian spurted, much like how a waterfall spurts water: wet and with haste.
"What?"
"Oh- oh, no, I don't quite believe it..." Adrian stood up, staring off yet again, and Amara thought, finally, I can take one of these hard and lumpy-looking scones, but Adrian said, "Get up! Get up now and follow me!"
"Excuse me?"
"Get up!" Adrian grabbed her elbow.
"Oi!" Amara yanked her arm back, "What's the hurry?" She craned her neck around to see what had Adrian's knickers in a twist, but he grabbed her upper arm this time and hauled her up with a grunt.
"What! Ad-"
"There's no time!" he called. And they were somehow running. He had her arm and was pulling her along, away from the table with yummy delights, down the side of his large house, and through a ten-foot hedge.
"Adrian!" Amara yelled. "Stop!"  She was regretting ever agreeing to attend this silly tea party, and while the branches in the hedge scratched at her face and arms and pulled at her hair and dress, she had a sudden thought that this fellow might be on the run from someone official. Could he be a thief? Was he the sort to steal a car? She considered his bland nature and obsession with colourful food. Surely someone who spent hours in a sweltering kitchen baking chocolate swirl cake twice, because he'd had the oven on full-blast the first time, couldn't be interested in such criminal activities. Cake and burglary?
"Adrian!"
They burst out of the hedge onto a large oval. There was a park up ahead and a long winding river behind it.
"Oh! What a waste," he dropped her arm and scowled at the children playing on the swings.
Amara stretched her arm, also scowling. "What a horrid ride," she remarked in a savage voice, "all that running and not a bite to eat before it."
"Yes..." Adrian shook his head, brushed off his white and blue vest, and looked over at her. "Better luck next time, then."
"Next time!" Amara shrieked. "You nearly tore my arm off! You bored me half to death with  descriptions of yellow cake- yellow! What foolery is that!- and trifle in glasses as tall as me, while allowing me to touch nothing! I almost died of starvation- no! I almost died of boredom." she reveled in his crestfallen expression. His arms hanging limply by his sides reminded her of a defected doll, one that would be cast aside and forgotten, and she spurred on, "I would not dream of going anywhere with you ever again! My next acquaintance will be with an intellectual gentleman, in a library, where they will sell large coffees and lemon tarts as big as my hand, and we will talk of nothing but adventure and sailing above the clouds and climbing rainbows and mathematical equations!"
She straightened up and glared at this pale, floppy-haired, leaf-covered male who had just ruined her favourite dress.
"Oh," he said quietly, looking around at the grass, "Oh, I see." He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a pocket watch, and Amara rolled her eyes.
"I'm lea-"
"I suppose the table was a little outlandish," Adrian said, eyeing the watch, "but as it's not mine, there's no-"
Amara frowned suspiciously, "What isn't yours?"
"The table," Adrian blinked at her, as if it was preposterous that she didn't know, "the house doesn't belong to me either. You weren't aware? It was all a game-"
"Not yours?"
"Just a silly game we play," he smiled, "sneaking into someone else's party. Terribly frightening. You could even say... adventurous."
Amara felt suddenly weak for no reason. "You break into strange people's houses?" she asked faintly.
"Mmm," he put his watch away.
"Wh- I, I think-, heavens." Amara fanned herself,  "Goodness, Adrian. Why on earth would you do such a thing?"
Adrian grinned, a sparkle in his eye that Amara had never noticed before, "Life isn't just for baking, you know!"

Where do human faces hide?

I was thinking the other day: 'What happens when all the sandwich combinations are done?'
Like, for instance, and for real, (because they're the same thing) (...) (aren't they?) BECAUSE, if you made every sandwich combo ever, with the norms like Ham & Tomato, and then Beef with Gherkin Relish, and then the more exotic ones such as Curried Egg, and Peanut Butter, and Cheese with Bacon and BBQ sauce... I mean, what then?
And who is defining all these variations? Who puts Peanut Butter in with the 'exotic'? I mean, say all the sandwiches are laid out on the counter, on this industriously long and sturdy bench-top specifically designed to cater for all the sandwiches in existence, ever, and they're all on brown bread and white bread, so that's double, and they're all cut into triangles or something absurd, and some have crusts off- so that's almost quadruple- and after all this, ALL THIS SANDWICH MAKING THAT GAVE THESE POOR PEOPLE RSI AND KNIFE-WOUNDS AND HANDY GARDENING HINTS AND LIFE-LONG FRIENDSHIPS AND MAYBE EVEN A BABY OR FATAL ACCIDENT, then what?
So then I started thinking, 'Lawn Bowls'.
That's the place to  be. Also, a place where it's warm. Maybe a small room with a gigantic wood-oven fireplace. You wouldn't technically be able to cook pizzas in it, seeing as how it's gigantic and takes up probably most of the room, but just go with it for a minute. Just Go. With it.
But the point is. If it's not warm and it's not wood-oven, then what is it?
To be fair, I was attempting my hand at some painting a while ago (not the fancy kind where you use a blank canvas and stand in front of it wearing a white smock so any paint splatters look artistic) but the kind with lines and shapes, so you have guidelines that show you where you're supposed to go.
I said, "Guidelines? Do I look like I'm in Primary School?"
and it said, "WHY DO YOU USE ALL THE TISSUES!" in this really loud and intrusive way.
So I retorted with, "ALL I WANTED WAS AN EGG SANDWICH, THE HOT AND MELTY KIND, AND THIS IS WHAT I GET INSTEAD."
Because, I mean, it had to be pointed out that my end of the bargain was far from fair. It was so unfair that I was unclear as to my next move. Should I start painting? Or was I supposed to actually go and cook this egg sandwich?
And, paint this painting? This picture of fruit and teapots and teacups all arranged in neat lines and to appropriate scale, clearly on some fanciful picnic that I was not meant to attend?
Pfft! I said, "YOUR WATERMELON'S TOO BIG!" (Because it was. It was almost five times the size of the pear, and that is not the correct size for a slice of watermelon).
and the painting screeched out, "THAT IS NO WAY TO TREAT A MASTERPIECE!"
to which I politely (and with some scorn) pointed out that it was not yet a masterpiece.
It needed a master painter to create such a piece. That would be me.
The unpainted painting laughed at this. "MASTER PAINTER!" It cried with laughter and accusation and with a little hysteria.
"Yes," I said humbly.
"YOU?"
"Yes," I nodded, once again in a humble manner.
And the canvas portraying a feast of outlines but nothing satisfying solid, laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed, until I'd done quite enough foot-tapping and watching-checking and eye-rolling and page-turning of Who Weekly, that I gathered up all my courage and said in a calm, yet reproachful, voice, "Sir, I am off to make things happen."
And the laughing stopped, and I walked out of the room, out of the house, down to the shop on the corner, and purchased a bag of cheezels and a bag of shapes.
I said to the man behind the counter, "I had a dream that I was eating a box of cheezels, and so I have just now made my dreams come true."
And we laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed, but it wasn't four lengths of laughter in a whimsical way, like one throwing a plastic wrapper into a bin and the wind catches it so the person stands and watches it float aimlessly around in circles. It was four lengths of laughter that meant something.
Because it was about dreams. And dreams of cheezels.



glow in the darkness, that's how we do it.. just like the stars up on your ceiling.. that put you to sleep after

What happened to that orange watch you wore once?

"Oh I see how it goes now," I say, smiling a little.
"Yes," he says, pulling something white and rustling out of his jacket pocket. A bag of white powder.
He looks up at me, his eyes blazing, his expression playful but also afraid, his eyebrowse still. A credit card appears out of nowhere. It's dirty, peeling and faded. I know it's not his but I tell myself he borrowed it from a friend.
"Do you...?" he asks as he opens it and tips it gently on the table. Then he swears.
"I do."
I don't. I watch as he uses the card to make lines. He's quick. AmStart, the card says despondently. Save me, it says also, take me away from here and clean me up. I can be better. I'll sing to you and bring you groceries and patch the hole in the wall. Please.
His fingers are long and thin and pale, like maybe he's Dracula, and they look strong, as if they can, actually, carry bags of groceries at a time. My own fingers grip the chair seat tighter.
"Here," he commands, "Use this."
And as I float away, aware of his hands on my skin and the marks on the ceiling and his mouth, his eyes, his warmth, I think of the silver pennies in the street.

~

"You don't, do you?" he asks.
"No."
His fingers play with my hair.
"Ever?"
"Never."
He sighs.

~

"So there's this shop on Prembral Street that sells buns as big as, well, as that rubbish bin," I gesture down the road.
He laughs, "Let's go!"
We buy eleven, because I want ten but he wants to feed the birds, and we eat them all. Sitting on the hard, cold bench. I can feel his leg against mine. Pressing. The birds bob their heads as they pick at the bread.
It's so cold. The clouds seem endless and I hate it, looking up at all that grey, shivering, bones on bones like skeletons waltzing or fighting over the last piece of soft, sweet flesh.
"I'm trying to... you know... do it," he says quietly. His leg is pressed against mine and it's all I can think about. That and the cold. Cold like ice down your back. Cold like Bones.
"Good," I say, staring at the sky.
"No," he turns to me, and I think he sounds agitated. "I'm going to. I mean it."
Is this what agitated sounds like? I wonder. Is this really cold?
"Ok."
He sighs again. He moves. The warmth of his leg vanishes and I turn.
"What-?"
"You're not listening, are you?"
"I am, yo-"
"You're not!"
Yes, this is agitated. I look up into his face, squinting a little, and I see that he's frowning at me. His face is closed off, and his legs... how far they are now.
"Oh, I was," I say stupidly and slowly, "you said you- you were thinking of trying..."
Is this desperation? It feels strange to think about feelings and emotions. Was I always like this? So slow and foggy, like walking in a dream surrounded by clouds and clouds of fog. Walking but not aware of anything, and in the morning, after you've woken up and looked at the sunshine, when you're sitting at the table eating toast with honey, sweeping your toes back and forth over the cool tiles wondering when the mail will arrive, you don't remember that feeling of walking forever in the fog.
"Let's go," he says. His face is soft. I shiver and stand up.
"You said you were going to," I mutter, "You never said what."
"Spaced out is a side effect," he tells me cheerfully. We walk past the birds and I long to reach out and take his hand. But I don't.

~

"This is what it looks like," he says and I turn away, tired, sore and cold.
"Hey!"
I walk into the kitchen but he follows. He grabs my arm.
"You don't realise how it goes," he hisses. His face is close. His eyes burning, magnetic, absolute. I try as hard as I can to focus on the fridge and I say softly, "I have a pretty good idea."
"Ha!" he pulls my arm.
"Stop that!"
"What would you know? You're still on the fucking side effects!"
I glare at him even though somewhere far away (maybe my chest?) something is breaking. "You don't think I know about people?"
"WHAT'S THIS THEN?" And he shoves his other arm into my face so I see white skin and red lines.
"Stop it!"
"WHAT THE FUCK IS?"
His face is red and sharp, his face is hard and dark, my heart is breaking, I think, and his eyes are cold. So cold.
"I DON'T KNOW! GET AWAY FROM ME!" I yank as hard as I can; I'm not strong enough. His fingers wrapped around my wrist. He looks like he's about to laugh. He leans in close. I want to rip my arm away and run, I want to, but his hair is touching mine and his skin is so close, I feel the heat, it's only a tiny gap. If I move I could...
"You're an idiot," he says.
It's breaking. Somewhere far away, so far that I hardly notice, somewhere there, something is falling apart.
"People-"
"YOU DON'T KNOW!" He grips tighter. There's digging in my skin, there's pain and spit, there's wide eyes, pulling, tears.
"People!" I throw the words out like I'm throwing them into his face and I'm gasping at the pain, but it's not so bad. "People like you."
His eyes are so wide. I would crawl into them and drown, if he'd hold still. If he'd stop pulling my arm. "People who hurt you, people you hurt, what does it matter? If I could make it better..."
It's splitting apart. Something is falling and splitting and- oh. The tears are mine.
Then there's pain.
There's pain in his eyes and his mouth, in my head, in my eyes, in my arm. And, somewhere else. Some place in the distance something is hurting too.
The pressure on my arm makes me wince. "Please stop..."
The pain grows like someone is coming towards us with a big, illuminating sign. Take this, the person says, puffing and straining but carrying it still, show us what it's like to love.
"No!" I yell.
Show us love.
"SHUT UP!"
I pull free. He's standing there staring at me and his face is crumpling, and piecing itself back together, and then crumpling, and he's trying so hard I can't stand it.
I run into the bedroom and slam the door. Bits of plaster sprinkle down into my eyes like desperation. I can't breathe. I pull the table with the powder on it, I pull the chair, the lamp, the basket of dirty towels, I pile them all against the door and curl up on the bed. Tighter. Colder. Emptier.
It's my heart, yes, there it is. The pieces broken and sharp and small, so small and so abstract that putting them back together would be impossible. Just like that egg who fell and broke and the men ate him for breakfast...
Or was it?
Did they have toast fingers and melting butter and shiny forks with bumpy patterns on them? I can't remember.
Tell us you're in love.

~

"I think you jammed the door," he says softly, lying close. I'm not cold anymore.
"You broke the door?" I mumble, opening one eye slowly.
"Came through the window."
I grab onto his shirt because it's the closest thing to my hand, and squeeze.
"I think you can."
"No," he puts his face into my neck, "I don't think I can."
His voice is a whisper; alive yet fading, and shaky. Like he's about to cry.

~

"You ruined the pattern so it's your turn to do the dishes," I grin wickedly.
"Nah, the five goes here," he says, concentrating, moving the little tiles around. His head is bent.
I know he's pretending because he knows he's lost. And because we don't have any dishes. The plastic plates are jumbled up next to the window, one plastic spoon on the pillow, a red foam cup with split edges in the bathroom.
His knee is jiggling.
"Your turn."
I slide the tile around in my fingers as he watches. "If I put this with the nine it'll throw out the whole game."
"Mmm. Then don't play it."
"I have to play something, otherwise I'll lose."
He scratches his nose and leans down on one elbow so his body stretches out, his head near the bed, a small smile, gleaming eyes. "This is true."
I squint at him, "You made it true."
"Yes."
I tug his jacket tighter around my shoulders, put my hand in the pocket and pull out a small plastic bag. A plastic bag with white stuff in it. His face changes. Clenches. Hardens.
"You know that foggy feeling where you feel lost and you're walking and walking and going nowhere because you can't see anything?" I say.
He shrugs, "Possibly."
"I was hoping, maybe, to experience that again. Anyway..."
He blinks. Then he grins and I feel tingly. He scrambles up, slides a mirror from somewhere and says, "What you want to do, is..."
He pours, cuts, neatens. He holds it out. Waits. Watches. Kisses me, hard, like he's trying to tell me something. Leans back but his fingers are tangled in my hair, pulling me, and his eyes are so bright, so big.
"I said I'm going to," he breathes. I nod. "No," he pulls me closer, "I mean it. I meant it."
His eyes as big as the universe. His knees under mine. His warm breath, his skin, his words.
"It's ok. I believe you," I lean into his forehead, "I want to as well."
But there's something cold in my chest, now. Because we're lying.

~

(c)