So much cake, so where's the time?

Day 13 of the Holiday Log

("The girl and the creatures putting you together!" Paypine exclaims whilst jabbing me with her walking stick, "Continue!"
"That is real life," I say, aghast.
"Well then."
"Are you entertained?" I ask in sheer bewilderment. Could this little, wrinkly, neatly dressed woman of magical mystic actually be enjoying my tragic chapter of life? "This is uncharted territory! This is love and war and... and, uh... enlightenment, and a horrible murder... and a detective most foul and all that stuff."
She puts her stick down and leans in close to whisper, "This is life, dear.")
No one told me that little creatures were fond of tea breaks. And that when they decided to have one, they did it with a flourish. Like an overindulgent play-actor humorously waving his arms about with raised eyebrows to receive laughter from the audience.
They set out a blanket, patchwork green and red, and placed a basket from nowhere on one corner. The large-nosed creature ran up with humongous mismatching cups and saucers, all in a floral pattern. I snorted, because,  floral teacups? They all turned in unison to look at me, and I admit, it was a terrifying time for about five seconds. Then they turned back to their tasks, shrugged as a whole, and continued on. The pointy-eared creature came running up carrying platters piled higher than it's poor little head, heaped with colourful creamy cakes, buttery scones, fat fluffy muffins, square chocolate slices, and puffy jam-filled tea cake. He plonked the whole lot in the middle of the blanket and all the creatures stopped again, all at once, and they sighed together.
"ALWAYS OFF!" one shouted.
"Never!"
"They all roll around now!" screeched another.
"They must!"
"DIRTY!" trilled one.
"CLUMSY!" squealed one.
"POTLUCK!" cried one, and everyone turned to the smallest creature who was sitting at the back, rocking to and fro on his bottom. "I want money!" it cried and cackled in laughter.
"Irish," muttered the creature with the loincloth to another one.
"Never with fortune," the other one muttered back.
"Tried to steal my purple sock!" exclaimed a third one, behind them. The three of them gasped, and the third one continued with, "thinks it was fortune!" in hushed tones.
"Kill it," the loincloth creature said and I had a sudden image of bloody murder before tea and cake was served.
"Guys! Guys..." I started rationally.
"TEA NOW!" came a screech and I turned to see the LARGEST most FLORAL teapot being carried out to the blanket, seemingly filled with boiling water due to the slow progress it made and the huffing and terrified squeaks coming from underneath it.
All the creatures cheered.
"No one helps him?" I asked in concern.
The nearest creature turned to me with a serious expression-
("Tea!" exclaims Paypine with a happy rasp. "That's doing things right."
"It was," I agree. "I forgot all about my holes. They had tidied up the pieces, put them in a pile, you know, dusting them, I think one was polishing some..."
"Oooooh," says Paypine, clearly impressed.
"The whole thing was well-organised because there were so many!"
"Yes, yes, but get back to the girl. What happened with the girl?"
"Oh." I feel an emptiness creeping in like a gigantic blanket being pulled over my head to block out all the light, and the air. "Well...")

How much frosting should cake have access to?

Day 12 of the Holiday Log

I stared limply at my broken pieces scattered around me and watched helplessly, somewhat defiantly, at the little creatures trying to put me back together.
"Not use that one- it's wrong!" cried one no bigger than my hand with large pointy ears and glittering emerald eyes, to another with a rather unfortunately large rounded nose and out-turned feet as it carried what looked like a shard of my leg. Skin. It looked like a thin slice of skin.
The large-nosed creature shrugged and tried to push it into a smaller opening in my foot. The piece grated against my skin like glass. I winced.
"Wrong!" a third creature with a small tuft of brown hair at the very top of his head, big pale square hands and a pouch tied around his hips like a loincloth, slapped it right out of the second creatures hands.
"Oi! 'Twas the right!"
"Twas the WRONG!" shrilled the third in a voice like a bird. "You always do the wrong!"
The second creature pushed the third. "I do the right! Always!"
"You are opposite! Since birth!" the third pushed back, and I was thinking in the back of my mind, just how long are they going to take here? What happens when I need to pee? Because I will, at some stage, and it just won't work if I haven't all the pieces.
(I turn to the elderly lady and say, "I have to mention, I had NO IDEA if they were male or female. None."
"Egcht," a glop of mayonnaise falls onto her shirt but I pretend not to notice because that's what bench-buddies are for.
"They were like little goblin ornaments made out of clay," I continue wholeheartedly, "and they fought like family. Or... like warriors all geared up for battle but without the spears."
"Spears?" the lady echos.
"Yes. You know, those long pointy, um, sti-"
"I know what spears are, youngin', and be sure to remember that I wasn't born yesterday out of a trash can."
Phew, I think, I had been worried.
"No, but," I continue, as if she hasn't just called me a 'youngin' and I didn't just voice concern that I don't actually feel inside my own head for no reason, "they tried really hard. I have no idea why. Why would they come, so little and thin they were, and try for ages to put bits of me back? I probably didn't even need putting back."
I try to remember exactly how I ended up in that state, but it's all a blank space. Like fog.
"Why were you in pieces in the first place?" the lady asks before taking another bite of her sandwich.
"I... Uh, I don't know..."
"Hmph. And you say they fought like family."
"Like actual intent to murder each other."
"Well, well..." the lady seems intensely satisfied. I study her wispy white hair for signs of freshness; evidence of a recent good wash that brings out the shine and contentment among susceptible users, but it's oily at the top, clumpy, and frizzy at the ends.
"What exactly is your name again?" I ask, because confusion always makes me curious. Curiosity is far more exciting to feel in times of helplessness. It earns respect and admiration. Confusion earns frowns and a possible eye-roll or punch in the face.
"Yugasma Matilda Emerald Archibald."
I ask, "Are you shitting me?"
She says, "No. That is my exact name."
"What about your actual name?"
"That is Paypine."
"No it isn't."
"Now," the lady licks her fingers one by one and I sit there, watching the wind blow her hair, and I think, can a person have too many names? And if so, how many is the correct amount?
"You must tell me how you got all your parts together," she finishes, and looks at me.
I narrow my eyes at this mysterious yet atrociously identifiable woman. "Your hair was grey last week," I accuse in a low voice.
"It changes at will," she replies in a calm tone without defense or humour.
"Being as that may," I press on, giving my head a good shake and sending a silent yet probably very deadly and powerful prayer to Allah, "I still don't und-"
"Now you see lassie!" the woman, Paypine, suddenly jabs me in the knee with a shiny walking stick.
"Is it made of pure gold?" I gasp. Tears of mild pain well inside my eyes. Awe may be bubbling away in a little corner of my heart. (But really, the real motive here is the burning need for that amazingly awesome staff- stick. It's a stick. A solid gold, enormously expensive stick. Not magical...)
"It is pine. Like my name. Now, get back to your story!"
"Story?")

What is fair in cheese and cake?

Day 7 of the Holiday Log

I have to admit it, I was encumbered. Encased. Shrouded in the very depth of what lust is.

Let me backtrack. 

~

It's not often that someone wholly ethereal crosses your path and for me that was Era. Or Erame. She was the one who made me believe anything was possible and I'd wake up each morning with this intense drive to make anything happen. I was insane.

I wanted to prove that I was just as magical and I wanted her to see and I wanted her to want me because of it.

Silly tricks. Childish games.

But you don't see how absurd it is until you come out of it, and then you cringe at everything you did with disbelief and despair.

Erame was my drug.

I was probably just her lame sidekick that she could call to anytime for the sake of her own amusement or boredom.

But, those days...

Those days were the best of my life. 

~

The day after Era had given me her number, I went over to her apartment on Fourth.

She had rolls of parchment as wide as a man is tall propped up against the wall, dim lanterns on the kitchen counter and hanging from the ceiling, an overflowing ferny pot plant sitting in one corner, a black and white photograph of herself blowing into the camera, and a maroon dress hanging from the bedroom door. 

She smiled dreamily as I stepped inside and said, "This is my apartment. I used to share but they moved out because of drugs."

"Oh, yes," I nodded in agreement wrapped tightly around confusion, "Them drugs..."

"Only the light stuff," she said with big eyes, as if trying to tell me something in a whole new way because the spoken language just wasn't cutting it.

"Of course," I managed to murmur, because I hadn't the faintest idea about drugs or telepathic communication and her mouth was pink today. I felt outraged. I had travelled here by bike and she had changed colour?

"So!" I started in a high-pitched squeal as Era opened the fridge and took out a jug of orange liquid, "colours today just ain't what they used to be!" and I slapped the counter.

She asked, "What are they today?"

I said, "You know, they're changing and moving and designing monoliths."

Era frowned at me as she poured the orange stuff into two round glasses. She slid one over to me. I caught gaze of her lips again and forgot that my hand wasn't already above the counter so it smashed into the chair I was standing behind as I reached for the glass, and I gotta say, I wasn't as smooth as I had planned to be. I was neither graceful or swan-like, and perhaps this was due to my lack of costume. 

I was entirely too human.

I managed to say, "That postman!" loudly, and quite convincingly, as I shook and squeezed my hand, realising that Era had turned her back to put the jug back in the fridge and missed the whole thing.

"Hmmm?" 

I quickly picked up my glass, said ,"Well, he's never on time, is he?" and gulped down the whole glass.

"Cerri, that's vodka."

"FUCK ME!" I yelled. It burned all the way down.

Era's frown was rather deep by now. 

"Why?!" I gasped. "Why give- vodka- why give- to unsuspecting innocent people?"

She laughed. Her face lit up and her teeth on display, head tilted to the side, glass in one hand, positively delighted.

And that is when my world started crumbling.

Have you never bewitched a cake before?

Day 6 of the Holiday Log

"It was a mess, right from the start," I say solemnly.
The elderly lady nods but doesn't look up from her knitting. She would know, I think suddenly. She has been to places, far off lands, has been entangled and bewitched, and probably, most likely, to be fair, has even had her heart ripped out of her chest and stomped on like a curled up Autumn leaf. I feel my shoulders sag with instant relief.
"Her obsession was, absolutely, pants."
She nods again.
"Black pants," I say.
The thick pink needles click in timely rhythm with her nodding.
"With golden trim," and I lean forward to press my point further into her personal sphere.
"Yes dear," she replies at last, attention still caught by her knitting, "you've told me this not ten minutes ago."
"Well!" I slump back against the park bench and frown at the dogs trotting by. "It's news! Isn't it!"
"Mmm."
"It's outrageous that someone could fancy so many of the one thing!"
"Well pants do come in all shapes and sizes, you know. Why, I can remember..."
I feel let down. There had been high hopes for this conversation. The light fizzing around us like sparks from a firework that held promise of awe and admiration, of suspense, time well spent, of delight and comedy. Why, even romance! There had been a bit of that. There had been heartbreak as well, of course, due to the natural order of things; inevitable and heavy like an indestructible iron fist. But most of the tale was surrounded in magic. The kind of magic that lights up your eyes, plays havoc with your heart, and makes you gasp.
"I said, 'dear, are you going over to buy lunch today? Or shall I?'"
The lady is looking at me finally. She has eyes the colour of bright purple and silver hair as wispy as fairy floss. I confess, there have been tempting times where I held a great deal of restraint not to pluck a patch and taste it. I believe that is why she now wears it wrapped tightly in a bun, although we have never had the conversation so I cannot assume this reason. Perhaps her head is prone to getting cold.
"Egg on rye?" I ask.
She gives me the winky grin and says, "Ooooooh, you know what a woman likes!"
I say, "Madam, I believe I do."
And I make a quick exit before she has a chance to ask exactly what I mean.

Can we do this again?

Day 1 of the Holiday Log

Yes I realise that the essence of time has left me completely bewildered and somewhat unconcerned standing upright on the train station platform, sort of like a wooden doll attached to a pole. I do have a vague sense that I should be boarding one of these trains, but which? The notion of actual events that need my participation seem to be lost in a trail of blurry hand-written notes, crumpled up at the bottom of my bag amidst stains of harried gratification or slipped into the enormous and never-ending pile of papers that elude repeated promises, and I find myself just standing.
Standing and waiting.
But I have no idea what I'm waiting for.
Or do I?
"I think you do," she says. I turn and look at long dirty blonde hair, red lips and a cream furry overcoat. "I think you need pants."
I say, "I'm wearing pants" in a polite tone of voice and wait for her to look down and see how correct I am.
"Yes," she says, her eyes on my face, faraway and yet she's really close to my personal space. I think that I should feel disturbed by this. I'm not. "Black ones."
I smirk a little. "They are."
"No," her smile is in reaction to a distant thought she's having. "You need black ones. I know the place."
"I think I-"
She grabs my arm and pulls me through the station. Somehow I find myself running and I have no idea where we are going. She runs fast for a girl wearing boots with high heels on them.
"It's this way!" she calls back.
People turn as we pass, like part of an act, all at the same time. Like clowns at a carnival. We're attracting attention. Maybe they think we're being chased.
"Wh- wher- phwww!" I try and ask where exactly we are running to. I always buy my pants from Minou Mignon on Treval street, but she might not have heard about it. We look similar in size so I should probably mention it to her.
"Here!"
We stop. I'm gasping but she's not. Does she run in heels all the time?
"I have a- phwww, I have-"
"This is the only place you will shop from now on. These pants."
We're standing on the street above the station staring into a large window with paper-thin mannequins displayed behind the window wearing entirely black.
"Is it fashion?" I manage to ask.
"Black is always in fashion."
She's gazing at them dreamily, eerily, and they all look exactly the same as the pants she has on. However, the tops are all different. Tank tops, sweater vests, blouses, two-piece suit jackets, gold buttons, gold rings, bracelets and shoes.
I take a large gulp of my water. "I'm Cerri," I say as a way to break the ice and reclaim some normality in this social situation. Although on second thoughts, perhaps the running through the station adventure was the ice-breaker?
"Era," she replies without looking at me.
"Oh." What a weird name. "Is it short for anything?"
She turns to me. "I don't think so."
I nod in agreement even though I am not. I do not condone the name Era and most likely never will.
"Oh it is! It's short for Erame. The cartoon thing."
Her lips are astonishingly red. I hear myself making noises of approval and even making a small conversation out of the cartoon that I have apparently seen, all the while staring at the shape and colour of Era's mouth. As if it alone is the one thing that brings all the other absurdities together to make sense. As if it was a reason.
Could a mouth be a reason?
How bizarre.
Where would I put such a thought?
"I have no money," I hear the words coming out of my mouth and I tear myself away from the fantasies of thought-stacking neatly and colour-coordinated with labels and stickers lined up artistically around reaching over to ease my finger slowly-
"They have sales on Wednesdays and Fridays. Ask for Stacey."
I raise my eyebrows. Era looks back at me blankly, plainly, like a child, as if nothing is wrong. I feel myself tensing because she's a little smaller than I am so the child-like expression swirls around connotations like a butterfly, or a wicked fairy wanting to play a game.
I say, "You dragged me all the way here to get me to buy pants?"
She nods. "It's for charity," she says lazily. Her green eyes wide and honest. "But also, you wouldn't want anything else."
Our reflections are standing side by side, shadowed, one light and one dark. I see myself reaching out-
"Can I have your number?" I ask all at once, to stop the hazardous embarrassment that's sure to ensue. I feel as though I'm on the edge of a cliff. Any second now I could step off, or slip off, or be sharply pushed off, and I could fall down past rock, through the air, away from the clouds, I could fall until I cease to exist.
She fumbles around in her bag and pulls out a notebook. Rips out a page. Scribbles. "Ummmmm, what else was I going to tell you?"
I could fall until I fly.
"Oh yeah, there's always a sale on once a month. Forty per cent off."
I take the paper.
She leans in close and kisses me right on the mouth.