86 Seeing Red

Desire is a red sports car; "If we didn't...

Red sports car (Photo credit: Wonderlane)

He sees red on the hood of the car which is alright, the car is supposed to be red. It is supposed to look fast. It is so low that when driving it, one is practically lying down with ones rear end only inches from the asphalt speeding away below.

He sees red on her dress and that is alright too. Her dress was always red and much too tight across her chest. He is still waiting for the day it bursts open. He is sure she knows that.

However, he also sees red on the leather seats and that is not alright. It is not alright at all. She leans closer to him.

‘Are you alright?’ she asks. Her voice is weak behind the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. How dare she get anything on the seats? It was the first rule. The only rule that he could not forgive her breaking.

‘Get out,’ he says.

‘I think, I’m fine,’ she says, ‘but we should go to the hospital and have you looked at.’ The rushing in his ears is building.

‘Get out!’ he shouts.
‘But-’
‘Now!’ He can barely drown it out.

She purses her lips and makes a swallowing motion. Then she gets out of the car, her glittering handbag under one arm.

He slams the door after her and starts the motor. It seems to work fine, but the hood will need a good deal of fixing after its meeting with the crash barrier and he will need a new headlight. As the word headlight goes through his brain he realizes that there is also a rather bad pain going through it. He backs the car out onto the motorway and is mildly puzzled that the road also looks red. He moves a hair away from his forehead and his fingers come away sticky. As he wipes his hand off in his trousers, darkness creeps in from the corners of his eyes.

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Remember Me

English: Vincent van Gogh on his deathbed Fran...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

‘Claire?’ he said, his breathing shallow.

‘I’m here,’ said Claire and squeezed his hand. It was very cold.

‘Remember me,’ with a sharp intake of breath, he clutched at the blue blanket and the creases echoed the creases in his forehead, ‘remember me when I’m gone.’

‘I will,’ tears dripped from her nose and she sniffed.

‘Promise?’

‘Of course,’ she sniffed again, ‘I could never forget you.’

‘Claire, I,’ he gasped as if coming up for air. ‘I love you, remember that.’

‘I love you too.’

‘I love you, and I’ll always love you,’ he said, ‘always. Remember that. Remember me when I’m gone.’

‘I will.’

‘No, I mean it, remember it always. Let no one make you forget. I am yours, and you are mine, forever,’ he turned his watery eyes towards her, ‘promise.’

‘I promise that I’ll remember, father.’

Mote Woman

Dust Motes Dancing in the Sunbeams (1900)

Dust Motes Dancing in the Sunbeams (1900) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There is a woman in our attic. I do not think my parents know. She cannot be seen most of the time, but sometimes the motes gather in the sunlight and she is there, all sparkly and beautiful.

She terrifies me.

Not that she ever threatens me. She never does anything other than float below the window, looking up at the sky. But when I see her, I wonder why she is here, why she has not gone on to somewhere else, and I wonder what she is looking for.

And I am afraid that she might be dead. And I am afraid that she is waiting for the end of the world where the sky will burn, so that she can be released. And I am afraid that she is praying for it.

If she asked anything of me, I would give it to her.

Palindrome to the Future

Recently I read a post on Ramisa Raya’s blog called We Dismiss the Meaningful, But Ponder the Trivial.
It reminded me of this awesome poem that one of my friends, Dennis Glintborg, wrote. He wrote it in Danish, and asked me to translate it, so I did.
And he said that I could share it with you, so here it is 🙂

Palindrome to the Future

The beautiful will inherit the future

Only a fool will seriously believe that

All people are equal

Blonds are the only ones with charm, confidence and good hair days

And listen here; it is a damn cliché if you think that

Breast implants are so last-year

Silicone

Is better than

The natural look

So realize it, just realize it

We are living in a society where happiness is something you buy for money

And let no one tell me that

Change is possible

Capitalism is anchored in our DNA

So do not believe them if they say that

Good will can change the world

Not even Lady Gaga can do that

The truth is

Paradise Hotel; that you can be the best just by spreading your legs

It is naive to believe in

Immersion and reflection

When we would much rather spend our time on

Paris Hilton and the shoes she is wearing

Who the hell wants to hear about

The important perspectives behind us

Everyone forgets

If not

The future will improve

But…

.

.

If you haven’t already, read it bottom up now.

Cassandra

Cassandra

Cassandra (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Things long past and things to come echo through my brain. I see the lips of a god forming first a blessing, then a curse. I hear the crackle of fire and screams, voices of my family and of people I have never known. There is always a dark shape behind my reflection and a prickly smell seeps through to me from the other side of the rain.

The signs are all there.

But my speech sounds like lies to the average ear, and the average eye cannot see what I see, and thus no one steps forwards to save the world.

And I know that when the time comes, I will dance among the flames singing: ‘I told you so’, because at that point, I will have become too mad to care.

But that is of little consolation to me now.

Seeing and Knowing

Hawk eyes

I didn’t want to know,

But your hawk eyes could not help seeing,

And now I’m lost at sea

And I don’t have your wings.

The Colosseum

 

English: A 4x4 segment panorama of the Coliseu...

A 4×4 segment panorama of the Colosseum at dusk. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The yellow light fills the arches and creates sharp shadows between the stones. Against the deep blue sky the sight is beautiful. I take a picture although I have already taken more than fifty, and I know that when I get home and develop the photographs, it will not be the same. The feeling will be gone, and each mile between me and the Colosseum will weigh on my heart like a ton of bricks.

And that is what gives me the idea. The part equals the whole and all that, and if I bring home just one brick I can feel close to the Colosseum forever. They will not miss just one brick.

So next day I sign up for another tour and when everyone is looking elsewhere I smuggle one of the loose stones into my rucksack.

When I get home I place the stone on my mantelpiece with a sigh of satisfaction.

And the satisfaction lasts.

For about a year.

Then I travel to Rome again and smuggle home one more stone.

Then one more.

Two more the year after that.

Now bricks of various sizes are scattered all over my living room. But it seems the stones’ and through them my own connection to the Colosseum still only lasts for a year. Perhaps it will not last longer before I have built the entire Colosseum in my backyard.

The Angel

Angel 013

Angel 013 (Photo credit: Juliett-Foxtrott)

There is an angel at the back of the garden between the shrubs and the hedge. She has been there for a long time. Her dress is tangled in bindweed and moss is creeping up her neck. One of her wings has crumbled slightly. In the right light the white flowers at her feet look like stars.

I visit her irregularly. Some months it is almost every day, other months I do not visit her at all. I have often contemplated removing some of the weeds, but I am always too far from her to do it.

When I visit her in the rain, she weeps. But even when it is dry everywhere else that place smells of damp earth.

I do not know who put her there or why. It seems like a lonely place to leave her.

But what I really wonder is,
does anyone other than I see her beauty?

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