A Girl Named Fae-ling
Fae-ling donned a silver hooded cape whenever she was alone in her room. And nothing else. She tied a careful knot and let the smooth silk hang at her naked back. So many jedi weapons and so few jedi, she thought. She opened the balcony doors, fifth floor, sat at her typewriter and carefully lit her pet candle Tinker. Her mind was sharp and her fingers poised. Both seldom inspired to action.
Night in and night out she repeated the same routine. Cape. Balcony doors. Typewriter. Tinker. She stared intently at Tinker’s trembling flame and, after a few minutes, her gaze moved like clockwork to the street lamp outside her window, then the red, yellow, green of the traffic-light just beyond, and then the endless row upon row of more streetlamps, more red-yellow-greens, and in the distance the bright dupont colours of twenty-four hour shell and esso gas-stations, golden arches, pizza-huts and ginormous buckets of chicken. The flashing lights of consumer capitalism and midnight hunger pressed against a near forgotten sky.
Night in and night out she stared at the beating heart-cells of suburbia, fingers poised, caped nakedness kept warm by candle-light, and she connected these dots until they led her well beyond, to neighbouring towns and distant galaxies, orange coke and agent orange, african children and suicide teens, General-Major Godswill Tamuno and scratched Joan Baez records. She was determined, fingers poised, to connect all the dots, all the pieces, all the social, geo-political, historical and philosophical elements without leaving anything out or anyone behind. She breathed.
Fae-ling analyzed, fingers poised, she catalogued and scattegorized (she bracketed), fingers poised, she deconstructed and destroyed, reassembled and recovered, all the while fingers ready and fingers poised and fingers twitching as her silver hooded cape fluttered in the wind.
She breathed. Everything, everything in anticipation of that one night, that one glorious moment of one night when the puzzle would fit . . .
Night in and night out she repeated the same routine. Cape. Balcony doors. Typewriter. Tinker. She stared intently at Tinker’s trembling flame and, after a few minutes, her gaze moved like clockwork to the street lamp outside her window, then the red, yellow, green of the traffic-light just beyond, and then the endless row upon row of more streetlamps, more red-yellow-greens, and in the distance the bright dupont colours of twenty-four hour shell and esso gas-stations, golden arches, pizza-huts and ginormous buckets of chicken. The flashing lights of consumer capitalism and midnight hunger pressed against a near forgotten sky.
Night in and night out she stared at the beating heart-cells of suburbia, fingers poised, caped nakedness kept warm by candle-light, and she connected these dots until they led her well beyond, to neighbouring towns and distant galaxies, orange coke and agent orange, african children and suicide teens, General-Major Godswill Tamuno and scratched Joan Baez records. She was determined, fingers poised, to connect all the dots, all the pieces, all the social, geo-political, historical and philosophical elements without leaving anything out or anyone behind. She breathed.
Fae-ling analyzed, fingers poised, she catalogued and scattegorized (she bracketed), fingers poised, she deconstructed and destroyed, reassembled and recovered, all the while fingers ready and fingers poised and fingers twitching as her silver hooded cape fluttered in the wind.
She breathed. Everything, everything in anticipation of that one night, that one glorious moment of one night when the puzzle would fit . . .
posted by Spcmnspff at 7:22 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home