Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Summer Dreams
"Does the song of the sea end at the shore or in the hearts of those who listen to it?"
(Stolen from Bets' comment on this blog dated 14 May 2004)
That's a good question.
Terry Pratchett (all bow down before the ma... sorry cough. okay now) asks it occasionally with his postulates about the sound of solitary trees falling down in the middle of forests.
Does anyone hear them fall? No.
But they still groan and cry out as they fall, wooden flesh rending apart.
Does the song of the sea end in the hearts of those who listen to it?
I don't know. I'd prefer to think that it lives on in those hearts, far from the place where it was born.
*****
Sights
Occasionally reading his (new) scary book in the fiery sunlight, on Leicester Square (but largely watching the people) he sees :
1) an oriental girl in a chic white top carefully designed to be as little larger than her bra than possible (to maximally expose her rather attractive cleavage to the world at large) playing touchy feely with her boyfriend, in front of her apparently best (girl)friend. His gaze skims over her - uninteresting, even if rather pretty - till on second pass sometime later, he notices her boyfriend wandering off to the loo... and her snogging the girl. um. oo.
2) pigeons frying comatose on the grass. he remembers the bedraggled pigeon he saw sitting pointedly in the middle of the (huge, ground-level) fountain on Russel square, soaked to its neck in water with its feathers ruffled out, staring belligerently at the humans passing by as if to say : "what?? I'm HOT. Okay?"
3) as he watches, his gaze meets the eyes of another Watcher. Blue, intense. They both linger for the slightest fraction of a second, as each sees in the other's eyes : I wonder what He's thinking? before both break eye contact to scan in opposite, and almost embarrassed, directions.
Returning later, when he's sure the other isn't watcing :
Blond hair, blue eyes, slight goatee. Looks kinda like some elf guy from some movie. Hmm. I know someone who would dig that.
*****
Stranger
it's "worse", btw. Worse things... than. I, pedant. It's my mummy's fault, really.
(Stolen from Bets' comment on this blog dated 14 May 2004)
That's a good question.
Terry Pratchett (all bow down before the ma... sorry cough. okay now) asks it occasionally with his postulates about the sound of solitary trees falling down in the middle of forests.
Does anyone hear them fall? No.
But they still groan and cry out as they fall, wooden flesh rending apart.
Does the song of the sea end in the hearts of those who listen to it?
I don't know. I'd prefer to think that it lives on in those hearts, far from the place where it was born.
*****
Sights
Occasionally reading his (new) scary book in the fiery sunlight, on Leicester Square (but largely watching the people) he sees :
1) an oriental girl in a chic white top carefully designed to be as little larger than her bra than possible (to maximally expose her rather attractive cleavage to the world at large) playing touchy feely with her boyfriend, in front of her apparently best (girl)friend. His gaze skims over her - uninteresting, even if rather pretty - till on second pass sometime later, he notices her boyfriend wandering off to the loo... and her snogging the girl. um. oo.
2) pigeons frying comatose on the grass. he remembers the bedraggled pigeon he saw sitting pointedly in the middle of the (huge, ground-level) fountain on Russel square, soaked to its neck in water with its feathers ruffled out, staring belligerently at the humans passing by as if to say : "what?? I'm HOT. Okay?"
3) as he watches, his gaze meets the eyes of another Watcher. Blue, intense. They both linger for the slightest fraction of a second, as each sees in the other's eyes : I wonder what He's thinking? before both break eye contact to scan in opposite, and almost embarrassed, directions.
Returning later, when he's sure the other isn't watcing :
Blond hair, blue eyes, slight goatee. Looks kinda like some elf guy from some movie. Hmm. I know someone who would dig that.
*****
Stranger
it's "worse", btw. Worse things... than. I, pedant. It's my mummy's fault, really.
