Vignette thread

FinsburyParkCarrots

Little windows on peoples' lives, biographical, fictive, whatever you like. I'll start.

The puppermaster's assistant spends Sunday morning selecting cotton wool balls for the maestro's latest conception; the heads of Punch, Shakespeare and the Lambton Worm. Maestro's on the 'phone. He's got a cough. She feels the sponginess of the wool contract and expand on her palm and looks out of the window. This town's called Sandwich, and you'd know it today, she muses. The novel's half written, pencil and foolscap; her editor was made redundant last week. Maestro doesn't even make his own balls these days. Nothing outside but a grey coast. In between indolence and rejection that used to be the road and the sea.

tenaciousA

i do so love the last line

FinsburyParkCarrots

rocking dancing plunging rising moving rhythm of the plectrum beating softly upstroke downstroke halfbeat quarterbeat eighthbeat again again ringing in the soundhole notes not held down on the fretboard with the other hand's curved fingers but new harmonics fifth, sevenths, ninths, elevenths, infinity spiralling upward and pulsing repetitive ragas on modal chords overlaid with fast dancing trills, bass rills like rivulets on sound's mountainous roar of blue quartz janging azureness and moving within the heart of my dancer new waves of bliss to dance to dance to dance

FinsburyParkCarrots

Other peoples' cliches are their attempts to avoid them; you start to see the patterned behaviour of avoidance. Embrace the elements... you want to write about the experiential conundra of cities of oxygen masks when the canisters have all melted in the sun? I'll have the sun.

FinsburyParkCarrots

And there is burgeoning in that red on the Gogs
laying down loverlong upon mustard sprawls
fire, rain expectant, earth opening up
The mouths of seasons, growths of forests,
our ghosts surviving their clearances:
Oh now, the dawn! My love, lock deep!