written portrait.

Well, I don't know about you scholars but whenever I get deep into theory and writing, my mind starts sparking off a hundred different ideas for stories, poems, magazine editorials, jewellery and so on.

It happened again today as I was sitting on a wooden bench in the courtyard above the new PG-ARC office space, having just finished a particularly toothsome ricotta cake from Ralph's (apologies if I sound like a wanker with my words; 'toothsome' may be outdated but it well warrants some contemporary use, especially when the object being described is as this cake was, but never mind.)

Anyway, I was sitting in the shade, thinking about my chapter-in-progress, when a story slowly infiltrated into my mind, sort of like a whorl of cigarette smoke, and then I was typing quickly into a blank email on the old Blackberry. Here's what I typed out (minus the image, which was found on The Last Doll Standing, and which is really there for visual appeal.)

Written Portrait on Madison

She is the most precious thing in the world to me. Her hair is like fairy floss. I mean, it's not pink, but it's soft. Her neck is like the stick, and her smile is a rush of sugar in the blood. She has hips shaped like a violin, and long legs and long hands and narrow feet. Her torso is long. She has no bottom to speak of until she turns sideways and there it is, like someone hailing a taxi.
Last time I saw her we were standing under a shop's awning. It was pouring with rain and we had no umbrellas and no raincoats. Well, I had a newspaper but she was afraid the bad news would dissolve off of the pages and soak onto her dress. She kept looking out at the rain. I remember the gleam of her eye-whites and her grin. 

Well, it was coming down pretty hard. All I could hear was the water beating the dust up out of the pavement and the wet roar of tires shouldering through the knee-deep puddles at the kerb. Everything was coming out brilliant in the wash; tree leaves were brand new, and I guess that's why her eyes were so bright too. I took her long hand in mine, careful not to strangle those long, narrow fingers. Her palm was smooth and cool. I guess I felt like we belonged together, just standing there waiting for the rain to ease. Her and her grin, and me watching the cars disappear under the grey rain and the people running for shelter.
When it had eased some, we walked back downtown. Water fell from tree arms and streetlights from time to time, catching on her cheeks like diamonds in velvet. The damp made the shampoo scent rise from her curling hair.