I’ve fallen behind again. In posting this. In keeping true to this project. I missed last week’s post, mostly due to the SummerWorks previews I had going in full swing. I decided to put it off. And then a lot of stuff happened. Like falling off my bike and cracking my left radial bone at the elbow. Like receiving and dealing with rather difficult familial news, the kind of news you never want to receive or deal with all the while trying to sort out some looming problem in another emotional aspect of my life. All of this, recently, has left me seemingly broken in three ways.
This, this is why I’ve forgotten about this project.
But I am back. And I am more or less coherent. And I can type. And write. And I want to make art because I’ve got a lot of stuff going on and, really, it’s the only way I know how to express it.
And it’s very funny, or serendipitous, that a lot of what I feel is mirrored in this decade of tales from three years ago. The unexpected coincidences are always the best.
~
130 Tales
# 61 – 70
61. It feels like mush. A thick haze floats through all the bumps and ridges. If it were a colour I’d imagine it’d be chain-link gray.
62. He’s always been a slave to his addictions.
63. Elle smiles with blackened rings. The bags on her lap make her back ache but her eyes dance on passing houses like they were free.
64. His attention is focused on the door. Outside: he knows it’s there readying its forces, prepared to stage an assault on his heat.
65. It used to be her favourite position: sitting with both knees at her breasts. Now it’s like leaden fire because of that one game.
66. They huddle under the overhang as if to be shielded from the cold. Arms around her waist, bodies close but only thoughts of cold.
67. It sounds fake, like they installed a mechanical lung inside. Harsh breath, the sound of one working for two. “Does it hurt?”
68. He hasn’t stepped into these boots for a while, but they felt exactly the same. All of his old adventures came rushing back.
69. His hope is renewed with the climbing sun. Although he can’t see it, hidden amongst a curtain of clouds, he feels its smile.
70. His fingers, nails flecked with silver, support the spine of a book. In bright red letters it reads out “Happiness.”
Past Decades:
a field of crowns 