the storyteller: a fairytale

 

A long time ago, in between the five corners of the world, there lay a great forest. On the edge of this forest lived a man with no name. Now, in those days it was generally accepted and good to have a name, but this man was neither generally accepted nor very good. And so people called him the Storyteller (for they had to call him something) but that was not strictly true. You see, this man had dreams, and what he dreamt became reality. Many sorts of people sought him out for his services, but all he wanted was solitude. So he dreamt, and was alone, and was content.

One morning, the Storyteller awoke to a small boy making angels in the snow. He was (naturally) very displeased at this, and told him so. 

“I did not come to beg, sir,” said the child, and the Storyteller saw that his eyes were full of pain. “My mother is sick. Please, won’t you help her?”

“I help no one.” And the Storyteller slammed his cottage door behind him. 

But the boy was not so easily cowed. He came back day after day and the Storyteller (naturally) found it rather irksome. “I will dream for your mother,” he said, as the child stared at his week-old snow angels. “But you must go away, and never come back.”

The boy left. The Storyteller dreamed that night for the boy’s mother, whoever she was. The next morning there was a fresh snowfall, and the man watched the snow angels disappear. And because he was good at lying, he told himself that he was glad to be alone, and he was glad the boy was gone. And because he was good at lying, he almost believed it.

The Storyteller turned around, went inside, and closed the door. 

gatsby (a poem)

I hate you and love you

like I hate and love myself.

just look at this mess we’ve made. 

we went out in a boat

I rowed and you watched the green sky

beating, against the current,

against against against—

just look at this mess we’ve made,

Daisy,

my Daisy Fay

just look just look and then you’ll see

I can’t do without you, you see.

I killed Jimmy

I made Gatsby Gatsbier for you,

and now, and now—

well.

beating against the current still, are we?

slowly slowly slowly

wildly

the green sky and the green sea are all calling

quietly

your name.

picking out constellations from the car window

look, there’s orion. i can barely see the three dot belt

beyond the reflection of my own face.

is that the big dipper? i can’t tell

because streetlights and streetlights

parade by. how dare you waltz past, sir, when i’m

clearly listening to music in 4/4?

light upon light,

star, eyes, lamp,

sword, window—

star?

that lies (incidentally) in the cold embers.

a poem by e.e. cummings

love is more thicker than forget

by e.e. cummings

love is more thicker than forget

more thinner than recall

more seldom than a wave is wet

more frequent than to fail

it is most mad and moonly

and less it shall unbe

than all the sea which only

is deeper than the sea

love is less always than to win

less never than alive

less bigger than the least begin

less littler than forgive

it is most sane and sunly

and more it cannot die

than all the sky which only

is higher than the sky

main character

we assume we’re the main characters of our own stories.

we are, after all, the centre of everything we experience. and everyone has a story.

we don’t know it any other way.

but then something happens that makes us wonder

if we’re like nick carraway,

the sidekick in someone else’s fairytale.

what are we, really?

word weird: autumn

* derived from the latin autumnus and possibly the ancient etruscan root autu-, which means the passing of the year. 

* was used as the old french autompne (automne in modern french and autumpne in middle english) before it was normalised into the original latin

* before the 16th century, harvest was used to refer to the season 

* the word backend, once a common way to refer to the season, has been replaced by autumn

* the alternative word, fall, coming from the old english fiaell or feallen and the old norse fall, means to "fall from a height" and also is related to phrases like "fall of a leaf" and "fall of the year"

* in poetry, autumn is often associated with melancholia (as in Yeats's poem the wild swans at coole and Keats's to autumn)

* since 1997, Autumn is one of the top 100 names for girls in the united states

thoughts on endings

 “i'll come back when you call me / no need to say goodbye."

    this year i'm a senior. it's difficult, saying goodbye to the things i've known for four years, but i'm also excited for what comes next. i don't want to say goodbye, though. i don't want to leave these people, these places behind. 

    i've still got time. i'm just not ready.

words from mr. lewis

Sir: I have read your pathetic letter with such sentiments as it naturally suggests and write to assure you that you need expect from me no ungenerous reproach. It would be cruel, if it were possible, and impossible, if it were attempted, to add to the mortification which you must now be supposed to suffer. Where I cannot console, it is far from my purpose to aggravate: for it is part of the complicated misery of your state that while I pity your sufferings, I cannot innocently wish them lighter. He would be no friend to your reason or your virtue who would wish you to pass over so great a miscarriage in heartless frivolity or brutal insensibility. As the loss is irretrievable, so your remorse will be lasting. As those whom you have betrayed are your friends, so your conduct admits no exculpation. As you were once virtuous, so now you must be forever miserable. Far be it from me that ferocious virtue which would remind you that the trust was originally transferred from Barfield to you in the hopes of better things, and that thus both our honours were engaged. I will not paint to you the consequences of your conduct which are doubtless daily and nightly before your eyes. Believe, dear sir, that I forgive you.

    As soon as you can, pray let me know through some respectable acquaintance what plans you have formed for the future. In what quarter of the globe do you intend to sustain that irrevocable exile, hopeless penury, and perpetual disgrace to which you have condemned yourself? Do not give in to the sin of Despair: learn from this example the fatal consequences of error and hope, in some humbler station and some distant land, that you may yet become useful to your species.

    Yours etc

    C.S. Lewis

(To Cecil Harwood, after Harwood failed to book tickets for Wagner's Ring of the Nibelung for Lewis, his brother Warnie, Tolkien, Barfield, and himself.)

some poetry

 

eighteen

ages are funny things. to think that

you’ve existed for longer than someone

and shorter than someone else—

isn’t that strange?

and some of them have meanings.

you, for instance. you’re eighteen. what does that mean?

nothing. everything.

a child in someone’s mind and a grown-up in someone else’s.

you “turn eighteen” (what does that even mean? it’s like it’s the turn of a century)

and you become the same but different.

you’re a man now, child,

in the eyes of the world. you’re not a “minor” anymore. you’re a “major”.

a full-fledged human. congratulations, you actually exist now.

but what you did before, isn’t that important too?

ages are funny things. some people say they matter, but do they?

you don’t seem so different to me.

headache

thud.

thud.

thud.

there’s a small creature inside my head

it’s knocking at my skull with its teeth.

thud.

go away, small creature, you’re hurting me

i can’t possibly do anything

with you inside my head.

thud.

thud.

shut up, small creature, nobody cares about you.

thud.

“leave me my name.” - john proctor, the crucible

fool.

you want my name?

i have given you my soul.

sure, you can have my name,

once you’ve pried it from my cold, dead hands.

i have given you my soul. leave me my name.

colours

 her favourite colours change with the seasons.

in spring it’s green, brilliant grass green, like the leaves on roses and the moss growing gently on bushy-topped trees. it’s white, like daffodils and fuzzy dandelions, scattering their petals on the wind. it’s purple, soft lilac purple, like the early sunrise and gentle lavender always smiling. it’s pink, like the cherry blossoms waving in the quiet wind.

in summer it’s blue. stunning, piercing blue like the ocean casting itself on the shore, like the sky in the middle of a warm summer day. it’s yellow, like hibiscus flowers and tan like the soft sand lining the beach.

in autumn it’s orange like pumpkin spice, like soft candlelight in the dark and a fire warming the corner of a home. it’s brilliant red, like a forest lined with the leaves falling from bare trees. it’s brown, like the pages of a well-loved book, like nutmeg, like oatmeal that warms your mouth or the tang of coffee or the soft hug of cinnamon tea. 

in winter it’s red. bright, passionate red like the stripes on a candy cane or a red rose lying against the snow. it’s white, like snowflakes falling, like the lights on a christmas tree, like marshmallows sitting in a piping hot mug of cocoa. it’s cream, like a well-worn sweater or a fuzzy scarf that keeps away the cold. it’s army green, like a christmas tree that’s just been cut, like the smell of pine wafting through the air.