qdesjardin: (Default)

3

The red rosary dangles down the cupboard, twisting and twirling upon the chain. The key itself looks plain, lying under the soft bedstand light. What it unlocks, she does not really know. But it has to unlock something.

“More.”

She grips the folds of the silken bedsheets, her hands slick with sweat.

“More..”

Her thighs tense, as she feels the kid pressing himself on her body, hugging her to his chest. Her world is on the verge of spinning, and the rich colours of the room start to sparkle.

She quivers.

Her heart erupts.

Then she exhales, her breath like icy cinnamon.

/

She'd first met him as she was taking a stroll down the busy streets, wearing her blueberry beret for the frigid winter. There was a look in his eye, a sort of young, bustling innocence which caught her attention. The kid was sitting by the bench, waiting for the next tramrail to arrive – staring off beyond the buildings towards the blue hues of an evening sky.

Beside him, there was room for one more.

She brushed aside the snow on the spare spot, and then she shared his joy with the sky-gazing. A sort of languidness absorbed her. It felt like the first time she really allowed herself to relax, like allowing that nice hot bath to soothe her, no longer struggling against a current.

And then she smiled.

She wanted to say something to him, but she tensed – would he recognize her as the Performer? Or just another stranger, merely wanting to make light talk? (She hoped it would be the latter. He seemed like he was just a couple years younger than her, still in school.)

“Isn't it wonderful?” she managed to say.

“What?” he said.

“Looking at the sky.” Suddenly she drew back inside; there were a great many things she could have said instead that wouldn't seem contrived. It's one step up from saying, how's the weather? So she added, “If only there were some puffy clouds here, and a wift of it there..”

The kid giggled. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

“With the clouds, I'd imagine it would be like.. floating cotton candy,” she went. “And ice cream.”

“Oooh.”

“I could just almost fly in and munch on the strands, to my heart's delight.”

“Would it rain cotton candy and ice cream?” he asked.

She never thought of that actually – she beamed. “Sure!”

/

From his wavy hair to his dapper shoes, the kid was someone who maintained a petite modesty. He mentioned his name was Johan, but she forgot it a second later. What had only mattered to her was that he might alleviate that void inside. He was on his way to the carousel and she decided to follow along beside him, just innocently.She paid for herself by the entrance, a quaint fee of $4; the kid already had a yearly pass.

It was a luxurious paradise. From the kiosks where anyone could try a shot at teddy bears to the huge rides – the giant, meandering roller coaster track looming over the park. How funny – that she'd never thought of visiting earlier. It was under her nose all along.

(“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog!” a clown exclaimed to a pack of little girls.)

“Do you come here often?” she asked the kid.

“To escape the mundanities of life,” he went. He ordered a light soda from the sellers. “You want one?”

“Sure.” She got herself strawberry cotton candy too. So she tasted the woollen, odourless fabric and found that the kind of oversweet taste it had didn't go along so well when sipping the soda; incompatible kinds of sweetness, in a water meets oil way.Some of the soda dripped down her chin, inside her blouse and touched the rosary around her neck. She pulled out the rosary and wiped it dry with her thumb.

In the shadow of the plaza there were the birds pecking at the ground for any morsel of food their beaks could find. A thought crossed the girl's mind and she dawdled over to the birds, hoping to catch one bare-handed. But they glanced at her and lifted their wings and began to fly away. As the birds touched sunlight they glowed with angelic radiance, and before she could blink they were travelling to the unreachable sky in an organized, ad hoc flight. For some reason it made her tear up.

“I love this place,” the kid went. “It is very bright, very cheery – compared with the humdrum of the streets and schools. I go here almost every day, just to dream.” He sighed. “I wish Life were more like the amusement parks. I bet everyone'll be more happy if they have a sense of wonder.”

At the core of her cotton candy, there was a crunchy caramel core. It caught her teeth by surprise.

“Don't you think?” the kid asked.

She could not help feeling a little sadness for him. To her, he radiated that youthful, almost naive innocence – especially towards the face of everyday sorrows. He was happy. She thought he was happy. And yet.. she knew it was a frail happiness. He was running away, from something.

As if he were a lost child, gazing hungrily at the window at the chocolates on display. Estranged from the nurturing love of his family, and all he had left in his world were those sweets.

That was her too.

“Yes,” she said. “If only the world were more that way.”

qdesjardin: (Default)

2

The thick clouds, and the huge, undulating surface of the ocean. You can see the rays of the sun etch organic contours in the clouds, underlining their orange-tinted wisps and making purplish shadowy hollows. And above the clouds, the sky is streaked with colours, from salmon pink to violet. This fluffy immensity, warm and bright. It is like cotton candy.

Yesterday when she'd sung, the memory of chewing cotton candy appealed to her.

Now, as she flies back home aboard the plane, she dwells on the idea of chewing all those clouds. Each of their hues would determine their flavour; the orange clouds would taste tangy (like mango juice), the blue ones taste like blueberries and the purple ones like grapes. She might flutter out the windows like a bird and catch their ineffable substance with her hands.

In the plane, she is alone. She has all the seats for herself to savour the privacy; the comfortable, torturous aloneness, in which she can relax away from the public's eyes for 4 hours, and truly embrace herself.

She is a luxurious diamond, safely tucked away in a shell – whose very core if you peer closely is fractured, deformed. All the refinements will never fix this natural fault. The original sin passed down at birth. In a way, this makes her beautiful and true. It is a frail beauty though – a beauty so sensitive to observation that you must be tender. Otherwise you would shatter it (without knowing) and all you'd feel is revulsion towards the honest contents of a human being.

When she performs, whether at a jazz party or a cabaret, that is when this diamond slowly peeks out to shine. Those who see her glimmer will have a taste of an almost otherworldly experience, and as she sways, the audience feels their hearts tingling and aching. As if she wishes to infect them with the same feelings, the same longings that have surrounded her all her life. And maybe it will affirm why she is alive.

If I had a chance to tell you about Love.. that Love which pervades the World all over, that Love which forever eludes me so much that it is unbearable.. I'd take it. If it means prying it from God's unwilling clutches.

(it hurts)

But I'm afraid my own Heart has become too impure. God has infused me with this great need, yet why do I always remain unfulfilled? Food and water, they are recognizable human rights. Love isn't. For many, it is too dangerous and too powerful, and too volatile. It can destroy.

(it hurts)

I'm afraid my Heart has irrevocably turned that need into Hate. It's easy to hate. Hate anything because it isn't there, hate anyone because they cannot give or return. Envy perverts the need for love into a willingness to hate. If there is no good in this World for me,

(it hurts)

what better way to express Hate, than to stab the heart where Love is felt?

By the time she'd finish a performance, the audience would always feel it is too short to be fulfilling. It is drinking a glass that's only half-full, and you're left on the brink of thirst. And that would work to her advantage, from the vantage point of business where people are left flocking for more.

qdesjardin: (Default)

1

See the girl. Her hair is down her naked shoulders. The microphone is close to her lips. A rouge spotlight highlights her presence in front of the watching crowd, and her eyes are wanting for something.

Hear the melody. It plays gently when it begins. Those soft piano notes heard by every ear in the nightclub, and then her voice. My dearest, my lover.. It feels like silky, glistening petals gliding over your cheeks as your heart is enraptured by the song.

Smell the roses. The peppermint roses which rest upon the tables in glass vases, each seeming to give off their own unearthy illumination in the sensual darkness. How crisp, how refreshening. Almost like being in a gardenhouse villa.

Taste the drink. It swirls in your mouth, amongst your tongue as you swish the wine from cheek to cheek. At first it burns when you sip it from the glass, but it gives way towards an icy chill, soothing and soothing and it tastes bittersweet when finally it flows down your throat like rain.

Feel her lips. Those beautiful lips. Those textured, layered lips. The light lipstick hanging upon them.

All my secret life
All my magic thrills
Spread before your heart

In a kiss, she might make anyone suffer. In this song, the words she moans have made the room cry. An eternity passes over before the song comes to an end. You've never heard anything like it before.

The applause cannot take away the underlying sadness in her eyes however; cannot satiate the yearning or the inevitable clock inside her, ticking away towards end. But it makes her happy nonetheless, if only briefly.

Long after her song's lingering hold on your heart has dissipated, it will still linger deeply within hers.

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