I had slept for some time when you decided to come by and let me know about a number of things I had forgotten. Your intent seemed kind but you told me a number of things I had forgotten that, when added together with the things you forgot I had forgotten but I remembered I had forgotten, was large. A large number of forgotten things. How large the number was is unknown, but it creates a mass that spins rapidly inside you and threatens to pull down the books from the top shelf. Particularly the volumes pertaining to metallic elements such as tungsten or iron and also indexes of perfumed oil.
You told me these things with such a degree of nonchalance that you didn't notice when I began to resent you. I watched you peeling the candle wax with your fingernails like I did when my brother was being baptized and I was forced to hold a candle that I didn't want to. I peeled the images of lambs with my fingernails and I didn't know why it wasn't lit. I had never held a flame before and I forgot his name for a moment. He was the innominate "brother" figure and you were a fleeting inkling.
When you had told me that your sister was having a birthday, you put the candle wax from under your fingernail in your mouth and you chewed disgustingly. I could hear the bones in your temples cracking as you chewed that pliable wax and I tried to think of a metaphor this could be representing. An allegory for which this was holding the place. But there was nothing except miniscule air pockets and involuntary sucking noises that occurred on the remote sides of your teeth and gums as your thin cheeks and temples flexed like a pink organ and you swallowed candle wax.
I had stopped being drowsy then and I offered you a small cake from my cupboard, from what was our cupboard, but you said you weren't hungry and you gnawed your nail with enough force to bite it off in small, peeling sections. You put those fingers into intimate locations before. Those fingers popped a champagne cork last year. Auld Lang Syne. You kissed my hand and my nose at midnight and my mouth at one after midnight. You touched me nicely and vigorously. We didn't sleep until we were exhausted and clutching nakedly.
When the dog came over, being depressed, you pet the dog. Because you pet the dog, you reinforced the dog's depression and as a result, it lay at your feet, just like you wanted, and it sighed a canine sigh. "Lay down now," you said. And it did, and you gave it a biscuit. Fuck you.
You drank a bit of your seltzer water. Who drinks seltzer water? Not anybody normal, I'll tell you that much.
I wish I had said those things to you after you told me that I forgot my mother's birthday because then it would have seemed like a joke and you would have come to touch my face and put your broken fingernail next to my ear. You would have said something that would redeem you to me and I would have forgotten all of those things I hate in you. But instead, you refused food and I packed a suitcase and pretended to talk down to you like a farmhand or a ruffian. But I didn't do those things. I forgot my luggage in the other room so instead I sat and loathed you until I fell asleep in this armchair. You woke me up by not noticing I was asleep and that I hate you.
But I do, I do, and you eat your oatmeal dry and mealy. When you told me all of the things I had forgotten, I remembered (which in itself is surprising) that we are not different people, and we are not different people, which explains why I hurt so much when I say I hate you. I hate you. Comfort me and my ugly limbs, extremities.
12/29/11
12/21/11
Chyme
The first time you got up in the night
to shamble around your bedroom and knock over
expensive vases I didn't realize you
were not awake and you were never awake
when you kicked off the blanket and fumbled in my jewelery
box, feeling for a gold ring to drop in your mouth
(and I would hear it clink against
your teeth as your lolling tongue swirled
in your head) and, swallowing it, when you crawled
back into bed, your feet (cold from the bare
floor) touched my legs, which were a tactile
form of echolocation that helped you
to fumble up to my stomach, where you smothered
your face (or at least you tried) as you curled
your fingers around my hipbones and dug in with your fingernails.
That gold ring slid down your throat by way of
muscle contractions to rest in your stomach
in much the same fashion it would if
it were in the black of a stone well
and I never said a word.
I never told anyone about that well, that ring,
even you.
When I touched your face and said you were a sleep
walker, you strode away from the place you were
(the relatives watching your every action)
and you went outside to the in-ground pool, which
was frozen, and you tore back the cover
to stamp on the ice until it broke.
You cut your calf on the shards of ice and
you sat in the chill water, soothing your wounded leg
until someone brought you a glass of wine
(some relative brought you a glass of wine)
and you agreed to come inside and be bandaged.
But I really don't need to remind you of that.
As ether perfumed your veins (by way of your lungs)
and your eyes slid shut your hand went limp
and unconscious,I thought about how I could have
done anything to you that I wanted to do to you,
including reaching into your open throat
to root out the useless chyme and reclaim that gold
ring that, by then, was likely corroded and disfigured
beyond recognition or repair.
If only I had done it sooner.
to shamble around your bedroom and knock over
expensive vases I didn't realize you
were not awake and you were never awake
when you kicked off the blanket and fumbled in my jewelery
box, feeling for a gold ring to drop in your mouth
(and I would hear it clink against
your teeth as your lolling tongue swirled
in your head) and, swallowing it, when you crawled
back into bed, your feet (cold from the bare
floor) touched my legs, which were a tactile
form of echolocation that helped you
to fumble up to my stomach, where you smothered
your face (or at least you tried) as you curled
your fingers around my hipbones and dug in with your fingernails.
That gold ring slid down your throat by way of
muscle contractions to rest in your stomach
in much the same fashion it would if
it were in the black of a stone well
and I never said a word.
I never told anyone about that well, that ring,
even you.
When I touched your face and said you were a sleep
walker, you strode away from the place you were
(the relatives watching your every action)
and you went outside to the in-ground pool, which
was frozen, and you tore back the cover
to stamp on the ice until it broke.
You cut your calf on the shards of ice and
you sat in the chill water, soothing your wounded leg
until someone brought you a glass of wine
(some relative brought you a glass of wine)
and you agreed to come inside and be bandaged.
But I really don't need to remind you of that.
As ether perfumed your veins (by way of your lungs)
and your eyes slid shut your hand went limp
and unconscious,I thought about how I could have
done anything to you that I wanted to do to you,
including reaching into your open throat
to root out the useless chyme and reclaim that gold
ring that, by then, was likely corroded and disfigured
beyond recognition or repair.
If only I had done it sooner.
12/18/11
I used to be a brash young man.
My parents were lowing across the flatness of Indiana. They cut hair. They turned wrenches. They drank beer. They ate pork. That was who they were.
I was rocketing into the sunset, traveling over the plains that had been created a millennium previous by slow and heavy glaciers.
I learned things and I became more important than I used to be, growing from the inside and shedding like a serpent. My old self could have been eaten for nutrients but it would have not been necessary thanks to the amount of prey animals. I wormed into a snake hole and gnawed on my fingernails. They were flaky because of nutrient deficiency.
Vitamin B deficiency caused deep ridges to form horizontally in my nails.
Zinc deficiency caused my cuticles to bleed at random and hangnails became chewable.
Iron deficiency caused me to become winded every time I climbed a staircase.
And every time I drank coffee I went partially insane.
I forgot about my parents and I envisioned myself growing a spine, rigid and straight.
I experienced death, which is unremarkable. I laughed, which was brash.
I invented stories about myself that included me being related to royalty, me being royalty, me being possessed by devils, me being on my last life in the karmic cycle, me being on a train in my dreams, me being an inhabitant of two universes at once connected by the brain stem, medulla, etc.
Even though my corpus callosum is a mass of tissue, like the rest of my brain, it is somehow more powerful. It connects the two hemispheres of my brain and, somehow, bridges the gap between the two. The corpus callosum is liminal. It was here in my brain when I went to France in my dreams.
I don’t hate my brain. Je ne deteste pas le grande gris. In my dreams I spoke perfect French.
Having experienced a degree of success at the hands of travel on the metaphor of a rocket, I decided that travel was necessary for me. This fact did not directly result in a rootless existence, but it contributed somewhat. This fact was a facet, like other facets.
From an early age, I found jigsaw puzzles tedious and infuriating. I enjoyed coloring books, which, from a psychoanalytical standpoint, could be interpreted as a cousin to jigsaw puzzles. This can be seen in the way in which completion of the activity occurs: filling in. Using colors or pieces. Prescribed or inscribed. Standardized tests dominated my existence as a child and this does not leave me feeling bitter.
I was a banal kid. Most kids are secretly banal.
Charlotte, North Carolina: You were never a part of my life.
Tucson, Arizona: You were never a part of my life.
Seattle, Washington: You are a mystery to me.
Idaho: You were never a part of my life.
I came to the city in search of mazes and liminal areas. I liked to walk around and so I did that often. I still do. Large bodies of water call to me. They say my name very quietly.
Sometimes I like to call my parents on the telephone while I look at large bodies of water. Rivers and lakes.
They tell about the goings on of the county and of my different relatives. I look at the water and I think about untilled cornfields and how they are both essentially the same thing. You can’t walk on them but you can swim. If you try to breathe inside, you will die and get lost forever.
The corn in Indiana grows higher than your head and requires large machines to harvest the kernels. They look like huge, mobile oilrigs. Essentially, they are that.
Whenever we finish speaking, I always make a point to say I love you. It is always sincere. I never learned to swim.
But none of these things have to do with the fact that, above all, I enjoy wearing hats. I have only three, but I enjoy them equally. This is not a metaphor for personality. It is a statement about my enjoyment of hats and that I like to wear them.
My parents were lowing across the flatness of Indiana. They cut hair. They turned wrenches. They drank beer. They ate pork. That was who they were.
I was rocketing into the sunset, traveling over the plains that had been created a millennium previous by slow and heavy glaciers.
I learned things and I became more important than I used to be, growing from the inside and shedding like a serpent. My old self could have been eaten for nutrients but it would have not been necessary thanks to the amount of prey animals. I wormed into a snake hole and gnawed on my fingernails. They were flaky because of nutrient deficiency.
Vitamin B deficiency caused deep ridges to form horizontally in my nails.
Zinc deficiency caused my cuticles to bleed at random and hangnails became chewable.
Iron deficiency caused me to become winded every time I climbed a staircase.
And every time I drank coffee I went partially insane.
I forgot about my parents and I envisioned myself growing a spine, rigid and straight.
I experienced death, which is unremarkable. I laughed, which was brash.
I invented stories about myself that included me being related to royalty, me being royalty, me being possessed by devils, me being on my last life in the karmic cycle, me being on a train in my dreams, me being an inhabitant of two universes at once connected by the brain stem, medulla, etc.
Even though my corpus callosum is a mass of tissue, like the rest of my brain, it is somehow more powerful. It connects the two hemispheres of my brain and, somehow, bridges the gap between the two. The corpus callosum is liminal. It was here in my brain when I went to France in my dreams.
I don’t hate my brain. Je ne deteste pas le grande gris. In my dreams I spoke perfect French.
Having experienced a degree of success at the hands of travel on the metaphor of a rocket, I decided that travel was necessary for me. This fact did not directly result in a rootless existence, but it contributed somewhat. This fact was a facet, like other facets.
From an early age, I found jigsaw puzzles tedious and infuriating. I enjoyed coloring books, which, from a psychoanalytical standpoint, could be interpreted as a cousin to jigsaw puzzles. This can be seen in the way in which completion of the activity occurs: filling in. Using colors or pieces. Prescribed or inscribed. Standardized tests dominated my existence as a child and this does not leave me feeling bitter.
I was a banal kid. Most kids are secretly banal.
Charlotte, North Carolina: You were never a part of my life.
Tucson, Arizona: You were never a part of my life.
Seattle, Washington: You are a mystery to me.
Idaho: You were never a part of my life.
I came to the city in search of mazes and liminal areas. I liked to walk around and so I did that often. I still do. Large bodies of water call to me. They say my name very quietly.
Sometimes I like to call my parents on the telephone while I look at large bodies of water. Rivers and lakes.
They tell about the goings on of the county and of my different relatives. I look at the water and I think about untilled cornfields and how they are both essentially the same thing. You can’t walk on them but you can swim. If you try to breathe inside, you will die and get lost forever.
The corn in Indiana grows higher than your head and requires large machines to harvest the kernels. They look like huge, mobile oilrigs. Essentially, they are that.
Whenever we finish speaking, I always make a point to say I love you. It is always sincere. I never learned to swim.
But none of these things have to do with the fact that, above all, I enjoy wearing hats. I have only three, but I enjoy them equally. This is not a metaphor for personality. It is a statement about my enjoyment of hats and that I like to wear them.
10/17/11
cont.
Inside there was the grey lamb. “And finally, Noe, we meet.” It stepped gingerly toward Noe, picking up a pine bough in its mouth. White moths were covering the lamb’s neck like a wreath. “I suppose you will be wondering what happened to Cyril, but perhaps you won’t be.” The lamb nosed the hole in Noe’s stomach and opened its mouth. A piece of honeycomb fell out onto the floor, oozing honey. “Please, have some if you like.” The old woman scooped it up and put it in a glass jar, placing it onto a shelf next to a jar of curds.
“Oh, Noe. We will eat these later.” She smelled the jar of curds wistfully. “But for now I’ll make some tea.” The lamb sat on the floor and watched. The dog shuffled over to the lamb and laid its head on the lamb’s stomach, sighing.
The old woman opened a cupboard full of small glass jars, each containing some form of dried leaves or flowers. A spice odor wafted to where they were watching. She got out four different jars and set them on the table. The kettle hissed. She made a content noise and turned the burner off. From the cupboard below the counter, she got out a medium-sized nut and a gnarled root, which she also set on the table. She hummed a few random notes as she opened other doors, gathering a large glass bowl, two smaller glass bowls, two teacups, a grater, and a bottle of exotic oil. She arrayed the implements. “Thank you for being so patient with me. I promise that the tea I’m making will be worth your wait.” She crinkled her eyes and reached for a glass jar. Just before she could open it, the lamb interrupted her.
“Do you think it would be beneficial to tell us how you’re making the tea?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, of course.” She opened the jar and smelled it. “Thank you for being so helpful. You are very kind.” She took a pinch of leaves from the jar and crushed them with her fingers. “These are stinging nettles. Whenever you brush by one with your bare skin, it stings you. To heal that burn, you can use jewelweed. But dried like this, nettles are gentle as a lamb.” She laughed airily and picked up the grater. “Ginger root is very good for the digestive system. It is very spicy, but it loves you.” She grated the ginger vigorously over the bowl. She breathed over the bowl deeply. She uttered a faint noise and reached for another jar. “Lavender cleanses your blood and refreshes your spirit.” She placed a small handful of lavender in the large bowl and reached for the next jar. She scooped a handful of dried leaves out of the jar, scattering them in the bowl. “Sassafras. Such a fun word to say.” She grinned. “Sassafras.”
“Sassafras,” said the gray lamb. The old woman laughed.
Suddenly she became very serious. “My water is getting cold, so I must be slightly hurried.” She picked up the last jar. “Raspberry blossoms and leaves.” She sprinkled a small palmful into the bowl and smelled. “Good. Now for nutmeg and cedar oil.” She measured a capful of cedar oil and poured it into the bowl. Again, with the grater, she vigorously grated an indeterminate quantity of nutmeg into the bowl. “Finished.” She stirred the contents with a wooden spoon and gently poured hot water on. The tea smelled sour and medicinal. “We should let it brew for at least ten minutes. What should we talk about in the meantime?” She turned over an egg timer.
“Oh, Noe. We will eat these later.” She smelled the jar of curds wistfully. “But for now I’ll make some tea.” The lamb sat on the floor and watched. The dog shuffled over to the lamb and laid its head on the lamb’s stomach, sighing.
The old woman opened a cupboard full of small glass jars, each containing some form of dried leaves or flowers. A spice odor wafted to where they were watching. She got out four different jars and set them on the table. The kettle hissed. She made a content noise and turned the burner off. From the cupboard below the counter, she got out a medium-sized nut and a gnarled root, which she also set on the table. She hummed a few random notes as she opened other doors, gathering a large glass bowl, two smaller glass bowls, two teacups, a grater, and a bottle of exotic oil. She arrayed the implements. “Thank you for being so patient with me. I promise that the tea I’m making will be worth your wait.” She crinkled her eyes and reached for a glass jar. Just before she could open it, the lamb interrupted her.
“Do you think it would be beneficial to tell us how you’re making the tea?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, of course.” She opened the jar and smelled it. “Thank you for being so helpful. You are very kind.” She took a pinch of leaves from the jar and crushed them with her fingers. “These are stinging nettles. Whenever you brush by one with your bare skin, it stings you. To heal that burn, you can use jewelweed. But dried like this, nettles are gentle as a lamb.” She laughed airily and picked up the grater. “Ginger root is very good for the digestive system. It is very spicy, but it loves you.” She grated the ginger vigorously over the bowl. She breathed over the bowl deeply. She uttered a faint noise and reached for another jar. “Lavender cleanses your blood and refreshes your spirit.” She placed a small handful of lavender in the large bowl and reached for the next jar. She scooped a handful of dried leaves out of the jar, scattering them in the bowl. “Sassafras. Such a fun word to say.” She grinned. “Sassafras.”
“Sassafras,” said the gray lamb. The old woman laughed.
Suddenly she became very serious. “My water is getting cold, so I must be slightly hurried.” She picked up the last jar. “Raspberry blossoms and leaves.” She sprinkled a small palmful into the bowl and smelled. “Good. Now for nutmeg and cedar oil.” She measured a capful of cedar oil and poured it into the bowl. Again, with the grater, she vigorously grated an indeterminate quantity of nutmeg into the bowl. “Finished.” She stirred the contents with a wooden spoon and gently poured hot water on. The tea smelled sour and medicinal. “We should let it brew for at least ten minutes. What should we talk about in the meantime?” She turned over an egg timer.
10/10/11
The gray lamb was still in the brambles, but Noe was in the clearing in his dream. He sat on the leaves and patted the hole in his stomach. Flowers were growing very plentifully inside. He plucked several and smelled them. They smelled just like raspberry flowers. He ate one. It tasted exactly like a raspberry flower. He waited for something to happen, but he didn’t know what he ought to expect. He clenched a handful of grass in his fist and ripped it out of the ground. The gray lamb bounded in from out of the shadows and nosed his hand. It whispered to him. “Feed me that grass,” it said. Noe did this. “Now follow me, young man.” Noe did this.
They walked together toward the edge of the clearing until the lamb stopped suddenly. “Turn around. What do you see?”
Noe looked at the clearing. There was the mound of leaves, the small bit of grass he tore out of the ground, a circle of petals, the vial. Samara.
“Now, go get the samara and the vial. These are symbolic of things you are clearing out of your consciousness. You are, per usual, asleep, but you won’t wake up just yet.” The lamb opened its mouth. Noe placed some of the pine seeds and the vial in the lamb’s mouth. “Yes,” it said. “Now, walk with me.” They walked into the woods. The lamb disappeared behind a tree. “But, young man with the hole in his stomach, I have not disappeared behind a tree. You won’t be able to see me here. I am only visible in there.” Something near his feet rustled. “I will erase that place.”
Noe was afraid, and the voice of the lamb was not comforting. He indicated his fear with his thoughts. “Hush,” said the lamb. “You see, I have eaten you, but you couldn’t possibly realize it yet. Don’t think yourself a fool for this. You simply couldn’t have known.” The lamb laughed a bit, which caused the woods to tremble. “You are dreaming.” The lamb seemed to whisper in Noe’s ear, “I am also dreaming. We are dreaming together, you having been eaten by me. Now, walk that way.” Light rose in the woods, revealing the moss on the trees. “North,” said the lamb. Noe followed the moss.
He walked for what seemed like hours until he came to a small, odorless flower. It grew slightly as he approached. It was slightly pink with a deep red center. Its petals flexed gingerly against one another and arranged to form some kind of mouth analog. When the flower spoke, it was the voice of the lamb. “This is not what you think.”
They walked together toward the edge of the clearing until the lamb stopped suddenly. “Turn around. What do you see?”
Noe looked at the clearing. There was the mound of leaves, the small bit of grass he tore out of the ground, a circle of petals, the vial. Samara.
“Now, go get the samara and the vial. These are symbolic of things you are clearing out of your consciousness. You are, per usual, asleep, but you won’t wake up just yet.” The lamb opened its mouth. Noe placed some of the pine seeds and the vial in the lamb’s mouth. “Yes,” it said. “Now, walk with me.” They walked into the woods. The lamb disappeared behind a tree. “But, young man with the hole in his stomach, I have not disappeared behind a tree. You won’t be able to see me here. I am only visible in there.” Something near his feet rustled. “I will erase that place.”
Noe was afraid, and the voice of the lamb was not comforting. He indicated his fear with his thoughts. “Hush,” said the lamb. “You see, I have eaten you, but you couldn’t possibly realize it yet. Don’t think yourself a fool for this. You simply couldn’t have known.” The lamb laughed a bit, which caused the woods to tremble. “You are dreaming.” The lamb seemed to whisper in Noe’s ear, “I am also dreaming. We are dreaming together, you having been eaten by me. Now, walk that way.” Light rose in the woods, revealing the moss on the trees. “North,” said the lamb. Noe followed the moss.
He walked for what seemed like hours until he came to a small, odorless flower. It grew slightly as he approached. It was slightly pink with a deep red center. Its petals flexed gingerly against one another and arranged to form some kind of mouth analog. When the flower spoke, it was the voice of the lamb. “This is not what you think.”
7/31/11
Dream scene
In his dreams one night, he saw a gray lamb looking away from him. It lay on a small mound of red and yellow leaves in the center of a clearing. When he approached, it turned its head to look at him. It bent its head toward the ground and opened its mouth. Flower petals fell out of the lamb’s mouth, settling to the ground in a perfect ring. Lastly, a small vial fell out of the lamb’s mouth. The young man knelt to take the lamb’s head in his arms, sensing that it was the most appropriate thing to do. The lamb whispered to the young man in a very deep voice.
“Who are you, young man?”
“I am the young man with a hole in my abdomen,” he replied.
The lamb drew back its head to observe and consider him. “Look at me,” the lamb said. He looked, and the lamb had a wreath of long-needled pine boughs around its neck. “Take the samara from this wreath, please.” He took a pinecone and felt its roughness. The young man was bewildered. The lamb nestled its head in the young man’s lap. When the lamb breathed, it smelled exactly like raspberry blossoms, which the young man had smelled before.
He remembered the vial and glanced at it, lying in the ring of flower petals. The lamb shifted slightly. “The secret is to dry it,” the lamb said. The sky quickly darkened.
The lamb slowly rose from its bed of leaves and walked into the forest. The young man stood but he couldn’t follow. He woke up.
“Who are you, young man?”
“I am the young man with a hole in my abdomen,” he replied.
The lamb drew back its head to observe and consider him. “Look at me,” the lamb said. He looked, and the lamb had a wreath of long-needled pine boughs around its neck. “Take the samara from this wreath, please.” He took a pinecone and felt its roughness. The young man was bewildered. The lamb nestled its head in the young man’s lap. When the lamb breathed, it smelled exactly like raspberry blossoms, which the young man had smelled before.
He remembered the vial and glanced at it, lying in the ring of flower petals. The lamb shifted slightly. “The secret is to dry it,” the lamb said. The sky quickly darkened.
The lamb slowly rose from its bed of leaves and walked into the forest. The young man stood but he couldn’t follow. He woke up.
7/17/11
Melons
Before the archer became a famous marksman, he drove heavy wooden stakes into the ground for the utility of his growing melons. He would wrap their vines around the stakes in order to support their weight. Over time, the vines became thick indeed, the fibers becoming useful materials in the making of his bowstrings.
A lady entered his garden one afternoon. "You are the marksman, yes?"
He replied: "Yes. May I ask your business?"
"I was merely passing your garden and I noticed your melons, which are of particular repute, and I decided to declare myself to you." She tossed her hair testily with one hand.
"I see. Forgive me, I meant to be more kind than how I likely had seemed presently."
"Indeed, I was for a moment rather cross," she admitted.
He shuffled his feet, unsure of what he ought to indicate.
She pecked at the ground with the toe of one shoe.
They exchanged pleasant smiles as they parted ways.
The archer went indoors and worked on his spindle for some hours, sucking on hunks of chilled melon in the meantime. His distraction caused him to drip some juice onto the line he was spinning, which frayed slightly. As he was finely braiding the bowstring, he failed to notice the tiny flaw in the line. He strung his bow with that particular bowstring, tugging it to test its tensile properties. It seemed to withstand the normal amount of tension, which resulted in his inability to see the imperfection.
He placed his bow onto its hook and sat at his table, where bread and olive oil were placed prominently. He tore a chunk from the bread with his bare hands (red from the spindle work) and he poured a relatively small portion of oil into a dish. He chewed, musing, and produced pen and paper. He wrote the following poem.
If you were indeed a star
I would test by pulling on your thread
to see if you were robust enough
for my hands, for my hands so red.
My hands are red from the spindle.
My hands are red from the earth.
My hands are red from the mother's mark
which was given to me upon birth.
The light was failing, and he extinguished his candle, retiring to bed.
The following morning, he woke and walked into town, carrying his bow. It was the day of a competition, and he imagined that he would see her there, the woman from just the day before. He attempted to maintain his usual focus, but was moderately unsuccessful.
Arriving at the competition grounds, he found his nerves a bit jangled. So he asked a man sitting at a table beneath a tent for a draught of something a bit harried. Having drunk it, the archer felt quite at ease.
A horn sounded, and it was time to begin. He hoisted his bow and strode to his place, marked with a "V" for his first name.
He placed his feet a shoulderwidth apart and arranged the bow properly in his hands, pulling from the quiver that he had set on the ground. He aimed, sensing his heartbeat. Between beats, he shot a very straight arrow into the center of the target and received an expected and welcome round of applause. The apples of his cheeks reddened a bit in pride.
Another archer with a yellow hat achieved a similar level of applause tempered with surprise, for no one had thought that the marksman and his melonstrung bow would be bested by a dandy in a yellow hat.
After two or so occasions of similar description, the archer finally noticed the fault in his bowstring. He worried, as the man in the yellow hat was decidedly close to his record. He was worried, but he stilled his heart.
In a moment of brashness, the man in the yellow hat aimed too hastily and missed the target completely. The arrow stuck itself deeply into the earth, standing and quivering slightly. The man in the yellow hat cursed significantly and scoffed at the target and the crowd, who stood aghast.
The archer took aim and felt the creaking bowstring fraying within. The condition of his bowstring was deteriorating rapidly and he sought to end the match as soon as he could so that he could return home to his small house and his melons. He thought of his garden, which also contained various hydrangeas and peonies, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He relaxed his bowstring. Something inside the string snapped, but the string retained its tensity. The crowd grew abnormally silent. He breathed deeply and took aim once again. He did so without opening his eyes. He opened his eyes and saw the target, which loomed. He waited for his heart to calm, stretched his bowstring, and (upon the heartbeat) let an arrow fly. It sailed deep into the target, just to the right of the center. The crowd was excited.
The bowstring snapped, lashing his eye. Silently, the archer returned home. He slept.
Several days later, a trophy arrived at his home, engraved with a feminine hand. He placed the trophy in his garden, filling it with earth and planting a thistle in the center of its cup.
Once, he tasted the thistle's milk. It tasted of rose and honey.
A lady entered his garden one afternoon. "You are the marksman, yes?"
He replied: "Yes. May I ask your business?"
"I was merely passing your garden and I noticed your melons, which are of particular repute, and I decided to declare myself to you." She tossed her hair testily with one hand.
"I see. Forgive me, I meant to be more kind than how I likely had seemed presently."
"Indeed, I was for a moment rather cross," she admitted.
He shuffled his feet, unsure of what he ought to indicate.
She pecked at the ground with the toe of one shoe.
They exchanged pleasant smiles as they parted ways.
The archer went indoors and worked on his spindle for some hours, sucking on hunks of chilled melon in the meantime. His distraction caused him to drip some juice onto the line he was spinning, which frayed slightly. As he was finely braiding the bowstring, he failed to notice the tiny flaw in the line. He strung his bow with that particular bowstring, tugging it to test its tensile properties. It seemed to withstand the normal amount of tension, which resulted in his inability to see the imperfection.
He placed his bow onto its hook and sat at his table, where bread and olive oil were placed prominently. He tore a chunk from the bread with his bare hands (red from the spindle work) and he poured a relatively small portion of oil into a dish. He chewed, musing, and produced pen and paper. He wrote the following poem.
If you were indeed a star
I would test by pulling on your thread
to see if you were robust enough
for my hands, for my hands so red.
My hands are red from the spindle.
My hands are red from the earth.
My hands are red from the mother's mark
which was given to me upon birth.
The light was failing, and he extinguished his candle, retiring to bed.
The following morning, he woke and walked into town, carrying his bow. It was the day of a competition, and he imagined that he would see her there, the woman from just the day before. He attempted to maintain his usual focus, but was moderately unsuccessful.
Arriving at the competition grounds, he found his nerves a bit jangled. So he asked a man sitting at a table beneath a tent for a draught of something a bit harried. Having drunk it, the archer felt quite at ease.
A horn sounded, and it was time to begin. He hoisted his bow and strode to his place, marked with a "V" for his first name.
He placed his feet a shoulderwidth apart and arranged the bow properly in his hands, pulling from the quiver that he had set on the ground. He aimed, sensing his heartbeat. Between beats, he shot a very straight arrow into the center of the target and received an expected and welcome round of applause. The apples of his cheeks reddened a bit in pride.
Another archer with a yellow hat achieved a similar level of applause tempered with surprise, for no one had thought that the marksman and his melonstrung bow would be bested by a dandy in a yellow hat.
After two or so occasions of similar description, the archer finally noticed the fault in his bowstring. He worried, as the man in the yellow hat was decidedly close to his record. He was worried, but he stilled his heart.
In a moment of brashness, the man in the yellow hat aimed too hastily and missed the target completely. The arrow stuck itself deeply into the earth, standing and quivering slightly. The man in the yellow hat cursed significantly and scoffed at the target and the crowd, who stood aghast.
The archer took aim and felt the creaking bowstring fraying within. The condition of his bowstring was deteriorating rapidly and he sought to end the match as soon as he could so that he could return home to his small house and his melons. He thought of his garden, which also contained various hydrangeas and peonies, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He relaxed his bowstring. Something inside the string snapped, but the string retained its tensity. The crowd grew abnormally silent. He breathed deeply and took aim once again. He did so without opening his eyes. He opened his eyes and saw the target, which loomed. He waited for his heart to calm, stretched his bowstring, and (upon the heartbeat) let an arrow fly. It sailed deep into the target, just to the right of the center. The crowd was excited.
The bowstring snapped, lashing his eye. Silently, the archer returned home. He slept.
Several days later, a trophy arrived at his home, engraved with a feminine hand. He placed the trophy in his garden, filling it with earth and planting a thistle in the center of its cup.
Once, he tasted the thistle's milk. It tasted of rose and honey.
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