This is just a silly moan about the washing machine.Thoroughly enjoyed writing it, though!
The Washing Machine:
The machine glares at me with its single eye or -rather - I should say, the socket where any wholesome creature would have an eye. No, the machine stares at me with its empty cavity like a vulture eying (no pun intended) its prey. The small screen in the upper right hand corner is lit up with a single word. The letters are built out of a series of lines, like matchsticks laid out on a table. With all the advances in technology, you'd have thought scientists would have mastered the curves in letters. But no, the word 'End' flashes at me with all the spikiness of a particularly displeased shitzu. 'End'...'End'...'End'. An apocalyptic warning from a kitchen appliance. 'End'...'End'...'End'.
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Annie Lennox, The Lord of the Rings and One Happy Nerd...
Just thought I might share with you the beautiful song, 'Into the West' sung by the ineffable, Annie Lennox (a heroine if I ever saw one)! I am a 'ringer' , as Lord of the Rings fans are so lovingly named, and have a love for all things Lennox-y so I may be a little biased, but - as a musician also - I think this song is simply beautiful.
Why not , while I'm at it, share 'Gollum's Song', sung by Bjork inspired, Emiliana Torrini.
The Dollhouse (Original Writing)
This is a piece of my own original writing; just a bit of whimsy from the cavernous pit that is my mind!
The Dollhouse:
Half past seven. The sky is blank. Like someone has taken a lid off of the world. The wind has died, finally expired from the heat of the midday sun, or -perhaps- is hiding over the edge of the horizon, tying a garter around the world. Or maybe, seeing the abyss above so empty and expansive, it has merely run away, escaped the atmosphere forever, never to return. I think I might miss the summer breeze - our Earth's most flighty mistress.
Ten-thirty. The Gods, seeing that their dollhouse has lost its roof, have thrown a blanket over the world to disguise its nakedness. We can still feel it, the sucking vacuum above, but it is good to see the familiar peppering of sequins glinting and winking from their lofty thrones.
Half past four in the morning. Somewhere, there seems to be a great yawn as an old oak tree rustles up its feathers for the day. The branches sway a little from side to side and it is with the tumultuous upheaval of the sun that the wind makes her not-so-secret return.
Twelve o'clock. All is well. The horizon has slithered away into some dark forgotten corner. The sky and the sea, forever competitors, now seem to merge into a seamless mass of blue, polka-dotted here and there with cloud or surf. The wind, as if emboldened by her absence, friskily plays amongst the hill tops. And somewhere -far, far above -a child rummages under the bed, brushes away the dust, and puts the lid back on the Universe.
The Dollhouse:
Half past seven. The sky is blank. Like someone has taken a lid off of the world. The wind has died, finally expired from the heat of the midday sun, or -perhaps- is hiding over the edge of the horizon, tying a garter around the world. Or maybe, seeing the abyss above so empty and expansive, it has merely run away, escaped the atmosphere forever, never to return. I think I might miss the summer breeze - our Earth's most flighty mistress.
Ten-thirty. The Gods, seeing that their dollhouse has lost its roof, have thrown a blanket over the world to disguise its nakedness. We can still feel it, the sucking vacuum above, but it is good to see the familiar peppering of sequins glinting and winking from their lofty thrones.
Half past four in the morning. Somewhere, there seems to be a great yawn as an old oak tree rustles up its feathers for the day. The branches sway a little from side to side and it is with the tumultuous upheaval of the sun that the wind makes her not-so-secret return.
Twelve o'clock. All is well. The horizon has slithered away into some dark forgotten corner. The sky and the sea, forever competitors, now seem to merge into a seamless mass of blue, polka-dotted here and there with cloud or surf. The wind, as if emboldened by her absence, friskily plays amongst the hill tops. And somewhere -far, far above -a child rummages under the bed, brushes away the dust, and puts the lid back on the Universe.
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