It’s easy to smile at the Moon, harder at the Sun. The reflected light of the former gently hits all kinds of eyes, stars dotting the dark expanse all around it, or clouds passing through, their real color unknown to our spectrum. The Sun makes it all much harder, your face ends up all scrunched up, eyes squinting, as if something else was there to decipher. Is Love a Sun or a Moon? What do I want Love to be in the end? Galehot brought Lancelot and Guinevere together and he thought he was doing his friend a good turn, but they never should have kissed, and those old novels are mostly incoherent in their development from beginning till end. Then while Streisand defended her right to be a woman in love, it was over timeless songs in a castle in southern France, there to recreate the Middle Ages, without the wild, without the irrational, for dazed travellers. Time never cuts it quite right, does it?, and the longer a kiss is held, the more it seems to us to be of any worth. But if eternity is in the moment, as we’re gratified to quote from Spinoza, then duration shouldn’t matter. It’s a trap we like, apparently.
She liked the smell of eggs in the morning, not their taste; so he had them and she was happy. The steaming cup of coffee was for her; he preferred tea. Looking out, she had to admit that the pomegranate tree was the most beautiful tree in the world, its green greener than green, and the shape of its leaves so delicate. She also prayed, without religion, that if routine ever crept in, then lightning could strike her – under her favorite tree! – although, wait, lying there on the grass, a branch of the magnolia would intrude un-aesthetically on the shade of the pomegranate, and she liked the magnolia but that branch was so irregular! She got up and made for the garden. “You’re not making much sense…” And she stopped, wondering if the voice she’d heard was his, or the sweet abstract buzz of those who have gone but can still communicate.
In response to: https://fivedotoh.com/2018/10/24/fowc-with-fandango-abstract/
For a long time there had been no reason to do it up. Now it was essential. Who would come to such a secluded spot but with modern conveniences? Inherited deadweight would now sparkle again. The actors checked in a few hours before the opening, to reenact historical deeds. Their makeup glistened in the stage- and moon- light. Somebody’s eyes met and bodies twinkled after the memorized lines and the welcoming of guests. Much later one was still welcoming; the other crying made-up tears in the glare of 19th century lamps. But scintillating coincidences had definitely worked their charm.
In response to: https://carrotranch.com/2018/06/08/june-7-flash-fiction-challenge/
Because they’d lit a fire, dancing shadows of a black hue were being cast onto the orangey reflections of the floor, the walls and a stretch of the ceiling. The fire crackled in the old fireplace of majolica tiles with scenes of rural life and two birds joining beaks in an intertwining of summery branches full of leaves and tiny flowers. It all felt warm and gave off a scent of happiness. They were fools who didn’t know what was happening to themselves. By tacit agreement they closed their eyes and reopened them as a vehicle passing by in the street outside swirled flashes of white light through the cracks in the closed shutters. Subdued noise. Everything felt like orange-flavoured chocolate. Then the friends came, and the music played slowly – a transfer to lyrics and chords of major and minor. The distant city lights glistened, stealing the light of stars.