Skip to main content

We should never lose an occasion. Opportunity is more powerful even than conquerors and prophets.


Water jets in Franklin Square, Winter '09.

Theme Thursday today, and what a task I have! The theme is RHYTHM, so I set myself the goal this morning of penning a lightning fast drabble on today’s them on my way to work on the bus this morning. Alas, my trusty notebook was elsewhere! Thus, I fished out a receipt from the fresh fruit market in Salamanca [APPLES GRANNY SMITH SML KG], and set about squeezing out 100 words on the back.

I’m glad to say that I had the requisite number done and dusted by the time I hit the bridge and was able to dip back in to Dame Rebecca West’s interesting little tale The Return of the Soldier.

Let’s take the easy way out and call this one RHYTHM.
The rhythm of their relationship was a familiar one.

He worshipped her, she loathed him. He adored her, she was disgusted. He would whisper the sweetest, gentlest paeans of his affection into her lovely ear as they made love, and she would shun his offerings a cat might a command. When he arrived home, he kissed her. She gouged at his skin with her nails.

He would give, she would take. He loved her, and she hated him for it. He loved her, and he hated himself for it.

It was the rhythm of this connection that kept them together.

Comments

Skip Simpson said…
I've had a few relationships like that myself. Great post! Thank you!
Betsy Brock said…
And what's that other rhythm I hear in the background? OH...that's him beating his head against the wall! ha!
Brian Miller said…
yep. all too familiar a tale. nice fountains...
jerrypuke said…
great story and great pic.
Anonymous said…
So often I've neglected to take my book along and end up frantically searching for a scrap of paper, on which to scribble...would be worse if I ever cleaned the car, regularly-LOL!
Jackie said…
Ooh I really really like this photo. Fantastic stuff.
Mike said…
Been there, done that! LOL!
Well it takes two to...tango, right ;)

xoxo
Baino said…
Weird relationship . . great pic. . .sorry I'm a visual person.Honestly? I've never had a relationship like that.
Wings1295 said…
Sounds like my relationship with crappy flicks! ;)
e said…
Happily, I can say, I've never been there or done that! Thanks for your post!
JeffScape said…
Love that photo. Love it.
the rhythym is going to get them...time to change to a new tune.
Sara said…
I am always amazed at how the ugliest of realities is wrapped in the loveliest of prose. Delicious!
What a familiar snapshot of life in those words. And what a beautiful snapshot of the rhythm of water...
Kris McCracken said…
Thanks to all for your comments. Rather busy today!

Popular posts from this blog

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral