Though disjointed it may be, a story.

Well at least I think it might be.. I really dont do stories, at least not very well.

 

          

 

“There is life or death in the power of the tongue”

How flippantly her jacket was tossed to the back seat amid tangled strung agate wind chimes, laid so carefully as to prevent their slamming upon themselves where they would surely shatter as coloured glass would. Yet they chime like finely tuned bells when dangling safe from the ceiling with every window thrown open to soft spring breezes laden with the fragrance of wattle, as golden as the sun’s fresh appearance.

            Do you know what wattle means to us here? It’s botanical name Acacia pycnantha, derived from the Greek akis “a point”, pycnos “close, thick, crowded” and anthos, meaning “Flower/s” something to do with mateship when you look at it from an Australian perspective, makes me wonder more and more about poppies that though grow in masses, seem kind of alone. We have a nifty little attitude in this country called “tall poppy syndrome” actually I think it might be British, it’s funny how on one hand people are flogged to excel yet any genuine merit becomes so unbecoming to the masses of subordinate. Green and gold, acid tolerant, will grow in a wide range of well drained soils (Or in other words partial desert) but is a short lived tree, they only grow between 4 to 8 meters, shadowed by the tall eucalypts, it’s a little tree just like us really.   

“This I remember
And shall not soon forget
How in September,
When the low hills were wet
With rain and mornings still were silver-cold,
The wattle loosened wave on wave of gold.”

"Cootamundra Wattles : Written Abroad" Ernest Moll.

             That wave lifts the grey that forms their leaves, and the grey upon our skin, that spring has soaked with golden hue to tempt from room and hall within, out beneath the clear mild sky beneath the Southern Cross, people gather all about amid winter’s remnant moss. The days are active, and the nights are charged, with the comfort of hearths still warm, embers continued glow, least until late November’s scorn.   

            My child reminded me of spring time recently, that it was here in full show, not that it could be missed, she asked me again “What was my first word?”, I remember the day as clear as it were yesterday, she, sitting on my outstretched leg, in the sun, with plains and plains of soft lush grass stretched all around us almost pink with late summer seed and off into the blue hazy foots hills to the distance. She reached out with all her effort to a dandelion, a little weed, but ever so bright, and with all her might plucked it then offered her effort to me with a huge grin and said.... “Flower”, though it was almost autumn at that moment it was springtime under clear blue skies, windless still, a moment so easy to freeze forever.

            Like a breath of scream; she has been

thrawing benevolence into places it never seemed to fit before.

Regress progress; the wattle, mate-ships, friend-ships, the everlasting sort just like paper daisies dotting desolate landscapes... Golden wattle, you can cut it down, you can mow it to the ground, and it will grow, you can rob it of the sun for years, it will grow, you can burn it, it will still grow. It’s the epitome of something that will always be there, all though the year it will have moments where it’s so very grey even blue, but it will always come out and shine, it will always shine, it will always look grey, unassuming, plain, then when its bleak and has been for what seems the longest time it bursts no longer able to contain itself.

So you know, we don’t care what creature of force your national emblem might be, how high and mighty you may sit or what immortal sign or symbol you fly, we’re not looking for immortality, just unbreakable bonds for the short time we’re here, no matter where those bonds might be.

Author's Note

Oh well, I tried the story thing. =P Put it up took it down ahhhhh.

Reviews

[Solst Rapture]

I'm doing this in pieces. I'll comment after each section, or paragraph if you like.

1) I thoroughly enjoy your descriptions. They have that poetic nature to them. The only problem I have is with sentence structure and grammar. I think it is well worth looking at it because the first paragraph has the potential to be very captivating. Don't get me wrong, it is already captivating, but it could be more so. I understand agate but wonder if the word strung is absolutely necessary? I think it's better without. The idea of tangled, glass or marble wind chimes is vivid and I expect, significant. All in all, a very rich opening. That's the last I'll talk of structure and grammar, I promise, unless you want more help with it.

2) I'm trying to be really objective here, otherwise you might doubt me, but it's hard when all I really have a problem with is the mechanics. The 'you' or that thing, that tone, that entity that is pushing these feelings onto me, is awesome. I think you're a bit like a rough diamond. This next paragraph has a great sense of character in it. There are a lot of unusual, never before read (In my case) facts and ideas that really intrigue the reader. I also think the symbolism of the little tree creates a great perspective of the narrator. There's lots of promising signs in this second paragraph but, I don't think a reader can travel in any of the directions these signs are pointing. I love the rhetoric and the introduction of bigger themes, like for example the power battle resulting in subordination to one extent or the other and I found myself wanting to know how important the 'tall' was in 'tall poppy syndrome'. I understood the loneliness aspect of it, but you had my attention and then kind of (in my mind) smiles and wondered away from me. I still want to know about poppy syndrome. You kind of glided over these ideas remarkably, almost like the wind would and left me slightly cooler, refreshed even, but soon the intense heat of reality came back to me. I was reading words on a computer screen. What I'm saying is I think your missing a trick. You have more to give, particularly here, in this paragraph.

3) The poem. What a nice touch. I haven't tried this type of story yet, but imagine I will do. I have ideas about it and I think it opens the story write up into other dimensions. For a moment I have every opportunity to divert and loose myself in my own ambiguity. Great addition. It compliments your style of writing, however, it almost points out how much more we could have from you. The poems neatness stands out, if you follow?

4) I personally like this next paragraph of poetry, or exceptional prose, but I'm not sure it ties anything together. The next line of Paragraph 5 is a great beginning but I mention it here wondering if that prose/poetry, in the story, would make better sense to have been stimulated by the child? I think it'd work nicely.

5) I really began to build up a world based on this paragraph. The characterization, although brief, was completely endearing. It strengthens my idea that the bit before would fit better afterwards, or at least needs thinking about.

6) This is a complex paragraph. I bet you are laughing at me right now. You have something very definite that is being said and I absolutely want to hear it, but I don't think it was clear enough. It was proper poetic prose again, enigmatic, almost artistically brilliant. I felt like a heavy bosom, dressed in cotton, perfumed to excess, were pressed against my face. on one hand I'm in heaven, on the other, I was drowning, over powered, forgotten.

This has been a brief review but let me tell you, I think you deserve my time. There is something very culpable here and I think it might just be your natural flare for infusing the poetic with the narrative of a story. There were glimpses of really enjoyable, enveloping writing. I'm just not sure if it should be a story or prose poetry. Either way, there needs to be some more engineering. It has been more enjoyable than most of what I have read on the course so far. I'm not blowing air up you. I enjoyed it.

"...dangling safe from the ceiling with every window thrown open to soft spring breezes laden with the fragrance of wattle, as golden as the sun's fresh appearance."

"the day as clear as it were yesterday, she, sitting on my outstretched leg, in the sun, with plains and plains of soft lush grass stretched all around us almost pink with late summer seed and off into the blue hazy foots hills to the distance."

"She reached out with all her effort to a dandelion, a little weed, but ever so bright, and with all her might plucked it then offered her effort to me with a huge grin and said.... "Flower", though it was almost autumn at that moment it was springtime under clear blue skies, windless still, a moment so easy to freeze forever."

Just a bit of what I liked. Take care, bye for now.