neelam johal @ models 1
the house of the rising sun. nimue smit by nick dorey for twin #05.
Girl catching the train after Kyūdō (Japanese archery) practice in Kyoto, Japan.
When Daddy comes in, he carries you to bed. Is there anything you feel like you could eat, Pokey? Anything at all?
All you can imagine putting in your mouth is a cold plum, one with really tight skin on the outside but gum-shocking sweetness inside. And he and your mother discuss where he might find some this late in the season. Mother says hell I don’t know. Further north, I’d guess.
The next morning, you wake up in your bed and sit up. Mother says, Pete, I think she’s up. He hollers in, You ready for breakfast, Pokey. Then he comes in grinning, still in his work clothes from the night before. He’s holding a farm bushel. The plums he empties onto the bed river toward you through folds in the quilt. If you stacked them up, they’d fill the deepest bin at the Piggly Wiggly.
Damned if I didn’t get the urge to drive to Arkansas last night, he says.
Your mother stands behind him saying he’s pure USDA crazy.
Fort Smith, Arkansas. Found a roadside stand out there with a feller selling plums. And I says, Buddy, I got a little girl sick back in Texas. She’s got a hanker for plums and ain’t nothing else gonna do.
It’s when you sink your teeth into the plum that you make a promise. The skin is still warm from riding in the sun in Daddy’s truck, and the nectar runs down your chin.
And you snap out of it. Or are snapped out of it. Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not so long as there are plums to eat and somebody-anybody-who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you. So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens or pinches, only rolling abundance. That’s how you acquire the resolution for survival that the coming years are about to demand. You don’t earn it. It’s given.
natasha poly by alasdair mclellan, 2007
Do you ever feel like this is a performance and experiment all at the same time? Living i mean? Also whats an amazing sandwich you can imagine?
sometimes you almost have to pretend that life’s a big ol’ performance. this is avery fizzy, poppy, clink-clink-clink world we’ve found ourselves in, you know? everything moves in cyclic motions. moon, whales, sun. water falls, picks itself up, gathers itself in its arms and then falls again. an entire performance piece where the end goal, the climax, the final scene is completely unwritten and the entire planet the entirety of humanity is working together very quietly to maintain homeostasis, equilibrium, this equals that, keeping the log rolling while we spin endlessly over it trying not to fall. we are, perhaps, the clunkiest bits of the world. we keep dropping china on linoleum floors! we hurdle ourselves over one another, over bridges, cross oceans over metal stilts and then end up right back on land. we are creatures of such habit and such cyclic motion. we are capable of such destruction, such mass, terrible destruction. but we are also capable of such small, simple and complex loves. it’s a beautiful thing, the performance piece of our little human existence. i enjoy it very much, yes i do yes.
and as for sandwiches: tomato foccacia with turkey and pepper jack, toasted with lettuce, tomato, and honey mustard.
thank you for asking. you are very valuable to our ecosystem!
christophe lemaire autumn—winter ‘14