![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The Story So Far
Oct. 14th, 2020 11:31 amA dream I had...
Maybe in the watery city of Venice, some watery world near the river Seine, lived a family, mother Grace, daughter Page, a boy named Oscar Wilde and me, Ernest. But the place they lived looked more like Paris along the river. The mother worked somewhere to return each day on a magic carriage pulled by horses on the river, under a bridge that joins two shores of sandstone apartments that line the riverbanks.
A birds eye view of Grace on her magic sleigh pulled by horses as if landing on the river, passing under the bridge and then coming to rest at the shore was like some magic fairytale.
They lived in a flat in one of the sandstone buildings along that happy isle. Just one of many dwellers occupying those old structures from over 100 years.
Page and Oscar were sometimes lost in the shuffle and bustle of everyday life, but they always had one another to watch after them and to watch after. Despite her busy comings and goings, their mother was ever pervasive.
I on the other hand often felt like an observer to the day to day occurrences even knowing that was family, would become self absorbed in thoughts and their connections to the seemingly broken fragments of life, of which I only witnessed partly from my personal point of view. There was a much larger perspective to life than that I was ever privy to. Always something or someone hidden just slightly out of view that I could catch glimpses out of the corner of my eye from time to time.
It was autumn and everyone was dressed in warm woollens and waistcoats to suit the season, and keep the chill out of our bones as we hid in the dim corridors of ancient buildings. I often wondered what that kind of life would have been like, myself having grown up in a rural settlement of wooden boxes and snowy landscapes.
There is a warmth to a city that is like a beating heart keeping it alive. If you listen you can hear the rhythm of the city in background, which we often refer to just as noise.
So there we were, going about our lives, when I happened to wander into a vestibule like a space that joins the living area from the sleeping world where dreams were managed in the maize of the apartment. The vestibule was classic renaissance of sage green walls and ceiling, with a set of cabinets against the left wall, when walking towards the bedrooms and the hall that joins them all.
I saw a small puddle on the tile floor that seemed like a thick green liquid, which I grabbed a rag and mopped, wondering what it was. Had someone spilled some agent on the floor and not noticed or not bothered to mop it up? I was forever noticing tiny anomalies in my world and trying to set them right, like some Virgo father, obsessed with the banalities of life. Everything perfect in its place and a place for everything.
It was difficult to tell whether the puddle of goo was green in itself or because of the reflection of the colour from the walls in that enclosed space. Like in a movie, there was not lamp on the ceiling, just a magically lit room ready for filming.
As I stood there pondering the situation, Grace happened to walk in from the bedroom hall and ask what I was doing. Grace always kept tabs on everything, but it was my task to do something about them. That was the balance we found in our relationship to play into the other’s strength without driving one another mad. I told her I just wiped up a strange puddle from the floor as I looked up to the ceiling to find that was from where it was coming. Another drop of liquid had formed on the ceiling ready to drop and spot the floor. the ceiling also seemed to be sagging. Grace quickly took a broom handle and pushed at the ceiling at the point of the drop to find that it surely was sagging and that she hadn’t to press at it, in the event the whole ceiling might collapse.
As we moved into the living room to argue over what to do and where the liquid might be coming from, having overheard us, Page suddenly wide eyed in astonishment made the comment that she and Oscar Wilde had been up on the boulevard standing on the sidewalk where the garage was and there was green water pooled out on the sidewalk. She said she opened the door to see where the water had come from to find the garage floor also pooled in the same green water, the colour of smoke green crystal. It became suddenly clear as to where the leak had been coming from, since the garage was a stage above the living space of the apartment, it made sense that the water could be finding its way into the ceiling and dripping into the vestibule. I assured Page that her strange discovery did not make her to blame for the phenomenon of water dripping from the ceiling, but the though of an entire pool of water trying to drain into our apartment was of great concern on how to remedy the situation. First of all, where did that water come from? Was there a drain that was plugged or some source of water break that needed tending.
The next thing in my memory, Oscar Wilde and I were outside on the avenue having coffee and croissants, with hot chocolate for Oscar, when Page and Grace pull up in the magic carriage on the river with a box of gifts to disperse to their intended recipients. The packages inside the box were crudely wrapped as if a child had made them, and the writing on them was cryptic and one could only guess for who they were intended. They were a thank you, apparently from Page, through Grace for having successfully achieved some modicum of normality. We stood fascinated at what might be in the obscure packages, while trying to guess for whom they were intended. I might as well have been reading French and guessing what the writing meant. But little Page seemed to know for who each was addressed and handed them to everyone who was within short distance.
And then I suddenly awoke to a woodpecker knocking at my window, thinking it was Grace pawing at the door, coming to ask when I should wake and come to breakfast. In the world of Grace, time was always negotiable.
π (pi) ku
Maybe in the watery city of Venice, some watery world near the river Seine, lived a family, mother Grace, daughter Page, a boy named Oscar Wilde and me, Ernest. But the place they lived looked more like Paris along the river. The mother worked somewhere to return each day on a magic carriage pulled by horses on the river, under a bridge that joins two shores of sandstone apartments that line the riverbanks.
A birds eye view of Grace on her magic sleigh pulled by horses as if landing on the river, passing under the bridge and then coming to rest at the shore was like some magic fairytale.
They lived in a flat in one of the sandstone buildings along that happy isle. Just one of many dwellers occupying those old structures from over 100 years.
Page and Oscar were sometimes lost in the shuffle and bustle of everyday life, but they always had one another to watch after them and to watch after. Despite her busy comings and goings, their mother was ever pervasive.
I on the other hand often felt like an observer to the day to day occurrences even knowing that was family, would become self absorbed in thoughts and their connections to the seemingly broken fragments of life, of which I only witnessed partly from my personal point of view. There was a much larger perspective to life than that I was ever privy to. Always something or someone hidden just slightly out of view that I could catch glimpses out of the corner of my eye from time to time.
It was autumn and everyone was dressed in warm woollens and waistcoats to suit the season, and keep the chill out of our bones as we hid in the dim corridors of ancient buildings. I often wondered what that kind of life would have been like, myself having grown up in a rural settlement of wooden boxes and snowy landscapes.
There is a warmth to a city that is like a beating heart keeping it alive. If you listen you can hear the rhythm of the city in background, which we often refer to just as noise.
So there we were, going about our lives, when I happened to wander into a vestibule like a space that joins the living area from the sleeping world where dreams were managed in the maize of the apartment. The vestibule was classic renaissance of sage green walls and ceiling, with a set of cabinets against the left wall, when walking towards the bedrooms and the hall that joins them all.
I saw a small puddle on the tile floor that seemed like a thick green liquid, which I grabbed a rag and mopped, wondering what it was. Had someone spilled some agent on the floor and not noticed or not bothered to mop it up? I was forever noticing tiny anomalies in my world and trying to set them right, like some Virgo father, obsessed with the banalities of life. Everything perfect in its place and a place for everything.
It was difficult to tell whether the puddle of goo was green in itself or because of the reflection of the colour from the walls in that enclosed space. Like in a movie, there was not lamp on the ceiling, just a magically lit room ready for filming.
As I stood there pondering the situation, Grace happened to walk in from the bedroom hall and ask what I was doing. Grace always kept tabs on everything, but it was my task to do something about them. That was the balance we found in our relationship to play into the other’s strength without driving one another mad. I told her I just wiped up a strange puddle from the floor as I looked up to the ceiling to find that was from where it was coming. Another drop of liquid had formed on the ceiling ready to drop and spot the floor. the ceiling also seemed to be sagging. Grace quickly took a broom handle and pushed at the ceiling at the point of the drop to find that it surely was sagging and that she hadn’t to press at it, in the event the whole ceiling might collapse.
As we moved into the living room to argue over what to do and where the liquid might be coming from, having overheard us, Page suddenly wide eyed in astonishment made the comment that she and Oscar Wilde had been up on the boulevard standing on the sidewalk where the garage was and there was green water pooled out on the sidewalk. She said she opened the door to see where the water had come from to find the garage floor also pooled in the same green water, the colour of smoke green crystal. It became suddenly clear as to where the leak had been coming from, since the garage was a stage above the living space of the apartment, it made sense that the water could be finding its way into the ceiling and dripping into the vestibule. I assured Page that her strange discovery did not make her to blame for the phenomenon of water dripping from the ceiling, but the though of an entire pool of water trying to drain into our apartment was of great concern on how to remedy the situation. First of all, where did that water come from? Was there a drain that was plugged or some source of water break that needed tending.
The next thing in my memory, Oscar Wilde and I were outside on the avenue having coffee and croissants, with hot chocolate for Oscar, when Page and Grace pull up in the magic carriage on the river with a box of gifts to disperse to their intended recipients. The packages inside the box were crudely wrapped as if a child had made them, and the writing on them was cryptic and one could only guess for who they were intended. They were a thank you, apparently from Page, through Grace for having successfully achieved some modicum of normality. We stood fascinated at what might be in the obscure packages, while trying to guess for whom they were intended. I might as well have been reading French and guessing what the writing meant. But little Page seemed to know for who each was addressed and handed them to everyone who was within short distance.
And then I suddenly awoke to a woodpecker knocking at my window, thinking it was Grace pawing at the door, coming to ask when I should wake and come to breakfast. In the world of Grace, time was always negotiable.
π (pi) ku
