She has a halo, we really do adore her
Despite the chill outside, every one of our windows has been flung open. The main room and kitchen are flooded with smoke. Yes, it was another stellar attempt at cooking by Yours Truly, this time a cheese toastie for the fella’s dinner. It was a favourite meal of mine as a kid, courtesy of the mater.
Only, I forgot the part involving the toaster.
So the wok (substitute for saucepan) has cremated bread, butter and cheese stuck to it, and while the grated cheese on top melted quite well, the bottom of the bread … well, less said the better.
To be fair, we’re still giggling about it 15 minutes later. While giving me a hug and coughing, the fella decided it was safer to opt for his regular pasta and tomato sauce.
It’s probably best if I stick to cleaning and writing, really. Considering I come from a family of chefs on the mater’s side, it’s a bit rich. But I’ve never had the patience to learn how to cook properly, so live on a diet of toast, cottage cheese and soup myself. Oh, and flapjack – loads of it. Beats chocolate.
When wandering through misty woodland – especially of the ancient variety, as with the little area up the road from my house, once a vast forest – it’s best to keep an open mind about other possible users. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I loved “The Blair Witch Project.” But I get the feeling the guys who made this stuff, didn’t have it in mind, and possibly should’ve:
The owls are not what they seem
“Kill the clown … he’s so unfair.”
I’d taken myself down to the woods for a spot of Gonzo journalism – references for the penultimate chapters of my novel. The scene involved an abandoned, very much overgrown quarry, and the protagonist kids being stalked by murderous clowns. Even I wasn’t sure, while writing, if they were supernatural, or vindictive adults from the nearby town. Bit of both, I suspect.
After encountering the above woven thingummies strung from trees, and listening to Soley in my wanderings, I was more shit up by the experience than expected. Worked wonders for the writing later, though.
This strange weekend just past, I killed a man. To be honest, he has become one of the most frightening, sympathetic characters I’ve ever written.
Mr Redgrave was a prestigious teacher, a proud man with a low upbringing that crushed chips on both his shoulders. Ambitious to a fault, he’d fought his way up the town ranks to achieve popular esteem – but his heart was lost to a student, the daughter of one of his close associates, also a delegate of the school and town council – and a paedophile. Unable to properly shield the girl from her own father’s vile intentions, Redgrave took drastic measures to secure her happiness and safety.
And now he’s dead. I have to admit my own wankiness here, that I got choked up. It’s not easy, killing off a person whose head you’ve lived inside for over a year; even if he is a malignant tosser. He only had the girl’s best intentions at heart. His love for her spirit, despite all she’d been through, was his saving grace and his main weakness.
So now, the story tails itself down to the bittersweet end. I wouldn’t have it any other way. As Schmendrick the Magician put it in one of my favourite and most influential films, Peter .S. Beagle’s “The Last Unicorn”:
“There are no happy endings, because nothing ends.”
Which is how we carry on, with false dawns and new hopes and that painful ache in the chest whenever we remember someone, a time or a place that mattered.
celenagaia 