The cultivation of us

I found you in the wilderness. The age of fire, of stone, of ice.

You warmed up to me. Eventually.



We danced that night, with no light but that from the stars. The age of songs, music and flowers.

You looked to the left of my eyes. Stared at my lips. I pretended I didn't see.



I stood before you with nothing but myself to offer. The age of time, of clocks and symphonys.

You held my face in your hands and we laughed at what the future showed us.



I lost you in the forest. The age of rain, of damp and silence.

And I waited.



You ran back into my life. I grasped your hand as you kissed my eyelids. The age of promises, of eternity, of renewal.

The morning light washed our inequites, as holiness atones sin.



I watched you walk towards me, surrounded by light, a new certainty in your eyes. The age of silver cutlery, of wooden doors, of renaissance.

Before everyone we knew, before the heavens we declared.



You held my hand as we cried together. Tears of unspeakable joy. The age of new life, of tiny handprints, of blessing.

Guided by what we knew with all our hearts, we grew together. Expanded.



For an age is never enough to spend with you. A legacy created in the ripple of our lives is merely an echo of what we knew was to come.

And finally, we spun slowly underneath the chandelier of ages, embracing each moment of our history as eternity claimed us for its own.

I wish I had more to say

(Also, probably listen to this whilst reading)

I live in a world full of you, I see you in everything, yet I want to see more. To know more of you, of who you are. And I want for so much. I want for others to see you like I do.

Suprisingly enough, I'm getting better at being alone.

Standing strong when all others crawl away.

I've still got the smell of smoke lingering on my skin, but it's lesser now. I said to my friend.
We were sitting on the grass, I was propped up on my elbows, he was sitting with his arms wrapped loosely around his knees. The sunset that evening was incredible.

This week my heart was taken from me. Taken and stretched, pulled at, torn. It's not yet broken, I think it's stonger than that. But my, how it aches. It shares its pain with my lungs, and together they sigh restlessly, and from my lips creep soft whispers of longing.

This isn't about lovelorn cries. This isn't about myself, my own pursuit of dreams and fantasies.

This is about you. This is about the hurt, the broken. Those whom I love, falling apart at the seams. My heart aches for you. If I could take away the pain, oh, believe me my love, I would.

But I can't. Not in the way I would wish. To make all certain and definate. Infinitely better.

I am a hoarder of old things, of ancient stories, of love that lived together, that died together. Of knives and forks that saw things untold. Of picture frames that saw decisions to stay, decisions to leave. That saw resolution and despair. The couches that first seated ambiguous love, declarations of eternity, life mulitplied. The walls that sang, that cried, lights that danced with joy, that lit the way through untold darkness, leading the lost home.

It's been a long time since I saw you smile like you used to.

In the still

The few who dwelt in the mist of the forest knew of her.

They knew her footseps like those of a beloved.

The slightly staggered breath of heartbreak.


They knew her,

her story,

her past,

all their lives,

but had never met her.

She prefered to keep it that way.


Lost without form, without absolute certainty at what the world may bring to her, she waited,

drifting from hollow to hollow, leaving trails of her breath in the still morning.

She was waiting for her fortune,

Waiting for her future to arrive.

The more I know you, the more weird you become

And you know what, I'm okay with that.

Now, because I'm way too tired to still be awake, I'm delusional. And because I'm delusional (and somewhat flattered by milkies secret exultaions over at beyond here be dragons) I feel like I need to tell you about my favorite people.


MEGAN

She is my cousin, and probably one of my all-time favorie people ever. Seriously. The fact that I'll see her for the first time in months and it will be at the midnight screening of Harry Potter. And that she'll tell me about her plan to go as a basilisk to the next one, and proceed to put sketches on my facebook of the costume. That there, that is one of the many reasons why I love her so. Follow her on twitter or something, she'd like to talk to someone other than Barack Obama.


ALEXA

She is my very best friend in the whole world. She's the one I'll call first. She's always hungry for desert, and for a very long time didn't like vegetables. She's marrying a lovely guy and they'll probably have kids which I can give cool presents to and teach them to read Harry Potter before they reach kindergarten. And she'd be cool with that. She is all kinds of incredible, and our children will be friends. I love her, beyond comprehension.


BLUKE

Brother. Luke. I don't know what I'd do without him. He's about as weird as I am, but somehow, it's just normal. We'll talk all the time, but rarely know what the other is up to. It's always sharing things. I have so so so much love for him.


JAKE

There is something about this guy. He is one of those really neat people who just get you and all your weirdness, and is cool with it. He loves Jesus and Jesus really loves him. This is the guy who makes me dinner and doesn't seem to mind that I'm always around. I have so much respect for him, and I'm rather thenkful he's around. (Yes, thenkful. Which is Thankful in New Zealand)


MILKIE WAY

Milkie. You know when you just meet someone and you just... click. I've known her for less than six months and she is seriously one of my most favorite people ever. She's one of those people that will be around for a long time, and I value her so much. I don't think you can really say this about many people but she, she is extraordinary. Seriously. She's got a beautiful heart and I really respect and admire her. She's also probably the only one who reads all my writing and gets as excited about it as I do. I like how she thinks capital letters are pretentious and shows me up on any instrument, every time. Also, incredible artist. beyondherebedragons and asilentwar


I think I find it hard to express how much these five mean to me. Like I said for Millie, but is so true for each of these people. They truly are extraordinary. I could go on about each of them for an age and a half, but I won't for all of our sakes.

Ahem, back to the usual program...

It’s this darn unreasonable obsession with seeing things from another’s perspective.

‘It’s not as if I can’t sleep.’ She said. ‘I’m just afraid that if I close my eyes I’ll never wake up.'


I looked at her, playing with the fraying holes in the tablecloth. She looked tired, and sort of stretched. Like life had been too wide and too deep for her.

She continued without looking up. She never looked up. 'And you know that feeling that you get. The one, usually late at night, which whispers, ‘You’re meant for something bigger than this. Something greater than this.’ But by the morning, you’ve forgotten. Well, I don't. I never forget. And it kills me, knowing it all the time. Knowing that I'm better than this. That even though right now, no one should love me, not after what I've done to you, to everyone. I don't deserve love. But knowing that I could be better, should be better and I can't seem to change, no matter what I try... That kills me.'

'You know I'll love you regardless.' I said, gazing at the bottom of my glass.


'But that's the thing! I don't deserve love. Especially not your love! You shouldn't love me. I'm tainted, contaminated. I'm not someone you should love. So don't. Stop letting yourself feel that way about me. You don't deserve it. I don't deserve you. Just... stop', she finished wearily.


Her shoulders had hunched, and her eyelashes were wet, but she was determined not to look at me. I leant forward to whisper to her, ‘There are things one must love without permission from the brain, simply the heart acting in accordance with its predestined purpose. Things that are as natural as breathing, yet so apart from this earthly situation that one may never know or realise their origins. You see, Eugenia, contrary to what others may say on the matter, it is only those who have known such a love as this that really have the authority to speak.’


‘And what allows you to be so opinionated?’ She asked, raising her heavily lidded eyes to mine, showing me for the first time a sort of transparent vulnerability.


‘You.’ I replied. ‘You, and only you. I love you as certain dark things are made to be loved, without thought or reason, origin or support. It just is, as was from the moment I met you, it existed. Like such a love, it has existed long before ourselves.


She met my glance and smiled dully. The war wasn't over yet.

Every word you say I feel I should write down.

The stars whispered soft secrets to my heart, and I saw them, unspoken in your eyes.

If secrets and lies are children of the dust, of soil and things buried,


then you are the air,

you are the wind.


You once said I was like the oceans,

untameable and deeper than you could ever know.


So I,


I’ll follow the moon as you sweep over me.

Together, let’s whip up a storm.

Harry Potter and other glories

Tonight I saw Harry Potter for the second time. It's been out two days. I don't plan on slowing down any time soon. And I don't know why I didn't think about gushing here before, especially after that midnight showing (of which I shall elaborate on later) because everyone I told basically did the same thing.

'Ah! Oh my goodness, I saw Harry Potter last night! Like, the midnight showing! Oh my freaking goodness!'
'Don't tell me anything!' They say, putting their hands up to their ears.
'Like, I won't, but'
'Uh uh uh uh uh. Don't.' They interrupt, 'If you do, I'll kill you.'
'Hmm. Understandable. Just, all I'm going to say is'
'No!' they say, in a rising tone of distress and panic, 'Nothing! I don't want to hear it! I know I've read all the books but I just.. don't!'
'Okay. All I'll say is you'll love it. I loved it. So good. Ahhh!' And then I do a few air kicks, just to emphasise my point.

And now that people have seen it. Man, am I going to go mad. Froth at the mouth mad. Oh my goodness.

Okay, quick update on my week.
Sunday. Bought a mini harmonica and a ukulele. Parks and fields of burgers.
Monday. Dinner at Milkie Ways. My, I've missed them.
Tuesday. Deep conversation, the real meaning of community, love abounding, clean clothes.
Wednesday. Last assignment, baked dinners, tea and a vision for the future. Alexa and Megan and midnight HP.
Thursday. Afternoon naps. Sunsets and ukuleles, ovals and revelations.
Friday. Op-shops, parks and cheap food. Joining buskers, spontaneous Harry Potter, spontaneous friends.

Oh, you want to know more about the joining buskers? Okay, i'll tell you. Picture this. Martin Place. Guy playing keyboard (who will now be known as Robert) microphone setup. We stop and watch him. I've got my uke. He calls me over and asks me to play something. I start somewhere over the rainbow. Jake starts recording a video of this. Robert gives me microphone. Tells me to sing. I sing. Crowd gathers.
Now picture this. Pitt St mall. Half an hour later. Walking along, playing. We walk past a saxophonist playing, you guessed it, somewhere over the rainbow. Yeah, what of it, the song is rocking. I get excited and go up and talk to him. We start jamming, uke and sax. Sax and uke. Crowd also gathers.

In other stories, I've finished college for the year. I went op-shopping today. I'm going to New Zealand in 10 days. I saw my mama and we had lunch and it was lovely. I've been playing my ukulele constantly. I talked to my brother on the phone about HP. My cousin is back on the beaches. There will be tea with Milkie many times. Life is rocking.

Post script; Glory cats, how good is that image. Oh my gosh, yes!

Until the next time, my love

It’s like looking at the face of the person you love the most in the world after you’ve been apart for a while. You forget the small creases and lines, the shape of their mouth, the shadow their nose makes, until they become just a whisper of a memory, hazy and inconsistent. And when you finally see them, it’s like looking at the face of a stranger you’ve known all along, except so much more than that.

Even the worst things have things to love in them.

I like unnecessary objects. I like obscure references to literature in songs. I like ponchos. I like people who talk to others easily. I like exclamation marks! I like people who salute. I like wrists. I like making faces at children on buses. I like beautiful sunsets. I like puns. I like neat handwriting. I like lamps. I like people who make faces when they read. I like cufflinks. I like finding new ways to get places. I like eggs. I like people who wear ugly clothes with style. I like finding things. I like beautiful buildings. I like old things. I like adventures. I like making up the history of things. I like socks. I like bookshelves. I like looking at the stars. I like hats. I like people in hats. I like being mesmerised. I like interesting words. I like climbing trees. I like people with moustaches. I like looking at other peoples handwriting. I like sunlight. I like rain. I like the smell of books. I like looking at the notes people leave around for others. I like tall ships. I like engravings in stone. I like vines growing over buildings. I like council pickup weeks. I like joyful people. I like pergolas. I like the different ways people mark their place in books. I like leaving notes for strangers. I like felt-tip pens. I like white. I like the faces people pull when they have something stuck in their eye. I like parks in the morning. I like trees with their roots visible. I like seeing people walk to the beat of the song I’m listening to. I like ankles. I like mismatching socks. I like flower stores. I like seeing the sky through the trees. I like beautiful writing. I like seeing people talk with their hands and making up what they’re saying. I like awkward handshakes. I like people who are passionate about things. I like springtime. I like looking into parked cars as I walk past. I like skywriting. I like people holding hands. I like sitting on couches in odd places. I like seeing people smoke pipes. I like funny signs. I like mornings. I like alleyways. I like jasmine. I like nail polish that chips in unusual patterns. I like beautiful songs. I think listening to others conversations. I like velvet. I like Ukuleles. I like mini things. I like the look of spiders webs in the sun after the rain. I like laughing. I like sitting on the floor. I like singing. I like lovely things. I like you.

Meeting

And then you met the girl who would one day change your world.

Who would make you the man you are today.

The one who would break your heart beyond breaking, and complete you like no other girl ever could.

Did you see it in her eyes?

Did you know, deep down, in that place beyond explanation, that this was the girl for you?

When did you open your heart up to her?

Really open your heart up to her? To that point where she holds your world in her hands, to do with what she will, to break it, to walk away, to destroy you if she so pleases.

But you know she wont.

Because she's known for longer than she'll ever admit. Since before she met you.

You are the one she'd dreamt about, the faceless man, perfect in character.

But in reality, you are so much more than that.

You have a face, for one.

You see in her more than just what you want.

You see a combination of all those little things, the things that you never would have thought of, but now you know them, could never live without.

And to think that there was a time you didn't even know her name.

Oh dear

Want to know whay there are so many posts recently?
Well, I'll tell you why.
I've been doing some pondering. Pondering is easy when you sew. And when you draw. And when you don't sleep. And when your mind is hyperextended due to a cold (not so close to death. The vitamin C's I take in place of candy really do pay off). But basically, I think alot. And when I think alot, I talk to myself alot. And when I talk to myself alot, I get all these wild ideas, which means I have to stop what I'm doing to write them down. And considering that my place is a paper and fabric bomb (Yes. A bomb. If I open the doors everything will fly out an cover the whole of sydney. I swear, this is true. Except instead of shrapnel, its loose threads and paper scraps.) I've decided digital format is just as good as any to write them down. And then I like them so much that I post them. I think all the tea that I'm drinking is also like some accelerant to my mind or something. I swear I'm fitting about a week into each day. Seriously.

But that's the reason. And now on my third break of the day, and feeling reasonably secure to do so, I'm writing whatever the hell I feel like. Except for that, that was crass, and I'm sorry. I just did it for effect, and so I can keep the effect and not be percieved as some madman cussmouth, I apologised and babbled on about it for a while. And that leaves us right... here.

So. Colds. Yum. Not really. But an extremely valid excuse not to see people. Because unlike when I'm healthy and well and want to see people but can't because of college work, I feel gross, and just want to stay inside with no makeup on, wearing long johns and glasses. This is not something I want to share with others. This is not something others want to share with me. And because I'm sick, its reason enough to stay segregated.

But it's 10.33pm. It's Saturday night. I've finished basically all of my pieces. I've fudged my way through my drawing portfolio. I'm about to fall asleep. I've decided that priorities require sleep to actually be around the top section of my to-do list. I have one illustration, two hems, and two zips to do.  Easy. You think so? I can't find my eraser. I can't find my flipping eraser. I'm drawing an awesome skeleton girl and I have no eraser to get rid of the one too many ribs I gave her.

On the plus side, Cherloe, who will also be known as heavenly bringer of food and encouragement, or Cherlobot, came over with soup. And not just any soup. Minestrone soup. And not just any minestrone soup. Amazing minestrone soup. And bread. (I could go on about the bread, but we all know how great bread is). I am so so so thankful for her. She. Is. Great. Great, great, great.

Now, I'm off to die. Or drink more tea, draw half of my girl, sew a zip, unpick something, shower, and retire to bed to hand stitch a hem while talking with Jesus. All by 12.30. That's right. I've got favour. Bam.

The next Einstein

'You see, there's a difference between all mad people', she said, half absent-mindedly, half wistfully.
'There's clean mad, and then there's dirty mad. But it's all a shame', she continued dully, 'You see, people celebrate the clean-mad. They are the intellects, the artisans and the thinkers of a generation. They bring forward society to their rising ideas, and people love that. They are mad, of course, because you have to be mad to think the way they do, but they shower, they trim their nails and although they mumble to themselves, they usually have a pipe stuck between their lips, and therefore society has invented some excuse for this unconventional behavior.'
'And what about the other type? The dirty type?' He asked.
'Oh. The dirty mad.' You could almost see the sadness, the compassion in her tome, 'They are the sorts you see on the streerts, dirt underneath their fingernails, scruffy hair, a beard far longer then social convention would usually allow, the sort you cross the road to avoid. The sad thing is, that they are most likely highly intelligent, they just haven't been given a chance. Society shuns them before they can even open their mouths. That's the terrible thing. They could be the smartest person on the planet, but they might as well be the only person on the planet. Nobody sees them.'
'So, what do you propose we do about it?'
'I don't know. Who knows, with these things? I suppose if one went to the street and started a conversation with some, not a conversation full of condemnation and judgement, but showing a sincere desire to know about them, about their lives, you might actually find your next Einstein. You just never know. Remember Pygmalion?'
He nodded, and looked out the foggy window into the cloudy grey sky. He wondered how true she actually knew everything she said was. Lighting his pipe, he began to dream.


[Image: Marching the Skies.]

Home.

I guess things were different after I found friends. Or rather, friends found me.

I met him on a wednesday. Nothing about it was significant.
I met her on a friday. Prayer and supposition, transusbtantiation, awkward intellectually drivien humour.

'These two are going to be around for a while, I think' I said to my best friend.
She agreed as we walked, arms wrapped around our chests in an effort to keep the warmth in, and the icy breeze out.

'You're different now. Compared to how you used to be.'
I never know what to say.
'I guess, it's a good thing, but you've just come more into yourself. It's like you've just gotten used to a new house, and you've started to make it your own, started to feel comfortable in it. Like you've figured out how many steps to the bathroom, but not to the fridge.'
I nodded. It was an accurate analogy, I guess.
'Don't ever find out how many steps to the fridge. Familiarity breeds contempt.'

I never thought that. Familiarity brings a sense of home. Love. Trust. Honour. Not contempt though. Never contempt.

So I close my eyes and I walk. Walk, hoping that the steps I take over the grooves in the floorboards are straight, that even if I stub my toe, the light switch won't be too far away.

You

You come from that place, deep within my soul, beyond the walls I put up. Beyond my imagination, a certainty more visceral than reality, more tangible than dream.

From a time before I knew better, when all was clean and new, and nothing else much mattered. A time when innocence wasn't extraordinary, and fantasy saw so much of our hearts, our hopes and dreams, and made them real.

I see you in the clean morning light, in the spores that fly off dandelions, in the dappled breeze of a summers afternoon. You are the breath that lingers in the still forest, the whisper in the middle of the night, assuring me that all is well.

Waxing poetical, my heart leaps as each syllable draws me closer to you. The key change of a song calls me out to you, inhaling me into your presence, until nothing else remains, nothing else matters. You fill so much of me, yet there is so much of you which I could never even comprehend.

You are larger than me. Larger than the universe. You hold my heart, the earth, the stars in your hands. My soul lingers in your eyes, and you weep at the things that crush us.

From the depths of my soul you dwell, lingering until I call you upwards, where as I permit you, you fill me. You make me whole. When all brokenness is gone, you remain.

Your words exist like fire and you, you inflame my soul, calling me above this place, calling me to you. And as we walk through dark and dreary, through storm and flame, know that I am yours, still. With you there is no smoke, no ashes to sweep away.
And from you I live. From you I find all I ever needed. All I ever need.

You.



[Image: Marching the Skies]

Mad, we are.

'Ah, Crystal, you've been so melancholy these days, what's happening?!'
'Well, you know, I think I just needed to write some really sad things, so I wouldn't accidentally act them out in my own life.'
'Sounds like bollocks to me'
'Yeah... Well... Okay, it kind of is..'
'Thought so. So, are you going to start writing fun things again?'
'Ah, well... yes. But I think to write fun stuff I need cupcakes.'
'True. Cupcakes are conducive to happiness.'
'So, maybe I'll just wait for some cupcakes, and then go from there..'
'Yep. Sounds like a great idea, Crystal.'
'Well thanks for your encouragement, Crystal.'
'No problem.'
'Yeah, well, I'll see you round.'
'Yeah, I'm going away for a while, you probably won't miss me though.'
'Oh, okay. Where are you going to?'
'I don't know. Probably somewhere I can get really lost.'
'Oh, cool. Sounds like fun. See you when you get back.'
'Yeah, sure. Bye.'
'Bye.'


And that's how I lost my mind.
But seriously, Right now I feel like I'm going crazy. I haven't been going to bed early and so I can't wake up with ny alarms in the morning. It's crazy! And I have multiple alarms.
But what else is going on, apart from my really depressive stories, you ask?
Well, apart from that conversation with my mind and the consequent vacating of it in my life from about a week and a half ago, and the sleep thing, I am great!
No, seriously, I am.

Googling kittens in sweaters, sewing, sewing, sewing, having the most wonderful friends, Jesus, Cheesus, twitter not working (what?!), sewing, looking at pretty things, no shoes, no bags = freedom, night filming mid-city, colours and lights, cameras, coffee, podcasts, lavender, tea, harry potter, big fish, things working out, blueberries, laughing, finding things, driving in the rain, getting things done.

How delightful.

(And soon, like, week-and-a-half-soon, there will be joy in these untouchable pages. Maybe even sooner, if procrastination prevails.)

Three months

'I bought a two litre bottle of milk today.' Your sister said. 'I’ve just had enough with going to the store every time I run out.'


I looked at her. 'You know that's what people do. Normal people.'

'Well, I'm not normal', she dismissed, 'I think it’s all the tea. I’ll drink it, just because I’m at home and it feels like that proper, homely thing to do, but then when I really feel like a cup of tea... no milk.'

I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it again. What makes a home? Endless cups of tea. White cushions and big living room windows. Cats, dogs, children, rugs, shoes by the door. Is it the smell of someone else as you come home? Anothers toothbrush, hair on your pillow, socks mixed in with yours?

I have trouble telling the time now that you're not around anymore. I always wander in, more late that I intended, caught up in the haze, in the storm that is my mind.

I think I'm becoming unstuck.

I call out to you in the middle of the night. I wake up to myself sobbing. Weeping. For what? For what could have been. For our grandchildren. For the breath my lungs deserve. For my sleepless nights, staing at the ceiling with a mind full of shimmering dark.

No thoughts. No sounds. Just movement.

'You know when words just don't seem to be enough to describe what you're feeling?' I whispered to a stray cat.
He looked at me. 'Why are you talking to a cat? I don't know the problems of humanity.'
I stayed crouched, staring him in the eyes.
'Because you're the only one who will listen.'

It's a saturday night.
I have four different windows up, three different types of paper, all trying to convey the one feeling deep in my core. The one which doesn't have words that evoke what I want to say. What I want to feel.

So I'll pretend that it's alright. That I've said all I need to say.

That the chasm you left is slowly filling itself once more.

That's all.

Listen to this.

Close your eyes.

Don't think about your day, your night.

Don't think about the one who broke your heart,

stole your heart,

the one you dream about,

the one you're not even sure exisits.

Forget all that

and

just

listen.