13 August 2013

Sc

Orange, but dark, almost turning, almost turned, soft, perfectly so, and cold, fitting like a human heart in my hands. I scoop out cones with a teaspoon, place them among the apples, trying my patience, greed, spinning tops. Other oranges come visible through association – tangerines in a bowl (like at J’s), turmeric stained mortar (pestle?), carrot soup circles on the stove. All are circles, the tangerines, the mortar (pestle?), the soup drops, the cones. I remember the rods and cones of eyes from biology, how they tessellate behind our eyeballs chugging to make colour and depth of field.

At the end of Rumblefish when the world goes grey for Rusty James, when he goes deaf for a moment, and blind, the horror of new boundaries, new enclosures, the horror of the in/sensible...and turning back there is nothing.

In Scented Gardens for the Blind, each room a threatening mass of objects.

Is it a sin to see the world through books? Dis/association or connection-empathy?

But this cone of melting colour, the strings in my teeth, my hangnails dyed orange. Yesterday a seven year old spelled 'luscious' and told me what it meant in terms of colour, he moved his hands as he was explaining and I chided myself for being impressed that a child could act like a grown man, I saw my secret pity and was disgusted. Anyway 'sc' is the sound for that colour.

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