Small fragments of (un)reality

Gustav Klimt, The Virgin, image reproduced from http://www.mindfirerenew.com/issue1/klimt_die_jungfrau.jpeg

Knock on the door. Softly.No answer; he must be away or perhaps hard at work, devouring some article or other, a brilliant thought.
Second knock. Nothing. But the light is on.
Maybe it’s time for surprises – nothing more certain than surprises, right siss? – the doorknob turns and he’s in there alright.
But so is she, looking over his shoulder, hands round his neck, softly yet possessively, like a snake luring its prey.
Perhaps not a good surprise.

Haagen Dazs in hand, five million calories of joy on a stick, she enters screen 2.
The perfect end to the day, a film without meaning, offering illusion quite generously, clearly unashamedly.
The tall couple sits infront of her, he making himself comfortable, she trying to juggle the coats, the popcorn, the soda.
“Would you mind helping me pull the seat down?”, she asks and smiles half angrily, half teasingly.
They watch the adverts, they laugh through the previews.
Almost half way through she feels compelled to watch them: he touches her nose, she bites her lip, they hastily smile to one another as celluloid goes on.
Little moments of intimacy shared with the audience that is there and watching.

Earlier on another knock was heard, on her door this time.
She said ‘hello’ in her usual manner – part casual, part bothered, part cheeky, with the emphasis on the elongated ‘ow’.
And it was him, after all this time, big smiles and eyes bright for meeting again.
The news, the absence, the holidays, the work stuff, her shiny new trainers, prized objects of the desire for coolness gleaming in the background. He noticed.
And that beautiful set of blue eyes,
that unmistakable laugh,
the bright mess of straw-like golden hair of his daughter, following him,
remindful of where we stand…

It’s late.
I blame vague tourist for opening up this can of worms called love, even if it’s spring that has set it on fire.
Sissoula asked me to write something straightforward: if ever I could.
You see, dystrop, sometimes it’s not just about sex…

A royal affair

So… it’s happening! Two of the world’s most well known ‘middle aged people are getting hitched’. An affair that has lasted more than 30 years and has given rise to enormous, almost unprecedented controversy, will soon end up in marriage – seemingly with Mother’s approval. The Prince of Wales and the (now) Duchess of Cornwall will soon gallop towards the sunset. Aww!

Charles is not exactly popular amongst the public, although this is probably entirely predictable given the fact that he was married to Diana: The Madonna-whore syndrome, affairs, tears, eating disorders, children, miles upon miles of Chanel couture and a tragic accident(?) make up for a wholly inauspicious end to the affair. And then, there is Camilla, most commonly known as ‘the ugly horse’ – although I have it on very good authority that she is, in actual fact, rather delightful, fairly attractive and with a wonderfully dry sense of humour.

You cannot be in the UK, or anywhere else in the world for that matter, without listening to something or someone talking about the wedding. And me, well, what do I think?
I’ve never been a fan of the Royal family, I’ve never been a fan of royalty full stop. As for the not-so-rosy-cheeked couple, I do share the popular sentiment of mild discomfort, but mostly for reasons relating to my inherent dislike of the concept and reality of monarchy.

But I’ll give you that: Charles eats organic and talks to his plants – that is bound to be a good thing, at least in my book! He ignores the calling of what he ‘should be’ like and I, for once, respect that.
And, at the end of the day, for two people who have been through so much together and for so long, including (very) public humiliation and disapproval, and who still manage to stay together and want to get married, well… I guess one cannot but say ‘good luck to them!’

Love conquers all? Maybe.
I, too, choose to remain (perhaps a helpless) romantic…