Carousel Horse
"Who puts a Carousel horse on top of a silo?"
This is what I was thinking to myself when he showed up. My torso was draped over the stone bridge like a wet swimsuit, and his voice was like trying to put a wet swimsuit on a dry body. To my left, a black woman dressed in a beige pant suit dove into the still water beneath the bridge.
"Well, look at you," he chirped. He was English.
"I was just remembering my childhood. I grew up in a place like this."
This of course, must have been bullshit. There is no place like this, and I certainly did not grow up there. The building was a bastard of architecture - something between a farmhouse and a church. The lawn was standing water. Gardens were replaced by a rotting collection of tombstones, and at the top of the field a small grain silo cast a corrugated shadow on the water. With a crumbling red roof, the silo resembled an antique sugar container, and the garish Carousel horse affixed to the top looked like a night of heavy drinking.
"Ahhh. You're American. What is your name?"
"Maria."
"You're not going back to America, are you?"
He had long hair. He wore a green shirt with the suggestion of a pattern, khaki shorts and a fanny pack grayed by damp currency and cigarette butts he'd forgotten to throw away.
"Yes, soon. I have no reason to stay here. I was just here visiting my boyfriend, but we spent the better part of my visit breaking up. So, now I'll just go home and find a job. Do that thing, you know?"
"Ohhh, Maria."
Like a strange bird, he put his arm around me and I could smell his greasy cologne. It was obvious that he was in love with me already.
"Oh, Maria. Maria. Maria. Maria. You have to stop living in adjectives."
I looked at the Carousel horse, who, had it been alive, would really be living in adjectives. I envied the horse. I envied the black woman in the beige suit who lived in verbs. I envied this strange man who lived in superlatives. I lived in misplaced punctuation.
The man and his bird arm came closer. I listened as things passed on the road behind us. Dogs, wheels of bicycles, the tips of canes carried by humans, leaves and lost swimsuits that had dried up on windowsills and blown away from their assigned bodies.
This is what I was thinking to myself when he showed up. My torso was draped over the stone bridge like a wet swimsuit, and his voice was like trying to put a wet swimsuit on a dry body. To my left, a black woman dressed in a beige pant suit dove into the still water beneath the bridge.
"Well, look at you," he chirped. He was English.
"I was just remembering my childhood. I grew up in a place like this."
This of course, must have been bullshit. There is no place like this, and I certainly did not grow up there. The building was a bastard of architecture - something between a farmhouse and a church. The lawn was standing water. Gardens were replaced by a rotting collection of tombstones, and at the top of the field a small grain silo cast a corrugated shadow on the water. With a crumbling red roof, the silo resembled an antique sugar container, and the garish Carousel horse affixed to the top looked like a night of heavy drinking.
"Ahhh. You're American. What is your name?"
"Maria."
"You're not going back to America, are you?"
He had long hair. He wore a green shirt with the suggestion of a pattern, khaki shorts and a fanny pack grayed by damp currency and cigarette butts he'd forgotten to throw away.
"Yes, soon. I have no reason to stay here. I was just here visiting my boyfriend, but we spent the better part of my visit breaking up. So, now I'll just go home and find a job. Do that thing, you know?"
"Ohhh, Maria."
Like a strange bird, he put his arm around me and I could smell his greasy cologne. It was obvious that he was in love with me already.
"Oh, Maria. Maria. Maria. Maria. You have to stop living in adjectives."
I looked at the Carousel horse, who, had it been alive, would really be living in adjectives. I envied the horse. I envied the black woman in the beige suit who lived in verbs. I envied this strange man who lived in superlatives. I lived in misplaced punctuation.
The man and his bird arm came closer. I listened as things passed on the road behind us. Dogs, wheels of bicycles, the tips of canes carried by humans, leaves and lost swimsuits that had dried up on windowsills and blown away from their assigned bodies.
posted by MJH at
2:31 PM
4 Comments:
This comment has been removed by the author.
Maybe you can try Hemingway's adjectives free approach. Or is the 'wet' swimsuit weighing you down. Good luck with the job.
--typo corrected!
I wish I could spell. I guess its good enough to know how to swim.
Hemingway was a God of the adjective.
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