illness, fruit and silence

Illness can sort of take one on a dull side step to bad television. I found myself tangled in sweaty sheets with a stubbly face(my own) wondering why I could'nt decoupage my bedroom. Those crafty wizards on the home design shows make everything looks so entertaining, even crushed green velvet. Black velvet(not the song) is one thing if your Stevie Nicks, but crushed anything is just a tad too much for me except strawberries. When I was little I used to crush strawberries with a blue plastic straw in a frosted glass and pour my grandmothers lemonade over them. I loved watching the colors swirl around the glass,  and the seeds spin, it reminded me of hard boiled easter eggs. All strange hues and patterns.

Mmmm, I like strawberries, I like berries generally, I think they are one of the few delicate fruits that possess any sort of glamor. They are petite, look beautiful wet, aloof when frozen and strangely sexual when warm. They pulsate with an alien sensuality that belongs to dragon fly's wings, hydrangeas and starlit skies. Yes, I can get pithy. 

I digress, this virus has stolen my voice. (More pith)I must admit a part of me has secertly loved the notion of being mute, soundless. Call it a strange fascination, but when I saw the film the Piano with Holly Hunter I wondered why she would opt for human speech. She was far more intriguing when silent. Her voice was in her music, in the movements of her hands, how her fingers stretched, how her back arched, how lips parted, it was romance to me. That's romance to me, quiet, soft, powdery and passion is untamed, sharp, and raucous. Both are important, both are needed just in varied degrees. What that degree is I really don't know but I will.

Music: Mum-The Island of Children's Children