Soothing Sundays

15th January 2017

Winkle Wrinkle
Mrs Jinks had a wild history of mimics. She shook off her wrinkles even, being out and about most days.

The story is being edited….

8th Jan 2017

Cobbles and cornices led to the butcher, a kook slaughter. Thy great dried hams hung down the ceiling like marionettes on a garland. Prepped for the freefall they wrenched back and forth until chopping time, forming the story about the city vitrine.

On Hunting Yard Street the Russian hat ladies, both wearing the stylised skin and fur, stopped to look at their skinned kind. Hanging Russians? Nope. Hanging food. They were staring through the butcher’s window with admiration. This would be the light gesture to a joke. Not all cultures affirm fur clothing, wearing one and inspecting the source? Perhaps fuel for a bonfire anytime soon. Benson, a passing stranger, hereby replied to you “hang loose, Router Scooter”. Meanwhile the scene shifted from Sunday to Monday.

As the city vitrine had changed it’s audience the Monday offered a romantic couple. They kissed, they hugged, pointing lovingly at the grandeur steaks “it’s meat tonight, honey”. Apparently, butcher deco had all sizes and styles included. Two male friends frowned secondly, there and then. Meals for the masses was not an ongoing conversation. However, what kept the kooked butcher going was the sight of what captured passing peoples’ minds; small, medium, or large intricacies.

At the far end of Hunting Yard Street an old slaughter house had turned urban where jazz and friends clacked together on Saturdays, here resonated echo and wine in the space yet pasted with white tiles. Christ, jew, blood and halal, a beautiful complexion in the world now given.

December Announcement: Soothing Sundays will be back in January.

20th Nov 2016

A parade of feet hammered the gas clutch hard day in and day out, greeting the upcoming deadline. The thread ran up and down ten meters high before it had been snapped by Tom’s sewing machine thirty meters down the hall. His boss’ eyes struck with lightening through the panorama window. That day had been spoilt six times by practicalities that had abrupt the whole production. Tom’s relation to his boss was more than formal, it was straight to the point in the sense that his notice could be handed in anytime now. Tom stood up, then tripped over a box of empty thread spoils. Beside him Clare always seemed to have three of those stacked behind her. This sign of productivity staggered him.

Before lunch Tom dreaded the hive at the entrance hall, the workers had little in common. As an attempt for conversation Tom squeezed in between Rubarb and James, Rubarb with the red curls frowned at him. Clearly Tom had interrupted something she had engaged with, James was telling her how to mow her Queen’s Roses. What could possibly be more interesting? Tom could not come up with a topic to gesture. “Why the rush to lunch?” she squinted. A pink colour arose in Tom’s face. Maybe he should quit this job after all? He latched out that thought immediately, Jenny at home had threatened to leave him again if he chickened out so soon.

Tom slammed the fork down on the table, he was not going to get fired! In all shyness he remembered where he was, the colleagues glared at him.

Practically, Tom was about to stitch his life together. He strolled back to his work space, stitching a peoples’ patches together.

Mr Long Leg’s Delivery Service
6th Nov 2016

In the capital Daddy Long Leg tracked on rooftops. Their shapes and rotations always told him where to step as he navigated the tilted surfaces. Light as a feather, Daddy conducted these symphonies; behind him roofs rocked up, then down. This whole profession of tracking from above bread-fed him, Daddy Long Leg delivered groceries to all the elderlies that had no stairs to come down. In other words, he helped those that were stuck in their apartments due to physical deceases. His limbs were so flexible that they could stretch from building to? Building. However, one day always comes when there is a twist and a turn. You are to discover which one in the story of Mr. Long Leg’s Delivery Service.

Mr Long Leg one day discovered error 505, he could not jump across because of gravity. The rotation of the world had indeed changed.

Tightening his bum cheeks, firmly together, Daddy stretched for the chimney where the sweeper lived. Mr Long Leg’s pointed toe were two inches away from it’s destination. No matter how hard Mr Long Leg squeezed he could not reach over. “Sweeper? Have you moved your chimney overnight? I can’t get to you,” he shouted. Somewhere, far down the pipe, rumbling words arose “what are you suggesting? You have never had issues with the gaps in between.” The sweeper could not assist this vanity. Three years ago he was dressed up as father Christmas; the family house in Farmer Bay took pride in having the sweeper execute the yearly tradition. He had to climb down the chimney with presents for the children. That year he got stuck one quarter of the way, they had to cut his limbs off. So Sweeper Swill always sat in his chair, gently tugged away-with no presents for Christmas.

Mr Long Leg dialled 101 as he intended to make it home for Christmas. In the world of magic you can do anything with a suitable mindset.

Mr Daddy Long Leg took a purple crayon out of his pocket. He drew a ladder in the air, laughed, and walked across it to conduct more music for the townsmen.

A Jolty Affair
30th Oct 2016

Eight o’clock herded through the estate. The camomile tea had been served and servants punctually tucked Belly Button’s silky shirt down his pants, while His Excellence shook off his hoses. Spare hands equipped him with pointy woollen socks and a hoody ready for the night. The tugging was too often a jolty affair. His Excellence would wander far through the night, best to tug him tight.

It was time to gift wrap this major belly, eight arms reached for the Mayor. They stitched him to the bed, despite his attempt to unlatch. Sheets soared above him, with time the landscape calmed right down. Servants folded their Mighty Purpose into an origami box, no tape or glue applied. The bedroom was put to silence, one by one candles were put out.

Tapestry kept stuck to the walls. Anthon Belly Button glared up into the loft. As a child his suspense would fade into goodnight stories read aloud. Who composed them now? Anthon fell asleep, pondering about it.

He was at silence, then suddenly at stir. “The technicians have been summoned as you requested,” the usher announced. “Retreat, the sculpture is a disaster!” Anthon Belly Button dug down. “What must I do, I chipped off it’s one ear and blamed my people!” Anthon feverishly unbuttoned his shirt. He washed the evidence down the drain not to be caught in the courtyard. After all, it really turned out to be an indispensable courtyard of knowing and not knowing, did it not? From time to time a wind whistled about a chestful of secrets, confronting the bird by it’s own tribe.

Anthon awoke. He placed an object on the table of theft and left the room.
The End

Wind Chester Whistles
23rd Oct 2016

Grooki leaped on a leg. Her plumage wrapped the batted ball she had swallowed. It had happened before noon when the dog was not looking, Spikes sunbathed by his Excellence in the indispensable courtyard. Grooki was in Mr Springbuck’s backyard, a space full of wonders and statues. There were dandy lions everywhere as Mayor Anthon had demanded execution of all dandelions “no weeds, only joy!” By a large paw Grooki dived into the seeds of heaven. To her great dismay, she pecked on the soil by the statue’s foot.

I am Grooki

Grooki sat there when a spring shot through the bushes. “Fire in the hall!” It was the gardener. He clearly had other interests than trimming shrubs, only lucky that Anthon Belly Button did not hear word of it. Days were always playful around the gardener, at times strikingly attractive. How he spoke to birds charmed Grooki “how are you this day by the jasmines, my pocketful of sunshine? I see you have tripped over your one foot.” Grooki added no word, so Mr Springbuck batted on about a loaded spring he had invented overnight. Grooki trusted she had encountered it. Then Mr Springbuck pulled a trigger at her. She dropped her jaw, and out came the ball. “I call it The Wind Chester Whistles, I see your tribe astounds you” Mr Springbuck proudly remarked.

… and I am Mr Springbuck

An Indispensable Courtyard
of Knowing & Not Knowing
16th Oct 2016

Anthon buttoned his Mayor Belly. As he strolled down the loggia of his estate he fired up a cigar to extract ponder, politics and aesthetics had stirred him to sleepless nights. Empty-headed he chipped a corner of clay. The evidence hid in his palm as he stood by the porous sculpture. “Oh mighty! I know what I must achieve this 16th century. I will enrich the town’s square with the largest fountain known by the district. Then they shall see how I am at my rightful respects.” The cigar was puffed heavily upon. One of Anthon’s ushers peaked out from the third floor, she discovered a rather grandeur cloud in the courtyard parallel to the loggia. Here Anthon stood. Fine tails revealed itself below all the smoke. “Is everything at its best, my lord? You seem rather puffed away out there,” the usher exclaimed. “Why perfectly fine! I have news. We must build the fountain before the month is over, summon all the technicians immediately. The sculpture I here stand by shall be their reference.”

Anthon Belly Button made mere observations of the sculpture. Meanwhile he was fiddling with an object hidden in his palm. He was at silence, then suddenly at stir. “What the dickens! Who has robbed my fortune’s one ear? Usher! Usher! Where are you? Come quickly! It is a catastrophe!” The sculpture lacked one detail on it’s head, it had been chipped off. “Find the culprit, usher. Search half the kingdom if you have to. I want them to listen!”

Anthon Belly Button, I found a conceptual part of him in one of my earliest sketchbooks. Years grew on him, and this is what the mayor had become.

Dead Lines
2nd October 2016

A door swung open.
She drew by her desk,
digesting every line.
Soon the carpendar stood.
Home Peggy went to collect an egg box for the next project.
She gathered her gadgets and withdrew much before dawn.
On the brief walk to her vehicle professors smiled, disguising their ponder.

In pouring rain she jagged home on her bike,
now and then waiting for the street lights to turn green.
Green jeans turned greener,
rain jackets more slippery.

As she entered, Peggy’s wet clothes were swung over the shower curtain.
The kettle was flicked on and the hand reached for the egg box on the kitchen shelf.
6 naked eggs, all of them which would be a quantity too large for lunch.
Snap snap, a few of them had been cracked open.
The remains were placed in a bowl and put back on the shelf.

Peggy went home to make an omelet.
She needed an empty egg box to reenter the drawing studio,
prepped for the next deadline.

Peggy’s next deadline

A Blind Man’s Buff
26th June 2016

At dusk,
asphalt rumbled.

Across the cove,
a hovering vessel appeared.
Two slender figures were moving it,
a wo and a man.
So I had stopped.

Do vessels surf or levitate?

Cutting me off was a horizontal bar,
context obstruction.

Mock up the random ponder!

I with-took motion.
15 measures later the response came.

Two skateboards manoeuvred the ship,
scraping across the underlying metal.
Minor wheels rambled.

Road occupation,
to push that thing back home…

The vessel skated off pitch every other measure,
wo shouted at man.

Something different had to be done.
Could it do wrong?

We ran it home,
when I could still run.

The story unfolded,
as the storm stranded.

but not entirely random.

A vessel passed the Opera House of Copenhagen,
pulling a blind man’s buff.

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