Life Colander

Stone can be a very dreadful substance; it's very cold and unforgiving -and when I say unforgiving I mean unforgiving- and there's no denying it. The man on my left is a neo-nazi and he's locked in a cage moaning and groaning and moaning. The man on my other left is a rocket scientist and he shot a feral dog on Saturday. The man on my right is fat and he has a bag of apples for his children and wife who life in a yellow house with their dog -Maxwell- and cat -ninety nine- and an adopted Indian child who can speak English but is the best table tennis player in the world. The room was full of a warm yellow glow from all the golden lamps standing hither and thither around the rooms shining on apples, whipped cream and rosy red wine on little silver trays on tables. We left with a group of friends and ran out into the street laughing and singing, the night was warm and the full moon was shining like the sun. The streets where lined with maples. Lucy called out and ran down through the entrance to the subway, everyone followed her. A spirited game of hide and seek ensued and after an hour the group of people gathered together on one of the platform. They got up some going back to the party, others to their homes. There were no other people down in the subway that night -Lucy was never found either. The neighbourhood was a breeding ground for criminals and most children were serious trouble makers before adolescence. The authorities mostly turned a blind eye -as is the usual practice- and the neighbourhood mostly broke itself down. Lucy's older brother was a in hospital after being attacked by a group of teenagers, they would have killed him if he hadn't been rescued by a security guard who heard the commotion. They were brutal and two of the teenagers had been shot. Lucy's great grandfather was a captain in the first world war, he had been to France during the battle of Mulhouse (9th, August, 1914) and had been shot in the leg passed out in a field where a farmers daughter had found him, taken him back to her house, looked after him, fallen in love and then married him, (this is known as the "The Florence Nightingale effect" or "Transference" as Sigmund Freud called it). Now getting back to stones and rock. The physical structure of rock is very hard and often is used to signify the absence of life and emotion. But if I may interject her with a short note on "Objectophilia" (not the sexual fetish but in fact the emotional attraction that is) Monica loves a park bench in the park. Anyway I was walking past the post office and all the words were seeping down through the cracks in the bricks. Millions of words, emotions, thoughts, ideas and mindless chatter. There was a list with all these people and I fell down into the words because I couldn't save them but I really wanted to. Elissia told me not to worry because there's no point in crying about spilt milk. Live and Let Die was playing quietly in the background "When you were young and your heart was an open book..." I leant back against the huge rock and watched the city lights come on below in the the valley, there really was a lot of words and strange words and emotions to sift through down in the city. I rather like the hillside.