veg and the ex files...what more does one need for a sunday evening cosy by the fire? (well by the heater that looks like the eye of sauron from lord of the rings in my case ;-) ), blankets, hot lemon ginger n honey to sip, and the fallen darkness weaving away the weekends weft
sounds kinda saucy no?
so...still feeling a lil leurghy lingering decided to venture out in search of earth grown produce to kick ass this cold with its armory of colour weapons!...mmmm..obviously upon assembled photo shoot, kitchen snake (and yes there are a few of these creatures around my home) slithered his place in this veritable garden of eden...there's something about the mere colour of vegetables that propels me to happiness, and on that note let me tell you a story...and no, those of you waiting for a 50 shades explique will be disappointed...yes this is a story about ex's...yes i have mentioned vegetables (but i will stop now)...no they do not perform in the same fable i am about to reveal
are you sitting comfortably?
now i dont know about you but one of the delights in life, whether aged 5 or 500 (am sure), is to be told a story....storytelling is a wondrous art, as ancient as womankind itself...deeply rooted in every culture and corner of the world...stories are our minds left free to roam destination unheard of...of abstract lands and tales that have no tail...of upside downs and inside outs and where nothing is impossible
i love stories
especially when feelin a lil duvet bound
so am going to tell you a story...one that i have pondered over the years might have made a good tale...so here it is...and its about the colour orange
enjoy xxx
''three orange men''
''it was not the most flattering of shades, an orange tired out by too much sun, a terracotta too ashamed to fire, a peach rolled around a little in the muddy earth...but it was the colour orange that linked them, to each other, to her story, and to her heart
the first she met in india, land of many contradictory claims, the flip side of the coin, head spinner and soul changer...she was sick...he brought her tea and sat at the end of her bed with stories from the outside day...they shared joints and the right of passage of passing time in a foreign land
half swedish, shaven head, green eyes...and an orange jacket with those thai style pyjama pants, in orange, to match
they became lovers, though now she cant recall how...hazy memories of bollywood cinema goings, hand holding shyness, and there they were, romancing holiday style in the freedom of mosquito friendly rooms
they met through synchronicities arrows over the course of several months, like a dna diagram, meeting again and again after pulling themselves in opposite directions...fated to wake in the heat of an afternoon, calls of 'madam' and sunsets, goa and acid, sweat filled nights of love making in another time, another world
they saw each other again...london now...a few months later...he came to pick her up for a date...still wearing that orange jacket...it made her smile
the second was her tantric lover in a springtime gone by...her tantric lover that she had boldly solicited for such a tryst on a train back from yorkshire...20 years older, looking like a biology teacher, wise and a poet, words of intimacy, and devoted to her...they spent the next 3 months without clothes on apart from once...an art preview...would he like to accompany her, outside, in the company of other folk?...clothing essential...she wore a little black dress, appropriate for a cultured city eve...he wore orange..head to toe orange...he held her hand...she was slightly embarrrased..they never went out in public again...they didnt have to get dressed thank goodness...he fell in love with her, everything fell unbalanced until all the pieces rolled off the table and it was empty once more
the third was a moment, an argentinian angel, destined by the gods to be her birthday gift...35 years old in a small village in northern argentina...midnight struck and she found herself in a tango chamber, a foreigner in a hall of dancing souls...no one spoke english...the hall lit by dark lamps, characters that looked like they had stepped off some folklore pages, raw, dashing the dream of mythical tango into some kind of east end gathering...old men with ashen faces, a tape machine with a worn out croak of a tune, plastic flowers on the tables...still, she whispered that it was her birthday to a woman who could possibly have been as olive as the cushion she sat upon, many kisses, fizzing wine and new friends followed
he was a circus performer, an acrobat, a wide smile, juicy lips and solid frame...a sight of delight in orange...they met the next evening, a gallery in some colonial house, morbid twisted drawings and a guide eager to please...wine and pauses as each wondered what the other had just said..did it matter? not to her, their presence illuminated by the distance between them...still they liked each other that was clear...he went to fetch pizza, she to stare in wonder at the half horror half dazzle of carnival latin village style
maybe its not so much the fashion no more, and lovers have come and gone...but she misses the flash of orange that awoke the story of adventure and romance in her...she doesnt see them on the streets, all greys and grays and hints of black to match the paving and sky...three orange men crossed her path once...three orange men''
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