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Sunday, so sad to see you leave me
Jun. 27th, 2004 03:16 pmAgatha Christie wrote mystery novels with paper-thin characters. My journal is a mystery too, written by a paper-thin character. All diaries are mysterious, but none as much as mine – it’s a mystery to whom and why I write here. A brazilian phantom roams the land of badly put together sentences, rejecting and collecting friends who shall never meet in the flesh. In this land of diaries and words, a land like a giant garden, trees grow amongst the weeds. I’m in Queen’s Park, sitting underneath similar trees (I wish I knew what type they were – the world is full of names we have never been told or taught.) I’m in the shades. Kevin is in front of me, about 20 paces, sitting in the sun. He wears a bright blue zip-up jacket and sunglasses. He’s reading a book on Bosch, the 15th century master of the grotesque. It’s very typical of Kevin to be reading something like that.
I was sitting on the shaded side of the bench. I have now moved to where the sun is shining. The shadows of leaves play against my legs. I can hear the leaves above my head rustling, the occasional car driving by, children talking and the excited voices of a group of teenagers playing football on the other side of the park.
I wonder about the solitary people walking through the park. Where are they going? Why are they alone?
A woman sits down on my bench. She has shoulder-length brown hair and she looks to be in her early 40s. She wears a black cardigan, glasses and an aqua-marine skirt. She is eating two ice-creams at the same time while flipping through a newspaper.
The sun comes and goes, thanks to a myriad of clouds drifting in the sky from the west to the east. I have a novel resting against my left leg: The Marriage of Sticks by Jonathan Carroll. I found it in the library’s horror section. Kevin and I searched for horror novels a few weekends ago. We went to second hand stores in Notting Hill, and the main stores downtown. Some stores don’t carry horror novels anymore. They are now called “chillers”, and they aren’t really horror but stories about serial killers. Crime and murder are popular if committed by human beings. Nobody cares anymore about werewolves, vampires and zombies. The ghouls have been pushed into the kiddie section and given a beating by Harry Potter and his bully friends.
We found some classic horror novels in the second hand stores. They had grim covers and promised tales of gore and disaster. They were worth their 20 pence just for the covers alone. They were mostly written in the 70s and early 80s. Stories about the american president trapped inside a nuclear bunk – the only survivor of a world holocaust. Or I Am Legend, the story of the last human being in a world of vampires. If I wrote a horror novel, who would read it? Would I have to aim it at a “chiller” crowd?
My little creative bubble has burst.
I was sitting on the shaded side of the bench. I have now moved to where the sun is shining. The shadows of leaves play against my legs. I can hear the leaves above my head rustling, the occasional car driving by, children talking and the excited voices of a group of teenagers playing football on the other side of the park.
I wonder about the solitary people walking through the park. Where are they going? Why are they alone?
A woman sits down on my bench. She has shoulder-length brown hair and she looks to be in her early 40s. She wears a black cardigan, glasses and an aqua-marine skirt. She is eating two ice-creams at the same time while flipping through a newspaper.
The sun comes and goes, thanks to a myriad of clouds drifting in the sky from the west to the east. I have a novel resting against my left leg: The Marriage of Sticks by Jonathan Carroll. I found it in the library’s horror section. Kevin and I searched for horror novels a few weekends ago. We went to second hand stores in Notting Hill, and the main stores downtown. Some stores don’t carry horror novels anymore. They are now called “chillers”, and they aren’t really horror but stories about serial killers. Crime and murder are popular if committed by human beings. Nobody cares anymore about werewolves, vampires and zombies. The ghouls have been pushed into the kiddie section and given a beating by Harry Potter and his bully friends.
We found some classic horror novels in the second hand stores. They had grim covers and promised tales of gore and disaster. They were worth their 20 pence just for the covers alone. They were mostly written in the 70s and early 80s. Stories about the american president trapped inside a nuclear bunk – the only survivor of a world holocaust. Or I Am Legend, the story of the last human being in a world of vampires. If I wrote a horror novel, who would read it? Would I have to aim it at a “chiller” crowd?
My little creative bubble has burst.
