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a prerogative of living in the future
This day (whatever it means to you, even if that be nothing beyond gratitude for a lull in the rush of life and residual irritation that the shops have been so crowded this last week) I wish for you a moment out of the ordinary.
I wish you a year lived like poetry
that rhymes with structure, rhymes with beat
and careful words and tapping feet
if that’s your thing. Or poetry cast out like
careless netting for wilder beauty and words
with lines that stop
mid sentence
without explanation, creating shapes
of text block text black text
against a white screen. Or blue. Pick your HTML.
I wish you a year lived like the best prose, like the book you pull from the shelf because something about the font on the spine or the simplicity of the title or the colour of the bent cardboard or the name of the author says me, I’ll do, and the book that lies across your palm as though laid there by a large ineffable hand. The book that is invariably suited to you, whatever that may be:
a) Minimalistic. Sharp. Pared down words with none wasted, each in their place. (I’m looking at you, though I don’t think you’re looking back.) Ruthlessly clean and precise, dropping ideas into your head with deceptive ease and stillness. Ripples under the surface, shuddering through you as you think: I need to read it again.
b) Colourful, lyrical cobweb prose; metaphor leaping from words jumbled together and peppered with semicolons, the slow honey burn across your mind of images lingual and languid. Books that have something to say and say it quietly, beautifully, and with quirked assurance. Wit drawn out of words.
c) The simple celebration of a fictional medium, wit or fierce tragedy or (your own personal blurb-writer throws in adjectives like sweeping, joyous, riveting) anything that takes your fancy floats your boat or spins your cogs.
I wish you indulgence and fulfillment in all things; a year of advertisements with meticulously correct usage of apostrophes, cafés that make coffee just the way you like it every single time, a movie in which that actor you like so much obligingly discards their shirt for a good half hour, leading to paradise in screencaps. May you pass glass so clean it’s hardly visible until the light strikes it right, may your waiters wear open-collared shirts with a glimpse of a black leather cord tied around the neck, may there be lace and foreign accents and swirling skirts and everything that you find good and dark and beautiful.
I wish you a year of growth in ways large or small, be it a cup size gained or an old animosity put to rest. I wish you happiness and satisfaction in your work, in the small things, in jobs well done and merits well deserved and the pure intellectual joy of learning and achieving and growing by stretching yourself beyond that which you thought you were capable of.
I wish you love in every form; a perpetuation of that which exists and new loves in all areas. Love of friends and love for friends, the spark of eros and exhilarating passion. The love of families both biological and chosen. I wish for you relationships that grow in depth and width and security, a painless end for those that needs must end, and moments of silence and silliness and shared abandon in those that you cherish.
And in the spirit of whichever season we are celebrating, in the snow or the dull cold or the bright heat of the (woefully isolated!) south, I wish you peace. I wish you free of guilt and fear and anxiety and assured of your place in the world, even if it is only a transient one. I wish you a year of life the way you wish it to be, even though that may not be peaceful in the literal sense. I wish you interesting times and will laugh with you when you triumph.
I wish for you a wish fulfilled.
I wish you a year lived like poetry
that rhymes with structure, rhymes with beat
and careful words and tapping feet
if that’s your thing. Or poetry cast out like
careless netting for wilder beauty and words
with lines that stop
mid sentence
without explanation, creating shapes
of text block text black text
against a white screen. Or blue. Pick your HTML.
I wish you a year lived like the best prose, like the book you pull from the shelf because something about the font on the spine or the simplicity of the title or the colour of the bent cardboard or the name of the author says me, I’ll do, and the book that lies across your palm as though laid there by a large ineffable hand. The book that is invariably suited to you, whatever that may be:
a) Minimalistic. Sharp. Pared down words with none wasted, each in their place. (I’m looking at you, though I don’t think you’re looking back.) Ruthlessly clean and precise, dropping ideas into your head with deceptive ease and stillness. Ripples under the surface, shuddering through you as you think: I need to read it again.
b) Colourful, lyrical cobweb prose; metaphor leaping from words jumbled together and peppered with semicolons, the slow honey burn across your mind of images lingual and languid. Books that have something to say and say it quietly, beautifully, and with quirked assurance. Wit drawn out of words.
c) The simple celebration of a fictional medium, wit or fierce tragedy or (your own personal blurb-writer throws in adjectives like sweeping, joyous, riveting) anything that takes your fancy floats your boat or spins your cogs.
I wish you indulgence and fulfillment in all things; a year of advertisements with meticulously correct usage of apostrophes, cafés that make coffee just the way you like it every single time, a movie in which that actor you like so much obligingly discards their shirt for a good half hour, leading to paradise in screencaps. May you pass glass so clean it’s hardly visible until the light strikes it right, may your waiters wear open-collared shirts with a glimpse of a black leather cord tied around the neck, may there be lace and foreign accents and swirling skirts and everything that you find good and dark and beautiful.
I wish you a year of growth in ways large or small, be it a cup size gained or an old animosity put to rest. I wish you happiness and satisfaction in your work, in the small things, in jobs well done and merits well deserved and the pure intellectual joy of learning and achieving and growing by stretching yourself beyond that which you thought you were capable of.
I wish you love in every form; a perpetuation of that which exists and new loves in all areas. Love of friends and love for friends, the spark of eros and exhilarating passion. The love of families both biological and chosen. I wish for you relationships that grow in depth and width and security, a painless end for those that needs must end, and moments of silence and silliness and shared abandon in those that you cherish.
And in the spirit of whichever season we are celebrating, in the snow or the dull cold or the bright heat of the (woefully isolated!) south, I wish you peace. I wish you free of guilt and fear and anxiety and assured of your place in the world, even if it is only a transient one. I wish you a year of life the way you wish it to be, even though that may not be peaceful in the literal sense. I wish you interesting times and will laugh with you when you triumph.
I wish for you a wish fulfilled.
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*goes in peace*
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I'm ever so glad I did.
*hugs you*
The same to you, my dear, although I think I will never be able to put it in words so clearly.
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