butterfly_ _ _ _ _ stitches

18Mar10

Words sometimes fail me. Actually, no – fail, is the wrong word. What I mean to say is that I marvel at words. They are wonderful and strange. They do odd, perplexing and sometimes magical things. We forget the power of them (as you do with things you bandy about every day). 

In the murk of an everyday day, to be awakened to a beautiful collection of letters – a chance and pretty gathering of words – is like looking up and seeing a fully formed rainbow, or a sky full of country stars, or a motorway that is clear and blue all the way to the horizon after a long day.

I labour the point. I always do that. I use more words than I should. Maybe I’m the literary equivalent of a lady with too much eyeshadow, the glittering, bargain bin kind. Caked on foundation, all pores and powdery crevices. Oh well, fuck it. Bring on the shimmery aqua and the clumpy kohl, I say…

Tonight we went to see St Vincent and she was excellent. The highlight of my Festival, truly, although there is still one show to go for me. Now we are home. I am in the writing cubby hole I hardly ever use. We have a grotto full of candles, sleep-inducing nightcaps and records playing (more St Vincent, Leila Adu and now Joni Mitchell so far) and it is only one day from the weekend, which can only ever be a good thing.

The cats are talking to me again, after a long cold shoulder, and are huddled behind the screen of my laptop, on top of each other. Apparently I was air-stroking Sylvie in my sleep last night (i.e. stroking the air well above her) and mewling to myself as I did.

As for butterfly stitches. Emma and I went to lunch at Parade the other day. As we turned off to Oriental Parade we were stopped by a policewoman, asking us how far we intended to go. We were waved on, deemed unthreatening. Over lunch there was some conjecture as to the reason for the cordoning and the questioning.

And then, the next day, I stumbed upon this article on Stuff. I emailed it to Emma, our mystery solved, and she wrote back:

Something about the last line [a bunch of minor injuries and a woman requiring butterfly stitches to her chin] is both cute and gruesome.

I thought about it for a moment.

Butterfly = cute

Stitches = gruesome

I dunno. What do you call that? Juxtaposition? Oxymoron? Or is there no term for it, the strange spark from some words when they rub against each other?

Cute and gruesome. That is a good mix, right there.

Joni and vinyl is a good mix.

Bed and me is a good mix.

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