Finally, a few hundred years and 234 "Ahem mm's" later, the cable car reached the top of the mountain, where my uncle lived. When I got out, I had a total view at his house, in a dimple on the top (technically a valley, I always thought). It was a little, lovely house, made even smaller by the giant cherry tree next to it. The porch always seemed to be sunny, even on cloudy days and invited everyone who made the trip up to this desolated mountain to knock on the door, or, with shy people, to enter the veranda and sit on the bench to enjoy the view from it quietly.
My uncle Steward was a mad man. He had an legendary temper, which he doesn't mind showing to anyone, except to the wanderers who made use of the especially made cable car and used the invitation to sit and watch the view, he didn't mind them. But the loud groups of tourists, or people who knocked on the door expecting to meet an elderly, apple pie making, little lady got the fright of their lives. Because my uncle he was... not much loved by the Maker who gave him form, sort of speak. He looked horrifying. There was a good reason why he went to live his life on this mountain and leave the community in its pity superficiality, its inability to accept the form some persons are made in when it doesn't match the common standard of beauty.
The real ugly girl was taking the same path as I was; the path to uncle Stewards house.
She was still harrumphing while walking directly behind me, it almost seemed she was laughing, or bleating.
Sunday, 22 April 2007
Wednesday, 18 April 2007
in his left ear,
which almost knocked him from the cable car he was on.
The moment he turned around he almost threw himself of the cabin on purpose, because he didn't expect to see such an ugly woman standing next to him. The next moment he thought by himself how on earth it was possible that such a horrible mis figured being could pass him by and be on a same ride without him noticing it.
He was seriously distracted from life, he concluded.
'Excuse me', he mumbled and with a hard yank pulled the nose hair free.
Monday, 16 April 2007
Broad-Hipped-Boy just finished his poems written by Pessoa. Gloomily he crosses the street to buy a Cappuccino at Cafe Nero's. Apparently he is so deep in thought he doesn't see the TRUCK coming. From the pavement a blearing voice screams at him:
He looks over his shoulder, the TRUCK is nearing and about hitting the breaks, or hitting him.
'That girl has a strange face, it reminds me of something', Broad-Hipped-Boy thinks. In a minute the TRUCK is going to kill him, but he can only stare at the girl. He has even stopped moving altogether. Suddenly his mind is being pulled a hundred years ago, in a past he was bound to forget.