||[Nov. 2nd, 2008|03:36 am]
I can listen to the Cocteau Twins without feeling the urge to kick out a window.|
When I was very young, when I was still at home with my mother and newborn brother, before having to deal with the barbarism of other children, I remember orange construction paper. My mother gave me sheets of it one afternoon to play with, along with a handful of crayons and glue.
I didn't draw on it, or cut it into pieces, or fold it - nothing like that. I crumpled it up, a sheet at a time, and wrapped it around my fist. I molded it into shapes and forms that weren't representative of anything. They were my childish attempt to create an organic form.
The paper was orange, and it felt wrong to do anything else than to try and create something alive. But I failed. Because it was a singular thing shaped for a limited purpose, and not much good for anything else.
And there it is - my life encapsulated in a sheet of orange construction paper.