|Tears and Fears
||[Jan. 26th, 2004|05:22 am]
The White Tower Room
Is it obscure? Or is it just artistic? Does the nature of the narrator come through or am I just babbling? If I'm crying while I write these words, is it absurd? Or am I being real?|
I read the news today, oh boy.
Actually I red the news. That is, the paper was covered in red ink. A red letter day.
Red is an auspicious color for the Chinese, did you know that? It’s lucky, it means favorable things. They make their almanac of red paper, or print it in red ink, in the hopes that it will give them fortune in the coming year. They live by their almanac the way some people live by their daily trips to the Quick-Mart to buy the lottery ticket, or their evening with Peter Jennings and Ted Koppel. We have our almanacs too, our books that tell us when things are going to be all right and when we should start stocking up on canned goods and bottled water.
They use horrible ink for the newspapers, I had to wash it off in the sink, and it stained the swirling water red. Red water, like red tide. Red tide means bad shellfish, it’s an algae that kills humans if you eat the shellfish that have consumed the tide. Which is why I never eat shellfish, or most kinds of seafood. But some people make their livings off the shellfish. I wonder what they do when the red tide comes in.
It was all bad news in the paper, of course. They never print anything good in the papers these days. The media motto: if it bleeds, it leads. People always seem to have this sick fascination with blood, back from the times of the gladiators, the Romans and the Spartans. The Spartans’ military colors were red and gold, I bet you didn’t know that, did you? Red and gold, like the sacred colors for the Chinese. Gold for Imperials and red for luck. And white is the color of funerals.
With nothing else to do, I am forced to play cards till the first guests of the day arrive. Solitaire, with a lucky hand, a king falls face up. The red king is the suicide king, stabbing himself in the side of the head. Although, I’d imagine that it’d actually be awfully hard to kill yourself that way, pushing through bone. Scalp wounds bleed a lot, and it takes less than a pound of pressure to break skin, if you do it right. So maybe he’s not really a suicide king, maybe he’s just pretending to get the attention of the rest of the court. That would make sense, after all. The face on the card looks awfully lonely.
There’s a red light at the door. I wonder where that phrase originated, the red light district. It means whores, you know. It means that they used to hang red lanterns or put red curtains in the windows of buildings where there were whores for sale. I wonder why. Sometimes I fancy myself a whore, putting out the red light all over the front windows so that my guests can see. And they’ve brought me pretty bracelets. How nice.