it's the opening bit to my novel which I'm working on in a really disorganised and patchy fashion - it's a novel about an autistic woman who suffers a breakdown, and her road to recovery, her way of looking at the world and her obsessions and phobias, with a backdrop of her studies in early modern witch-beliefs (drawing parallels between individual and aggregate psychology around mysticism/magical thinking/primal fears etc) and feminist critical theory, focusing a lot on her troubled relationship with her mother who probably also had autism but wasn't recognised - hard to explain but probably quite poncy
I know it's narcissistic but I haven't got anyone IRL that I want to embarrass myself in front of...
if it's awful adolescent doggerel then please TELL me
but tell me gently
here goes
I have a strange and powerful relationship with clothes. It?s visceral, carnal; real love, equally real loathing. I could browse the whole spectrum of human emotions, just rifling through the reels in a dressmakers? shop. Clothes are intoxicating. Close your eyes and breathe slowly. Listen. A swirling bell-shaped skirt, peppermint satin, cool, light, fluid, rippling over your legs in the summer sunshine. A chocolate velvet party dress, shirred bronze in candlelight, brushing your face like the wings of a moth for an instant before falling into place about your body with the warm weight of luxury. A smoky grey felt glove lying on a polished oak floor, slim-fingered, reposing in a gesture of languid assent.
Architecture lends us a man-made world, a skilful illusion borne out of our innate fear of abandonment. Our minds are dwarfed and derailed by the complexity of Nature?s own constructive genius, we struggle like a child in an 11+ exam required to ?continue the pattern 98723436287678891467?. Our intuition tells us that randomness is a falsehood and that there must be a formula, a logic, and tells us also that our brains are simply too rudimentary to perceive it yet ? millions of years lie between us and the truth. To second-guess evolution is a dangerous game ? would you hand a four year old a butcher knife? Our deepest fears, dramatised most eloquently in the Book of Genesis, revolve around the fear of human beings acquiring and inevitably misusing the mathematical language of Nature. When God threw that apple at Newton, he should have picked it up and examined it ? he might have seen the marks of Adam?s teeth.
So we inhabit a crudely pixellated landscape of flat colours and right angles, a world chopped up like a toddler?s dinner into bite-sized blocks, smoothly interacting before our eyes like a perfect game of Tetris. Our urban super-reality is designed to support and enclose us in an illusion of safety ? buildings define our limits, they mark out our territory and direct our movements. They are the unblinking stewards on the periphery of our vision, shouting out instructions; dress codes, appropriate noise levels, a visual autocue of the expectations which lie within. Buildings can hold us dear in an unending embrace, keep us warm and dry, shield us from the terrifying complexity and sheer scale of ?outside?, or they can grip, punish and isolate us when we transgress. And when they crumble, our instinctive selves coil and leap with fear and fascination.
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Creative writing
Would somebody please read these few paragraphs for me?
67 replies
Greensleeves · 14/11/2008 10:18
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