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Entry tags:
Setting: Slice of Life, R for possible language
[there's a very tall, bespectacled man folded up at a table in the corner of the cafe you find yourself in. he looks like a stiff breeze would probably send him flying off into the sunset, and he's staring off into the distance, intently, a stub of gnawed pencil hovering in one hand over a battered notebook.
after a moment, he turns his head sharply and looks directly at you, as though he's been talking to you for hours, and you already know each other. you totally don't.]
Is 'aubergine' too elite an adjective, do you think? Normally I trust my own judgement, but I'm really not sure.
((A/N: Simon here is a poet who tends to write about controversial things. If there are any issues that you would rather NOT come up in the conversation, please note them in your tag header. For the most part, I will keep the details of his writing generic so as not to trigger anyone. As in his canon, it's not the end product that matters so much as the reactions to it and the things that inspire.))
after a moment, he turns his head sharply and looks directly at you, as though he's been talking to you for hours, and you already know each other. you totally don't.]
Is 'aubergine' too elite an adjective, do you think? Normally I trust my own judgement, but I'm really not sure.
((A/N: Simon here is a poet who tends to write about controversial things. If there are any issues that you would rather NOT come up in the conversation, please note them in your tag header. For the most part, I will keep the details of his writing generic so as not to trigger anyone. As in his canon, it's not the end product that matters so much as the reactions to it and the things that inspire.))
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I'd say it depends on what you're trying to describe.
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Bruises.
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Are the bruises on a man or a woman?
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It's meant to be androgynous. Anyone.
[he slides the notebook across the table so he can see, careful not to bump the coffee cup. it's all written in an iambic pentameter that almost seems accidental, though every word is carefully controlled - chaos within precise margins, an attempt to wrestle details of life not often discussed onto the paper. the sort of thing people who turn their back on the truths of the world would find hard to read, and react with either anger or disgust. those who know life for what it is, though: hard, and beautiful, and ugly, and spontaneous? their reactions to his writing always vary, but they always keep reading. they don't push it away. that's the one thing he's always found, when he writes. no matter what it's about, no matter what Claude might see in it. because that's the thing about Simon Grim's poetry: no one sees the same thing, either.]
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[Accepting the notebook, he reads over the other man's writings carefully. Takes his time to savour the precision of it, the control of the language, the flow. Then, the images begin to hit him - stark and unpolished, despite the polished finish of the poetic form itself. It's remarkable. Perhaps not beautiful, perhaps there are no pretty words to be found in the cluster, but you can't ignore it. You can't read it and remain ignorant. Claude doesn't push the notebook back to its owner. He keeps it, for the time being. Because it feels enriched.]
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[even that wordless reply is hesitant, because he doesn't want to break his concentration. he knows how irritated he, himself, gets when people interrupt him while he's reading. he's learned the art of watching other people read without staring, without making them feel like they're under a microscope - how to gauge their general reaction without hovering. it came easier than the conversation did, sometimes, mostly because he'd spent the majority of his life before the writing in silent observation, anyway.
he waits, patiently, for Claude to give it back, and sips at his own coffee.]
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I think aubergine would dye the sentence in a feminine hue.
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You're right.
I knew it seemed off, but for the wrong reason. Thank you.
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You're welcome. I'm Claude Bérubé, by the way.
[Holding out his free hand across the table, available for a handshake if Simon should so wish, Claude raises one eyebrow slightly, nodding at the notebook that is being treated with such care. His colleagues may laugh at him for still resorting to writing by hand, but certain things are just better conveyed when they've flown through your fingers.]
It's lovely to see someone else honouring the old ways.
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Thank you. It's ... nice to talk to someone without -
[how does he put this without seeming like a self-aggrandizing prick? no, really, how? he decides to start over.]
Before I came here, people knew my name. Not me. Just ... my name.
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If you don't wish to be synonymous with your name, I'll ask you to describe yourself in ten adjectives.
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I'd have to think about it for a moment. ... What about you? What would your adjectives be?
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Curious, first and foremost. Passionate. Dedicated. Warm. Friendly. Laidback. [He pauses to consider which direction to go from here. Had he been talking to Vincent, the word sexy would have sneaked in, but Simon is a new acquaintance and Claude minds his manners.] Mature. Romantic... Inviting. French.
[He emphasises the last word for its importance. Despite living in Luxembourg on a day to day basis, despite travelling Africa in part and the world at large, he remains French at heart.]
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[he pauses] For starters ... Observant. [he licks his lips, thinking] Introspective. Straightforward. Loyal. .... Curious and dedicated, too ...
[he's really giving it serious thought. he stops to count up the words he's listed thus far and tries to come up with the final four. he's mostly covered his poetic side, the parts his mentor helped to shape, but his mind drifts to his family: mostly his sister and nephew, to who he is at his core, and always has been, even before it all] Responsible. Cautious. Honest.
[for some reason, the image of Warren and his fucktoy bullying Gnoc floats across his mind, the poor mute girl's eyes meeting his in his memory, and he latches on to it. they'd had something in common, then, something he still carries in every word he writes. it might be the most important adjective, this final one. maybe that's why he saved it, like Claude did 'French', only subconsciously]
.... Outcast.
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Society can turn its back on someone for many reasons. [He raises his chin.] Sometimes the best way to move beyond it is by turning your back on society. Maybe just for a while.
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In some cases it might be, but as long as the reader will understand what you mean and it fits the context of the writing [she shrugs] why not?
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You know, you're right. Thank you.
[he offers her a tight, but not quite awkward smile, eyes lingering. he's always been a bit of a creeper in that regard: he stares at a lot of things, especially pretty women. he can't help it, there weren't many of them in his life until fairly recently]
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She does, however, wonder if there was going to be anything else of this conversation or if that one spontaneous question was all he had. Her eyebrows raise slightly and she smirks]
Anything else I can help you with? I've never been a writer before but I like to read.
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I beg your pardon... But you're asking me for advice on what sort of adjective you ought to be using?
[The very idea that some stranger would address him out of nowhere while he was just trying to enjoy a strong cup of tea and the morning crossword seemed unfathomable to him, as though he'd thought of himself as completely invisible to the world at large.]
omg yay
[the poet shrugs. really, who else would he ask? the stranger is just as good as any other potential reader]
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[The angel gives a silly, bashful looking grin, looking somewhat proud of himself. He must have looked really intelligent if some random writer was asking him about adjectives.]
Aubergine, was it? I'm not sure how that would be an elite adjective. It's certainly no "amaranthine" or "mauve." Most people know what an aubergine is. Whether or not the adjective is appropriate, however... Well, what is it you're trying to describe?
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Oh, I don't know. You could probably go more elite. Solanaceous.
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apologies for the lazy link. phone tags and all that
Re: apologies for the lazy link. phone tags and all that
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[Henry would probably want to know why the hell he was asking common philistines about poetry, but Henry isn't here. and he needed opinions.] I'm sorry if I bothered you.
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