a twine of threads
|
Caged Bird
May 17, 2003
Triangular, the room occupies the corner of what was once a grand palazzo. This, perhaps, a corner of a private bedroom. Now it comprises both living room and kitchen. Modest in size, modest in appliances but rich in color and character. Stucco walls have been painted a honey-gold, with white trim at the easings and sideboards. The floor, once tiled perhaps in marble, is paneled in a hardy ash. It comes with all the rhythm of the rain... There is a knock at the heavy blue door. It is more of a formality though, as the person that does so only uses it as a warning of his entrance rather than waiting to be admitted. It is Jonthan of course. And as always he looks a bit odd. Dressed in a sweater and comfortable blue jeans and loafers like Ward Cleaver just don't always work with him. However his dress doesn't demand so much attention as does the noise. He clacks and clanks as metal buckles bludgeon against one another. They originate from the harnesses drapped over one shoulder. Over the other a long coil of rope and other pins and stakes indicative of rock climbing gear. "You still look depressed. I thought some exercise would do you good." It is perhaps good he didn't hear you say you would dance in the rain. He most assuredly would tell you that that is 'just so damned Novalis.' "So what do you say. Some great climbing mountains to the north of hear and nothing but time today. You up for it?" Eyes gape. Rock... climb-ING? It stops him, angelic in his tracks -- wearing his layers of grey and black. Like a scholar or a poet of old -- but more... moody. Ah, or maybe like the raven he used to be and is sometimes still called. Arms fold against his chest and slowly the brows upraise... Oh come now Kit.. you don't have to kick the rock's ass.. just climb them. "You know.. for someone that is supposed to be an expert on dreams you lack the balls to try a god blessed thing." Jack sighs and shakes his head, "You do not have to be built like Conan the barbarian to go climbing. In fact you got a good climber's build. How can you understand dreams if you don't understand the adventures people seek in this plane to fufill them?" Ok so he just threw that piece of pyschobabble in. He waits patiently for you to pick it appart. Still standing just inside the door covered in climbing gear. More like a goat, than a raven... heels dug into the earth as if he is becoming... immovable. But there is more than a little logic to what you say, and though the full mouth twists in a wry half-frown, half-smile, he does not retort. "Bah... Packing is crutch of the unprepared. Just put on something durable real quick and we'll hop in the car." Hey.. when did Jonathan get a car.... he must be requisitioning again. "If we pick a climb near a good ski resort too we can even pick up a few ski bunnies." Translation. Go wenching like any good Michaelite. "As long as the Marches are just your opiate of choice you're never gonna start feeling better... and you haven't lived until you've watched the sun come up over the low morning clouds from the top of the Alps." Dark curls lift and veil, move in front of his eyes as if there were a wind cast particularly for him, and particularly for that task, as Kit lifts his head from his bend at his closet. Arms full of All Sorts Of Things Grabbed for the Just In Case, he stands there caught between Preparation and Winging It. |