![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Rapunzel in Tibet
For ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
phineasjones, who wanted fic based on e.e. cummings. Given that it started with cummings and Luna Lovegood, this snippet is almost coherent.
She was the most beautiful girl in her year. That was too small, too pinched. She was the most beautiful girl at the school. Still too small, still summoning rows of chairs and black robes in lines and spilled ink and detentions. She was the most beautiful person in the world. She lived in a castle in Ireland and her hair was so long, it wasn’t just a thick rope for Rapunzel’s blind, mindless prince, it stretched forever. Clouds in Ireland were her hair, storms jeweled with lightning. Children in Tibet might find a strand, follow it, quest along that whispered mapline until they were grown and in Ireland and saw the source of all beauty. They took her name back to India, whispered it, set shrines to a goddess along the dusty roads, covered them with milk-white flowers.
Padma. A prayer. A chant of perfection. Luna whispered it over and over, felt the name meld with her breath. That was all she could say. That was all she was. A breath and hands, hands that were . . . It would have been enough to braid that hair, so thick and soft and shining. She could have lost herself amidst the curves, the turns, the never-ending journey into dark. Hair twisting like poetry. Poetry like death. Not being there at all. Luna thought about it often, not being there, not being. So much more interesting than what was, to wander down the wrong strand, into Tibet . . .
But all this time her hands were traveling, through that hair, follow the spine, and here’s another path, gentle curve out for the breast and in, and hips. Luna did not have hips, and was always miffed when she noticed her own body: why sticks and broomsticks, why not soft curves glimpsed underwater, turn and turn in a lake in moonlight? Now, though, now Luna watched her own mind falling away from lakes and Tibetan snows. She was in herself, she could feel her eyelids thick over closed eyes, muscles tight down to her curled toes. It made sense, this boney body. All along it had belonged here, striking shards and sparks, all electric in her softness. All electric all along. Luna was not breathing, she was not, she was everything, flint and light--
phineasjones, who wanted fic based on e.e. cummings. Given that it started with cummings and Luna Lovegood, this snippet is almost coherent.She was the most beautiful girl in her year. That was too small, too pinched. She was the most beautiful girl at the school. Still too small, still summoning rows of chairs and black robes in lines and spilled ink and detentions. She was the most beautiful person in the world. She lived in a castle in Ireland and her hair was so long, it wasn’t just a thick rope for Rapunzel’s blind, mindless prince, it stretched forever. Clouds in Ireland were her hair, storms jeweled with lightning. Children in Tibet might find a strand, follow it, quest along that whispered mapline until they were grown and in Ireland and saw the source of all beauty. They took her name back to India, whispered it, set shrines to a goddess along the dusty roads, covered them with milk-white flowers.
Padma. A prayer. A chant of perfection. Luna whispered it over and over, felt the name meld with her breath. That was all she could say. That was all she was. A breath and hands, hands that were . . . It would have been enough to braid that hair, so thick and soft and shining. She could have lost herself amidst the curves, the turns, the never-ending journey into dark. Hair twisting like poetry. Poetry like death. Not being there at all. Luna thought about it often, not being there, not being. So much more interesting than what was, to wander down the wrong strand, into Tibet . . .
But all this time her hands were traveling, through that hair, follow the spine, and here’s another path, gentle curve out for the breast and in, and hips. Luna did not have hips, and was always miffed when she noticed her own body: why sticks and broomsticks, why not soft curves glimpsed underwater, turn and turn in a lake in moonlight? Now, though, now Luna watched her own mind falling away from lakes and Tibetan snows. She was in herself, she could feel her eyelids thick over closed eyes, muscles tight down to her curled toes. It made sense, this boney body. All along it had belonged here, striking shards and sparks, all electric in her softness. All electric all along. Luna was not breathing, she was not, she was everything, flint and light--
no subject
what interests you by way of a book, my dear?
no subject
As for books . . . Blank books are always useful, especially blank and short so I can fill them up with quotes and feel accomplished. Or you could bind an e.e. cummings poem, which would be appropriate and really, really cool as well. (Much bouncing ensues.)
no subject
just so damn beautiful
no subject