November 19, 2008

Wearing purple

For certain purple minutes in this purple world I saw green, but not very often. When I tried to explain this to purple ma she purple laughed at me, purple paddy purple whacked me. I became uncertain and insecure. Yet despite their purple attempts to mend my unpurple ways I would still see green. My purple friends, purple Juanita and purple Jenny (purple boys were out of the question, due to the discovery of my seeing green at the local purple comprehensive – I was bullied see) well they called me their green man. They thought it was cute. Jenny and I screwed together. I always saw green then.

See its like this. The Purple King of the purple land had banned the other colours over a thousand years ago, driving out the green men and the yellow men, the browns and the blacks, the white and the red, all with his purple spears and purple swords, that were moulded from the purple stars of the purple sky. For they have always been purple. The purple people are of the purple sky. That is where they are born. That is where I was born I think, that is where you were born. So now if anything is not purple it must begin again, be born again as purple. Even my story. My story is a purple story.

Green always distracted me….showed me things I should not have seen….that that were forbidden to us, the common purple people. Especially the purple river, in its reflections I saw green. I always saw green in the mirrors of its reflections. Like diamonds dancing with emeralds I saw wonders in those ripples. The King had forgotten about reflections, for they are not part of this time but another. They show different things, different places, and it seemed different colours. Still this did not answer my question….sorry purple question. Why the fuck did I see green and no one else.

I asked purple Jenny once with her dyed purple hair, a lighter purple than her natural purple, about these reflections and this existence of a different world.

‘Little green man oh you do make me laugh….Green, what is green, where is green, how can green not be purple.’

She pulled me back under the purple sheets, but I was not in the mood. My mood was very purple. I trudged along the purple lit evening streets, with my head in my knees, the purple music of the gargling drains to accompany my mopy dance. Who did I belong to, who was I , what stories brought me into being…me who saw green in the reflections.

All questions. No answers. By the stream I sat on the bridge that arched over. I sat in serene silence of the sad. And yes I could see green in those ripples of water. Green, what a sickly colour – and yet it awakened in me memories that I could not have known. I enjoyed the colour though I knew I shouldn’t. In the green reflections I saw faces…..

‘Where do you live?’ I asked them not expecting answers

They gave me memories. Memories of the dustbin man who would stay for tea every morning. Memories of the number 12 bus that carried the green and reds and whites to their work. But all was free and easy; memories of free and easy times. Times before the sky fell upon the world. One face went travelling once….down the river and across the seas, to Paris! That city of goddesses and violin towers. Of red whores and green fire. Green, red and Green.  Paris had been a city of red and Green.

And there it was the darkness evaporated and before my eyes lay the ruins of that Eden. Smoke and fire was born from the ruins. The Purple king had rode his sky chariot across it’s life, treading it under wheels. I was a Parisian….a man of the rainbow. And if I was here so must others be….deep in the cavernous heart, barely beating, of Paris.

- One comment Not publicly viewable

  1. Ah…purple prose
    But I love this whole concept, and I love how it’s written, for reasons which I feel I should be able to express more specifically but can’t at this point in time. I like how the purpleness seems purposely overdone in places and subtle in others.

    10 Jan 2009, 14:22

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