| Wen Chang |
 |
 |
 |
| Fractured Story Telling | |||
| Written by Francis Scudellari | |||
| Sunday, 17 January 2010 20:25 | |||
|
I wake monastic to a morning of spare light, and an itch to be tetchy lingering from last night's candle-lit creeps. A quick rummage through closets where I keep hidden pantechnicons of surplus garments discarded by near houses of worship, finds a never-worn surplice cut to my liking, and I slip it on starched and musty white atop wrinkled blue jeans. In the hall, I perk up primula bouquets laid at feet of ivory and I ignite a joss stick, letting its curls of fragrance implore the deity to bring down his leather-bound book and nobble my stubborn mind until its ructions subside. But Wen Chang keeps words clutched dear to his breast, and I'll need another means of making myself a muggins with romper thoughts new freed, ever penned to bounce about. So I head to the scullery and peal yellow and red blotched skins from twelve pippins to bake in two tarts, bubbling up brown: One I'll eat, the second use finally to coax a musing from my still stiff friend, Wen Chang.
|
