Cassandra’s Tears

Tears of joy, tears of pain, we are reflected in the salt-water pools we create. So let us build a fleet of paper boats and sail them on our ocean of indecision, laughing at the wind-whipped white-crested waves that would wash over us, drowning us in our own despair, yet somehow never vanquishing us in the end.

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Location: Lennoxville, Quebec, Canada

Friday, September 30, 2005

The Three Graces: a mini-saga

Three beautiful women posed for the camera. “My neck is stiff,” said Angelina of the straight, black hair. “I feel as though my dress is falling down,” complained Margaret of the ebony waves. “I have to pee,” murmured Juanita, hands crossed demurely in front. Obviously, the photographer was a man.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

“Education is the best provision for the journey to old age.” - Aristotle: a mini-saga

All his life Theodore had studied the cream of classical literature. He was conversant in both Latin and Greek. Homer and Virgil kept him company through his slow descent into senility and, even when he no longer recognized his wife and son, Dido and Telemachus continued to visit every day.

The Pope: A mini-saga

“An unflinching advocate of human and civil rights, as well as the controversial promoter of both the conservative values of the Catholic church and its need to adapt and reach out to the contemporary world, John Paul II both inspired and exasperated--but left few indifferent.”

As head of church and head of state, the Pope is in charge of two municipalities: the sacred and the profane. Does he concern himself with the levying of taxes, the improvement of roads and waste management? Methinks they are probably as indifferent to him as he is to them.

Sunday, September 25, 2005

A mini-saga: Certain fashion faux-pas

After Amanda joined Weight Watchers, she observed her generous curves give way to angles and straight lines, her plump, apple-round cheeks become fashion-model gaunt. As her soft flesh became firm and her belly flattened, she started dressing in light pink workout wear, even though the colour made her look fat.

Sunday, September 18, 2005

“Why does any of this make any sense to me? Because once, while drunk, she told me she thought I was magic.”—A mini-saga

Convinced that this one was her prince, Patricia tenderly kissed the lipless mouth of the green bullfrog she had scooped out of the pond. Suddenly, she felt herself transformed into a butterfly, the promise of freedom in her irridescent wings cut short by the prehensile tongue of her erstwhile lover.

Be careful what you wish for—A retelling of a popular myth in the form of a mini-saga

Apollo’s gift of immortality, accepted with enthusiasm, turned out to be a double-edged sword; for although Sybil continued to age, she would not die, and shrank into a wizened homonculous, encased in a leather bag hung over the entryway of the temple shouting ominous imprecations at the supplicants passing below.

In the Employees’ Lounge—A mini-saga

“Sorry, I’m such a klutz,” she apologized, as she accidentally poured hot coffee down the handsome fellow’s pants, the one from marketing whom she had been trying to impress for weeks. “Wow!” he answered, feeling as though heaven had suddenly delivered an angel for a soulmate, answering his sado-masochistic want-ad.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Feelings of fall.

Summer, while not over according to the distance the earth has traveled around the sun thus far this year, is officially done now that Labour Day is past and school has started again. This always leaves me with a feeling of melancholy; the days are getting shorter, the air cools quickly after the sun sets, and the leaves are starting to change colour: reds and golds on the maples, browns and russets on the oaks.

I sit here at the computer, the windows open to let in the chilling evening air, and I hear the wail of the train whistle. It is a plaintive sound, matching my mood. I feel the distance, the loneliness of empty track, the romance of the hobo who rides the rails. Summer is over. Soon the leaves will fall, covering the ground with their colourful bounty. Then the skies will become increasingly gray, animals will look for warm burrows in which to hide away for the coming months, and snow will eventually cover everything.

We are infinitely inconsequential, at the mercy of the elements. Our fine houses, warm hearths, insulated clothing, are as nought to the timelessness of winter and the slow grinding down of mountains and movement of glaciers. Our grand arrogance against this backdrop is as laughable as the fate of the ant crushed under our feet. Yet we do not know it. Perhaps it is better that way, for if we all realized the truth, that existence is purposeless, we would all despair. Live for beauty, for the change of seasons, for the sounds of the train in the distance. Enjoy the moment, for soon it will be winter, and all will be cloaked in a seamless blanket of snow.