pulled from the archive
this month's highlights feature our piece from the prompt "crisp"
Crisp.
The oxymoron gets me everytime.The word “crisp” starts from the back of your throat and rolls off of the tongue. I like that. Face yoga is a thing I’ve been meaning to try to tighten up the jawline. Crisp Crisp Crisp. A vocal exercise for your muscles. What other words use the entire mouth? I like the way the mouth goes O when saying “ooooooh.”
Do you play that game where... The sound gets me more than the feeling of it. The sensation remains so much more static when in my ears than pungent inside me. We associate the sound to cleanliness, zero feedback, zero fluffliness, clean crisp sound. Oh how wonderful it must be to hear something so finely cleaned that it flows through your ear’s funnel: around the curvatures as if it was a penny rolling down a charity box. You know, the kind of charity box you get on the countertop of Mcdonalds back in the day; back when they apparently gave a fuck.
The oxymoron gets me every time. But it starts from the back and makes it voyage all the way to your lips, bursting out some air before being shut away forever. Ah, that’s crisp. It’s just fucking perfect! Let’s see, a crispness to the air. Like you can take your hands out your pockets and grasp at the freshness, hearing the euphonious snapping of the invisible. When your ears are burning from the cold and you can’t feel your nose but the view at the top of the mountain is perfect. The cold air whipping across your face. Numb fingers and numb toes but you just feel alive. Your heart rate is up and your blood is pumping underneath those north face layers.
Do you play that game where... Like a helter-skelter, flowing down and into where it’s meant to be. That’s me, at the top, flowing down to the bottom: again, where I’m meant to be. Or the coin, flowing down from my purse’s string into a corporate charity. The oxymoron gets me everytime. Or, like now, a crisp sound, flowing down to where it’s meant to be. And I wonder, where is it supposed to be? Is that a physical thing - is it meant to vibrate those tiny bones and those tiny hairs in your ears?
The oxymoron gets me every time. Crunch. Crisp. Crunch. Crisp. Crispy crunch. Crunchy crisp. I’m trying to make it work. The sound of a crisp crunching does actually sound crispy. Pork scratchings. The popping of a fireplace, the sound of a knife being sharpened. I think of silver and blue, cold colours but menacing and beautiful. Very stoic. Oooh! The sound of the LEAVES crunching under your FEET when it’s AUTUMN TIME! THAT’S THE BEST.
Do you play that game where... Or is it a mental thing: does the sound flow into my brain through waves - sonic waves - sonic and his gold rings - sonic boom! Where does the sound go? Does the sound eventually become a trigger for a memory? Does it restore some forgotten piece of my life that I lived through - does that comfort me or repulse me? I get sick when I remember things that are as crisp as today. The height at which deja vu could be so accurate does indeed… make me quite sick. Volcanically sick? No. But sure my stomach feels it, feels the body temperatic climate, rolls of lava unsettled by a memory I once had.
The oxymoron gets me every time. Do you play that game where nary a leaf goes uncrunched as you march to the off license for some rum and bread? You have to JUMP sometimes, SIDE STEP, maybe a particularly crunchy boi needs TWO jumps over it. The medley of golden browns, reds, subtle green gradients, and fiery orange make for a funhouse of sounds and smells.
Do you play that game where... Sound so crisp hey. I wonder if the purpose of sound is to just travel within your body until it finds the right muscle fibre to hit. A xylophone’s hammer, hitting the right key. A marimba player knowing exactly what to hit. Will you be my marimba player? Will you hit sounds into my body to make me forget who I am and allow me to be lost in the irresponsibility of today - today - oh just to be wild and frantically forgetful of this world for today.
The oxymoron gets me every time. The golden yellows that omit from the logs on fire, that smell of burning comfort. But there was that time my brother had a burn victim wheeled into the operating room, the skin was so crispy that they couldn’t inject any sedatives or anything so they were a lost cause. A word contains the spectrum of hues and memories. I’ll always remember him describing the body as “crisp.”
Do you play that game where... What have I absorbed to make me so highly sensitive and why do I not know where to place this oak I have inside me. I just want somewhere to put down my oak. He’s been growing for so long - he’s a slow but steady life. I carry him everywhere with me, his bark is so dry but on the inside but I know he runs with moisture throughout his every being. I carry him because he is mine, I couldn’t live without him - perhaps that is why I can’t put him down. I’m scared to. I don’t want to. He is crisp when the sun hits us. He smiles.
The oxymoron gets me every time. In Punjab I saw a body being burned in a farewell ceremony. That smelt very crisp indeed. But it wasn’t scary like the burn victim. There was a beautiful somberness to it. As though they were simply doing life’s duty before carrying on. It was a gorgeous day. The sky had that menacing and shiny blue blanketed over us. No clouds at all. It was its own, uninterrupted entity. It felt protective. I guess like a lot of things, it starts at the back of the throat and rolls off the tongue before being cut off by the pursing of lips until the next time.
Do you play that game where... Light shines through his leaves and he smiles - you can’t see his smile but I sure can. He is crisp when the wind grates him, finely. Fine and sharp - razors against his fibres, his crisp smell. Oakwood. The station no one relevant lives at or comes from. Who has even been to Oakwood? Some redundant ass stop on the tube map. SO far north for what purpose? Are you even in London son. Crisp is a sensation; something you internalise. Crisp is a sensation - best eaten with hummus. Crisp was exciting - it triggers me to feel brand new. What a sombre thought to think with all the life I’ve lived I get excited by the thought of being brand new. Impossible. It could never happen to me. I never win anything.
