lirik lagu the narcissist cookbook - the girl who painted death
~~and with desperation (and no small degree of madness) she takes the portrait of her love, and she takes one of the bone bowls from the kitchen ~ because it has to be a bowl of bone ~ and she walks to the western water at sundown ~ because it has to be there and it has to be then
and when the sun is at its lowest point, and its reflection forms a bridge between the horizon and the shore, shе dips the bowl into the water and fills it with sunlight
and thеn she carries it into the forest and she sets it down in the darkest spot between the trees. the bowl of light seems to illuminate the very air she breathes. and she sits. and she waits
around her, the old trees creak and moan to each other as if offended by the encroaching sun
~~~
the first strange thing
about the island of st sasha
is that there never was any st sasha
there is no saint by that name
mentioned anywhere
~~~
the beast growls curiously as it pads back and forth just beyond the veil of light. dawn peers into the dark, but can make out only a vague shape at the edge of the shadows
she senses the beast studying the portrait of her love
and when it finally speaks, the voice of the beast seems to erupt from the earth like the forest itself must have done untold ages ago
~~~
second
is that up until the 1890s
when the last permanent residents left
the islanders considered themselves
to be directly descended from those who
set up camp at the very edge of the world
or at the very least
the edge of known civilisation
to the east of here lies mainland britain
but to the west
absolutely nothing
just featureless sea
~~~
“hmph. new miracles,” it says. “human miracles at that. a troubling perversion. what would happen, i wonder, if you painted a self~portrait?”
the notion makes dawn shudder
the beast grunts
“of course. i should expect no better from a man. brutish nosiness wrapped in the hide of curiosity.”
“so,” says the beast, and dawn feels its terrible gaze come to rest on her. it paws the ground restlessly
“the dirt of this place irritates my hooves. make your request.”
~~~
but there is a third thing about this place
that no one ever seems to talk about
and it’s related to why
the people who crashed here were stranded
for as long as they were
there was nothing they could use
to repair their boat
and instead they were forced
to use the wreckage to build shelter
which they later rebuilt with stone
and then learned to hunt seabirds
to compliment their diet of fish
and then
they became just another settlement
who survived against the odds
on a planet full of settlements
who survived against the odds
there’s nothing unusual about that
except~~
~~~
“you want me to undo this, do you? fracture the magic? tell you:
‘it’s alright, child ~ what the painting shows is meaningless. she might live another sixty years. or she might die next week. or tomorrow. or five minutes ago, at home, in bed, alone, wondering where you are while you were sat here waiting for me.’ ”
~~~
for all of the island’s tapestry of fairytales
about the things that creep
between the ageless trees
in the deep
dark forest
there never was a forest here
not so much as a single sapling
ever
~~~
“listen. listen to me now. you know for sure that she will not live to see old age. that is painful i expect
“but look at the portrait. look at your work. she is older in this painting than she is now, yes? you know therefore that you won’t lose her today. and you know you won’t lose her tomorrow. and that is a comfort no other creature of your world can claim, am i right?”
“i can’t save you from this. n0body lives happily ever after, child. we all just live. until we don’t.”
~~~
you know, it’s funny
i am all alone here
and yet i feel
compelled
to whisper
~~~
and as the sun rises across the water to the east, dawn nestles gently in the crook of her love’s arm, her thoughts drifting to the days ahead ~ their lives stretching out before them like wild, uncharted ocean
and believe me when i tell you that they lived
happily
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