The Moirae (apportioners) wrote in forgotten_past, @ 2009-05-28 13:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | britannia, the moirae |
Who: Clotho and Britannia
Where: Central Park's Sheep Meadow
When: Easter Sunday, 1967
What: Easter Be-In
Warnings: Drug references, but I'm sure we're all over that.
It wasn't her holiday, but that was okay. It wasn't really the Christians', either.
Body odours mingled with the sweet scent of blossoms and incense, and a haze of smoke; while music and mantras echoed continuously beneath the buzz of conversation. Thousands crowded on the grass of the meadow in large circles and small huddles; a sea of vibrant clothing and painted faces, broken up by the occasional nun, an executive in a fine morning suit, a family in their Sunday best. Some had wandered over from the Easter Parade on Fifth Avenue, others had been drawn by a poster they'd seen or simple curiosity at the sight of the immense gathering. Flowers, jellybeans and painted eggs changed hands as easily as did joints, cigarettes and acid.
Clotho, who was known to those here as Clover, was curled up comfortably under the shade of a tree, her legs hidden beneath her long, loose skirt. Her face was painted with delicate swirls of lavender and violet and, like many of the hippies, she wore a tiny diamond-shaped mirror pasted on the centre of her forehead. There were flowers entwined in her long hair, and many more strewn about her on the ground, gradually being woven into her long flower chain. There was no purpose to the activity, really. There didn't need to be, not today. Today was simply about being; being and feeling and sharing in the beauty that surrounded them.
And if she kept her hands occupied like this, she could almost banish the sensation of yarn beneath her fingertips and the rough, familiar feel of the spindle and distaff that some spectral part of her being still toiled at back in DC, where the Loom resided. Where her sisters were.
A few metres away Asher was plucking at his guitar, humming a broken melody. The sight of the instrument had drawn several of the others over, and as she watched Clotho saw his serious face crack into a laugh at somebody's joke. The crown of carnations she'd woven was still entangled in his long, sandy brown hair.
"Asher-- stop--"
"What? What is it?"
"It's not-- I mean, I'm not--"
"Hey, if you want to take things slowly--"
This is excruciating. "No, it's not... that. Exactly. It's-- I'm... saving myself."
It takes a moment for him to get her meaning. "For what? Marriage?"
"...something like that."
Catching her stare, Asher gave her a smile. Clotho swallowed and returned an uncertain wave, biting back the memory. Forget it. Forget all of it, at least for today. Just for now. Just be.