Oblique Meets Ambrose

Brief Title:
Oblique Meets Ambrose

Characters:
Oblique, Ambrose

Scene Runner/Watcher:

IC Date:
01/06/13 14:40

Location:
Central Park, New York

Summary:
Wandering Central Park Weirdos Discuss Things

Social or Plot:

TS:
No

Log:
Behind several smooth bike trail-like walkways on the south side of Central Park, behind a group of benches, a young, peculiarly well-dressed young woman sits, face pressed near the grass. She seems to have embedded her gaze upon a small cluster of flowers in the grass, here in this quiet spot of the park, and if one were to listen, they'd hear a quiet sort of prattle... but with a melody. Is she singing to flowers? Herself?

Worn but clean shoes rustle through the cold grass at this time of day. Ambrose looked somewhat in a haze as he wandered about the park randomly, mostly ignored as a 'harmless drunk'. He stops abruptly, seeing the woman there and blinks "I beg your pardon but what ARE you doing?"

Slow to react, a moment passes before Oblique turns away from the plants, just a few inches from her face. She has an eerie smile, and one would likely notice how exceptionally pale her complexion is... as she faces Ambrose, looking him up and down, her sweet song trails off--and she interrupts herself. "Oh, the unlikely springs of petunias within the canvas of manicured blandness do muse me so. I will not go sour like so many day-runners."

He was utterly quiet. He just stares at her a long moment. "... you know you're lying in the dirt? " he remarks finally, a bit of a literal man. That and that face made him shiver a little bit. He himself was thin, red eyed and tired looking "It's odd that they'd bloom so early though. It's still January!"

With a little, twitchy nod of agreement, Oblique bounds in one swift motion to her feet. She seems excited to see this stranger, and she points at his chest, "The dirt is not as dirty as one might think." She brushes off a few spots on her dress, with brown poofs of dust firing off with each stroke. "Not everything is predictable, or clockwork. The buses are often late, I've been told."

Ambrose glances to his chest, finding the shirt wrinkled, but clean. Then he looks back up once more "No, but its still quite cold for plants. Unless you have some sort of magic over them." he remarks with an inquiring raised eyebrow. "I wouldn't be too surprised. Or I'm just drunk to find a woman in a pretty dress laying in Central Park.

Blushing slightly at the comment, Oblique's eyebrow perks curiously. "Magic? Have not the tangled webs of our world's insulation and institutions enchanted and vexed us enough?"

"You would think so! and that they would then bugger off and leave us in peace! But no, they must always meddle, like wizards and hobbits." remarks the man abruptly, pinching the bridge of his nose "nng. Sorry. I have a headache."

Oblique seems oddly happy to have gotten a rise out of this man. She quips, "Peaces of puzzles that muzzle our species," before tipping her gaze away for a moment, "Different types, I do suppose, sometimes." Even she was aware of how vague that sounded, and looked back in an attempt to clarify: "Perhaps it's those that seek a deeper breath when they've run out of steam. The idle of the weary... is that what communication truly is?" She nervously steps to the right, closer to the bench, looking as if she may take a seat on one.

"Communication, like all things, is part of the survival machine. You make a cry of fright, it tells others to go away. You make amorous sounds, they are attracted. It all in the end, does not matter, we are merely copying machines for our genetic material." dismisses the man, sounding irritated and indeed, risen by her comments as intended.

"But what of art? The playing of dabbles. Harmless playpens for the caged creative beast," she fires back, surprisingly quickly, almost tauntingly. She plops down on the bench with the spirit of a child, stretching her arms out, as if she were trying to offer the sun a hug. Speaking out unto one of the walkways ahead, she proclaims, "And the valleys of directionless chirps are but negative space for your negative place." She says this almost as if teasing him, and a random Central Park goer, a Mom-With-Stroller-And-Coffee looks at her with a scared, almost nervous glare.

"What of the peacocks' tail, but to attract amorous peahens to his beauty and health?" he glances to the mom then shrugs and looks back. They were just words. "There are birds and other creatures that will build fantastic - for a bird - structures for the sheer purpose of attracting a mate. They do not even nest or live in these structures, and will even arrange things decoratively and kill insects not to eat, but to display as well as tokens of their prowess. Art, like all things, is merely a way to propagate." he tucked his hands into his pockets, intrigued by this woman now and their back-and-forthness.

Oblique leaps up on the bench, suddenly. For an instant, it looks as if she's adopted an angry posture, as if Ambrose had enraged her somehow. But one can see her expression--it's one of faux-anger, she's merely pretending to be mad. She speaks confidently at him, pointing: "The molecules of ideas but float upon the lily pads of our squawks. But the seeds of thought--this is the true courtship we speak. The fragile flesh is but a platform for the performance of ideas--and the truth is that might does not make right!"

Stepping back in confusion at first. He blinked a few times at her, then replies, his tones just as strong "Is a woman attracted to the intelligence of a man? Sometimes, yes... but like a cat bringing a dead mouse to his master, they are again, but ways to impress and become the top dog and thus, again merely survival." he then breaks the act, not a good actor anyways as he smiles at her "You ARE intriguing. Very much so! What can I call you?"

Muttering a response, barely audible, she proclaims, "The games of creatures are but dust specks..." Snapping back into a more friendly sort of demeanor, she sits back down on the bench, but still facing Ambrose. "Emily, I've been called. By everyone. It's my name." She sits there, staring a moment. Her feet twitch nervously. It's hard to tell if she's playfully lackadaisical, uncomfortable, or somehow both.

"Well we are but Stardust." he agrees with a solemn nod. He runs a hand through his hair, offering a smile back "It is indeed. And mine is Ambrose. And you both irritate and intrigue me, which is rare really. But not unwelcome." he adds swiftly.

Oblique repeats the name back to herself, "Am-brose," as if trying to remember it, looking towards her shoulder all the while. Looking back, she carries a sweet tone to her voice, "Paradox shuffles is but the invisible thread of life--our puppet strings are tangled in the waxing wane of magnetic pangs." She wistfully looks off to the sun again, trailing off with a monotone, "And what makes my fragments hit you with no malcontent or growls... this is what confounds me. That is welcome."

Ambrose offered that smile again "You stimulate my brain. Which is more than a lot of people do. While that confounds ME, it also distracts me from worse things to keep myself entertained. But ahh, would you excuse me? I must go and relieve myself." He turns to leave, suddenly.

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