Penny Rose would have preferred to keep her eyes shut throughout the journey. But Lucif's words of warning rang loud in her ears, and she kept them carefully trained on the marshy peat beneath her feet - only glancing up from time to time to make sure that Lucif was not mesmerized by the dancing flicker of the blue lights. Lucif's tail was madly twitching under her hand, even though she could tell it was trying very hard to keep it still. The coiled tension of that large, feline-like spine told the story of even Lucif's nerves, and Penny Rose knew that on this journey, they were walking a very fine line of danger indeed.
Her hand slipped into her pocket of its own accord, in the heart of the damp and cold fabric, the box still glowed warm, and Penny Rose wrapped her hand around it, holding tight to to the square edges, reassuringly radiating against her leg and under her fingers. Her basket, which had shrunk to yet a smaller size, was slipped in her other pocket, folded into a triangle that would fit it he palm of her hand. She hoped very much that it would re-find its original shape, and thought very hard about the fire that would burn in it when they reached the other side. She felt the tail go stiff under her hand, and her stomach leapt.
Lucif was staring, wrapt, at a particularly bright and gleaming blue light, one that was flightily buzzing in front of its nose. Lucif's mirrored eyes, for once, seemed to be betraying it. Penny Rose watched the dreamy reflection of the dancing light in Lucif's strange gaze, the light coming ever closer, becoming ever brighter. Penny Rose's hand tightened on Lucif's tail, her heart beating into her throat. "Lucif!" she said, the cry coming out closer to a whisper. "Lucif!" she said, her voice stronger now. "You must look away."
Lucif didn't even glance back at her. It simply took one step to into the deeper water of the marsh, its nose pointed up and straining toward the bright bright blue. Penny Rose took a gasp of air, and although the pull of the blue light seemed to be pressing on her senses, drawing her attention, drawing her thought, she jerked on Lucif's tail. There was no response. The graceful spine was taught like a wire, the gait usually so fluid was stiff. Penny Rose pulled her hand out of her pocket and gripped the tail with both, pulling on it, as now Lucif was slowly and inexorably stepping into the sucking water of the marshes. Penny Rose could hear the sound of the wetness around the large, taloned paws. She pulled as hard as she could on the silken fur of Lucif's tail, but nothing could interrupt its hypnotized stare, its puppet like steps.
Penny Rose searched about for something to interrupt that unblinking gaze. She cast about, but all around her the marsh was dark, just the eery, hovering lights drifting in the silence. They were all alone, all alone except for the fairy-like lanterns, the dangerous beings, fluttering in the ringing blackness.
"Lucif!" she screamed, realizing that the lights weren't just hovering, motionless, they were drawing nearer. A group of them, as if made curious by the energy of Lucif's captured stare. Nothing. Lucif was deaf and blinded by the most beautiful of light. Penny Rose felt tears of frustration and terror rising in her throat. In her pocket she could feel the box burning brighter, the basket, too, seemed to be growing slightly, becoming more substantial in her pocket. What to do? What to do? Her fingers were biting into the tail, now, but it was simply beginning to pull her, making her slide across the squelch of mud and grass beneath her feet, and she could feel the ice of water against her toes as she was being drawn away into the deeper marshes. She had to let go, or she, too, would be lost. But she could not continue without Lucif. No, she could not.
The box in her pocket was so hot as to be almost painful against her leg. She tightened her grip on Lucif's tail with one hand, and without thinking, drew the box out with the other. It was not only warm, it was bright. Very bright. She remembered her dream, the words arranging and rearranging themselves before her eyes, and the golden light of the box got stronger, as if the power of her memory was stoking its fire. She stared at it, frantic, and then, a tear escaping from beneath her lashes, she squeezed her eyes shut and thought with every ounce of her strength about the dream, about the light. In her hand, she felt the box click open, and from behind her lashes, she saw the light exploding in the night.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Reading
The light exploded, and Penny Rose dared to peek through her lashes, her eyes blinded for a moment by the brightness. Then the light subsided slightly, materializing into the concrete forms of letters, written in light, across the dark of the sky. They flew and burnt, twirling and cascading across Lucif's back, its marled fur gilded under each flying cipher. They whirled around the straining nose, the mirrored eyes, the bright, otherworldly blue of the marsh lights paling and fading by comparison. Penny Rose watched in wonder as they wrapped themselves in running gold around Lucif's muzzle, freeing the great eyes from their slavish gaze, the marsh lights receding imperceptibly until they had nigh disappeared, small, unseen glows at the base of the grasses.
And then Penny Rose realized she could make out words. Hope and love and freedom, she saw them running through the other letters, the letters of a million alphabets, she saw the words that she could read, and as she read, she could read more, and more. Freedom comes with the price of love, she read, and there is hope where minds still live on, and then, deeper, she read, the layers of letters revealing more and more words, more stories, stories she could sense, stories that made her mind sing, and the greatest songs of history. She stood, transfixed, her mind traveling through the letters, which now were casting themselves in waves in front of her eyes, and Lucif, awakened from its stupor, who had leapt back onto the safety of the marsh grass tufts, was watching as Penny Rose read.
The golden light lit her face as beautifully as nothing could have, and she suddenly looked much older. Or was it an older self that Lucif saw? A future Penny Rose, another Penny Rose, the one to come? Her hair waved and blew from around her face, cast back by the power of the words, and it, too, glowed from within as if it had caught afire from the magic around it. And then Lucif saw - the gold in the center of Penny Rose's eyes, the gold that was not reflection, but source. And it was, at that moment, that Lucif snatched the whirling box from where it hovered, wide and glowing, and immediately, the letters disappeared, the box shuttered itself, a rectangle with no opening once more, glowing but lightly, almost as if in reflection of something else. Slowly, Penny Rose came back to herself. Lucif watched as the gold faded slowly from her eyes, her hair coming to rest upon her shoulders once more, her hands drifting down to her sides.
Lucif bowed to her, and offered her the box. "Welcome to Madrin, Reader," it said, and bowed its huge head at her feet.
And then Penny Rose realized she could make out words. Hope and love and freedom, she saw them running through the other letters, the letters of a million alphabets, she saw the words that she could read, and as she read, she could read more, and more. Freedom comes with the price of love, she read, and there is hope where minds still live on, and then, deeper, she read, the layers of letters revealing more and more words, more stories, stories she could sense, stories that made her mind sing, and the greatest songs of history. She stood, transfixed, her mind traveling through the letters, which now were casting themselves in waves in front of her eyes, and Lucif, awakened from its stupor, who had leapt back onto the safety of the marsh grass tufts, was watching as Penny Rose read.
The golden light lit her face as beautifully as nothing could have, and she suddenly looked much older. Or was it an older self that Lucif saw? A future Penny Rose, another Penny Rose, the one to come? Her hair waved and blew from around her face, cast back by the power of the words, and it, too, glowed from within as if it had caught afire from the magic around it. And then Lucif saw - the gold in the center of Penny Rose's eyes, the gold that was not reflection, but source. And it was, at that moment, that Lucif snatched the whirling box from where it hovered, wide and glowing, and immediately, the letters disappeared, the box shuttered itself, a rectangle with no opening once more, glowing but lightly, almost as if in reflection of something else. Slowly, Penny Rose came back to herself. Lucif watched as the gold faded slowly from her eyes, her hair coming to rest upon her shoulders once more, her hands drifting down to her sides.
Lucif bowed to her, and offered her the box. "Welcome to Madrin, Reader," it said, and bowed its huge head at her feet.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Christmas mustard
The new color for the season? Doing it up mad men style. Mix and match wonderful gifts with your own inexpensive brands for a holiday look... :)
Sweater: (gift) banana republic, dress: old!! Necklace: (gift) pier 1, tights: Ann Klein, shoes: target
Sweater: (gift) banana republic, dress: old!! Necklace: (gift) pier 1, tights: Ann Klein, shoes: target
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Marshlights
Penny Rose was unsure but as she clung, close and blind, to the soft, thick fur of Lucif's back, she heard the phantom growls of a thousand hunting beings, and in order to simply stop straining to know what the dark held, she shut her eyes against the sting of the blackness. The basket hung from her hand, seeming smaller as if it had compacted to accommodate the mood of silence.
Lucif seemed as if it didn't breathe at all, and Penny Rose did her best to keep her frightened lungs from gasping. The ground at least had flattened before them, and they made their way across peety soil, littered with pin needles. From time to time Penny Rose felt the rough bark of a branch against her cheek, but she was otherwise untouched, Lucif's path unvaryingly reliable.
Lucif paused, and Penny Rose's eyes opened. The large head nuzzled her shoulder, and it spoke directly into her ear. "Ahead lie the marshes."
She could barely make out some bluish lights hovering ahead of them, bluish lights that winked and wavered. She gulped. The unfriendly creatures? Where were they? Lucif's muzzle was reassuringly firm against her arm. "We must follow the path of the marsh lights. They will guide as across in safety. But we must go one by one - if you were to ride me we would surely sink." Lucif paused, and its voice became ever so slightly softer, "whatever you do, do not stare at them, though. For each one alone will mesmerize you and you will be lost. You must walk always to the next one. You must walk always forward." Penny Rose shivered, but the basket nudged, courageous, against her leg and the box warmed in her pocket bravely. "Do not fear, young one," remarked Lucif, "for you are strong."
Penny Rose took a breath, and put her hand once more on Lucif's shoulder. Lucif shook its head. "Not my shoulder, dear one, this time you must take my tail."
The thought of it made Penny Rose shy - that long, leopard-like tail, that twitched at any slight response - in her hand? Surely not. Lucif turned and its tail slightly wrapped itself around her timid fingers. Penny Rose held it lightly, but when Lucif moved, she would surely drop it if she did not hold harder, and so with one hand gripping her basket, the other Lucif's tail, they began the journey across the marshes.
Lucif seemed as if it didn't breathe at all, and Penny Rose did her best to keep her frightened lungs from gasping. The ground at least had flattened before them, and they made their way across peety soil, littered with pin needles. From time to time Penny Rose felt the rough bark of a branch against her cheek, but she was otherwise untouched, Lucif's path unvaryingly reliable.
Lucif paused, and Penny Rose's eyes opened. The large head nuzzled her shoulder, and it spoke directly into her ear. "Ahead lie the marshes."
She could barely make out some bluish lights hovering ahead of them, bluish lights that winked and wavered. She gulped. The unfriendly creatures? Where were they? Lucif's muzzle was reassuringly firm against her arm. "We must follow the path of the marsh lights. They will guide as across in safety. But we must go one by one - if you were to ride me we would surely sink." Lucif paused, and its voice became ever so slightly softer, "whatever you do, do not stare at them, though. For each one alone will mesmerize you and you will be lost. You must walk always to the next one. You must walk always forward." Penny Rose shivered, but the basket nudged, courageous, against her leg and the box warmed in her pocket bravely. "Do not fear, young one," remarked Lucif, "for you are strong."
Penny Rose took a breath, and put her hand once more on Lucif's shoulder. Lucif shook its head. "Not my shoulder, dear one, this time you must take my tail."
The thought of it made Penny Rose shy - that long, leopard-like tail, that twitched at any slight response - in her hand? Surely not. Lucif turned and its tail slightly wrapped itself around her timid fingers. Penny Rose held it lightly, but when Lucif moved, she would surely drop it if she did not hold harder, and so with one hand gripping her basket, the other Lucif's tail, they began the journey across the marshes.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
The Dark
Lucif and Penny Rose made their way carefully in the dark, the basket lighting their way with a low, steady light. They had passed through the murky undergrowth that surrounded their clearing, and now were picking a path through boulders that lay at the bottom of a small waterfall. Penny Rose slipped on the slick moss, and the basket seemed to bob upwards to help her. Lucif glanced back limpidly, and then without a word continued on, setting a pace that was, perhaps, only a slightly slower.
It was another mile of walking, but through less unwelcoming terrain, beside the edge of the river, to reach the marshes. And Penny Rose wondered quietly where the Unfriendly Creatures slept, her heart beating faster, feeling by turns warm and cold. If Lucif called them unfriendly, the word meant more than it possibly could on any other tongue.
Suddenly, the marled silver coat stilled ahead of her, and she nearly ran into it, nearing her shoulder as it was, she steadied herself with a touch of its fur, and waited. The silver eyes turned to her, and a slight shaking of its head told her to be quiet and still. Lucif moved slightly to shield her from the darkness to their left - the blackness of the forest, and also the unknown to their front that only it could see. Penny Rose, trapped in the low light of the basket, felt like a bird in a cage. The basket faded out in response, as if it could feel her fear. In her pocket, the box began to glow ever so slightly, and she took heart in its little warmth.
There was a sudden darkness ahead of them. A blacker black in the night, a large thing, a thing with reflective eyes. And Lucif, so calm one moment, suddenly left her side with no noise - only the whisper of air of its immediate departure. Penny Rose's eyes were still adjusting, and the darkness was so profound they would never see the detail, but she realized when she heard the thud of fur against something solid and alive, the strangled roar of something in the dark, the crunch of teeth against bone - a sickening sound - that Lucif was killing something. And it was doing it with quick, lethal force and absolute efficiency.
The sound of something falling to the ground was quickly followed by Lucif's warm fur beneath her hand, reassuring. "Don't light the lantern-basket," said the kind voice. "We shall move without it's help. Put your hand on my shoulder."
Penny Rose took the long, strange fur in her hand, and moved blind past the fallen beast. "Was that an Unfriendly Creature?" asked Penny Rose, her voice shaking ever so slightly.
"No - not of the kind I was speaking. That was a denizen of the caves, and it was strange that it should wander so far from its home. Passing strange."
"Does it hunt by night?"
"It hunts always," came the quiet reply. "We shall not use the lantern again tonight."
It was another mile of walking, but through less unwelcoming terrain, beside the edge of the river, to reach the marshes. And Penny Rose wondered quietly where the Unfriendly Creatures slept, her heart beating faster, feeling by turns warm and cold. If Lucif called them unfriendly, the word meant more than it possibly could on any other tongue.
Suddenly, the marled silver coat stilled ahead of her, and she nearly ran into it, nearing her shoulder as it was, she steadied herself with a touch of its fur, and waited. The silver eyes turned to her, and a slight shaking of its head told her to be quiet and still. Lucif moved slightly to shield her from the darkness to their left - the blackness of the forest, and also the unknown to their front that only it could see. Penny Rose, trapped in the low light of the basket, felt like a bird in a cage. The basket faded out in response, as if it could feel her fear. In her pocket, the box began to glow ever so slightly, and she took heart in its little warmth.
There was a sudden darkness ahead of them. A blacker black in the night, a large thing, a thing with reflective eyes. And Lucif, so calm one moment, suddenly left her side with no noise - only the whisper of air of its immediate departure. Penny Rose's eyes were still adjusting, and the darkness was so profound they would never see the detail, but she realized when she heard the thud of fur against something solid and alive, the strangled roar of something in the dark, the crunch of teeth against bone - a sickening sound - that Lucif was killing something. And it was doing it with quick, lethal force and absolute efficiency.
The sound of something falling to the ground was quickly followed by Lucif's warm fur beneath her hand, reassuring. "Don't light the lantern-basket," said the kind voice. "We shall move without it's help. Put your hand on my shoulder."
Penny Rose took the long, strange fur in her hand, and moved blind past the fallen beast. "Was that an Unfriendly Creature?" asked Penny Rose, her voice shaking ever so slightly.
"No - not of the kind I was speaking. That was a denizen of the caves, and it was strange that it should wander so far from its home. Passing strange."
"Does it hunt by night?"
"It hunts always," came the quiet reply. "We shall not use the lantern again tonight."
Unfriendly Creatures
Penny Rose awoke feeling damp and still a little chilled. The fire that was the basket still, burned demurely on one side, and Lucif lay, awake motionless as a statue on her other side. She didn't want to wake up, but go back to the soft velvet of sleep. But she knew it was time, and curiosity was eating away at her...
"Lucif," she said, and the mirror eyes turned toward her, from the point they had been fixed upon deep in the trees behind them.
"Ah, you've awoken," said Lucif, not moving. Penny Rose struggled to sit up, feeling strangely sore around her body.
"Who was that woman?" Penny Rose asked, still a little angry from the blaze that had brought her to shore.
"That, my dear, is a rare creature of this world. She only appears when she feels she should; and her gifts are sometimes not just dangerous, but fatal. Your choice was good, however."
"Good? But she pushed me into the river and I couldn't swim!"
"Yes, but your basket saved you. Sometimes they are not so kind. Your choice likes you, and as such, is extremely useful. See how it burns?"
Penny Rose watched it, merrily crackling away, yet staying whole nonetheless.
"It does a great deal more than that, when needed."
Penny Rose looked at it in wonder and concern. She remembered the moments in the river, the way it bore her down first, then up. "But not always."
"No, it is a somewhat mercurial gift."
"Perhaps it depends on me," querulously, Penny Rose reached for the basket, whose flames strove toward her hand like a pet.
"Yes, and it likes you, so all is well. It has burned there to keep you warm for some time now, and that is no easy feat. However, I'm afraid we'll be asking it to do much more before the end of our journeys."
Penny Rose looked at it, and smiled.
"Are you hungry?" Asked Lucif, glancing at Penny Rose's bedraggled form.
"No," said Penny Rose, realizing it for the first time, "I'm not."
"Yes, it is the way of this place - food and drink are not necessary, but sometimes they are very pleasant. What would you like, my dear?"
Penny Rose looked at her feet. "Milk and biscuits."
The basket stopped burning for a moment, and closed itself into a little ball. Then, with what looked like a small effort, it opened up like a flower in the sun, and in the curve of its belly was a mug of milk and a small plate of buttery biscuits.
Penny Rose smiled, and giving the basket a little pat, she gratefully took the plate and the mug of milk. "Would you like one?" She asked Lucif.
It looked at the biscuits strangely. "No... what I enjoy to eat is quite different."
Penny Rose ate the biscuits with great appreciation, the sugary blandness of them giving her a moment of homesickness and strengthening her resolve. There was something sinful about eating a whole plate of biscuits, but Penny Rose did it, in part, to keep the basket happy - she would hate to offend so strange a thing.
Lucif rose and stretched, it's long, graceful body seeming longer and more strange as its paws brushed the earth, its head arching up. Penny Rose's feeling of dissonance grew, as she munched the last crumbs of the biscuits. The basket rolled on its side nearer her, and the flames died to a contented set of embers. She put her hand close to keep it warm, for the afternoon was drawing to a close.
"It will be time to go soon," remarked Lucif, off-handedly, as it looked around solemnly at the darkening forest around them.
"But it's getting dark," replied Penny Rose, "can we travel in the night."
"For our next journey, we must," replied Lucif, its eyes shining light and brighter in the gloaming.
Penny Rose nodded. "Where do we go?"
"We go to the sea, but we must get through the marshes to get there. And in the day they are swept with the gaze of unfriendly creatures."
"Unfriendly creatures?"
"Lucif," she said, and the mirror eyes turned toward her, from the point they had been fixed upon deep in the trees behind them.
"Ah, you've awoken," said Lucif, not moving. Penny Rose struggled to sit up, feeling strangely sore around her body.
"Who was that woman?" Penny Rose asked, still a little angry from the blaze that had brought her to shore.
"That, my dear, is a rare creature of this world. She only appears when she feels she should; and her gifts are sometimes not just dangerous, but fatal. Your choice was good, however."
"Good? But she pushed me into the river and I couldn't swim!"
"Yes, but your basket saved you. Sometimes they are not so kind. Your choice likes you, and as such, is extremely useful. See how it burns?"
Penny Rose watched it, merrily crackling away, yet staying whole nonetheless.
"It does a great deal more than that, when needed."
Penny Rose looked at it in wonder and concern. She remembered the moments in the river, the way it bore her down first, then up. "But not always."
"No, it is a somewhat mercurial gift."
"Perhaps it depends on me," querulously, Penny Rose reached for the basket, whose flames strove toward her hand like a pet.
"Yes, and it likes you, so all is well. It has burned there to keep you warm for some time now, and that is no easy feat. However, I'm afraid we'll be asking it to do much more before the end of our journeys."
Penny Rose looked at it, and smiled.
"Are you hungry?" Asked Lucif, glancing at Penny Rose's bedraggled form.
"No," said Penny Rose, realizing it for the first time, "I'm not."
"Yes, it is the way of this place - food and drink are not necessary, but sometimes they are very pleasant. What would you like, my dear?"
Penny Rose looked at her feet. "Milk and biscuits."
The basket stopped burning for a moment, and closed itself into a little ball. Then, with what looked like a small effort, it opened up like a flower in the sun, and in the curve of its belly was a mug of milk and a small plate of buttery biscuits.
Penny Rose smiled, and giving the basket a little pat, she gratefully took the plate and the mug of milk. "Would you like one?" She asked Lucif.
It looked at the biscuits strangely. "No... what I enjoy to eat is quite different."
Penny Rose ate the biscuits with great appreciation, the sugary blandness of them giving her a moment of homesickness and strengthening her resolve. There was something sinful about eating a whole plate of biscuits, but Penny Rose did it, in part, to keep the basket happy - she would hate to offend so strange a thing.
Lucif rose and stretched, it's long, graceful body seeming longer and more strange as its paws brushed the earth, its head arching up. Penny Rose's feeling of dissonance grew, as she munched the last crumbs of the biscuits. The basket rolled on its side nearer her, and the flames died to a contented set of embers. She put her hand close to keep it warm, for the afternoon was drawing to a close.
"It will be time to go soon," remarked Lucif, off-handedly, as it looked around solemnly at the darkening forest around them.
"But it's getting dark," replied Penny Rose, "can we travel in the night."
"For our next journey, we must," replied Lucif, its eyes shining light and brighter in the gloaming.
Penny Rose nodded. "Where do we go?"
"We go to the sea, but we must get through the marshes to get there. And in the day they are swept with the gaze of unfriendly creatures."
"Unfriendly creatures?"
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Windless
The heat from the plains seemed to crouch over the city, the sun beat like a drum on every possible surface; the whole city was paralyzed under the brightness that was not so much light as presence - close and tight, slow and terrible, a sadistic kind of heat.
She worked in a cafe. And the place behind the counter was hottest. How warm it was, the machines working and whistling behind her. The door propped open was nothing but a gesture toward the idea of coolness. Her cotton dress was stuck upon her like a strange children's project with papier mache. She had long ago stopped trying to straighten it. The large collar fell to the side, limp, and she let it stay. Her hair hung about her face in strands of determined perversity against her will to keep it properly set up. No one expected a cafe girl to be coiffed, but in her mind she was not a cafe girl. She was something more. She didn't know what. She didn't know where. There was nowhere, actually. But she refused to listen to reason and pushed her hair up every day in front of her cracked mirror, dreaming of the freedom of Natalie Wood and the wildness of Gatsby's parties, humming a tune that sounded like 'Moon River.' The milkman who heard her could never quite be sure, and usually ignored it even as it issued upon the still, quiet street through the shamelessly open windows of summer.
She took a hot breath and kicked off her shoes. The wood of the floors seemed strange against the skin of her feet, white and damp as they were. She ran a pointed toe around in a circle, letting it touch the wood on all sides of her, making a witches' circle around herself. How she wished for wind.
The wind had come when she was young. The great wind of storms, and they had swept away her calm, her father had said. She had been a very young girl, really, curls still golden, eyes innocent, and she had watched as the clouds gathered, the winds began. Ever since it had been a sort of sense memory that burned insider her - wishing again and again for that sweep and carry of the black-cloud, dark-rain, dust-cloud day. What others feared she signed for. And so she swept the toe of her foot around her again, enclosing herself entirely in a circle of protection, a circle that would keep her safe from this eroding stillness.
But it did not. And her heart burned with a kind of restless anger she couldn't name. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, prickling even in the heat. Oh god.
She had wondered if it had been a dream, but it was happening again. Her mind was twisting against its own confines, it was in darkness, and darkness had come. She gripped the counter for support, even as the room stayed still, it was as if her mind was seeing something her eyes could not. The emotions swept through her uncontrollably. She felt the past and the future of her own life surrounding her, pressing on her, misunderstanding her. A cacophony of experiences she couldn't understand. Of a life half-lived, of a life of middleness. A life that was still.
A fly buzzed above her, breaking her out of her fantastic consumption. For a moment she was as grateful to the fly as any sinner is to reach to the unknown god for salvation.
Against this great wave of life, against the past, and the future, she was small. But, and her fists clenched, but, against this moment, she was king. She unbuttoned her dress. She let it fall from her. In her few underthings, she made that strange circle around her again, this time in reverse, and as she did so, she felt the stirring of a breeze. The dress lay in a crumpled heap upon the floor, a small pile for so much clothing. Insignificant. She kicked it away. The breeze blew on her again. And as it did so, she began to hum, matching the breeze for strength. Her hair fell from its moorings, it stretched to touch the air about it.
The winds came that night. And the storms.
She worked in a cafe. And the place behind the counter was hottest. How warm it was, the machines working and whistling behind her. The door propped open was nothing but a gesture toward the idea of coolness. Her cotton dress was stuck upon her like a strange children's project with papier mache. She had long ago stopped trying to straighten it. The large collar fell to the side, limp, and she let it stay. Her hair hung about her face in strands of determined perversity against her will to keep it properly set up. No one expected a cafe girl to be coiffed, but in her mind she was not a cafe girl. She was something more. She didn't know what. She didn't know where. There was nowhere, actually. But she refused to listen to reason and pushed her hair up every day in front of her cracked mirror, dreaming of the freedom of Natalie Wood and the wildness of Gatsby's parties, humming a tune that sounded like 'Moon River.' The milkman who heard her could never quite be sure, and usually ignored it even as it issued upon the still, quiet street through the shamelessly open windows of summer.
She took a hot breath and kicked off her shoes. The wood of the floors seemed strange against the skin of her feet, white and damp as they were. She ran a pointed toe around in a circle, letting it touch the wood on all sides of her, making a witches' circle around herself. How she wished for wind.
The wind had come when she was young. The great wind of storms, and they had swept away her calm, her father had said. She had been a very young girl, really, curls still golden, eyes innocent, and she had watched as the clouds gathered, the winds began. Ever since it had been a sort of sense memory that burned insider her - wishing again and again for that sweep and carry of the black-cloud, dark-rain, dust-cloud day. What others feared she signed for. And so she swept the toe of her foot around her again, enclosing herself entirely in a circle of protection, a circle that would keep her safe from this eroding stillness.
But it did not. And her heart burned with a kind of restless anger she couldn't name. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, prickling even in the heat. Oh god.
She had wondered if it had been a dream, but it was happening again. Her mind was twisting against its own confines, it was in darkness, and darkness had come. She gripped the counter for support, even as the room stayed still, it was as if her mind was seeing something her eyes could not. The emotions swept through her uncontrollably. She felt the past and the future of her own life surrounding her, pressing on her, misunderstanding her. A cacophony of experiences she couldn't understand. Of a life half-lived, of a life of middleness. A life that was still.
A fly buzzed above her, breaking her out of her fantastic consumption. For a moment she was as grateful to the fly as any sinner is to reach to the unknown god for salvation.
Against this great wave of life, against the past, and the future, she was small. But, and her fists clenched, but, against this moment, she was king. She unbuttoned her dress. She let it fall from her. In her few underthings, she made that strange circle around her again, this time in reverse, and as she did so, she felt the stirring of a breeze. The dress lay in a crumpled heap upon the floor, a small pile for so much clothing. Insignificant. She kicked it away. The breeze blew on her again. And as it did so, she began to hum, matching the breeze for strength. Her hair fell from its moorings, it stretched to touch the air about it.
The winds came that night. And the storms.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Alone
It was a dark night, it was a green night. The trees were verdant and full, lushly whispering words of their own coming death, of the falling to come. The stars were bright; too bright. The sky the deepest blue of the velvet cushions in the bordello across the way. And soft, so soft. Soft enough to absorb even the longest sort of pain. It was a night when she walked alone. It was a night when alone was the only way for her. And as she paced through the thick, thick night, the darkness thick like rope is thick, her spine was straight, her brow cool. Her neat, light, cotton dress moved about her, wafting waves of lavender into the evening scented of lilies and cinnamon.
She looked straight ahead, but now and then her chin tilted, she saw the stillness around her. She saw the movement within the bellies of the houses. She walked quiet, silent by, her feet making no noise. She felt the breeze shift to notice her, and then move away, uncaring. She watched the silhouettes in the burning windows with luminous, unjudging eyes. Only the night watched her.
She saw the white smoke from a cigarette float into the slightly rotting orange light of a streetlamp. Her gate smooth, she continued on, looking forward steadfastly. Her eyes did not waver. Her hands were relaxed beside her. A cigarette butt lit like the flash of a neon sign for a moment and then faded. She saw the fade drop to the ground, she saw the ground devour it in darkness.
A hand shot around her neck, another around her waist, and she was pulled into the shadows, the deep, eating shadows.
But her white, careful dress still gleamed out like a pearl. It seemed to light around her. It was the luminosity of a fish in deep, deep water. Suddenly, the white of it, like the waving of seaweed, straightened. The dark lines that had bound her faded, a sigh of death escaped the shadows for one moment, but was quickly absorbed by the pillowy night. She moved back into the light, and kneeling suddenly, gracefully, she picked up the cigarette butt and it turned to ash in her white hands. She let the ashes fall without expression; the breeze sniffed them, carried them away. She was alone again.
She looked straight ahead, but now and then her chin tilted, she saw the stillness around her. She saw the movement within the bellies of the houses. She walked quiet, silent by, her feet making no noise. She felt the breeze shift to notice her, and then move away, uncaring. She watched the silhouettes in the burning windows with luminous, unjudging eyes. Only the night watched her.
She saw the white smoke from a cigarette float into the slightly rotting orange light of a streetlamp. Her gate smooth, she continued on, looking forward steadfastly. Her eyes did not waver. Her hands were relaxed beside her. A cigarette butt lit like the flash of a neon sign for a moment and then faded. She saw the fade drop to the ground, she saw the ground devour it in darkness.
A hand shot around her neck, another around her waist, and she was pulled into the shadows, the deep, eating shadows.
But her white, careful dress still gleamed out like a pearl. It seemed to light around her. It was the luminosity of a fish in deep, deep water. Suddenly, the white of it, like the waving of seaweed, straightened. The dark lines that had bound her faded, a sigh of death escaped the shadows for one moment, but was quickly absorbed by the pillowy night. She moved back into the light, and kneeling suddenly, gracefully, she picked up the cigarette butt and it turned to ash in her white hands. She let the ashes fall without expression; the breeze sniffed them, carried them away. She was alone again.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
The cat and I
The cat and I had fallen out of love.We had been dear to one another, but now, after so many years, she hated me and I was short with her every meow. In her days she wanted a sort of stillness I couldn't muster - I wasn't ready to be old! My mind could not understand the wrinkles, the gray. Beneath that all I was a young man still. But the cat knew.
The cat was awake to every whisker that curled, and contentedly lay herself by the fire, relishing the rest that tired bones can demand. She licked her bowl clean, and herself, with stiff, practiced ease. But I could not contain myself in my old wing chair - I could not content myself with the silent, unnoticed, imminent immobility as I began to put myself to my final sleep. So I walked and paced and grumbled and drank, and the cat - the cat watched, blinking sleepliy from a middling perche near the warmth of the hearth.
Perhaps I had had a little too much to drink on evening, but I found myself stretched out in my favorite chair, my head quite fuzzy, and the cat close at hand, looking curiously at me. "How do you do it?" I demanded, my voice hoarse form my own quasi-stupor. I put out a soft fingertip and tapped her lightly on the nose. "How - do - you - make it all so easy?" and I fell back a little in my chair, surprised at how the impact bothered my old shoulders.
"Harrumph," I said, and then reddened at the thought of how old my own behavior had become. I was a walking... I was interrupted by a polite mew and my cat's dainty foot on my lap as she stepped, still graceful, on my knee and then quickly lay down and began to lick a paw.
"You know," she said, nonchalantly, "it's really not as bad as all that."
On a dark, colorful gust of liquor fumes, I tried to compute her words. The dreaminess of my alcoholic hze took the edge from my surprise, and I looked at her bitter rather than shocked.
"My life isn't over," I stated back, slurring. I realized my nose was running slightly, and moved a sleeve to swipe it clean.
"Of course not," she scoffed, among a mouthful of fur that was particularly recalcitrant. "But you aren't dead yet, and you're not dying tomorrow." She stopped her self-bathing and, purring rustily, lolled back in practiced ease. "Just enjoy it," she said quietly, "You've earned your rest."
I looked at her, despairing. I didn't think I had. My life had been, ultimately, incredibly dull. Oh, the odd excitement, but for the most part, what had I done?
"You've lived, Charlie," she replied, her eyes half-closing. "That's enough for anyone."
I frowned. It wasn't enough for me.
She sighed and then, suddenly, her bright eyes, those eyes that had been closing slowly for years, burned into mine. A strange purr echoed in my ears.
I must have fallen to sleep. It was a drifting sensation: perhaps the alcohol had overwhelmed my aged nerves. My dreams were real and surreal as I had never felt before. Transported through times and spaces. I was in Paris, 1920, drinking absinthe. I was in Berlin, in Dublin, in Istanbul. I walked through a harem, I felt their sadness. I killed a man and watched the life leave him. I drowned. I climbed the peaks of Nepal, flew through the jungles on the waves of river wind. I toasted the great, toasted the wicked, and felt myself turn from bad to good to bad again. Again and again, the colors of life threw their panoply of activity about me; again and again, I saw the shadows, the light. I stood, exstatic, among the ruins of Greece, and as my body thrummed with a song to the gods, I spied the tail of a cat.
I never truly awoke. I surfaced on the carpet, the dying embers of the fire glowing by me, the cat curled by my side. How glad I was to be home, to be at rest. My heart still raced and my chest was tight. I reached to stroke the cat's small, curled spine. She looked up at me sleepily, and I started, realizing her eyes were completely white. She had gone blind. I stroked her gently, and then scooped her up tenderly in my arms.
"Time for bed," I said. "I am tired."
The cat was awake to every whisker that curled, and contentedly lay herself by the fire, relishing the rest that tired bones can demand. She licked her bowl clean, and herself, with stiff, practiced ease. But I could not contain myself in my old wing chair - I could not content myself with the silent, unnoticed, imminent immobility as I began to put myself to my final sleep. So I walked and paced and grumbled and drank, and the cat - the cat watched, blinking sleepliy from a middling perche near the warmth of the hearth.
Perhaps I had had a little too much to drink on evening, but I found myself stretched out in my favorite chair, my head quite fuzzy, and the cat close at hand, looking curiously at me. "How do you do it?" I demanded, my voice hoarse form my own quasi-stupor. I put out a soft fingertip and tapped her lightly on the nose. "How - do - you - make it all so easy?" and I fell back a little in my chair, surprised at how the impact bothered my old shoulders.
"Harrumph," I said, and then reddened at the thought of how old my own behavior had become. I was a walking... I was interrupted by a polite mew and my cat's dainty foot on my lap as she stepped, still graceful, on my knee and then quickly lay down and began to lick a paw.
"You know," she said, nonchalantly, "it's really not as bad as all that."
On a dark, colorful gust of liquor fumes, I tried to compute her words. The dreaminess of my alcoholic hze took the edge from my surprise, and I looked at her bitter rather than shocked.
"My life isn't over," I stated back, slurring. I realized my nose was running slightly, and moved a sleeve to swipe it clean.
"Of course not," she scoffed, among a mouthful of fur that was particularly recalcitrant. "But you aren't dead yet, and you're not dying tomorrow." She stopped her self-bathing and, purring rustily, lolled back in practiced ease. "Just enjoy it," she said quietly, "You've earned your rest."
I looked at her, despairing. I didn't think I had. My life had been, ultimately, incredibly dull. Oh, the odd excitement, but for the most part, what had I done?
"You've lived, Charlie," she replied, her eyes half-closing. "That's enough for anyone."
I frowned. It wasn't enough for me.
She sighed and then, suddenly, her bright eyes, those eyes that had been closing slowly for years, burned into mine. A strange purr echoed in my ears.
I must have fallen to sleep. It was a drifting sensation: perhaps the alcohol had overwhelmed my aged nerves. My dreams were real and surreal as I had never felt before. Transported through times and spaces. I was in Paris, 1920, drinking absinthe. I was in Berlin, in Dublin, in Istanbul. I walked through a harem, I felt their sadness. I killed a man and watched the life leave him. I drowned. I climbed the peaks of Nepal, flew through the jungles on the waves of river wind. I toasted the great, toasted the wicked, and felt myself turn from bad to good to bad again. Again and again, the colors of life threw their panoply of activity about me; again and again, I saw the shadows, the light. I stood, exstatic, among the ruins of Greece, and as my body thrummed with a song to the gods, I spied the tail of a cat.
I never truly awoke. I surfaced on the carpet, the dying embers of the fire glowing by me, the cat curled by my side. How glad I was to be home, to be at rest. My heart still raced and my chest was tight. I reached to stroke the cat's small, curled spine. She looked up at me sleepily, and I started, realizing her eyes were completely white. She had gone blind. I stroked her gently, and then scooped her up tenderly in my arms.
"Time for bed," I said. "I am tired."
Summer/Passion
Long summer days
Sleepy in the afternoon
Of their season.
Hot and tight words
Languish when the sky is blue.
Clouds come out to dance
At night, under the stars.
My heart warms and bleeds,
I miss you.
The leaves are still dry
On the long grass - still green,
The green never dies here
It holds strong and true - like time.
Planes overhead
Tell the stories of
Passing action,
But passion is too strong
For days like these.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
The Tree
There was once a Tree. It lived in a forest, and it was just like all the other trees. Together, they were young saplings, and in the morning the sun would rise on them, their heads nodding in the golden light, and in the evening, the breezes would blow on them, and small birds would call to one another joyfully from within their young, green leaves.The Tree was just like all the others. And it was pleased.
But in time, the rest of the trees grew. They grew tall and broad, and the Tree grew only a little. In the day, the sun's warmth dappled it through the screen of others, the night breezes caressed it only in small, stolen breaths, and the birds built there nests in loftier places.
The Tree, now wakeful and unhappy, could not rest at night with the dreaming forest. Instead, it stared ever at the moon when that silver lady rose and fell in the sky. It strained to see her through the broken sky it could see, and every evening when the pale light fell upon it, it sighed a soft sigh, a small sigh, a sigh of relief. It didn't know why.
The days were raucous with the noise of the forest, the tall trees rustled mightily, and the Tree was lost. But in the night, only the silent moon lit the leaves and branches, and only the Tree watched her.
There came a night when the Tree was gripped with a great sadness. It had been sad before, but this sadness was like waves, this sadness was like floods. The pain within it rent and tore, it burned. The moon had not yet risen, and the Tree feared it might never rise - it might never rise again. In that moment, it knew it must find the moon, that if it didn't, it would perish and become yet another part of the forest's story, a story of the dead that fed the living.
It cried out in the way a Tree can, waving its branches, rustling, creaking, straining, and little by little, it felt the earth release it. First the root that was not quite covered was allowed free, and then the roots that spanned around it. Beautiful, they came up from the ground like vines, living and breathing, freed from the moist earth, free from the darkness. Until, finally, the Tree's heart root also was free, and the Tree, transcendent, terrified, beautiful, moved from its home, the place it had always been, and slipped from the forest, its roots like a thousand living ribbons, carrying it quietly and effortlessly out.
The Tree reveled in the joy of it, in movement and elegance and the freedom. It flew through the sleeping woods, and finally came to the openness on the edge. The place it had never been. Without fear, as if in a dream, it stepped onto the long grasses, its roots playing and dancing around it. And then it saw the moon. She had risen from the East and it had not noticed her pale, perfect light in its journey.
It stood, perfectly still except for the ever-moving, ever-undulating roots. It soaked in the silver of the moon, the brightness of the stars, and felt freed again.
And then it began to move - to dance - across the field, this way and that, spinning, leaping, stretching. The great moon above it seemed to get closer as it did so, the Tree, free, the moon, pouring out its love in white waves.
Today the Tree stands alone in the field. It is not a tall tree, but it is a beautiful one. Birds come to roost in it, as it stands alone in such a place, and it is happy. Each day it stands green and good under the sun, but it waits truly for the night, when the darkness shows the silver of the moon.
Monday, July 23, 2012
palimpsest
It's a palimpsest. It bears the scars and tears of time. And it wears them daily, and it moves in them. The limp of dancing too much too early, the sag of neglect at a young age, the strength of a sprinter, a leaper, a spinner, the graceful bend of a cheek, here, there. And it bears these layers and keeps them, and memorizes them, rewrites them, rescinds them, puts them back. It is the water. It is the sea. It is clay and yet it is its own mountain. My palimpsest. My darling. My enemy. My memory. My life.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Light
I am the blinking light in the arrow sign. And I blink for you. Ever going on and off, each time is my heartbeat beating against my cage, each time, I cast out the light that is the brightest I can muster. And I do it for you. I am in love with you, you the small sign that guides the traffic. I love your bright arrow. In the rain I watch the water roll down you like the most beautiful waterfall of tears. And I shine for you - ever on and on. And you will never know. Or perhaps you know, but you can never say. You always say "One Way" and for me, you are the one way I know how to love. Take this light, take it and know it is for you. This light that shines from me again and again.Love. Love. Love. I am the blinking light in the arrow sign. And I blink for you.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Beauty
There was beauty and there was beauty. And she had only the former. There was something rather odd about her proportions - they somehow referred to bad health. And her skin, a glowing golden hue, sometimes seemed to sallow. And there was beauty, next to her, staring at her, expecting her to take part in her own lovely life. And beauty-the-former could not quite do it. Although she tried.And then she met a lion. A sleepy, hood-eyed lion with the best of all possible coats. But the lion, though he cared for her, preferred that other beauty, that beauty she couldn't quite attain. And she longed for him.
She wished for him in the night, against the calmness of her pillow, which held her, but was helpless to soothe her loneliness. And she wished for him in the day, when she spoke to others and their voices rang in her ears, barely touching on the echo of the warmth that she felt when she was with the lion. Not her lion, she forced herself to remember, blushing, just the lion. The lion that lived there in its sandy cave, the lion that stretched in the morning to the sun, the lion who offered.
She had scampered past his cave and tempted him to follow her, and he had done so, and pinned her, and snuffled at her face in a playful manner, but had discovered that she was not quite the one that he desired, and so he had pulled quietly away, and no doubt she would find him with that other beauty soon. And oh, how it stung her - like the buzzing of a thousand bees in her head.
The other beauty lived beside her. Calmly, not noticing the breadth of their differences. The differences that she felt so acutely. And the other beauty felt and heard and cried and laughed and was, of course, as human as she. As inhuman as she, as much prone to love and to joy and to sadness, and she refused to make her a monster. Because, of course, you cannot blame the beauty for their loveliness, as you cannot blame the genius for their intelligence.
Walk with me, she asked one day, and longed to take her to the edge of the water and simply push her out on a boat int the sea where she could never return from. Each day the jealousy grew worse. Each day, she walked with beauty and could not reconcile her burning passion from the feelings of human empathy that encompassed her. Until, one day, the storm broke across the sky.
And there was beauty - as beautiful as you could possibly imagine. As beautiful as the rain and clinging white and gray and wetness could make her - every contour easy to define. And there was lion, circling her, watching her, wanting her. And there was she, watching the storm come in. And beauty was frightened and intrigued by lion, and she was alone and watching as the barren tree that beauty stood against was circled again and again by the golden coat that she desired to touch and caress.
And then she felt it, the rumbling underneath her feet, the way it trembled, the earth, and she knew immediately that the water was coming. And the beauty and the lion were in deeper ground. And she also knew, without a slightest doubt, that she must warn them, that all other things were the pain of living and that this thing was the truth beneath it all. And she cried out, and the lion turned, and the beauty looked at her with startled eyes. And although she cursed herself later, she was glad, for a moment, glad for these two whom she loved.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Divorce
"Why oh why?"
"Why?"
"Why would he?"
"Why would she?"
Together - different places, different voices, but the same word, "leave?"
Helen sank onto the austere black and white tile of the enormous entryway, the great vaulted ceiling soaring above her, uncaring. Her large skirt billowed around her as she sank onto the cold, and the letter fluttered from her fingers, her eyes filling with angry and unexpected tears.
Robert let the letter fall without caring to the desk in his club. And with a dark brow, he swallowed hard for what seemed like hours. He strode to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass with enormous, frightening calm.
It had only been a few weeks since their wedding, a wedding that had been the product of a very short courtship - both parties and the bride's family encouraging the union wholeheartedly. She was the product of good breeding and a marvelous education, and his background though perhaps not as lofty as hers, was without blemish and his fortune could not be questioned.
The honeymoon had been in Italy, and it had been tireless - a journey without end to all the major sites, planned (unbenowenst to Robert) entirely by the bride's mother, rather than the bride herself, living out the dreams of a woman without a spouse adventurous enough for continental travel. Each supper had been delicious, each site had been inspiring, and Helen had soaked it in with inner joy fighting the trepidation and anxiety she felt around her husband. And yet, when he reached for her gently, she went to his breast without question, and felt more alive there than she had ever before. Young, sensitive, she had never had the opportunity in their travels to quiet with him for long enough to show him her laughter, her joy, and her inner mischief. Rather, she had played the perfect wife, and over his newspaper he had studied her small, nervous movements fighting her natural grace and ingenuousness. Each time he viewed her struggle, he played the gentleman and offered patience, while she blushed at her own clumsiness and wondered if she would ever grow up and be like the women who eyed her husband so confidently from beneath their dark lashes on the Roman streets.
Upon their return, she had dealt efficiently and naturally with all the new challenges of a rather large household with entrenched and loyal servants. Rather than feeling the lady of the house, she wondered if she would be able to respect boundaries of servant/lady relations that seemed unnatural in the early 50s. Her family, though traditional, had held a certain lack of concern over lines that Robert's household held onto with the grit of those who were making up for bloodlines with traditional manners. Bored but hoping to start as she meant to go on, Helen committed herself to her new role, including the separate bedrooms and stilted meals. And when Robert didn't visit her at night, she longed for his stranger's arms to at least alleviate her loneliness. Over breakfast, she admired his interest in foreign affairs, and secretly read the newspaper after him to satisfy her own interests in the cultural pages and what was happening in post-war France. As mother had always said, though, a lady does not read.
Here and there he would catch a glimpse on the stairs as she skipped down them when she thought no one was looking, or when she sang in the library looking for books, or sometimes when she was truly alone, (once at least he had caught her), twirling around the big entry hall on the black and white tiles. At these moments, he would swear again to himself to bring her out of her shell through the best expedient he knew: gentility and time. But why would she not ask him a question? Perhaps she was simply not interested in him - the reality of marriage not fulfilling her girlhood expectations. A product of a cool union himself, he wondered why he felt this was so unnatural, and simply hoped one day to find that she was interested in something more than appearing shy on his arms at parties, looking often a little frightened by his friends.
Two weeks since, they had gone to a route at the Plennningtons, only to find a group of distant cousins whom he had not seen for some time. She had quietly excused herself, and he had seen her retire to the edge of the room, sipping champagne. A few moments later, she was in conversation with one of his cousins, a lightly balding man with a sharp wit and a number of notches on his bedpost from his college days. Soon, she was laughing lightly, and her eyes were alive in a way he had not seen them in years. Burning with a new and unfamiliar anger, he had excused himself, and extricating her from the pleasant conversation, had taken her out to a late supper, hoping her eyes would sparkle for him, but she only returned to her shy and quiet self. Frustrated, he dropped her at home and went out to his club, where he got roaring drunk and placed a rather enormous sum on an unfortunate horse for the following day's races.
And so it had been for some time - at least two months of it - strange, and breathless conversations that revolved around nothing at all, as Helen found herself forgetting to breathe, hoping endlessly that Robert would say something, anything, that might signal a warming, a lightening, a forgiveness for whatever unspoken thing she had done to keep him so distant. For wasn't it that he had been in love with her? Wasn't it that he had been in love with her that he had married her? And when she thought too hard about the possibility that perhaps it wasn't the reason at all, her whole world seemed to shimmer and fade like a worn-out mirage. So she quietly pushed it away and tried to enjoy the small moments when she held onto his arm as they entered parties, blushing lightly at the envious stares of women who thought perhaps she wasn't quite as good as they might be in the same position, and tried to enjoy, too, the little moments when he introduced her as his wife before the conversation turned to topics that she felt too deep for her to enter, in a circle where she did not belong.
The letter lay on the floor, unmoving, it's type set close and looking stingy and matter-of-fact as it spelled out the dissatisfaction she had feared from his side. The hope that he would one day care for her, would warm to her small ways and her long fingers, draw her out in conversation and tease her into revealing herself was lost. And she was entirely bereft, the cold of the stone reaching its long fingers into her even as the long, searing pain in her chest reached down to meet it. Searing, cold, and numbing. She didn't know how long she sat there, until a servant, seeing her there, came to ask her what was the matter, and in cool self-possession she replied nothing - she had received a shock was all - and she reached for the letter, and rose as gracefully as she was able, stating she was quite alright, after which she fled, fairly obviously in a state not to be disturbed.
The night bled into morning with sleep coming only fleetingly here and there, like a bird that refused to roost. The future stretched before her, a wilderness of unknown fears and shattered ideals. Not only the ruin of the relation itself, but also the ruin of her certainty of the future had been robbed of her. She would be a divorcee at twenty-four, a woman who would have to enter yet again into society with the ultimate intent of marriage. For the time being, she might be thrown back on her parents' good will -- or worse yet, have to endure the harsh and terrible prospect of lawyers ending in some sort of alimony. And all because, somewhere, somehow, she had not pleased him, had disappointed him, and he had changed his mind. From the promises made such a short while ago, he had changed his direction completely and simply, without bothering to let her know. Or perhaps he had assumed she knew the matter as well as he; she was not experienced to know if she should have been aware of something missing or not. She curled up into a ball of pain and pulled the blankets more securely around her. But the covers failed to shield her from the deep, undeniable gnawing ache inside her belly, and she moaned lightly and pressed her eyes closed more tightly to block out the growing, mocking daylight.
They met not long after at a party. Strangely, awkwardly, they passed by one another, the rest of the room silent to them both, the great bell of silence keeping both of their ears filled with each others' presence. Robert bowed slightly in acknowledgment, and Helen kept her eyes down, afraid to see him, ashamed of her own ignorance - only glancing at him through her lashes.That night she danced with more men than was her wont, usually, as being seen alone, many of Robert's friends took her for a spin if only to know what the gossip was. And because it was obvious he had said nothing, she, too, kept her own council and said not a word. And so the rumors spread that theirs was a marriage of convenience, and in the edges of the room, a wave of interest began to mount around them both, from opposite directions. To her, those that noted she was smooth-skinned and had the look of sorrow about her that might make her a wonderfully fulfilling companion to rescue, prey upon, or comfort, and to him, those ladies who found their own spouses - despite their fortunes - obnoxious to the extreme.
She had had a few glasses of champagne that evening, when, hot with her own sense of shattered dreams and betrayed faith, she allowed herself to become excited - that is, she allowed herself to anger. It was a place she did not visit usually, and one where she had not planned to travel. But the night had worn on with myriad looks and the perfume of speculation had become a nauseating incense that cleared her mind of common sense. And so, escaping to the darkness of the hall to cool her mind, she invited yet more comment, despite her own lack of knowledge regarding it. Robert, himself having drunken steadily throughout the night, watched her go with slitted, glittering eyes. And against his own better will, he, too, followed her, assuming assignations had already begun under his very nose.
The hall was shadowed, only dimly lit by a low lamp, and it was rather narrow; a forgotten piece of house-building that had originally let servants from one room to the next, but now had been appropriated for the gentry to access the toilet facilities and the upper rooms in a manner more felicitous to the modern spirit of economy and efficiency. As well, the back servants stairs had been mostly replaced by the expediency of a dumb waiter. Helen stood, slim and rather tall in her simple blue gown, leaning against the brocaded wall, her arms crossed in front of her, examining a dire future somewhere past the tips of her toes. The gnawing in her stomach had only increased, and promised to worsen if she did not press against it with her arms, and so she seemed very much as if she was endeavoring to retreat into the wall.
One look and Robert realized that an assignation was most probably not the reason of her evening escape, but incensed and tipsy, uncharacteristically slow of reason and unwilling to leave her once he was close to her again, he strolled toward her coolly and placed himself at her shoulder. "Cigarette while you wait?" he queried, pulling out the silver case he had received from her (mother) upon the eve of their engagement. Helen had picked out her favorite book to give him, but her mother had vetoed the idea at once, citing the fact that he would have a lifetime's worth of hours to know her better once they had signed the union into reality. "Wait?" she asked, innocently, her eyes rising to his and then immediately lowering again, a blush creeping up her cheeks, unbidden, in the knowledge that she hated him now as much as she might have ever hated anyone in her life. That she did, in fact, desire to hit him, and that, also, she was very confused by his question and didn't give a damn what he meant.
"Are you not waiting for someone? It was, of course, what everybody thought, seeing you slip away like this," he said, coldly, not bothering to keep the venom from his voice. She shook her head tiredly.
"Of course," she said, "of course - why would I need a moment to myself?"
"The need for solitude is not often understood nor respected in circles such as these," he replied quickly, without thinking, and then, realizing he had said something quite kind, he turned toward her and gripped her arm, looking deep into her eyes. "Don't you think it's time you simply cut the line, my girl? Your act may be convincing, but I think it's time, don't you?"
She shook her head, entirely at a loss. "I don't know what you mean, sir, but I will tell you," and she bridled, pulling herself to her full height, her eyes flashing into his, "that this - this - scandal is of YOUR making! And if you cannot own to it, God knows I will not take the blame."
His eyes narrowed. "And what, exactly, my dear," he took an elegant pull on his cigarette, "do you think it is that I have done?" He looked at her insolently for a moment, taking in her fine wrists and the angle of her neck, and suddenly she began to feel very warm indeed.
She looked a question at him, but refused to retreat. "You? You? You have played me along in this game of yours, and now, here I am, at your mercy and at your will. What would you that I do, sir? I beg of you, let me know what I may do," her eyes sparkled coldly, and her heart beat in her chest.
He came closer, trapping her almost against the wall, and his hand on one side of her pressed against the rough fabric of the wall covering. "You may tell me what this nonsense is," he growled, between his teeth.
"Ah! Finally willing to touch me now that you don't want me?" She said, querilous, and the moment she said it, she wished it back again. His hand dropped from the wall, and he took a step back, quizzical.
"What, my dear, the hell do you mean by that?" He asked after a moment, and she, already close to tears, began to dissolve from within so that she could only shake her head. And so she turned, looking for a corner to flee to, and found only a door to her right, whose handle gave way underneath her turning fingers, and so she slipped into it, and slammed the door behind her as hard as she could, and hoped that, somehow, he might be on the other side of it, and knock. But only silence greeted her, and after her bought of tears had subsided, she found she was in a small linen closet, with invitingly large piles of linens lying here and there. And so she sat upon one and simply calmed her breathing until she felt she might possibly be presentable.
"Well," she commented to herself aloud (something she had never dared to do before), "now they will truly think I have carried on." And she wished, dearly, that she smoked.
The next day she was all alone. The sky was iron and gray, and when she went out for a walk, she wandered without goal along paths that were familiar and unfamiliar at once. The great, gnawing feeling of loneliness swept up in her and she could do little let it wash over her in undulating waves. She hunched her shoulders slightly against the pain and walked on. What next? What next after this? A great, burning, haunting feeling rose in her, even as the clouds became yet thicker. She refused to go to her parents; and divorce? What kind of money could she expect from that? What could she expect at all? She wondered about the lawyer, and shivered to think that his kind, staid face, the one that had drawn up their marriage agreements would now be looking over the details of their divorce. And for what reason? She didn't know. Slowly, she turned for home. The depths of her gloom were not lightened by finding on the entry table a card from one of the gentleman of last night's party. Ah. He had 'phoned, had he? She felt as incapable of speaking with him as she did of doing anything else, and proceeded to the library where she drank in the scent of Burberry that Robert always wore from the faded tartan cushions on the sofa. It was that moment when she realized she had loved him. And that moment also when her deep sorrow turned to anger.
"Why?"
"Why would he?"
"Why would she?"
Together - different places, different voices, but the same word, "leave?"
Helen sank onto the austere black and white tile of the enormous entryway, the great vaulted ceiling soaring above her, uncaring. Her large skirt billowed around her as she sank onto the cold, and the letter fluttered from her fingers, her eyes filling with angry and unexpected tears.
Robert let the letter fall without caring to the desk in his club. And with a dark brow, he swallowed hard for what seemed like hours. He strode to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass with enormous, frightening calm.
It had only been a few weeks since their wedding, a wedding that had been the product of a very short courtship - both parties and the bride's family encouraging the union wholeheartedly. She was the product of good breeding and a marvelous education, and his background though perhaps not as lofty as hers, was without blemish and his fortune could not be questioned.
The honeymoon had been in Italy, and it had been tireless - a journey without end to all the major sites, planned (unbenowenst to Robert) entirely by the bride's mother, rather than the bride herself, living out the dreams of a woman without a spouse adventurous enough for continental travel. Each supper had been delicious, each site had been inspiring, and Helen had soaked it in with inner joy fighting the trepidation and anxiety she felt around her husband. And yet, when he reached for her gently, she went to his breast without question, and felt more alive there than she had ever before. Young, sensitive, she had never had the opportunity in their travels to quiet with him for long enough to show him her laughter, her joy, and her inner mischief. Rather, she had played the perfect wife, and over his newspaper he had studied her small, nervous movements fighting her natural grace and ingenuousness. Each time he viewed her struggle, he played the gentleman and offered patience, while she blushed at her own clumsiness and wondered if she would ever grow up and be like the women who eyed her husband so confidently from beneath their dark lashes on the Roman streets.
Upon their return, she had dealt efficiently and naturally with all the new challenges of a rather large household with entrenched and loyal servants. Rather than feeling the lady of the house, she wondered if she would be able to respect boundaries of servant/lady relations that seemed unnatural in the early 50s. Her family, though traditional, had held a certain lack of concern over lines that Robert's household held onto with the grit of those who were making up for bloodlines with traditional manners. Bored but hoping to start as she meant to go on, Helen committed herself to her new role, including the separate bedrooms and stilted meals. And when Robert didn't visit her at night, she longed for his stranger's arms to at least alleviate her loneliness. Over breakfast, she admired his interest in foreign affairs, and secretly read the newspaper after him to satisfy her own interests in the cultural pages and what was happening in post-war France. As mother had always said, though, a lady does not read.
Here and there he would catch a glimpse on the stairs as she skipped down them when she thought no one was looking, or when she sang in the library looking for books, or sometimes when she was truly alone, (once at least he had caught her), twirling around the big entry hall on the black and white tiles. At these moments, he would swear again to himself to bring her out of her shell through the best expedient he knew: gentility and time. But why would she not ask him a question? Perhaps she was simply not interested in him - the reality of marriage not fulfilling her girlhood expectations. A product of a cool union himself, he wondered why he felt this was so unnatural, and simply hoped one day to find that she was interested in something more than appearing shy on his arms at parties, looking often a little frightened by his friends.
Two weeks since, they had gone to a route at the Plennningtons, only to find a group of distant cousins whom he had not seen for some time. She had quietly excused herself, and he had seen her retire to the edge of the room, sipping champagne. A few moments later, she was in conversation with one of his cousins, a lightly balding man with a sharp wit and a number of notches on his bedpost from his college days. Soon, she was laughing lightly, and her eyes were alive in a way he had not seen them in years. Burning with a new and unfamiliar anger, he had excused himself, and extricating her from the pleasant conversation, had taken her out to a late supper, hoping her eyes would sparkle for him, but she only returned to her shy and quiet self. Frustrated, he dropped her at home and went out to his club, where he got roaring drunk and placed a rather enormous sum on an unfortunate horse for the following day's races.
And so it had been for some time - at least two months of it - strange, and breathless conversations that revolved around nothing at all, as Helen found herself forgetting to breathe, hoping endlessly that Robert would say something, anything, that might signal a warming, a lightening, a forgiveness for whatever unspoken thing she had done to keep him so distant. For wasn't it that he had been in love with her? Wasn't it that he had been in love with her that he had married her? And when she thought too hard about the possibility that perhaps it wasn't the reason at all, her whole world seemed to shimmer and fade like a worn-out mirage. So she quietly pushed it away and tried to enjoy the small moments when she held onto his arm as they entered parties, blushing lightly at the envious stares of women who thought perhaps she wasn't quite as good as they might be in the same position, and tried to enjoy, too, the little moments when he introduced her as his wife before the conversation turned to topics that she felt too deep for her to enter, in a circle where she did not belong.
The letter lay on the floor, unmoving, it's type set close and looking stingy and matter-of-fact as it spelled out the dissatisfaction she had feared from his side. The hope that he would one day care for her, would warm to her small ways and her long fingers, draw her out in conversation and tease her into revealing herself was lost. And she was entirely bereft, the cold of the stone reaching its long fingers into her even as the long, searing pain in her chest reached down to meet it. Searing, cold, and numbing. She didn't know how long she sat there, until a servant, seeing her there, came to ask her what was the matter, and in cool self-possession she replied nothing - she had received a shock was all - and she reached for the letter, and rose as gracefully as she was able, stating she was quite alright, after which she fled, fairly obviously in a state not to be disturbed.
The night bled into morning with sleep coming only fleetingly here and there, like a bird that refused to roost. The future stretched before her, a wilderness of unknown fears and shattered ideals. Not only the ruin of the relation itself, but also the ruin of her certainty of the future had been robbed of her. She would be a divorcee at twenty-four, a woman who would have to enter yet again into society with the ultimate intent of marriage. For the time being, she might be thrown back on her parents' good will -- or worse yet, have to endure the harsh and terrible prospect of lawyers ending in some sort of alimony. And all because, somewhere, somehow, she had not pleased him, had disappointed him, and he had changed his mind. From the promises made such a short while ago, he had changed his direction completely and simply, without bothering to let her know. Or perhaps he had assumed she knew the matter as well as he; she was not experienced to know if she should have been aware of something missing or not. She curled up into a ball of pain and pulled the blankets more securely around her. But the covers failed to shield her from the deep, undeniable gnawing ache inside her belly, and she moaned lightly and pressed her eyes closed more tightly to block out the growing, mocking daylight.
They met not long after at a party. Strangely, awkwardly, they passed by one another, the rest of the room silent to them both, the great bell of silence keeping both of their ears filled with each others' presence. Robert bowed slightly in acknowledgment, and Helen kept her eyes down, afraid to see him, ashamed of her own ignorance - only glancing at him through her lashes.That night she danced with more men than was her wont, usually, as being seen alone, many of Robert's friends took her for a spin if only to know what the gossip was. And because it was obvious he had said nothing, she, too, kept her own council and said not a word. And so the rumors spread that theirs was a marriage of convenience, and in the edges of the room, a wave of interest began to mount around them both, from opposite directions. To her, those that noted she was smooth-skinned and had the look of sorrow about her that might make her a wonderfully fulfilling companion to rescue, prey upon, or comfort, and to him, those ladies who found their own spouses - despite their fortunes - obnoxious to the extreme.
She had had a few glasses of champagne that evening, when, hot with her own sense of shattered dreams and betrayed faith, she allowed herself to become excited - that is, she allowed herself to anger. It was a place she did not visit usually, and one where she had not planned to travel. But the night had worn on with myriad looks and the perfume of speculation had become a nauseating incense that cleared her mind of common sense. And so, escaping to the darkness of the hall to cool her mind, she invited yet more comment, despite her own lack of knowledge regarding it. Robert, himself having drunken steadily throughout the night, watched her go with slitted, glittering eyes. And against his own better will, he, too, followed her, assuming assignations had already begun under his very nose.
The hall was shadowed, only dimly lit by a low lamp, and it was rather narrow; a forgotten piece of house-building that had originally let servants from one room to the next, but now had been appropriated for the gentry to access the toilet facilities and the upper rooms in a manner more felicitous to the modern spirit of economy and efficiency. As well, the back servants stairs had been mostly replaced by the expediency of a dumb waiter. Helen stood, slim and rather tall in her simple blue gown, leaning against the brocaded wall, her arms crossed in front of her, examining a dire future somewhere past the tips of her toes. The gnawing in her stomach had only increased, and promised to worsen if she did not press against it with her arms, and so she seemed very much as if she was endeavoring to retreat into the wall.
One look and Robert realized that an assignation was most probably not the reason of her evening escape, but incensed and tipsy, uncharacteristically slow of reason and unwilling to leave her once he was close to her again, he strolled toward her coolly and placed himself at her shoulder. "Cigarette while you wait?" he queried, pulling out the silver case he had received from her (mother) upon the eve of their engagement. Helen had picked out her favorite book to give him, but her mother had vetoed the idea at once, citing the fact that he would have a lifetime's worth of hours to know her better once they had signed the union into reality. "Wait?" she asked, innocently, her eyes rising to his and then immediately lowering again, a blush creeping up her cheeks, unbidden, in the knowledge that she hated him now as much as she might have ever hated anyone in her life. That she did, in fact, desire to hit him, and that, also, she was very confused by his question and didn't give a damn what he meant.
"Are you not waiting for someone? It was, of course, what everybody thought, seeing you slip away like this," he said, coldly, not bothering to keep the venom from his voice. She shook her head tiredly.
"Of course," she said, "of course - why would I need a moment to myself?"
"The need for solitude is not often understood nor respected in circles such as these," he replied quickly, without thinking, and then, realizing he had said something quite kind, he turned toward her and gripped her arm, looking deep into her eyes. "Don't you think it's time you simply cut the line, my girl? Your act may be convincing, but I think it's time, don't you?"
She shook her head, entirely at a loss. "I don't know what you mean, sir, but I will tell you," and she bridled, pulling herself to her full height, her eyes flashing into his, "that this - this - scandal is of YOUR making! And if you cannot own to it, God knows I will not take the blame."
His eyes narrowed. "And what, exactly, my dear," he took an elegant pull on his cigarette, "do you think it is that I have done?" He looked at her insolently for a moment, taking in her fine wrists and the angle of her neck, and suddenly she began to feel very warm indeed.
She looked a question at him, but refused to retreat. "You? You? You have played me along in this game of yours, and now, here I am, at your mercy and at your will. What would you that I do, sir? I beg of you, let me know what I may do," her eyes sparkled coldly, and her heart beat in her chest.
He came closer, trapping her almost against the wall, and his hand on one side of her pressed against the rough fabric of the wall covering. "You may tell me what this nonsense is," he growled, between his teeth.
"Ah! Finally willing to touch me now that you don't want me?" She said, querilous, and the moment she said it, she wished it back again. His hand dropped from the wall, and he took a step back, quizzical.
"What, my dear, the hell do you mean by that?" He asked after a moment, and she, already close to tears, began to dissolve from within so that she could only shake her head. And so she turned, looking for a corner to flee to, and found only a door to her right, whose handle gave way underneath her turning fingers, and so she slipped into it, and slammed the door behind her as hard as she could, and hoped that, somehow, he might be on the other side of it, and knock. But only silence greeted her, and after her bought of tears had subsided, she found she was in a small linen closet, with invitingly large piles of linens lying here and there. And so she sat upon one and simply calmed her breathing until she felt she might possibly be presentable.
"Well," she commented to herself aloud (something she had never dared to do before), "now they will truly think I have carried on." And she wished, dearly, that she smoked.
The next day she was all alone. The sky was iron and gray, and when she went out for a walk, she wandered without goal along paths that were familiar and unfamiliar at once. The great, gnawing feeling of loneliness swept up in her and she could do little let it wash over her in undulating waves. She hunched her shoulders slightly against the pain and walked on. What next? What next after this? A great, burning, haunting feeling rose in her, even as the clouds became yet thicker. She refused to go to her parents; and divorce? What kind of money could she expect from that? What could she expect at all? She wondered about the lawyer, and shivered to think that his kind, staid face, the one that had drawn up their marriage agreements would now be looking over the details of their divorce. And for what reason? She didn't know. Slowly, she turned for home. The depths of her gloom were not lightened by finding on the entry table a card from one of the gentleman of last night's party. Ah. He had 'phoned, had he? She felt as incapable of speaking with him as she did of doing anything else, and proceeded to the library where she drank in the scent of Burberry that Robert always wore from the faded tartan cushions on the sofa. It was that moment when she realized she had loved him. And that moment also when her deep sorrow turned to anger.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
no place
The year after all the hullabaloo, he found himself at sea. And he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he'd made it to no place.
He hadn't.
It wasn't until quite a bit later that he found No Place. At which point, he found he was No One and that the world was empty... for a moment. But the funny thing about empty is that it is often the beginning of filling up. The thing about nothing is that it permits the presence of something. No place was the place to start.
No place was exactly where he was for that moment. And no place was all right.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Tea Leaves
Tea leaves
Read in the trees
Don't know where I'm going
But the ticket is bought.
Don't cry
Just be mine
I'm not here tomorrow
So this has got to be right.
Look at the bottom
Of the cup's sweet curves
Check that you've still got it
But don't say a word.
Just down
The last dregs
And then I'll ignore you
Take your sister instead.
Don't be a fool
If you know where I'm going
Just play it cool
And kiss me goodbye.
Shadows fall
And love palls
Wrinkles grow and make us sad.
Don't tell
Hush now
I'll just read the tea leaves to know.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Bitters
Break my heart into pieces,
I'll put them in the stove
light them on fire
distill from them love,
put it in bottles
colored in red,
place them on my kitchen shelves
wait for you and then
I'll serve them like a liquor
in the cups of my hands
a chalice of bones
ripped away as you ran
and you'll drink their dark flavor
and become my man.
I'll put them in the stove
light them on fire
distill from them love,
put it in bottles
colored in red,
place them on my kitchen shelves
wait for you and then
I'll serve them like a liquor
in the cups of my hands
a chalice of bones
ripped away as you ran
and you'll drink their dark flavor
and become my man.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Henrycat
kittycat claptrap
Pyewacket what a racket
shy guy in the eyes
climb across me like a bridge.
on the verge of loving you
then a scratch and love is through
house devil, house god,
just a bump on a log.
kittycat catnip
fingers, hands, holding sands
drifting through
sad and blue,
eyes askance and back at once.
kittycat claptrap
yawn and purr
on the floor
on my shoe and in my arms
sleeping charms, nothing harms.
Pyewacket what a racket
shy guy in the eyes
climb across me like a bridge.
on the verge of loving you
then a scratch and love is through
house devil, house god,
just a bump on a log.
kittycat catnip
fingers, hands, holding sands
drifting through
sad and blue,
eyes askance and back at once.
kittycat claptrap
yawn and purr
on the floor
on my shoe and in my arms
sleeping charms, nothing harms.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
father can you hear me?
father can you hear me?
father can you see me?
nights when the wind blows
I look out my windows
there's nothing to see
blindsides on all sides
twelve o'clock highs.
there's no hope on the other side
but the tracks are high and wide.
he can't see his own face
in the mirror on the mantelpiece
just the frown of his mother's eyes
on the forehead, between the brows.
bluegrass blows
and the indian paint brush
glows on the hillside
pining for attention like always.
blue pinpricks of light between the blinds.
waking up to sirens.
don't be my brother, be my lover,
don't make me walk this road alone.
the rash of heat this year
just makes the clouds seem darker.
and then there's the circus barker
always on the news.
father can you hear me?
I know that you can't see me.
but someone's gotta be me.
can't be no one tonight.
father can you see me?
nights when the wind blows
I look out my windows
there's nothing to see
blindsides on all sides
twelve o'clock highs.
there's no hope on the other side
but the tracks are high and wide.
he can't see his own face
in the mirror on the mantelpiece
just the frown of his mother's eyes
on the forehead, between the brows.
bluegrass blows
and the indian paint brush
glows on the hillside
pining for attention like always.
blue pinpricks of light between the blinds.
waking up to sirens.
don't be my brother, be my lover,
don't make me walk this road alone.
the rash of heat this year
just makes the clouds seem darker.
and then there's the circus barker
always on the news.
father can you hear me?
I know that you can't see me.
but someone's gotta be me.
can't be no one tonight.
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