The headache returned. Pounding. Not that it ever left. Pounding. The ache felt as an alien hand. Pounding. Expanding within his skull. Pounding. Jagged nails puncturing grey flesh. Pounding. Knuckles cracking dry bone. Pounding. Pounding with the throb of distant drums not distant. An enemy suffered, not seen.
With effort, legs were tossed over the edge of the bed as one tosses an anchor to the sea, feet hitting floor with the same sense of dull remorselessness. His body shot upward as if limbs were yanked by chains, ache shooting in tendons jerked into the mother of the day. The floor felt cold as ocean depth and eyes struggled to focus on muted shades of blue and grey. Beard grew as garden untended, his face a tangle of wiry weeds black and grey. He thought of shaving, thought of it often. But thought was about as far as he got, about as far as he was going to get. A man with purpose shaved. A man with vision did not. He had neither. And the weight of lying pulled as a rough braided noose around his agents of creation.
Lifting one foot before the other as a mountain climber plowing an angry gale, he resisted the man waiting, the one he could neither recognize nor avoid, the one that would stare back with the emptiness of a starless night. The mirror hung before him as judge, condemning in silent gaze, a reflection stark like winter to the leafless tree. He knew the look. He knew the judgment. He knew it was true. He knew he was guilty. And if the lave were a cliff, he would toss himself to oblivion, his body to break on the rocks as his soul by fate.
To his left was shaving cream. To his right, his razor. With the tremble of an old man, he reached to turn the spigot, warm water mocking his cold heart. Steam rose before a weeping mirror. Water flowed, melodious, hypnotising, ignorant. Endless. Like an exam not studied. Like a tunnel dark. Like the pounding in the back of his head. Mornings were a private hell, the lava within a sleeping volcano.
He turned the water off, wiped the sweat from his unshaven face and prepared for the day. A child would dance on that volcano, with flowers and smiles, and he would smile back.
40 comments:
Hey! Thanks!!!!! How did you know it was my birthday? You're a reaaaallly sweet blogmate!!!
:D
Saffy, I have many faults, but a poor memory is not one of them. ;-)
Very graphic and detailed. Almost had my head pounding.
Cléa, that was the goal. I will try harder next time. ;-)
Clea said it-"almost had my head pounding" - one (this one) enters the person you describe, becomes him. There is a memory of such a morning rising (into the mother of the day, I love that!). I was and am that aching bearded one, memory multiplied and cubed, by alchemical words.
Richly descriptive, and excellent pace. You did some really good writing here. You definitely grabbed me, sending the memory of my last atrocious headache to the foreground. Great job !!
Excellent - well worth waiting for!
What a great passage, so vivid and descriptive!
Constance, we are as twins. The story often follows my own moods and feelings and this chapter was no different. It was a headache of a chapter to write and outside of one particular simile, was a rather unpleasant exercise. Too many more chapters like this one and I'll seek another hobby.
Deb, Miladysa and Jane, glad you guys enjoyed this one. :-)
I wonder if I am connecting dots that do not exist. I am drwn back to the facing 'black casket infinite'(unsure if this is the exact quote). What is that? Is it a literal casket? Then John being as gone as Kieran (sp) and now thinking "this is John, isn't it?" So he is gone in a way other than physically? Or is this a backstory to him being "gone"? And where is Ariel....is she the child that he will join on the volcano? That sounds a little like an afterworld reference. My mind is working.....Jennifer
Jen, "casket black infinite" was simply a way to speak of the danger of space and the death that is certain to occur when the Kulmykians are engaged. As they look upon the cosmos, no matter how you slice it, death is waiting. It is also a way to contrast all the glorious sights the crew sees wherever they go, to remind the reader and the crew that what looks pretty is simply a projection with little basis in reality. And, it makes them take pause, to wonder, what is real and what is not, and in this moment, the reality of space is front and center--the coldness, the vacuum, the unforgivingness and the death.
This chapter is about John and his struggles with his nightmares and "the mornings" as he tries to cope with the brutal rape and murder of his wife before his eyes and the loss of his world and everything he knew there. The "gone" reference is to John not being who he was, to the extent that those that know him, no longer recognize him (I have a friend who is described that way by his wife after rather unfortunate events). He is here, but gone, gone from what was before. Kyra, in her own loneliness, laments that he is beyond her reach, at least in this moment when she really could use someone to lean on. She sees John for what he is and what he is going through perhaps better than anyone else, as referenced in the interview on earth when she discussed his mental and emotional state.
The reference to the cliff is his desire to end his life. Ariel is what keeps him from doing it. So, he "lies" to the outside world, presents a beautiful mountain filled with flowers (the dormant volcano) when underneath he is doing everything he can to keep that volcano from erupting. He is the volcano. And Ariel, like a child playing on the flowered mountainside, has no idea what is really going on inside. The struggle to live those two lives, the public and the private, one false, one threatening to tear him apart, is wearing him down. Still, he throws that one foot in front of the other, against the gale and the mountain, because and for Ariel.
Tree, you are a Master of words and you have a gift that I envy. I appreciate the TIME you took to explain all of this to me. As often as you advise me to just go with the flow of the story, I doggedly refuse and have to READ it ALL, trying to decipher all of it's nuances. You know I was doing a mundane, every day task and I had a moment when the story came to mind and I thought "Casket. John's Grief. Oh my Lord where is Ariel?!!" I have to admit a wonderful sense of relief at your reply. And aren't there days, that we all are in it for the kids? I hope the darkness of writing is not representative of a darkness of spirit. The art work has been so lovely. The Mosaic was beautiful. Kyra, I presume? Be blessed Tree - Jen
YAY! I thought this must be John and reading down, I see I am right. His headache is definitely pounding in my head this out of sync weekend. One thing I've decided, no more waking up at 4 to hope of seeing someone special on IM. I think Verizon goes down for maintenance between 4 and 5 AM. Totally sucked. Well, maybe a nap would help. Might be good for John too. It is a struggle living with a schism in your soul. Reasons to go on living colliding with reasons to jump off the precipice.
This chapter has been on my mind all day, pleasantly despite what it entails. A real sense of 'Yes, finally!' as I sit here now with it up on the screen once again.
A headache it may have been to write, but it is not something that reading one is aware of. Subject matter as is the general case working together with the style used to present a united front and emitting surer, stronger impression due thereto. The repetition in the first paragraph sets it up, relentless as the headache itself. The in-betweens lamenting the lack of relief, words like nails across a blackboard, it is grimace inducing, like being inside that pounding skull. Painful and brilliantly done.
Marvelling as thousands upon thousands of times before at how boldly you paint a scene, a mood, with words, how easily you are able to convey an entirety with a few short descriptions. Quality not quantity and all the better for it. The heaviness of his limbs, I agree so completely with what someone else said, reading this chapter is a physical experience, the words so piercing two almost become one.
Following the chapter where he was cut, the two alone give a thorough sense of the turmoil that is his soul. Ariel, his anchor, and if not for her. A man with purpose shaved. An example of what you do best. (reminded me of Yul's shopping trip) You wrote so much in your comments above of things that I had intended to touch upon, of being torn. Both chapters are in the morning after a night spent alone, before he has been uplifted, grounded, by Ariel, the tie-backs to the mirror so cleverly done and in this respect it gives some idea of what exactly was going through his mind the last time that we saw him standing here. The mirror hung before him like a judge is one of the most revealing sentences regarding his state of mind, his guilt, an inability to find any peace with himself and his role, regardless of how indirect, in what happened to Cait. Like a weight on one's chest, crushing, to see him this way, to feel the clouds that hang over him, to hear the pain. Heart-wrenching to watch him this way, knowing that it may never leave him. And on he goes, his nights and his days so removed from each other, the aloneness of it all is terribly disturbing and set he seems to continue, separating still further, one from the other, falling more apart the longer he tries to hold some part of him together.
All that you wrote in your comment is the definition of every emotion and thought, passing or long-lasting, that arose from the page as one was reading, the sense for example that he is all to aware of just how easy it would be to admit defeat, to essentially be complete.
As with so many of your chapters, there are so many individual aspects that deserve to be mentioned as something extraordinary and unless one takes one sentence at time, most will be forgotten in the rush to appease the surge. Comments can be long and still only dance with the thoughts that wanted expressing. I will love you dearly forever for the phrase that reads: Steam rose before a weeping mirror. within and for itself. What it does when reading is as repetitive as it is forceful.
And the metaphor of the sleeping volcano, and the child that dances, trying to comment on this chapter only serves to increase the impact of the chapter, a real dance this comment has become, but what I wanted to convey as one reader more than anything is what I said at the beginning, this chapter was full-bodied, it was far-reaching and hard-hitting and complete and from where I sat reading as perfect in it's individuality as those that flowed freely forth. Loved it.
PS The shield was and is in a word amazing.
Jen, I love engaged comments and will always answer all serious questions about the writing or the story. So, no worries, I'm honored at the asking. :-)
The header image that was up earlier was actually Cait, not Kyra. John is haunted with images of his loving wife and I thought it interesting to have her looking over this chapter, as if from beyond, as he struggles with his grief and will to carry on.
That image of Cait was originally just a sketch. Then I played with airbrushing it (the original image used in The Story); and then I decided to learn to use Painter's Mosaic tool and so the image took on its third iteration, which was what I posted. There are actually three different mosaic versions, but I thought the one posted was the best of the three. All of them are in the archives at Trebuchet. As always, thanks for the kind words. :-)
W, what would life be without that tension? Perhaps a little more joy and a little less snoot. :-D
I'll let John know about the nap idea. ;-)
Sweetest, I'll get to your comment in a minute, but I wanted to address the header image first. This is actually the view of Ji that Zeke had when looking at the "spiritual manifestation" of the master through the special oculator designed for that purpose. There is another image, where this essence was distilled into The Shield. Just wanted to set the record straight. ;-)
Sweetest, I thought long and hard on whether to take those two or three sentences and post them as the chapter. My writing seems, at times, to clunk along and then catch a nice phrase or two, and then clunk along again. The weeping mirror, feet as anchors, climbing against gale and mountain, the lave as cliff, dormant volcano covered with flowers, etc--like syrup, tight, heavy, headache inducing.
This was a hard chapter to write on several levels. First, no real inspiration. I think I wrote it because Miladysa was tapping her toe. Second, I've had mornings like John's and to revisit that experience, in its entirely, was not pleasant. I don't much like rereading this one either. Third, I've hit a wall as to where to take the story, where to take the characters, how to make them more real, more believable. I should probably walk away from The Story for a bit and just let it be. I have some ideas, and inspiration is a very funny thing so the next chapter could come tonight or next week. I'm working hard not to force it, so it will come when it comes.
As always, your wonderful engagement of the story pleases me to no end. Sweet dreams when you get that far. :-)
dull remorselessness
I know what it means to me and why I put it where I did, but I'd like to know what others think of those two words as it describes John's state of mind as he gets out of bed and makes that walk to the mirror, a walk that occurs every morning.
Knuckles cracking dry bone...
That's the BEST way I've ever heard to describe a headache. They feel exactly like that to me. I surely hope you didn't have one while you were writing that part! :)
I just love when I have the time to be swept away into this world for a bit. And I absolutely love the new graphic works. I sometimes use them as my wallpaper at home--I hope you don't mind!!
--snow
Snow, I'm humbled and honored if you are using some of my images on your desktop. Makes me want to break out in a chorus of Who Let the Dogs Out. :-D
I think I only had a headache after I wrote this one. This piece was edited and rewritten more than ten of my usual chapters and if I had to do it again, I would edit and rewrite it again. I just could never quite get this chapter to work like I wanted it too. Be that as it may, time to move on and let it go.
Nice to see you stopping by. Always have hot chocolate warm and waiting. Thanks Snow, for the kind words. :-)
Ouch! That expression made me wince and cringe. Expansion within the skull & throbbing like drums is what it exactly is about! & yes, Certainly an enemy suffered nor seen...
Beard growing like a garden untended,is a wonderful simile and a tangle of wiry weeds.. that is such a great metaphor!
"A man with purpose shaved. A man with vision did not. He had neither. And the weight of lying pulled as a rough braided noose around his agents of creation." That is indeed a very painful and a pathetic state of being!
The imagery is excellent in this chapter. Specially the way you play around the word mirror. mirror as personified ( judge condemning in silent gaze) ; then again the steam rising before a 'weeping mirror'
Also the juxtapositioning the polar opposites : warm water against a cold heart, Of body breaking on rocks as opposed to soul breaking by fate...
Although I am a little vague about the last line, which seems very significant . I am thinking, that the 'child' could be someone from the story, or could be the inner child that is always the Sanctuary within one's own self!
Ps> the fractal on the top does seem like the center of the Earth or the lava within
Who let the dogs out! LOL!! Tree, you're adorable!! :D
I am doing an editing project right now and there are parts that I fight with, let sit, go back and fight with, and then fight with some more.So I totally get that "it's just not right" feeling when it comes to what you want it to say as opposed to what you actually are saying. Sometimes the context and idea of a part is so so good that I don't want to lose it's integrity with some rewording and there are some parts that I really have to struggle to do that. But it's all in good writing fun right?!
This passage comes across very well, so I wouldn't stress too much over it if you still are.
mmm, hot chocolate!!
--snow
p.s. I can't remember if I thanked you for posting that Matt Kearney song (it's been a long week) but I LOVE it.
--snow
Snow, Mat is one of the better "undiscovered" artists. All I Need is one of my favorites of his. Glad you liked it too. :-)
I find the more serious I take my writing, more more restrained and inhibited I feel. When I write just to write without care and concern for spelling, grammar, opinion, story, plot or readers, but just write, then the writing is usually pretty good. But as soon as I let all those others onto the bridge and they start telling me how to steer the ship, well, then we start going all over the place. :-D
Do you want a big marshmellow in your hot chocolate?
Mona, the child in this case is his daughter Ariel. As bright as she is, at six, she still sees her daddy as the flower filled meadow of love and joy. And he is doing everything in his power, at considerable cost and effort, to maintain, to continue to give her what she needs, deserves from her father. Still, underneath is that stewing volcano, an emotional cauldron with a life of its own, one he does not have complete control over and that lack of control creates a fear that one day he will just lose it. He is living a life of great effort, just to hold it all together and that effort is wearing him down.
I like your interpretation of this image, one I hadn't considered. Within the story, this image represents Ji manifesting in his spiritual state. He is one of the few that can exist in either the physical or spiritual, as if his body were clothes that can be removed whenever he likes. This image was used on the occasion of Zeke meeting with Ji and Ji was in his spiritual state. In order for Zeke to be able to "see" him, he had to wear a special ocular, and this image represents what Zeke saw through that device. This is Ji in the spirit! :-D
As always, your very engaged and genuine comments are very much appreciated. So glad to hear you are feeling better. :-)
Thanks for clarifying in regards to the image. :-)
With effort, legs were tossed over the edge of the bed as one tosses an anchor to the sea, feet hitting floor with the same sense of dull remorselessness.
The entire chapter is so heavy, John's state of mind a sort of contradiction as headache pounds and grinds and thoughts are multiple and the action of waking, facing the day is described and yet at the same time it is stagnant, lethargic, habitual. Like a weight being loaded methodically as the day breaks so that the balance will tip in favour of remaining. Words singular create pictures, in combination they alter and so the extent of what is being described here has bearing upon how the two words are interpreted, even the minutest of changes make a difference. Dull in this case is substantiated by the fall of the anchor upon the sea bed, the weight and drop, the (dull) thud as it lands and begins to serve its purpose of holding the remainder of the vessel in place, suspending, restricting rather, movement. Remorseless, thoughts associated therewith: unrelenting, no room for manoeuvre, no thought for feeling - his feet fall to the ground and his body follows, once that first effort is made the rest follows perforce, it is a phenomenally oppressive chapter, as I wrote above, for the reason of phrases such as this one, the effort made just to say the words depletes the breath. Dull relentlessness, soul destroying at its most highly defined representation.
You write words that touch.
In regards to your reply, and I am stating the obvious here, for yourself, it should as it has been mostly writing this story should be something that you do because it gives you pleasure, because it is gratifying and brings joy and light, ups and downs as with all things but I know a couple of gals and guys that will seek you out again when the time is more right and give you something new to get excited about. As for us, the readers, we cannot get enough and would be happy if you produced a chapter a day or more, however the experience, and it is an experience, of following this story is well worth waiting for and whether one had to wait a day, a week, a month for the next one, I and so many others I am sure would gladly do so.
How you feel about this chapter, when you look at it and see only parts that you are happy with is not the way that it is read. Not that one is more important than the other so to speak, but as you scroll down over your comments here, you can see that readers genuinely loved this chapter and that perhaps it was the content, the revisiting, that has given it unpleasant overtones in regards to the actual writing when you look upon it. It is a wonderful chapter. Love to you, good morning and a happy day ahead.
Sweetest, this story has been in neutral for quite some time because I've had no idea how to move the "plot" forward. The idea of detailing a civil war and a political movement just holds no interest for me, yet, I find, that is where the story was heading.
The good news is this: I've got some ideas that I think will work, some stuff I'm very excited about that allow me to continue writing about the things I enjoy without completely doing a disservice to the issues on Kulmyk. Stay tuned. :-)
I'll wait a bit to see if anyone else wants to take up their interpretation of "dull remorselessness" before I offer my two cents. I do appreciate your thoughtful and detailed reply. Your comments give depth to my own thoughts and I love you to pieces for making my own story all the richer to me as you show me things I would have missed if you hadn't pointed them out. :-)
DEEP!!
and touching.
I know how those headaches are
you rock!!
deena
Thanks Deena. So good to see you in such great spirits. Slap Rich upside the head. If that doesn't work, send him to the German nurse, or maybe send me. :-D
Wow, that's a great title image!
Thanks Deb. I did this one quite some time ago with the idea it would be in the story. I decided at the time not to use it, but that's not to say we won't see it after all. Perhaps even soon. ;-)
Powerful!
Lynda, thanks for the kind word and welcome to The Story. :-)
I must come back to this. It is the will of heaven that a theme of dark be my soul's cornerstone for some years (fifteen? twelve?)as Pluto crawls through the Fourth House. Loss, death, and unimagined glories quietly, blessedly seeping through.
John's Pounding and what you said about your Writing is a special gift, Tree, as my John, who I did not love back, and perhaps because of it, and yet not because of it, perhaps both, brought his own Pounding to a fatal finale that can never be undone, only re-imaginated. Your response to Jen, ("casket black infinite") your excruciating understanding of John's anguish,helps me with mine as survivor-participant of a deed whose strange horror lingers until the end of my days.
Lacey, I'm soaking in your comment with compassion.
It's funny. There are two words in this chapter that stuck out for me while reading and I was unsure as to why. I just connected with them.
I like to read all the comments before I make my own so I don't just start repeating what everyone else has said.
But, half-way through ...you mentioned the two words that I was touched by.
dull remorselessness
Being a "sensitive writer type," when going through a zombie-like state in which we are lacking feeling and not experiencing any emotional reaction to our surroundings and recent events...it is dull. It brings about times where we are just going through the motions, so to speak. And--like John--it is during these times, that I probably don't shave my legs for two weeks, or something. Despite the pain of hardship and the physical wretch sadness can bring to our eyes and our heart...it is what makes us beautiful. Remorse for our mistakes or any other unpleasant actions in our lives, makes us grow as humans and is FAR from dull, despite the ache it brings.
Sometimes, when we block ourselves from experiencing the emotions that our mind so desperately needs to explore, our body knows this. Our body will tell us that something isn't right.
Our head will pound.
The migraine will overcome and begin to make us feel....something...
"dull remorselessness"
It is dull...it is so very dull to feel this way. But, yet it is a stage we go through in dealing with great pain. It is a coping mechanism.
Anyhow, that is what it brought to Strumpet's mind.
In two little words....that are not so very little at all.
And uh, Mr. Tree?
"Who Let The Dogs Out?"
Hilarious.
This is what you sing when you are happy?
I sing James Brown.
"Sex Machine."
Get on down...
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