Water lapped his toes. Warm. Endless openness. With a single incision, he opened his chest. With a solitary reach, he removed his heart. Held forth, the instrument of bottomless pain, black as pitch, burning his hands like ice, damned as angels bowed before pride and greed, the sword of ambition upon their burning shoulders.
Branding fingers seared his heart, tendrils of acidic smoke rising, burnt umber pungent. Flesh exposed, salt air stung, a thousand tiny needles burrowing like minute clams in the receding surf. Pain sought pain, an explosion at the fount of gush to shut the mouth of complaint. Fingers tightened, black pus oozed, fingers on fire, pain intensifying. Cracked lips opened to gasp, to gulp air thick, tumid. A rope of acid descended tongue and throat, seeking union of a boiling, roiling stomach, skin scorched of lava, flesh peeling, withering as paper before heat white.
Noise issued, what sounded like voice, his. Hollow as thunder, words blurred upon the windshield of a driving rain, pounding, base deep, resounding relentless, the sting of soul found weighed and wanting, to look into the mirror and where substance once aboded only a sketch remained, hung from brittle bone, almond eyes pulled round, skin no longer supple. A hand reached, not his own, and into the mirror it dipped as a pebble into a pond, ripples of time like rings on a tree, each a memory hidden behind memory.
Into the wind and whisked away with the backhand of nature, a cry escaped bitter lips. Unto knee the weight of his world driven, shoulders hammered like fence posts into blistering sand. Spume rode waves like horses, galloping toward shore, his eyes afire in reflection of a life surrendered to demons and phantoms as real as the movement of mind and sea. Upturned, his visage into the spittle of mother, his fist balled. Anger, drunk with despair, struck empty air, empty as salvation sought; empty as absolution fought (denied).
From somewhere not seen, not known, not believed, a voice susurrated forth, a salve issuing from no direction and all directions, melody as waves, a call siren, fingers twisting nipples erect, caressing the turgid weight between his legs, closing his eyes with palm assuring. A long slender finger asked not upon the probe, taking the bore smooth, easing the pain of inhibition between the parting moon, wrinkled fruit hanging in shadow, growing tight in machination.
He bent as she had bent. He spread as she had spread. And from the pain of memory, the hot spear of atonement impaled its heat, burning away agony, purging his bowels of regret, exploding his resistance to matters not of hands born, taking from him the doors of pride and conception. Opened wide, from front to rear, a chair appeared, bright as light, locks golden as dawn adoring the frame.
(Lyrics from Be Like the Sea: Cathie Ryan)
It matters nothing what they did to you
The storm is over, the wreckage through
Leave them in your wake, no more for you to take
Be like the sea
If it hurts your heart, cast it up on the shore
Let it go forever, ceart go leor
Wash away the sorrow, the tears of no tomorrow
Be like the sea
The sea, the sea, dive with me
We'll lose these rags we're wearing and be
Like the sea, the sea, wild and free
We'll swim out past the longing so deep
Down below these waves in the deepest depth
There are echoes sounding true as your breath
The still, small voice in you, the endless open blue
Be like the sea
Go on forever, shine out in the sun
The full a tá sé everyone
Dance yourself around, give up the small ground
Be like the sea
The sea, the sea, dive with me
We'll lose these rags we're wearing and be
Like the sea, the sea, wild and free
We'll swim out past the longing so deep
Away out past the longing so deep
(Be Like the Sea: Cathie Ryan)
Gabcast! DT #26 - Afflatus 1
Reading and Commentary
Gabcast! DT #27 - Afflatus 2
Reading and Commentary Part 2
20 comments:
This is one of those chapters where what I really want to do here is hold up each part in turn, point excitedly and declare each individual part, sentence by sentence, the masterpiece that it is. This chapter demands voice, it demands to be read aloud, the words individual so robust, so potent, it's as though tongue, teeth and roof are moving over the crevices of the individual sounds, which of course they are, but when do we truly recall this to be the case unless faced with a tongue twister, something we would rather not say or something like this. A full course. ..Of oysters. I know what I mean, that's all that matters. :-D Okay, shush. Me. Branding fingers seared his heart, one of my favourites amongst, and an excellent example of the whole. It isn't spoken, but how sonorous would a voice be on stage in a blackened theatre were these the words being spoken. Branagh would do a good job of it, I imagine. :-)
Extraordinary, extraordinarily blaring, glaring and utterly, utterly splendid!
A;ways wonderful... You transport me with your worda and the images they blaze in my mind... You're so talented, Tree --
The slightest of edges. A pack at the finishing line and as each crosses within milliseconds, at the same time to the naked eye, there still will be a winner, winning by the slightest of edges. It is upon the edge that comments find (whatever little) focus, something to put on the podium and direct champagne at, too much champagne otherwise there would be, sufficient for drowning. In short, there is always some element that stuns just a millisecond longer than the rest within your chapters, but it is all sparks. The image, which unless I've found fur again, is as fractastic as the first. The simply ingenious form and technique that you have used to create this scene, though I cannot imagine as it plays out, it not being painted in minds to completeness, to general understanding, I can see how one could get lost in the singular expressions, so captivated by phrasing meaning passes by unheard. The edge this time, at least to my mind, as you may have guessed, or been told, several times, and as is the case more often than not: diction. Your turns are riveting, the steps both quick and slow, complex and simple, direct and elaborate, structured and transcendent, spell-binding to watch and to hear. Reading is not simply an action performed, your words are something one partakes in, something encountered, endured, embraced. Lived, I guess, experienced, which is why the whole thing about performance came about. Those terms above of being spell-bound and riveted are so correct, you claim everything for the duration, like a spirit entering a body that does not belong to them, ooops, sounds scary, it isn’t, it is beautiful, magical, awesome. If you ever get to it, in A bit on the Side, the story of the servant who hears a composer play the piano one evening, touched and transported, and changed, the beauty of the music forever remembered, The Story stretches over many evenings, there have been countless instances of being so impressed by edges, whatever else has and will happen in the world a part of it will be coloured by what has been seen. I know not what else to do but dip my bucket in adjectives and pour them out here hoping they won’t evaporate to nothingness, excellent, brilliant and the rest. Mapless though I seem to have become, I want to keep going, like the dance of your words, to keep repeating or at least attempting to in different ways the rhythm that they beat, but I am well aware it all starts to sound incredible, and precisely there is when it is reached, the right tone for the literary delight that your words and combinations deliver, so incredible one questions oneself only to be assured of the truth of it as one reads again. Who knows, I don’t, if all these words clarify and emphasize (or are even understood) as I would want them to or if the point was made with the simple declaration of “masterpiece”, regardless the point remains, this is what this is and whether the words are beautiful or beautifully ugly (not to be misunderstood or taken sweepingly), they colour the world beautiful. Here it is, this writing, because of you. Wow.
Hollow as thunder
It matters nothing what they did to you
The storm is over, the wreckage through
Leave them in your wake, no more for you to take
Be like the sea
T, you have a gift.
Blue, I can claim the 'hollow like thunder' bit, but the other is from Cathie Ryan's song, Be Like the Sea. Normally I would post the music, but the singing doesn't do justice to the lyrics. Thanks for stopping by. :-)
Annie, you are too kind. :-)
Sweetest, I wish I could see with your eyes. I wish I could just trade with you, your sight for mine, just for the time it took to read a chapter so that I might see what you see and feel what you feel. I envy you that. I envy the pleasure you receive from these chapters. Thank you for your kindness. Thank you for reading. And thank you for comments so rich I will forever be in your debt.
Normally I would post the music, but the singing doesn't do justice to the lyrics.
I do the same thing. Read the lyrics. Sometimes the music actually shreds the lyrics. Hmmm
will have to reread your post.
It's thundering here now as we await the hurricane...your words came to mind.
Blue, keep safe.
Usually I find that voice gives life and depth to lyrics that might not otherwise be there. This is one case of the opposite. It's not the Cathie is a bad singer, but I don't feel her soul when she sings this one and the lyrics need soul to come alive, to give gravitas to the words.
Thrilled by the simple fact that after too long an absence, we have once again been treated to commentary. It is a treat, rare and wonderful, to be able to listen twice, once in the writing and once as you talk about the writing, to what it is that you are saying in this chapter. You've clarified and increased the respect and admiration felt for the quality and depth of this piece, where before reaction was predominantly on an emotional level to the imagery, the commentary has not only settled those to a more dignified jiggle but has added a couple more layers. And elongated the post, which is a definite plus. :-) Your commentary on the writing, the thoughts behind it and the intention of it illuminates anew and still brighter the genius within, in places I hadn't yet seen also.
And it was lovely to hear your voice again. :-D And on this, which I personally so wanted to hear read.
Sweetest, this was a chapter that needed a little commentary. :-D
Always thrilled to see you enjoyed an addition to the story. :-)
I'm so glad to see what you did with this. I am entranced by the images you draw, both with words and with colors.
Molly, as am I of you.
"the sting of soul found weighed and wanting"
I love it all, but that one phrase sings so much louder. The entire chapter plays like music, but this phrase sings right in my ear.
This chapter starts so dark though...symbolism of that? Is it the way one feels redeemed by physical love? I know that I should go with the flow of the chapter but the darkness...
And I feel a definite shift. If not from dark to light, maybe to heat/red? Can't adequately put it into words.
I would sincerely appreciate it if you would elaborate just a bit?
Jen, I did, in almost 40 minutes of audio commentary. :-D
Keep in mind, this chapter is a dream sequence.
The chapter does go from dark to "lighter." John is unable to forgive himself for the rape and murder of his wife, something he witnessed, something he felt responsible. We see him on the beach, in despair. In his dream, Cait appears and we see some form of redemption. If you have the time and the desire, the audio sheds a great deal of light on the chapter, almost line by line.
*giggling*
That would be me!
OK, going to listen to the commentary then. Is that what those cutie poo boxes are down there for? And I thought it was for asthetics! :D
Jeez Louise. Dark is right. But man Tree, when you get mad about work you can really pump out a heavy post. It is sort of like the knowing and the understanding makes it hard to take. Reading the words and feeling that suggestion of darkness is far better sometimes than fully understanding the portent of those words. All I can say is poor John. So much tragedy. What a burden. I know it moved toward "light" but I am lost in his past.
Strong emotion evoked from the reader/listener...which is what a writer/speaker desires?
Got to go to bed or I will surely turn into a pumpkin. Will come back tomorrow (I hope) to finish reading your other chapters. Have a lovely weekend Tree.
Jen
Jen, rarely do I write anything without a current of emotion flowing through me. Just the way I was built--perhaps a little different from most. Then again, maybe not.
Here is an example. When I listen to music, I almost never, ever follow the lyrics. I can hear a song a hundred times, and some I have, and I couldn't sing you two lines. I listen to music, a lot. And I do like good lyrics, but they have to be really, really good for me to pay attention. Music to me is something other than what someone else has written. Music for me is so personal, I hear the waves, the mood, soak in the atmosphere, ride the hills and dales of melody, pick out a solo guitar riff or a turn of voice and these things speak to me. Now, what exactly was said, don't know and never have much cared. :-D
So when I write, as I've said many times, I could care less about plot. I want to be moved and move. I want to drop jaws with a phrase, not because of what it means to me but for what it creates in the reader. I want to wield words like a whip, cracking the preconceptions of what writing should be, how it should affect. When I pick up a sentence, I hold it, twirl it, make it spank the air and sizzle to envy sun and star. I'm looking for just that singular moment, which is why I discourage people from going back to the beginning. The Story is This Post, right here, right now. It lives in the reading. It lives in the comments and the interaction. Breath it in. Taste it. Let the words wash over your limpid eyes and soft lips. Take the words and wear them, dance with them. That is what I try to do. And if I have to dance with myself, well, I'll still be smiling and floating and dreaming. :-)
You know I have fallen in love with entire songs because of the intro. That beginning. That beat that will grab, sink in talons and not let go. And before the song is even really going I will rewind it to that beginning. To of course....Experience it again.
Led Zepplin is one of my favorites for having that ability with me.
Maybe that is why my imagination can be so easily captured by a few words? That a phrase will move me as much as entire paragraphs?
I have backspaced over my comment about four times. Something about music and talking about words that can come across as..... sexual? I don't want it to because that is not my tone nor intention here.
Just try to read my mind here since I am struggling so to speak it. :)
Jen
Jen, I know exactly what you're talking about. There are songs I love just because of the way the singer sings a single word. Priscilla Ahn has a few songs where the way she handles a word just makes me melt and all the rest of the song doesn't matter. I listen just to get to that one bit, like a roller coaster chugging uphill. :-D
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