He showered in steam and shaved hot, strokes deliberate. Upon hunger, he ate, washing the dishes and putting them up, fork upon fork and plate upon plate. The cottage held the quiet of the night which turned into the quiet of the dawn as he sat the deck as he had sat it before. The silence hovered, as if other, when before he had breathed it in, held it without sin and returned the essence back as gently as one handing over a newborn.
His comm sat as silent as the calm; and although he would have denied looking, he did care, only for whom or for what seemed a little muddy. Full his belly was, still, it felt hollow, and what was convex to the eye, gutted concave to the mind; involuted he would say, to impress, smiling at the thought as he sat alone. He smiled again, heat lightning in the distance illuminating his grin, the air as dry as his humor, the mauve dawn shimmering into pink and whey before unblinking eyes.
The day would come, with or without his blessing, punctual sun, a choir of gulls, of life in the morn that would not see the dusk. His heart beat and by thought alone he could not deter the course of its rivers, and by such tributaries he lived, like the day, with or without his consent. He held forth his hand, his hand but not him. The thought seemed both natural and strange. If he were to cut it off, right now, would he be less of himself? Yet, he called it his, this hand. And as if an accountant auditing, he took inventory from toe to hair, posing the question in each and every case, the voice in his mind growing louder as evidence built until such time he could stand it no longer and bolting upright yelled, "I know not what I am."
The words were expelled as if evil, a dry heave of plea, absorbed into the surf, swallowed by the sea.
12 comments:
I had just read your comment below of Von and Ceru's mother, remembering other comments some place, when the fact was stated not to be elaborated upon that their marriage had not worked. Looking forward likewise to hearing more of this piece of the past and seeing how it may or may not be brought forth by the present, by the mother to be though she may never see her child. I mention this for with this thought uppermost and the previous chapter sitting quietly and even the loose quote of something thought in connection with Von's dock scene, yet still, before cottage, upon hunger (confirmed with cottage, suspected to near certainty upon hunger) that this was Trev you had established, mood and language before any evidence. Wonderful piece of writing, quietly dramatic, climbing and falling as he remains where he is, seated, alone, silent. Full his belly was, still, it felt hollow, and what was convex to the eye, gutted concave to the mind; (wonderful quickstep) and particularly the single illustrative phrase the mauve dawn even without the continuance completing the scene is highly impressionistic, bursting from the page like zest from a cut lemon, fresh, stirring. Loved too the description of his gentle breathing in the first paragraph, and in such contrast to the breath that is expelled at the end of the chapter as the day shines and his mind is fuller still of shadows. The build, the entire piece is masterful.
Writing is a funny business. This post, which I personally think is pretty good (something I don't say often), is for all intent and purposes a first draft written in about ten minutes. At other times, I've spent an hour laboring over a single sentence that still looked like muck when it was done. All I can say is, time invested and revisions enacted do not always equate to better prose. Ask me to explain that and I can't. Is it absolute, no. Much of my writing, if not all of it, benefits from revision and some of it benefits from the garbage can. Still, there are moments when the writing just happens. How? I don't know.
As always, thanks for the very kind words.
PS: A chapter like this, to me, is about sentences, not the flow of the story, the end result or plot, but what each individual sentence says or leaves unspoken. This piece, again, is very autobiographical on a psychological level. I may expand upon that at DR, or, Janus forbid, do audio. :-D
It'd odd thinking about our own moment of passing. When do we not become ourselves, when does soul take over from body, and if so, maybe we never cease, except to the naked eye...
Love the expression here & also the mauve sea!
Annie and Mona, thank you both for the visit. Always nice to see friends stopping by. :-)
Hey you
Adore you
x
How Do You Do It? I mean, every time I come here I am BLOWN AWAY with your command of the English Language.
Meleah, you are very kind. Thank you.
Sunshine :-)
H
"Full his belly was, still, it felt hollow..."
Always a phrase that stands out and this was the one.
Trev has lost himself for now. His part of the Story is difficult to take, but intriguing still.
And you are ever the master when it comes to writing.
Jen
I am pulling for YOUR Tigers this weekend!! :)
Thanks Jen. Auburn is always a tough game for us.
I think that last line might be one of my favorites that you've ever written!
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