He walked as if wearing himself, each movement shifting weight like a heavy object inside a box. Vision sharp, hearing narrow, touch blind sensitive, taste metallic bitter. The cobbled streets were still butter smooth, a dull gloss, evidence of time and shod. The shops bustled as they had bustled before, although vaguely cloaked with a strange patina of loneliness that made what looked the same feel entirely different. The gloaming without would come to match the gloaming within, the feeling such as neighbors peeking from behind curtains, fingers pointing just out of sight, whispers mouthed but not heard.
Inside, the box, his heart spun, a gyro picking up speed, slightly out of balance, faster, singing rotation, a heavy hum, a spinning beyond his hands to stop, trapped, buried, within his chest it spun, above the gut, below the throat. The street started to spin. Feeling dizzy, he sat. The bench felt warm. Bead of sweat trickled in the blue sky heat. Still he felt a chill, cold as one feels cold in fever. Taut, his skin felt; and thin. Taut and thin, brittle, such to tear if he moved too quick. Or combust under the magnifying glass sun, the cold heat burning his pale space-voyaged complexion.
His hands gripped the arms of the bench and what was still, felt as if moving, a circus ride shifting to and fro, jerking on tracks metal, wood squealing protest, a ride without known end. Colors, bodies, blurred before his starring eyes. Voices mixed with the sounds of transport and nature, of a village exhaling midday life. Hues flowed like water, like the river and he felt the rock, resisting, out of place, out of step, stupid, stubborn; and upon his stubbornness, life flowed over and around him, wearing him down, wearing him away, not with harshness, but a gentle washing, away, not of door slammed but instead, slowly, quietly shut, a rejection all the more damning in its lack of hate or anger, a cold indictment, of knowledge known to all but himself.
How was she? Where was she? Where was he? How was he? The questions stuck in his parched throat, unable to move, a hairball lodged. Still, the questions came, multiplied, mocked, each a strand, an invisible spider weaving, he the prize, dinner, caught, passive, watching, strand, question, strand, question. Tight, he felt tight, constricted, consumed, in life, in the street, but not of life, not of the street. How? Where? Why? His head spun. His head. Spider. Him. Consuming itself. Alive.
__________
As Ariel held Em's head, John stood above, caught in the moment between action done and action to be done. Em looked up. "Where's Trev?" Her voice soft such to need a gentle breeze to carry it upward.
"We don't know," said John. Seeing her exhale, chest sunken, he quickly added, "But Arn will find him. Have no doubt, he will be here soon."
10 comments:
Fantastic! Let's just get that settled here and now. Your very first sentence is a classic example of the unique and crystal manner in which you show a thing, express an idea, describe an emotion and so forth. Difficult to explain the thought that occurs when reading, a simultaneous admiration for the descriptiveness, for the clearness, directness and at the same time, one realizes the cleverness within is all to do with telling it how it is, except you seem to understand just how to do that, a rare and wonderful gift, to see a thing and translate it to words. He walked as if wearing himself In that one sentence structure you invite instantaneously the same level (a greater level) of understanding that a lengthy description would have, about what it is that he feels in relation to his physical self, and you do it with such style, such flair, intuitiveness and perception, I was awed already in those first six words and it only increased during the rest. Same said for the first six, same said for the continuance of that sentence, so skilfully definitive and eloquent. I've mentioned this fact at least once before also, and something like in the recent chapters of Em, and how something, atmosphere to use a general term, but really I imagine there are a dozen subcategories that would explain it much more adequately what it is you do, but within that first sentence, there was near certainty that this was Trev and the the first two words of the proceeding sentence confirmed it beyond real doubt. Two minds, it is a case of, for on the one hand is the desire to study, to discover and explore just how you achieve, succeed at doing that and on the other hand, it seems too special, too exceptional a feature of your writing to want to break it down in this manner, but more than that I am not entirely sure that it isn't so subtle, so wonderfully natural and integral that it would be near impossible to locate...sometimes, no, not just sometimes, all the time, I truly am, well and truly, impressed to speechlessness, wowed beyond any and all ability to verbalize just how superb a phrase, a paragraph, a chapter is. The still in between cobbled streets and butter smooth for example, so small a word, yet so significant, so meaningful within. And as it continues with shops bustling as they had, I know not why this first half of the sentence in respect to language and not the meaning as such is so very lovely, but it is, just lovely. Superb too is the tie back to the chapter where Em and Trev walked together, in parts throughout of course, but not least in the part about neighbours from behind curtains and whispers, very different this time as is everything. Settling once again, fantastic.
Inside, the box.. Descriptive writing, Poppet-style, at its best, the language is so piercing and turbulent, the frequent commas adding momentum to the words and it becomes like watching someone smile, or cry, blunt, unconcealed, in your face as the Brits would say, so swift it descends there is no escape so to speak and one takes a hit straight to the core when reading, almost as if just for a moment we are one and for that moment, all that is seen is what is seen through his eyes. 'Crystal' examples are many and constant, another to quote is such to tear if he moved too quick and for the same reasons that the sentence about bustling was particularly admirable, the sentence that reads Voices mixed with the sounds of transport and nature, of a village exhaling midday life. is equally so.
The more I focus on individual parts of this chapter, the more I just want to declare the entire chapter the masterpiece that it is, every last part of it is supreme, writing as writing can only be by the pen of the exceptional. I shall end up quoting half the chapter only to stand back at watch in awe as it sits within the comment, just watching, letting it wash, the flow, the melody, the sounds, the smoothness, the brilliance, the meaning, the timbre and the pleasure that comes from reading something so worthy. Hues flowed like water, like the river and he felt the rock, resisting, out of place, out of step, stupid, stubborn; and upon his stubbornness, life flowed over and around him, wearing him down, wearing him away, not with harshness, but a gentle washing, away, not of door slammed but instead, slowly, quietly shut, a rejection all the more damning in its lack of hate or anger, a cold indictment, of knowledge known to all but himself.
The four questions, back to back and mirrored, like gymnasts running from either side of the floor to jump between one another in perfect synchronisation, all the thoughts that are brought forth each time we have the great pleasure of reading move and weave, so much to be impressed by, much of the time when writing a comment something will be forgotten, a passage such as this I read and in a slightly different way from the one before or the one after I wonder how it is that you know how to do something like this, how it is that these words come to you and there is only one thing that I know for sure, one cannot learn how to write in this manner. Like most things one can with practise become better at some task, one can learn methods and such like, and though one may become proficient, it is far-removed from possessing natural talent. Your gift, your feel for words, for description, for setting a scene, for creating a mood, is extraordinary. Special. You are special, for a lot of reasons, and for this too, the beauty that you create with words, and that goes for all chapters, dark, light, sad, happy, whatever the subject, the awe-inspiring beauty of heart to fingers to hearts is there.
Wonderful ending, need to finish this (M) and so to say only that there is to my mind at least a sense, along with the direct wording of course, that Trev will be the one found not the one finding, the one approached not the one approaching, and the one reached out to, at least initially, and not the one reaching out. Not entirely fair to Trev is the implication that steps taken are seldom his, I know, but much more than that rather than putting Trev in a slightly negative light, it highlights Em, highlights her heart, her feelings for Trev and in doing so the light reflects upon him, his heart, loved by her...not expressing this well, so on a slightly different note, the note that all will be well in the end which is playing softly here at the end is always a welcome sound to be heard. :-)
End tally, settled, confirmed, celebrated and awe-inspiringly, there and then and still and timeless and knowing that reading it again next week, next year, ten years from now would evoke the same responses, and because no single word could measure up, it will have to be: Fantastic.
I need a new wing on the cottage, for your comments that I will frame, hang, and read on a daily basis. Sunshine, your engagement of The Story blows me away. With great gratitude, I humbly say, thank you.
I need a new wing on the cottage :-) Entirely my pleasure. Sweet dreams, sweet heart, x
...vaguely cloaked with a strange patina of loneliness...
God, I've missed reading you.
I had to laugh at Autumn's comment about her being 'impressed to speechlessness.'
Cos once she gets the words down, boy, I DEPEND on her wondrously epic comments to help me catch up on the plotline a bit.
Thank you, Madame Storm!
and XO to the both of you!
Mr. Tree, I hope that your November is off to a fantastic start.
Thank you for inspiring us to believe in the beauty all around us despite the crap we have to deal with in the real world.
It is truly an ability that you have an innate talent for and you and your art are something that I cherish having in my life.
Even if I'm gone for a while sometimes.
Much love.
Sunshine, I forgot to say, thank you for using paragraphs. :-D
Strumper, I've missed you more than you know. Your comments are uniquely unique, Strumperesque, which is to say, you put the wood in my morning, afternoon and night. :-D
Keeping my fingers crossed you are back for more than a fortnight. As always, your kind words, especially this morning, were as welcomed and needed as my drug of choice--coffee. Thank you. The butter is on me. Now come bring your warm hands. :-D
My heart skips a little. This chapter seems to imply that Em and Trev will come face to face again..soon? He thinking of she and she thinking of he... and John saying they will find him.
My mind dances around what that confrontation will be like, and I know that you will carry us on an emotional roller coaster in the Story.
Strapped into the seat with my arms already raised :)
Take your hands off the bar, we are about the round the top. :-D
The wooden block feeling, the rock like feeling is something I have experienced & this is a chapter that expresses them so vividly.
I love the image of the rock, with life flowing around it & washing it away gently...Its simply a wonderful expression of a brilliant mind!
Oh Mona, you've got me blushing now. :-)
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