She was reading by the window, knees pulled up, only natural light upon the page. And upon her hair. This is what he noticed first. Her hair glimmering, flowing from forehead to shoulder and in his mind he could smell the freshness as he had that morning when her smile rose above him as dawn upon day. She read without expression and there was a quiet in the room one experiences in a museum and he thought her skin looked as smooth as a statue, of polished marble, of an inscrutable visage. He thought of cream and how rich she moved upon the sheets, a decadent languor of purposeful confidence. She was like that, like cream pouring.
She turned a page and he watched. Her long fingers moving with grace, but not grace alone, something more of earth than heaven, of soil rather than sky, fingers like the sun upon his seed, bringing him forth and full, racing his heart in flow, like cream pouring into his eyes, deeper, into his mind, deeper still into those places only she had ever explored and he knew then, while she was reading and turning pages, bathed in natural light that what he was before her and what he was now was as a child that now knew happiness and joy and the interminable sadness of all things finite.
19 comments:
This snippet of a chapter is an experiment in writing without inspiration, without that spark, writing to see if I can write, and if I can write, if I can write like I used to write or if the writing is somehow different.
Even in this act of writing, my mind feels different. I cannot explain it nor can I say it is anything other than my imagination, but there is a peace that settles in. The writing feels cooler rather than warmer, feels deeper, feels more placid--more surgeon than athlete.
The POINT is simply that you're writing. Period. Do it. Repeat it. Then do it again. <3
The writing is very good. Quality is what I expect from you and the quality is there. I'm not sure if I see differences because you point them out, or if they are truly there. I always love reading about Em and Trev, but the emotion doesn't seem to be as strong. I can't put my finger on it, the descriptives are there, the seduction is there, and like I said the quality it there. In looking back I think you planted the seed that makes me feel that the passion is not ALL there.
But as Limes says, keep it up, at least you're writing, and I have missed that soooo much.
Love and Hugs
H
Limes, were you a shampoo salesman in a past life? ;-)
I probably was, my friend. I sure as shootin' sell a lot of carpet "shampoo" (We hate that word, by the way. It's a misnomer. But I'm going with your comment.) Now. It's also been said that I'm a pretty awesome cheerleader. ;~}
WV = prouset. French philosopher, right?
I really enjoyed this piece! Sometimes, saying less leaves that which is unsaid to the imagination and there is power in doing that. I could get to like this surgeon and am pleased that you are writing again. This is clearly your work - even if it feels "different" to you. Deep is good. Very good indeed.
oh, he writes again! that's wonderful in itself - but there is no need to say that, because what you wrote is really good, and more that this, it is able to arouse emotions, it touches me, in a very intense way that makes me want to photograph this scene, to capture that hazy light in her hair and on her skin.
I liked this. Everything is always changing. We are always changing. We can't expect to write from the same place. Trying to be aware of our own awareness is like trying to get someplace we've always been.
Kass, this is very true. The only difference here is I have introduced a chemical into my body that changes my brain chemistry, which in turn changes my cognition, perception and emotional response. I am quite literally a different person on meds than off and therefore the writing, or lack thereof, the creative inspiration, or lack thereof is something I am keeping a very close eye on. Thanks for stopping by. :-)
Roxana, I had to try. So I did what I've never done before--I opened a blank page and started to write with a blank mind. I do not exaggerate when I say that all, not most, but all of my other writing occurred with an idea or emotion begged to be put on paper and often I found myself scrambling to open a blank page before the idea evaporated. All of my writing before this piece has been what I describe as a flow, almost musical in origin. In this piece there was no flow, no music, no inspiration. I am hopeful that as my body adjusts to the medication, my creativity and emotional sensitivity will return. As always, it is my pleasure to see you stopping by and I am flattered by your comment. Thank you.
Jenni, thank you for those very kind words. I am always touched when you comment and as I said before, it means more to me than I know how to express. Thank you for sticking with me and The Story.
Limes, you can shake your pompoms for me anytime. :-D
Heading for the closet to dust them off now, Tree!
Just so you know, I'm rather fond of pleated skirts. ;-)
Former Catholic school girl here, Tree. I've got the skirts! What color would you prefer? Would it take you out of your depression?
I'm thinking something tartan. It might not take depression out of the building but it would definitely push her off the dance floor. :-D
Ha! I have a magnet on my refrigerator that says "Plaid to the Bone".
She was like that, like cream pouring.
How I do love this post.
Aptly titled, not just from the chapter itself, but for the sensations caused upon reading, rich and resonant and entire, struck by the beauty, sheer and intrinsic. I know not how to define in words the tears that well at both the post above and this one, other than to compare it to the way in which we may be moved by a landscape or an act of kindness, the enduring loveliness of the heart that writes these words.
It is such a banal thing to write, so much in evidence throughout these pages, throughout everything you have shown that it is seems absurd to want to state the obvious and yet the compulsion remains today to say you have so much within you.
In the greater scheme of things, this post is but a drop from the ocean of you, but the ocean is in every drop.
Every post holds every dream, every wish, every need, every heart, the best of us and the essence of you.
The reverence within, for life, for love, for connection, for the moment, for individuality, for the heart and spirit of another and the touching that occurs between one soul and another, whether or not both are aware of it at that given moment, as he watches her fingers so too your words are watched and the heart fills, shown again beauty at its purest.
And that is why tears flow to read, response as pure and sincere.
I am glad that wrote this before reading the comments above and your feelings surrounding the process of writing this piece. I fear you will think of me as you I think often do, as somehow biased when it comes to your writing, as though I decided long ago to love everything that comes from you and comment from that angle, but it isn't so. When I have written so many times of anew, it has been from the same source as everything else that I have written in response to your writing, which is why I so often repeat myself, for though I may stand back and speak of an on-going quality, of a constant talent and so on and so forth, as I begin every piece, the overwhelming appreciation that is aroused feels like the first time every time, I don't know how to describe it better than that, as though my memory has all but left me, which at the same time is such a contradiction for your posts never do, but I guess what I am trying to say is what I have also said many times before in as much as one simply cannot stay in that place of beyond. I could take each sentence and sit with it alone, let the singular stand alone, and were I to do that, I might find in the second paragraph a small hint of unevenness, but it would be unworthy of the whole to do so, and I mention this only for honesty's sake, but in all honesty, in all, your writing, this time as it has so many, many times before, moved me so.
You may not be feeling it, so to speak, but it was there, I felt it as I have throughout The Story.
Ms Storm, let me just say this: your comments inspire me like no other. If I needed a slight push to write this morning, which I think I did, this comment was that push. Thank you. :-)
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