"What is this?" asked Em, holding parchment unballed.
"My fear," said Trev.
"But I am right here."
"And that was right there," his hand pointing to the trash.
______
Upon the page thrown and held:
What is madness if not the absence of her voice, of the page never touched by hand or quill? I am utterly lost in those moments cold, when word last has faded of warmth and night beckons silent, still, of a dance never danced as minutes and hours scammer off, empty of life as autumn leaves. This love I wish upon every man and no man for it is either heaven or hell, night or day and yet still I would enter the barren cave and endure the endless winter for the promise of one more moment of sun, fleeting as a single kiss it might be.
And I think of her lips, of where they might be in touch or whisper, in smile or tear, all of which I would gladly bear, could bear ten times ten thousands times. But hell is not of sound and fury but the cold silence of eye and ear. Blind I am in these moments of a mind turning on itself, weaving what no mistress would weave, spinning what no spider dare dream. She is somewhere and her presence is felt, known by someone, her fair hand holding spoon, her lips parting of substance taken, given, imbibed and inhaled. She is the color unseen, unlighted to my eye, the dress not worn before lights and stage, the hand not held above wood and iron and grass endlessly green on a summer eve.
4 comments:
Achingly beautiful.
For every recent chapter, I know better how you define what writing is, present tense, again and anew and exceedingly. We cannot, I know, you know, we all know, live within the mind and heart of another, we can only imagine and in that imagining multiply or stretch and thereby understand as best we can, and yet upon these pages I would argue, in the moment if this is not knowing, I could not bear to know more...
This love I wish upon every man and no man for it is either heaven or hell, night or day and yet still I would enter the barren cave and endure the endless winter for the promise of one more moment of sun, A passage such as this one, there are so very many things, one could say of it, beginning with clearness of expression and moving through a kaleidoscope of emotions and thoughts and appreciation until the final observances would be made, the ones so difficult to capture, that I want to turn Mary into a descriptive term, into an adjective for each of these, these chapters the total agony of love hold within so much of what was conveyed in the 1944 chapters and it is hard even to read, even to imagine. But, above all, there clammers to the surface of our consciousness as readers of these words an great, great yearning to know, regardless of heaven or hell, regardless of night or day, for who among us would not give everything to stand in the sun if only for a moment.
What is madness if not the absence of her voice,
Read this line, imagine someone else wrote it, read and re-read and tell me was there ever a more beautiful, a more perfect, a more expressive, a more poetic, a more complete line ever written? Think of every great writer that you have admired and tell me if you can find anything more perfect than this. My goodness. Poppet, look clearly and see it, know it. If never another sentence came from Trev to describe his love for Em, if never another word was written anywhere, by anyone...What is madness if not the absence of her voice, Read.
Am so awed, more than awed, overwhelmed, how to tell you how agonizingly beautiful this is....is not possible.
empty of life as autumn leaves. Once more to note the clearness of expression, the depth of conveyance.
She is somewhere and her presence is felt, known by someone
Let them stand, I will say nothing, for whatever else could be said would only detract therefrom.
Wow.
My dear Autumn,
I read your comments and tears come to my eyes and I think how can Los Angels not happen. How can I not make that happen. Sigh.
Over the years you have shown me more love on this blog than I have buckets to fill. And over time other readers have expressed admiration for your commentary and some, a bit of anguish knowing they simply can't write as you write, so beautiful, but more than beautiful because your comments are not just literary criticism, not just awe-ness in words, but the very embodiment of love expressing itself over the miles and I think, how so I have been blessed, how so you have blessed me so many times, how so the debt I owe to one I've never seen and rarely heard. I've said it before and I'll say it again: without your comments of many, many years ago, this story doesn't exist, I simply don't write it without you. And in a certain way, although the story is mine, I feel the writing is ours, me the sail, you the wind. Sigh.
love,
Poppet
Some words are not written, but bled. I know not what else to say other than I dream of an angel, gauze in hand. :-D
Poppet,
I'm not sure why, but ever since I first knew of LA, in my mind, when I imagine, I see a year or two from now, not elsewhere but where you are, settled, seeing your desk, your collection of books, the print of Goldie, your home, your neighbourhood, you, in your surroundings, your life. A walk, a bike ride, coffee. Still, even with the possibility, I think of meeting you this way. :-)
Was enormously touched by your response above. That I might in this small way have contributed to the continuance of The Story is a very special thought indeed, shall cherish it always. As I have said many, many times, here is where I love to be. I could stay here always and every moment would be full of everything that makes life wonderful.
I adore you and I adore The Story, and had I known nothing of you except your writing, I would have fallen as deeply, but it is unique, it is infinitely special, to have the two interwoven, to know the story better through the writer and the writer better through the story.
You are and have a great gift, we are blessed that you share it with us. My hope (/dream) is that some day I will find a way to tell you how great.
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