(burn) my arms in remorse (regret)
a bucket of teeming silence
mock a fire long since wet
Arms burning in regret
with words of pail full (aflame) (heavy) (with a pail aflame with words)
seek a fire long wet (voiced not before the sun set)
a bucket of teeming silence
seek a fire long wet
before the light said goodbye
heavy in teeming silence
mocking fire forever gone
"Frail it," said Von, throwing pen to floor as knock met door. "Come in. I've got frailing nothing."
"You okay Von?" asked Kyra.
"Am I okay? Am I okay? What the frail do you think?"
"I think you need my ears and I think they (my ears) need you. Cleanse the bullocks I've been hearing with the tears of your lucid regard."
And so Von begin with a story of a book, the book of letters he called it; and into the night he spun his story between the wetness of pain escaping as Kyra honored her promise.
9 comments:
I wrote such a lengthy comment about the image that I began to question whether just as teachers in classrooms read the words first and show the image after, so that one searches for the words known within the image, this might be why the image came first when commenting, or whether this one was particularly beautiful, which it is, but then there are really only two levels of your images WOW and Wow, and there have been nothing but WOWs for the longest time, but it was for neither of those reasons, thankfully, which means that what I have been saying all along has been true. The image becomes like a frame around the words, which again is a statement that sounds like it is deterring from the wonder of these images, but this is not the case. The perfect frame enhances the beauty of what is within, it becomes part of the perfect whole. An image alone, chapters alone, each elicits awe, but together they augment one another, and it is only because the story is ongoing, because we have been waiting for it, that it generally fills more in comments. This image is beyond beautiful. Just as dozens upon dozens before it have been. They fill as much on the page as the words.
To see Von this way, though from when he left Rog and John, there was no doubt he had been flooded, by memories, by emotion, to witness it is difficult. Perhaps it is because he has more often than not been the one listening, more than that it is that in his listening, in his words, from becoming the hynerian that Zeke embraced to the hynerian he is today, he has lived a life that we are largely unaware of, but that shows us he has been to every end of the spectrum. Lastly and by no means least, as you said, knowing that he has not spoken of his son in all the time that we have known him cements what he has largely wordlessly been telling us since John asked him that question.
Once again, this is, to me at least as I read it and come to the end, an a to b conveyance of what it is meant to be, fabulously imaginative with it.
In lieu of Papa, both ways, Von fills his own space, and not papa's.
Even more consumed with affection for the characters of this story this morning.
Tearful smile (though the details are not know, it is enough to know there are details) watching Von as he begins to write.
Such a moving scene, so much so, I don't really want to put it into words. Seems more right at this stage to leave the unspoken alone.
Hope you had a good trip, xo
Cried on the way down and then again on the way back as Von shared with me the/his "book of letters." I arrived home drained, not from drive but from emotion. Perhaps I can recover enough to document what he said. It was more than I ever imagined. Got to run to C's game. See you later. :-)
Have a good game. :-)
And welcome home, :-), x
The poem that Von is attempting to pen, not to state the obvious, is a bleeding of his emotions as they relate to his sadness at having words unspoken to his son, words that fill a pail, a bucket, and his arms/muscles are burning from holding that heavy pail, a pail that teems in the dark silence of his mind looking for the light (his son) that is wet (extinguished) in death. Von knows what he wants to say, but can't seem to get the poem to work when Kyra shows up.
In essence, the exchange with Rog and John has stirred the muck of his memories and in a private moment, he allows himself the luxury of remembrance and he longs to release a torrent of words never spoken, to have that connection one more time, to see the moon of his sun, and he knows he never will, that that pail of words heavy is simply a burden he will bear the rest of his days. Once I share what Von has said about the "book of letters" this scene and this passage, I hope, will make much more sense. Enjoy and I'll see you on the blog. :-)
By the way, as background to inspiration on this piece, as I was returning from Atlanta, and having spend the better part of 10 hours reliving the story that Von told Kyra, in emotionally exhausting detail, the singular thought popped into my head that I wanted to sit down with my uncle Calvin (the role model--in part--for Rog's character). My uncle died last year, so that conversation, like Blunt playing with Hendrix, is never going to happen. Yet, I felt a pail of words inside me, the weight heavy on my soul, words never spoken in his last days, a pail of words seeking a light/fire a life, that the great unknown had reclaimed. I felt as a fireman, hose in hand with no fire, or, more aptly, late to the fire that has burned down the house and exhausted itself of wood. And so, in that moment, I knew this was how Von was feeling. There you have it. You can spank me later. :-)
Good Saturday night to you, Tree !
Amazing graphic at the end of that post ! You always have incredible images to go with your stories.
Who is 'Autumn Storm' ? she writes such lengthy comments to you, and seems to know the story so intimately, have such a connection with your frame of mind as it is written here.
Loving Annie
Annie, thanks for the kind words on the image (I work hard to create images to fit the story and often the images get lost in the prose--they often take me more time to create than the actual chapter to write) and a Happy Saturday to you too.
Autumn Storm is a most wonderful blogger from England who has followed the story from the very beginning. She has offered me more encouragement on the story than I could have ever dreamed for and has developed as deep a love of the story and characters as I have. I'm not really sure the story would still be going without her and the debt of gratitude I owe to her is perhaps greater than I know how to pay. She is also one of the brightest and most loving and positive souls I've ever had the opportunity to meet, online or off. And, and this is very important, she loves James Blunt as much as I do--a hard thing to find. :-D
I like that description, :-D, so very kind, thank you. Mostly, I'm incredibly fortunate to have discovered two such amazing men. :-)
Sweet dreams, Poppet, x
Wonderful to have a muse like that, Tree...
Angels come in different forms. Instinct says Autumn Storm is that for you/your story...
What is meant to be, will be created.
Loving Annie
And I was thinking she was my story bitch. Mmmm, well, if she is my muse then that means I've got an opening. :-D
Post a Comment