The inside of the ambulance glowed warm with incandescent light, a single bulb buzzing as if a bee within its glass; and his face looked tan whereas I knew it wasn't, tan in the way candle light pours its honey upon everything it touches.My head rested on his chest and I could hear his heartbeat. When he spoke he sounded like my father and I like a little girl and he told me something of his beliefs, his views as if in the telling, the sharing, he created some bond between us, some obligation, placing me in his debt, roping in my heart, weaving the net of his narrative to catch me. And, I suppose now, some several decades later, he did.
He spoke of life and death and existence and I knew by his words he had no place in this war, each word like the tolling of a bell announcing some tragedy; and perhaps, now in hindsight, I think I might be layering this upon my memory, but maybe not, his voice seemed distant, as if he knew what was to come, as if he was already gone and what I was hearing was from someplace other. This is how his voice sounded.
His father was a professor he said. And he told me of the many nights they spent together talking, father and son, of how his father never talked down to him but treated him as an equal. He said he kept a journal at his father's behest. Wrote every day. No matter how short the entry. In time, his father had told him, you will know you have lived several lives and the trick was, if possible, between lives, to carry something forward, something to stand upon such that the view might be grander.
With my head on his chest his words were like waves, my ear a seashell. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I didn't care in the way when one is sated one doesn't care and sated I was, floating in that space between awake and sleep. His voice, this way, was.
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His hands, large, saddle smooth, not the hands of war. His tongue, poet slow, a fiery spear, burning circle in my flesh. Dark mane of hair. Hound dog eyes. Lips that rolled like waves, breaking over my heaving sighs. And he had an apple. I can taste it to this day. A never ending curve, like a sail under my wind, plying my sea. Such power to hold life in this way.
He was a man who could discern the universe in the curve of milk unseen; with a finger, draw the world upon your lips; with a look, make you believe that heaven was taking notes.
A masterpiece of both image and word. Sigh of utter bliss. Whatever colour chosen, upon your brush its name becomes essence. You have so settled this man with these words, I don't know quite what to say except you are a*mazing. I'm sitting here literally shaking my head in wonder, at the absolute genius. Incredible, and I cannot help but smile wide at the staggering heights that keep being added to my concept of highest, having read this post, the measure of love that I had for your writing before seems almost elementary, and the thing is I know I said something quite similar just a few posts down - this is what you do, this is how uniquely good you are. Again and again admiration and appreciation brim, yet with each brim one is fortified, or as you might say you grow the heart, you grow the capacity to withstand the ecstacy of unadulterated bliss, pure beauty. To read something so ingenious, to observe as with such artistry and insight his heart beats. Sublime writer thou art. Miraculously gifted. Special. You. The image. The loveliness of this composition.
Sweetest, this is one of those mysterious chapters that appears out of nowhere. In anticipation of Bright Star, I pulled out my old college anthology of English lit and reread most of Keats, which, from my notations and underlining I knew I had read and studied some 25 years ago; yet, while rereading, I had virtually no recollection of these poems. And the thought that I could study something and have no working memory of it gave birth to the central idea in this chapter, namely that we live multiple lives and the trick is to try and carry what we learn from one life to the next. Something, apparently, I had not done.
Anyway, yesterday morning, I had just started reading Virginia Woolf's diary, which may be her greatest work of all, and I had not read even a page, when the chapter posted here popped into my head. Now, I will make no claim that the writing here is good, but this is what amazes me: this chapter was written in the time it took to type--there were no pauses in the typing. And, there is not a single edit in the piece. This post is pure 100% first draft. It is a chapter, as I have said before, that comes from someplace beyond effort. Someplace that visits one rather than one visiting it.
That's the backstory on this one. As always, your kind and generous words are greatly appreciated. :-)
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