The exercise was simple. Sit. Watch. And in time, from the rose, would be a falling, a petal overcome in time, by age, coming to terminal (in the sisterly way of leaves in autumn) like a train at the end of route. A slow, gentle succumbing. Taken with an innocent breeze from the motherly lips of a blue wind. A return to roots, to the fertile dark soil, the tail of the circle caressed, joined, connected in the way of fish and water, of sun and sky, of inhale and exhale.As a chatelaine to be, this lesson, understanding to observe the unnatural resistance of life self-centered, misunderstanding it's place, role within the greater play, act, performance, this lesson. above all others, the elegant grace of the fall, the eternal truth of the circle, of relaxing into the dulcet rhythms of biology, of relationship, of love and letting go of ideas, of constructed constructs masquerading, of, as was revered, surrender.
Three weeks is a long time when all you have are your thoughts. Your thoughts and your past. Your thoughts and your training. Your thoughts and the molasses of a future moving like lava within the caged cavity of demoniacal desire. She knew all this. Like a fly to flypaper. If her petal were to fall, she wanted that fall in his arms, to see his eyes close the act of her life, his limbs holding the nesting of her heart, his breath the final kiss upon her lips sending her, her falling, to the dark soil.
__________
Thought percolating, she thought of Trev, of verse. Reaching for parchment, she quenched thirst of paper for ink as soil for rain:
I remember clearly the day
I learned to read
again
when the ocean rose up
and slapped a smile
across my face
and the sun sent
its arrows
upon my back
and your toes laced mine
upon a sea of sand
hands wet as kisses
I knew then
your verb
and not a few adjectives
like so many grapes
bleeding
my tongue rouge
5 comments:
This.
This reads as reflections from the diary of a woman born to be milled in the haze of decadence, born to a seething. A mistress of the lover's thorn.
The petal, falling, bestills even the glories of the surrendered rose.
This, is excellence.
S., you know Mairi very well, as well as Trev, as well as Dr X, as well as the House of Chatelaine. She is a smoldering flower of petals orgasmed into the air, a rain of pink and red upon the green grass of followers. She speaks a language beyond words, her tongue skilled on the other side of lexicons hidden, of secrets harbored, of lust held in the dungeons of desire, chains forever sweaty in the bowels of physical decadence, taut, tight, tumid and turgid against the pull of her wrists, the drowning of her eyes, the dripping of her lips in carmine saliva.
Your kind words are very much appreciated. A kiss I sent to you, carried on the ray of the sun, delivered to your cheeks, high or low, of your choice. :-)
The first paragraph is absolutely delightful. The expression within, the intention throughout. The affinity, natural, between the life of a rose and her life is both gentle and clear, circles, seasons, time, a shared fate of all things living.
The second too, graceful and eloquent in conveyance, what might have filled pages in an essay is depicted as though appearing behind a gossamer draping, any heaviness that there might have been removed and only the essential remains. That wonderful simplicity of expression that so effortlessly translates what might have been considered complex into its purest form so to speak. A rare and wonderful ability to see the core and to convey the idea without the complications that often are laid upon concepts and emotions and philosophies (etc) that are immeasureable.
Supreme likewise is the third paragraph and the movement towards those final moments of life and the heartfelt wish to not be alone, to be with the most beloved. Magnificent phrasing in sentences such as Your thoughts and the molasses of a future moving like lava within the caged cavity of demoniacal desire. and the elegant grace of the fall, the eternal truth of the circle, of relaxing into the dulcet rhythms of biology, of relationship, of love and letting go of ideas, of constructed constructs masquerading, of, as was revered, surrender.
Love stirs without doubt, as Mairi shows that she is as able as Yul, as Em, as Trev (and I think Rog is on that list too) to write so poetically. Wonderful chapter.
Ms Storm, thank you, as always, for your superb comments. I often feel I don't convey how much they mean to me. So I'll put it this way: I'm not sure I would have written without your encouragement, written beyond the first couple of chapters some four years hence. You have pulled me along, one comment at a time, as no other. If leaves were money, the forest of the world could not rain your bags full in the twilight of autumn of my gratitude.
This chapter is perhaps more opaque than it should be. Or perhaps, lends itself to multiple interpretations. That said, here is the gist:
Chatelaines were taught, above all else, to never fall for a client, to never attach to the objects of their profession, to learn to fall away from their work as naturally as the petal falls from the flower. Mairi knows, yet cannot resist falling, as she fell in some way for Trev, as she has fallen for Dr.X, as the skills he taught her, to use her "child of the shells" gift of Nullness, has, in some way, shown her a landscape, a vista, she simply can't resist, as the fly to flypaper so to speak--a knowing fly none the less willing to trade a moment of ecstasy in exchange for the eternal night.
So high on my list of blessings, I dare not even tell you, is having been able to follow your blog for the past several years. I thank you with all my heart for sharing with us such beauty of word and heart. If I could, I would spend every spare moment here. Thank you too for the elaboration.
Post a Comment