Why was it so cold. Why did his absence grow the room and everything seemed smaller, the familiar routes between rooms, longer? Grabbing brush, erecting canvas, paint flew as magic from a wand, thoughts as hues, mood as light, shadow, frustration. Would he come? Would he open? Would he understand that none of it, none of the past was necessary. She didn't want what was. Nor the coloring of what was. Not even the weight of judgment and expectation, the friction of the sea, reluctantly allowing passage, of ship, of time, of what would and could not be stopped. Why this silly attachment to control? Why did he do it? What did he fear? And why oh Janus did he not see her arms extended, ready, waiting, willing, wanting to catch, to hold, the vessel for his water, not shaping, just holding. And still the paint flew as thoughts, as questions. Yellows and oranges and reds sprayed forth. Strokes uninhibited of form, of purpose, of goal. This is how he should be. She his canvas, open as white, textured in care to catch each nuance of pain. She could absorb it, all of it, if only he would brush her, paint her, open his tubes upon her. Caress her with his sable. To blend his pigment into her, blurring a this and that, a his and her, creating something other, something more, a canvas of them.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
676. a canvas of them
Why was it so cold. Why did his absence grow the room and everything seemed smaller, the familiar routes between rooms, longer? Grabbing brush, erecting canvas, paint flew as magic from a wand, thoughts as hues, mood as light, shadow, frustration. Would he come? Would he open? Would he understand that none of it, none of the past was necessary. She didn't want what was. Nor the coloring of what was. Not even the weight of judgment and expectation, the friction of the sea, reluctantly allowing passage, of ship, of time, of what would and could not be stopped. Why this silly attachment to control? Why did he do it? What did he fear? And why oh Janus did he not see her arms extended, ready, waiting, willing, wanting to catch, to hold, the vessel for his water, not shaping, just holding. And still the paint flew as thoughts, as questions. Yellows and oranges and reds sprayed forth. Strokes uninhibited of form, of purpose, of goal. This is how he should be. She his canvas, open as white, textured in care to catch each nuance of pain. She could absorb it, all of it, if only he would brush her, paint her, open his tubes upon her. Caress her with his sable. To blend his pigment into her, blurring a this and that, a his and her, creating something other, something more, a canvas of them.
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12 comments:
What a powerful image, and I totally know this feeling of frustration. Well done.
Thanks JRM. :-)
Here is the summarized version of what will follow:
Fan*tastic!
Autumn, I really don't know where this one came from this morning. I had no intention of writing, watching the Tour and then, it a minute or two, this snippet of a chapter leaped from my loins and Em spilled her guts. :-D
Em spilled her need...
There must be a spirit woman breathing into you when you write of the female longing. You reveal us. You know us so very well.
S., for whatever reason, I enjoy writing from the female perspective more than the male. I'm always fearful that I get it completely wrong. I tend to agree, as it has been said, however, that we are a multitude, if only we would open to all of us and not just the narrow ruts of identity so safe to cling to. In other words, one day, I'd like to explode in spontaneous orgasm, touching nothing other than the pure joy of direct experience of the stream of life, of love flowing over mind, body, spirit and soul.
I'd like to explode in spontaneous orgasm, touching nothing other than the pure joy of direct experience of the stream of life, of love flowing over mind, body, spirit and soul.
To experience this, is to experience the true majesty of subliminal shift.
I have. And will again.
I may need some private tutoring. :-D
OK, your picture says nothing of the power that you have. It might say you're crazy but it doesn't tell us what you tell us here. I'm glad I took the leap of faith and clicked through anyway. Your voice is rich. I'm awash with your pen. Holy hell. How is it that you and S. have been hiding? Both such formidable writers!
Thanks Erin. I'm glad you took that leap too. I hope you keep leaping. :-)
Passion. “They may forget what you said, but they will never forget how you made them feel.” (Carl W. Buechner) So true this is, though there have been well into five figures of expressions that have astounded your readers with their beauty, originality and style, I doubt many of us could quote even a dozen correctly from memory, but the emotion that you have evoked, the responses, the tears and the smiles and the heartache, the joy, intrigue and the awe has been as immeasurable as it has been consistent. Your words enfold the reader within, the world around dispersing, so moving one is not the same before as one is after, and regardless of the mood of a piece, there is always, always a sense of elation at having been gifted the opportunity to witness such craft, and such beauty of another.
To grow the room is a classic example of your command of language to mention just one of many examples. One of the things that I loved most about this chapter was how it roused memories of the chapter where she paints without being able to see, paint flying then too, but not limited to the canvas, suggesting not that sight was the difference between that time and this, but rather energy, spirit, the main impression as one watches her is of her force, her reserves, the boundlessness of her ability to love. It is breathtaking. (And what can one do but hope that Trev will leap off the cliff no matter how many times that he continues to climb back up.:) Beautifully expressed throughout, stirring. The colours made me think of the message within 'Yellow', which was a symbolically interesting note to make in the margin following the flurry of thought, of questions and the spraying forth of those colours, outcome yet unknown. The last sentence is sublimity defined. Or perhaps that should be love defined.
Autumn, when you comment as you do here, I feel as if you've been to a country I have not and you are describing orchards and forests and rivers and mountains, of towns by the sea and cottages built and lived in by love, of winds that sing like birds and a gentle sun, forever warming, forever golden. I sit before the fire of your enthusiasm, warmed from the inside like wine and I marvel at your smile and in the same way long to travel as you have travelled, to know what you know, to see what you have seen, with hand, and foot and eye. As bizarre as this sounds, I live through your comments the writing I have written. It is as if you bring to life that which I have delivered dead. Sigh. I think I need to renew my passport. :-D
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