Friday, December 11, 2009
699. divine proportion
He took his finger and traced her lips. Applying gentle pressure, he pulled the lower lip down and let his finger lie upon it as upon a ledge, half dry, half wet, as beach and shore, as what was out and what was in. Her eyes were closed and her breathing steady. He asked her not to move, to pretend she was marble and he was a sculptor and in this way he would learn by touch an intimacy beyond sight; and with this sensation of tracing, pressing, pulling, with pad and nail, single finger and whole hand he would map every curve and carve upon his memory her features such to know them at night as he knew them in day. With each stroke he made mental note of flesh, bone, warmth and cold, of angles in divine proportion, a symmetry that delighted the eye but bore mathematical beauty into his pores as if his fingers were upon something other than flesh and blood, something beyond this moment in time, beyond the profane of earth and sky as if in structure she was composition, but more than notes, more than musical architecture, more than his humble mind could fathom other than to know this sense was beyond and in that moment, as if moved by hands other than his own, he held her head as if she had been gone a long time and just returned, as if the tremble of his fingers were as ten hearts beating and the water in his eyes the tears of one soul speaking to another. And this is how he kissed her, pressing his lips upon hers and there was a softness, a blending as breath between two blends as hands lace and tongues dance and clocks tick to mute ears.
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13 comments:
On this day, day 29, this chapter, this post, this one paragraph is the first that felt like it did before. In my own mind, this is a rather significant development.
...and stikes home on THIS day like a perfectly aimed arrow.
"there's another kind of love, Amanda. One that gives you the courage to be better than you are, not less than you are. One that makes you feel that anything is possible. I want you to know that you could have that. I want you to hold out for it." Adrienne Willis - Nights in Rodanthe
I am thoughtful of, and thankful for your mind's recovery, significant as it is.
10pm sweet man...brightens the darkest nights.
Love and prayers.
Aggie
Before I even read your comment, one word came to my mind. INCREDIBLE. This is even more significant after reading your comment. In my opinion, you creativity never left you. I think this is one of the most passionate post I've read in along time. The looks and the touches...to be looked upon and touched...sigh...to know, to feel.
Your are truly a passionate man that deserves much happiness.
I am glad to see that you are heading down the right road. You are almost over that bridge and I have a steaming plate ready, you just tell me when your hungry and I'll serve it to you, with a silver spoon. ;-)
Thoughts and Prayers are still coming your way.
Tight hugs...
xoxoxo
H
Aggie, so very, very nice to see you stopping by. Please tell me you are wearing boots. :-)
LotL, you are very kind and your kindness is very much appreciated. Glad you liked this one. Thank you. :-)
Keeping my fingers crossed this is not a one-off.
..in case it's ever in question, I strip down to my boots JUST to drop by. ;)~
Sweet Poppet, if only you knew what you do...oh my goodness. How sublimely the words (style) follows the words (meaning), weaving to create the divine, to create a moment that is beyond one thing or another - I write these words and they appear on the page as so much less than I mean them to be, please take divine for all that it means, this piece is truly magical. How I wish, I wish so much that if I had but one I would choose this, to be able to capture what you do. I just noticed the title, realized that the one word with which I would define this chapter, is part of your title, and thus I can only use that word now to say as your titles have so often demanded I do, that even this, even the beginning is perfect.
The relationship between, and I know not even which elements by which to describe, the written, the imagined, the real, the felt, I may perhaps be able to take another chapter, another segment of your writing hereafter and hold it up to the same levels, but as this moment, as I sit with this piece of writing, the relationship has never been as intimate. I want to be as honest as possible, and in that desire unfortunately a cliched expression is what comes to mind, like heavens above a lake at sunset, like the heart of a romance novel, bear with me as I wish with all my might that I could somehow let you know how much emotion you have evoked for the beauty, for the incredible skill with which this evolves, the two (the imagined and the real so to speak for those are not the desired terms), the expression: where one ends and another begins, the two have become one. I do not believe that if at this moment, by some act or means, I found the two worlds spun upon each other, and for this moment, Em was I and I was Em, if for this moment that you have written of, I entered within, became the character, that I would find it any more evocative, any more affective. With each a, with each and, the breath holds, the heart beholds, and the touching, the closed lids, more than that, not one or the other, but the two, the touching and being touched, the holding (of eye, of mind, of soul) and being held - my goodness, sigh, how to rise..the two, the method and the meaning, the word and the Word, the toucher and the touchee, the beholder and the beheld, between, the twos weave to create something else, something more, something beyond, something blessed. I cannot at this moment say that anything you have written has been awe-inspiring, as heart-pullingly beautiful. My soul, my heart, my mind shiver. And though I have rattled on, I am so far from telling you precisely how wonderful this was, and why it was so wonderful, that I can hardly cope with that thought. Expressions within, overwhelming on levels beyond world entire, the beginning, the way in which you have written of the pull, the ledge, the half, the beach and shore..I need to just quote, for I won't be able to express the explosive appreciation for lack of a better expression.
and let his finger lie upon it as upon a ledge, half dry, half wet, as beach and shore,
He asked her not to move
to pretend she was marble and he was a sculptor
curve and carve
And oh my goodness, every last part of it.
musical architechture
I need to repeat, with each (and there are more such triggers) a, with each and, his eyes, his touch, her breath, reader held, suspended, raised, heart full, soul entrenched - I need to go, M's birthday party today, I will return, to attempt again to somehow define the beauty of this piece though the task is impossible. For it is divine.
Aggie, the very image in my mind delights me more than you know. :-D
My dearest Autumn, I hardly know how to respond. Your comment, for better or worse, is intoxicating, seductive in its intellectual passion. If I had no talent whatsoever, I believe your comments alone could convince me otherwise and there is great power in believing and even greater power in the ability to infuse another with belief. You do that. You give to others what they did not have before and in your giving lift them to heights they could not reach without you. Thank you.
Were I to describe a poet's soul, I would start by saying something along the lines of an elite quality and ability to perceive beauty and continue along with something describing expressiveness, of being able to reflect that beauty in its essential glory. One point that I must make very clear is that you underline and exceed, redefine and further any idea that one could have of the extent of such a soul to perceive and respond. Before I say anything else, that much must be made clear, that your writing surpasses anything else that I have read, and I have read a fair share. There are gifts that are given, we know of greatness, in arts, in science, in every field and every aspect of character, and you are truly blessed, not only of character, but of talent, unique, original, extraordinary. Those were the basic statements, said many times but never enough, the eternal basis that runs through all that you write and all that we write in response, and that is not only confirmed with each piece, but doubled, the infinite upon the infinite, heaven and earth and all between and beyond, the connection, of everything and everyone, that is what you capture here time after time after time, though you may write of a single hug only (for example), because you write of that single hug only.
Another fact, though I may try again, and again, to capture in words what you do, it is not possible. Like the very concept of infinity. One cannot hold it, capture it, write it.
With that very first sentence, just that, before one is overwhelmed still further, with that very first sentence you achieve, what you always achieve, what you have such an incredible, such an awe-inspiring ability to do, encapsuling only to pour forth the core of all our beings. I have so many rather strange images running through my head, rising from the desire to explain precisely what this opening does but somehow, though it may seem like a cop-out, the only one that really works in even the slightest way would be to speak of lips and fingers. How else to say it than how I attempted to say it in the above comment, of intimacy, of closeness, of the words reaching immediately, with an urgency that one would have to search far and wide to find in another piece of writing (away from the pages here), within, toucing the soul, touching every nerve ending, there is no line between, what is felt reading and what would be felt were the reader behind the fingers, or behind the lips, I cannot conceive of it being different. What always amazes me, what makes me stand back with such great appreciation and awe is the simplicity with which you are able to do this,
and what I mean to say by that is that these are just words, it is just a sentence, nouns and vowels and so on. Simple really (not to cause offence, only to highlight the magic) it stands;
He took his finger and traced her lips., but this is where one speaks of frames and pictures, of the to be even more basic between the lines, there is for how else can one say it, quite simply a world behind every sentence that you write, so utterly evocative are your frames, the picture could capture the heart, mind and soul for an eternity. What amazes me, to return to that, is the question I always end up asking, not to be answered but simply out of sheer awe, is how you know to do this, how you know how to perfectly frame, how you know all that could and will be said by the words that you write.
Breathtaking is a word, but it is such a crucial word when it comes to describing the effects of this chapter. The actual physical taking of breath, of altered breathing that is just merely an indication of an altered state of mind, of emotion. With you, one can almost only define you in terms of yourself, there is no precedent, and I almost want just to say that you know, know already, what it is to be within the circle of Em and Trev, the energy for lack of a better word, the soul touching, the dance of touch and feel, eyes, fingers, heart, soul, to merely say that it could not be possible to draw your readers anymore within, to have them feel anymore than you have, and that I can say with certainty, in as far we are all seperate beings, you know what we saw, what we felt, that within we all fall as deep.
Breathcatching, literally, I was writing of this earlier, but I am not sure that I would be any more successful a second time, only I must remember now to add as to a and and, with each, to describe a physical effect in the hopes that it will somehow transmit a little of the just how evocative, effective, affecting and beautiful it was, each was the inducer, the intake of breath, breath caught and released to the sweet majesty of what followed, with each intake, each catch, each sentence, each beautiful part of this chapter, it lifted, the meaning and the method by which you conveyed the meaning in method, with each a.. in other words, and there were others, commas perhaps, the beyonds, no need to define in such detail the rest, but they are there, every sentence, up and up, weaving together, meaning and method, creating something truly spectacular, where to use that cliched expression once again, and fitting it is to the moment within, one and the other meld together and the result is beyond what one could have imagined possible with mere words, melded to become divine. I just don't know how to say it other than to say you are a*mazing. This is pure. Pure genius. You opened my soul and filled it. I feel rich and blessed for having seen such beauty.
Notice please also that I didn't (yet) get past the first sentence, this is how wonderful this chapter is. And there is so much below this post.
And thank you (& you're welcome, my pleasure entirely), your response above makes me feel that I do manage to express some of what I desire to say.
x
When I read your comments my first thought is always the same: I want to read the writer of which you speak. I want what you have, in the reading, to be moved such.
I have always been more impressed and more moved by a still image (photograph, painting, etc.) than by the moving image (movie, tv, ect.) A still image is infinite. A moving image is finite, limited, forever the same. But a still image, contrary to all common sense is everything, if one only has the eyes to look, to see, to let what is wash over one. So when I think of writing, regardless of the scene, I think more in terms of what would this look like, not as a movie, but as a photograph. What is that still image, knowing, if I can find the center of that image, I don't really need a lot of words. In fact, I am learning the hard way, the more words is usually not better. But I love words so much, it is hard for me to edit them out once I've written them down. But this is the work, like a sculptor, to chisel away what is not necessary so that what remains and only what remains communicates what needs to be said and only what needs to be said. That is why the first sentence is the most difficult and the first sentence is everything. If a chapter contains one hundred sentences, still the first is harder than the other ninety-nine. With the right first sentence, everything else flows, often effortlessly, for the first sentence contains the germ, the seed, of all that is to come. A poor first sentence is nothing but a train wreck waiting to happen. It is either perfect from the start or it never works. There is no middle ground. Ask yourself how many people in your life, in all your years, have placed their finger on your lip as Trev did to Em or how many you have done the same. I'm willing to bet not many. So from this idea, we take something very simple and within this simplicity, as least as I see it, is everything, a circle complete, nothing more needed, than that touch, in that way, experienced, as I've mentioned before, as a language of two and two alone. A language untranslatable.
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