Outside his window, a nightingale sung, of lover or dusk, desire or need, matter not in the hearing as art matters not in the eye but of the mind, the heart, the sensitivities of form and line, hue and value. Upon his desk, a candle, silent in flickering dance, reflecting amber glow in glass. And then the rain. Soft at first, a tapping on the windowsill; and then louder as if rushing, as if spring flowing down the mountain.
Across the room she slept and from where he sat, he wrote, wrote with pen and parchment, slowly looping loops of thought and lines of passion as if needle and thread he held and what was weaved was not of wool or cotton but of tenderness and tears, which fell, as the rain, as she slept, as a nightingale sung.
Her naked knees bronzed of walks among the flowers were bent and sheets lay like snowy canvas around her form. She slept the sleep of contentment wearing only the smileless smile of cheeks risen in dreams as they had risen in lust, or love, as he would write, as his pen would bleed what his heart could not, as his eyes danced of the flickering candle, into the night of bird and rain and the lover reposed in peace upon their bed, breathing softly as once she did, as once she would again, when he came to bed.
He stopped and drew breath. A sigh released, she would have asked, but she slept and his sigh rose to the timbers like the song sung. Every muscle hung as it should with neither tension nor release and he felt a lightness of balance, of health in the one of fitting, when one thing fits as it should, neither too tight nor too loose, but just fits in that way that one knows without need of the thought to say it so. And therein lay the fear. Is this it? Is this as good as it gets? Has the mountain been climbed, the vista seen, and now we sigh as the journey down is what waits.
She would have asked, of the sigh. And he would have avoided the query. And he knew. He knew she knew, he was avoiding, withholding. Therein was the relationship. She let him withhold and in the letting, in the tender embrace of acceptance, upon the fertile soil of her smile, he grew into her as surely as the watered root.
5 comments:
Again, you amaze me with how well you can describe things. Such raw emotion. It's as though you are in my mind, making me want, need to feel. sigh. To sit and watch a loved one sleep, there is a sense of peace.
And, I believe, that as wonderful as things are for Em and Trev, they can still get better. The optimist in me believes that love grows and as long as it gets fed, it can grow deeper. That's what I hope anyhow.
TIGHT HUGS
hhHHH
The only times while I have been reading and commenting upon your work that I have written something here that I felt satisfied spoke as well of your talent as it should, has been when I have found your own words to be fitting. In this case, you speak upon subject as you write as art matters not in the eye but of the mind, the heart, the sensitivities of form and line, hue and value. In some ways, writing of your work would be like trying to eat the whole in the doughnut without eating the doughnut. Okay, that might confuse what I intended to say, which is simply that in attempting to decipher and define the genius of your work, would be much the same I should think as attempting to describe a great musical composition by speaking merely in notes and chronological order. On the other hand, the alternative is that breathy sigh of awe that I so often leave instead, heartfelt declarations of love and admiration and amazement. Why is something beautiful, why is it touching, and though each of us is different, our similarities are seen in how moved we can be by the same things.
Were I to present as a quote Soft at first, a tapping on the windowsill; and then louder as if rushing, as if spring flowing down the mountain. and begin writing of why I find this sentence particularly appealing, I know I could write infinitely, yet I also know that thought after thought, page after page, to capture precisely why it touches my absolute core, I would not know how to do. Only in as much as you have a sense, an incredible sense of how to reach our emotional core through your writing (art) and so for this sentence to do so, this being your page, is, though the impact never lessens, just part of being here. That said, it is definitely more than the visual, more than the phrasing, I think it may be the onomatopoeic qualities within that makes this particular sentence so lovely.
I can compare to great love affairs being the reader of your words, for as I think upon how to say what I want now to say, I remember words that have been written and spoken thereof. The comparison, that I had hoped to word much better, being based upon knowledge and it balances perfectly with suprise and delight. We know how you write, yet with every chapter, one falls anew, as though it were for the first time.
:-) Once more I wish, wish that I had your abilities for one reason, that being so that I could tell you of your abilities.
For first came Soft at first... and with merely a paragraph break to recover you followed it with Across the room she slept and from where he sat, he wrote, wrote with pen and parchment, slowly looping loops of thought and lines of passion as if needle and thread he held and what was weaved was not of wool or cotton but of tenderness and tears, which fell, as the rain, as she slept, as a nightingale sung. I wonder sometimes that I haven't shattered completely along the way. Actually, I think I may have, a long time ago, and every comment since has shown that shattering. Do you know why, I wonder, what it is about Across the room she slept, or rather not what it is about it, but how it is that these five simple words in this combination, or perhaps it isn't that it is this combination, no, it is not that, it is the five, in this combination, upon your page, and there we are, in the composition speaking of B before F-sharp. The words, as they stand, where they are make me think of a gust of wind blowing a swirl of autumn leaves, as they tumble there is a hint of all, of the shapes, of the auburns and crimsons and burnt oranges and remnants of green, each could be examined at leisure, but as they swirl we are aware if not intimate with the variety. What I mean to say is that in the words so many avenues of thought spring open, each offering a journey, and it continues with the gentle nudge towards his activity during his wakefulness. he wrote, wrote with pen and parchment, slowly looping loops of thought and lines of passion as if needle and thread he held and what was weaved was not of wool or cotton but of tenderness and tears, which fell, as the rain, Sigh. But it is the kind of sigh, one needs to hear. slowly looping loops of thought and lines of passion I love that.
The fact that I have written lots and barely said anything is nothing new, nor is it that this for the first two paragraphs and I'm nowhere near done with them while still not having touched upon the rest yet. brb
I suppose the best way to understand or appreciate my writing is the same way one would appreciate an impressionist painting. If you look to closely, it seems just a jumbled mess and if you are a grammar nazi, it seems like a train wreck. I'm fully aware of my love of the run-on sentence, the mixed and sequential metaphors, the absence of direction or plot and the jumping from one idea to the next without always connecting the dots. I suppose these characteristics, which you either love or hate, are my literary DNA, the fingerprints that make my writing, my writing, and not anyone else's.
A chapter like this must be read aloud, for it was written to be read, read in the right way, as one would read a prayer in church, without the organ, the voice alone all that is necessary. I loath the term "stream of consciousness" but I can't think of a better term to describe how a chapter like this occurs. Last night, alone upstairs, sitting at my desk, a sandalwood candle flickering beside me, I heard a single bird, singing or calling, but the song was so clear, so solitary, so moving I opened a blank page and just let the images flow from my mind to the page. As I started to write, it started to rain and as it started to rain, I thought of the wonderful sound and silence of being alone, no other voice to interrupt, and that led to Trev sitting before the window in the cottage, at night, with a bird, a candle and the rain--and of course, Em, sleeping soundly, behind him. A chapter like this simply flows and is written in a matter of minutes, pure first draft, no desire to edit for continuity or structure or grammar or anything else, for what is written is not words and thoughts but images and emotions masquerading behind language.
I thank you both, my dear loyal readers, for your hugs and love and kindness. Means more to me than I can ever think to say. Many come and many leave, but you two, in particular, have weathered my storms and stood in the rain with umbrella and coat, waiting patiently for me to come out of weather.
And I shall stand and hold the umbrella for you if that storm should reappear.
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