twice upon a time

While others find their strength in holding on, your strength comes from letting go.

As if it had taken far too much giving to be this empty. I can only take.

(But this is the part I don't say out loud.)

When lives are forged upon lives, our parallel stories start anew, and every fragment of ourselves we don't relinquish to the other --

(His stretched-out soul still burned with rancor and desire left over from the storm that all started with her promise, long , long ago.)

"Stay," he almost snarled his plea as he watched her part the ocean and made it run in streams, taking her further and further away. "It's me."

He gorged on her insolence, and let it turn him into something shrouded and cold (and just as scary.)

(And so when he saw her walking towards him where he sat staring at the water, he was unimpressed.)

He knew he reflected in her glasslike eyes the acrimony, the eternal hurt.

She tipped his chin and smiled. "Cheer up some. One of us shouldn't spend a lifetime mourning something we can't define."

He drew his face away.

"Another waits for you." She glanced back at the water, her expression strangely impassive. "But you won't find her here. You have to leave this place."

"Will she live forever?" His voice, unused for so long, came out as an angry, cynical bark. It startled him.

She placed a hand over his arm, daring him to shake her off. "No, but once you find her, you'll have your humanity back. Consider it a gift."

"I was never angry with you," he lied, partly because he felt afraid again. "I was just sad because I thought you've lost your way."

"I'm here," she replied simply.

(He knew better than to look further. The promise of the morning was about as far as they got.)

He sighed, his gaze drawn to the mass of loose waves and tendrils that cascaded halfway down her back, gleaming chestnut in the dying sun.

Unbidden, he reached out. "In my dreams, you wore your hair like this."

She leaned into this touch, to the flowing warmth that pulsed from his palm, and pretended that she was living too.

("...let me become the shadow of your shadow, the shadow of your hand...")
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This got me

I started crying around 0:50.

What moves me so deeply about this sleeping little prince is his loyalty to a flower--the image of a rose shining within him like a flame within a lamp, even when he's asleep... And I realized he was even more fragile than I thought. Lamps must be protected. A gust of wind can blow them out.

-A. de Saint-Exupery, from The Little Prince

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Moving in

"I'm off the clock for a half day. Do you need a hand in unpacking the remaining crates in the garage?"

"I'd honestly want to spare you, but if you can handle hauling up some of the pretty heavy antiques we'll get a good head start before the movers come around later today."

"So they're all the old stuff you -- whoa, you didn't tell me you'd bring in your whole collection!"

"Relax. Just think of them as metaphors of my French adventure. I thought I'd do a bit of redecorating before we go off the marketplace together as one tight knit power couple."

"What's this thing near the bureau?"

"It's a 15th century writing desk I bought from a monastery up at --"

"It's hideous. You couldn't possibly have picked out a more damaged one."

"Eloquent piece isn't it? The dings and stains give it a lot of character. It compliments your bureau very nicely too."

"Not so sure about that. How about putting it in a less conspicuous -- hey, don't look at me like that."

"I say, it's staying right where it is."

"Fine. It's just the most unfortunate looking thing you've had to drag home. Oh wait, I still haven't seen the others."

"It doesn't look like much to you now but it'll grow on ya, I promise."

"Sounds like a metaphor for the whole redecorating jag you're on. One that involves shooting down any hint of opposition."

"Accept or deviate. There's no need to oppose."

"Is that your way of saying that our life together won't ever be dull or that you're simply insufferable?"

"Yeah."
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They're telling our story...

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don't try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this.




When lovers moan,
they're telling our story.

Like this.




from Like This by Jalaluddin Rumi



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I hold with those who favor fire

If she leant forward, just a little, she would find his hand. She'd twine their fingers until his were curved tightly over the bank of hers. He was so near. It would be enough, and it would be nothing.

She struggled now to be content with her place. It hadn't been so hard in the beginning. The healer was needed, not the girl. It was what she expected. It was all she'd known.

In a few more days, he wouldn't need her assistance to remember. He'd already begun recalling pieces of his life with joy, his eyes alive with it.

She knew it was only a matter of time before he didn't need her at all...

The thought sent her to her feet, the suddenness startling her. She would learn yet. It was her fault, after all, letting her mind wander indiscriminately during his illness, taking liberties in the maudlin silence. None of them were real, not the soft raspiness of his voice nor the hammering of her heart.

Tomorrow I will forget. But just for a moment tonight, let me look at you, longingly and with no shame.

Memories are such volatile things, but he wasn't in the least bit intimidated. He was lucky. She would be happy for him, even as she fought to hear him in her mind, fought to hear those words that will never cross his lips.




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Lilacs

Je rêve et je me réveille
Dans une odeur de lilas
De quel côté du sommeil
T'ai-je ici laissé ou là

"I've lived in the continent for over five years now."
Five years. Long enough for some things to change.
"Don't you want to go back home?"
His gaze clouded over. "Too much fresh air."
She'd tried to look away, but the pull she felt towards his eyes was as strong as her guilt.
She sighed. Even after all this time.


Je me rendors pour t'atteindre
Au pays que tu songeas
Rien n'y fait que fuir et feindre
Toi tu l'as quitté déjà

She did read his letters, kept every one of them.
She did write back, she just didn't send them.
Because I'm a coward, she wanted to say, but she'd kept quiet, not trusting herself to speak.
"A part of me feels cheated," he'd said. "I only get to see you today, and not even for a whole day. It's nothing compared to your years of silence. None of it is fair. All of it still hurts."

Je dormais dans ta mémoire
Et tu m'oubliais tout bas
Ou c'était l'inverse histoire
Etais-je où tu n'étais pas

He looked older, fiercer, though the knife scar on his left cheek had softened to a clean, pink line. The man he'd become is as strange to her now as he is familiar.

But when that rare smile broke through the austerity of his sharp, aquiline visage, she was suddenly reminded of things that weren't supposed to hurt.

Dans la vie ou dans le songe
Tout a cet étrange éclat
Du parfum qui se prolonge
Et d'un chant qui s'envola

"Why do you suppose we never made an attempt to see each other again before today?"
"Le destin," she said simply.
"Le destin," he repeated.
Neither of them believed in it, nor were comforted by it.
( She shouldn't be so surprised that fate played dirty at the time when both of them had so much to lose. )

O claire nuit jour obscur
Mon absente entre mes bras
Et rien d'autre en moi ne dure
Que ce que tu murmuras

"She's beautiful. She looks just like you."
His head lifted proudly. "Thank you."
"What's her name?"
He hesitated. She looked up, mildly curious.
"Anneke."
She didn't think it was possible for her heart to leap in joy and wrench in sadness at the same time.


*Lilas by Louis Aragon
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Stupid. Impulsive. Wonderful.

For Leese and Alain.




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Khajuraho

I am walking into your game, with all senses open. Cherish me by breaking the rules that embody me and you.

On her last day, the sky was ever so close. It looked like the first dawn of the world.

"Every one needs a place to call their own, no matter who they are. I hope you'll remember that you'll always have refuge here."

He opened his home to her. He opened his heart.

Sanctuary.

------------------------------

"A gift."

"It's beautiful." The stones seemed to glow beneath the dark hollow of his cupped palm. His fingers ghosted over the configuration of the enamels. A few strands of her hair were caught in it.

Silk on stone.

Who do I wear it for?

You'll know, just as I did.

She watched as he sighed and closed his hand over it. She would never tell him the story behind her gift, what it meant to give it away.

----------

My dear.

Do not be afraid. Do not move. Do not speak. No one will see us. Stay as you are. I want to look at you. We have tonight to ourselves and I want to look at you. Your body over me, your skin, your lips.

Close your eyes. No one can see us and I am here at your side.

Do you feel me?

When I touch you for the first time it will be with my lips. You will feel the warmth but you will not know where. Perhaps it will be on your eyes. I will press my mouth to your eyes and you will feel the warmth.

Open your eyes now my beloved. Look at me. Your eyes on my breast, your arms lifting me, letting me slide onto you. My faint cry. Your body quivering.

Who could ever erase this moment? There is no end to it, don't you see? You will be forever be throwing your head back, I will forever be shaking off my tears.

This moment had to be. This moment is and this moment will continue from now until forever.

What we were meant to do, believe me my love, we have done it forever.

( And if it serves your happiness, do not hesitate to forget this woman, who now says --

without a trace of regret --

Farewell. ) *











*The Letter from Silk, by A. Baricco, adapted by Francois Girard

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Mulholland Drive

Ti volti e vedi la tua vita
come la scia di un'elica...

"He loves evenings like this, when the sky is clear."
"Romantic young fellow."
"That's not why I love him. He also loves it when it rains."
"Melancholy young fellow."
"That's not why I love him."
"Then why?"
"Maybe no reason is even needed. I just do. But...it doesn't matter anymore."

Te voglio bene assai
ma tanto tanto bene sai
e' una catena ormai
che scioglie il sangue dint' e' vene sai...
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Cafe Hugo, Paris

Someone who feels less may be able to say more.

She knew they were both trying, even as the awkward silence between them yawned wider.

It'd never been like this, she thought sadly.

"So...have you settled in ok and all?"

"I'm starting to find out how atrocious my French is, but other than that I'm just dandy."

----------------

"I'd like to see you home, you know, if I may," he coughed slightly, flustered.

She shrugged. "I'm walking back to my place."

"Then you won't mind if I accompany you. I hear there are disreputable people around these parts trying to take advantage of pretty young ladies." He fell into a step beside her when he saw that she wasn't going to refuse him.

"And how do I know you're not one of them?" She was amused now. It was so like their usual banter in the past. Almost.

He winked. "You don't. You're just gonna have to trust me."

They walked all the way in near silence. He stole quiet glances at her, his jaw working. She tamped down the urge to fidget, forcing herself to relax.

-------------------

She was standing with her back half-turned to him. She can’t see his face. She doesn’t want to see his face.

She reached up and rubbed her arm nervously. "I understand why you're here. You have the right to know if you can move on and if I didn't make myself clear the first time, when I --"

His hands came over her shoulders. "That's not why I'm here. I suppose it'd be less awkward if I came up with a whole bunch of reasons why I came, but all I really have now is that I just wanted to see you." She heard him sigh because he was so close. "I couldn't stay away."

His hands dropped and she shivered, instinctively missing the loss of warmth.

"Goodnight. Get some sleep."

"Wait," she heard herself say around the knot in her stomach. She turned around and faced him. "Have a late breakfast with me tomorrow. Same place we're at tonight. They make very good crepes. You should try the one with the Grand Marnier--"

He smiled genuinely for the first time that evening. "I'll be there."
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San Francisco

"Stop following me around! Leave me alone!"

"I don't want to. Now open this door before I break it down."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Then let me in so you don't have to find out."

"You have some nerve --"

"You're late to dinner."

"So? Like that's any of your business?"

"I'm making it my business that you don't starve yourself. Here's a deal, let's get something to eat first and you can pick a fight with me about my lack of manners later. Fair enough?"

"Fine. But I really don't like you stalking me."

"I'm merely being observant. There's a difference."

"This--this isn't a date. I hardly know you."

"You can call it whatever you want, but I'm treating."

"You're bad for my morals, you know."

"You have no idea."

---------------------------------------

"Hey girl, good news. You have a date."

"No I don't."

"You do now. I took a call from that guy you met in San Francisco. He thought I was you and I was bored so I played along. Anyway, he said he just lives nearby, so if you could be ready in an hour--"

"Leese! You didn't."

"Well, I'll have you know, he's very persistent. C'mon, I'll help you pick out an outfit. Your Saturday night just got interesting."



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Marseilles

Look how the pale queen of the silent night
Doth cause the ocean to attend upon her,
And he, as long as she is in his sight,
With her full tide is ready her to honor.
But when the silver wagon of the moon
Is mounted up so high he cannot follow,
The sea calls home his crystal waves to moan,
And with low ebb doth manifest his sorrow.
So you that are the sovereign of my heart
Have all my joys attending on your will;
My joys low-ebbing when you do depart,
When you return their tide my heart doth fill.
So as you come and as you do depart,
Joys ebb and flow within my tender heart.

~ Charles Best

---------------------

The usual wistfulness in their actions at the end of his visits has bled into something else. It lingers in their linked hands, the careful pauses between their words.
"See you soon."
"See you sooner."
There is a certain distance from which a person's other features blur into just a single gaze. The blue in his eyes is all she sees before he relinquishes her to the world.


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Los Angeles

"So?"
"So...what?"
"What do you think, you know, of him?"
"Definite upgrade. I guess I'll hold off calling you jerk-magnet behind your back this time."
"You use that term a lot when you want to make a point about anything in my lovelife. Not that you pay attention."
"That's how this cookie crumbles in this family, big sis. Everyone gets the third degree."
"And you don't ever let me forget it, even when times are good."
"Nope."
"And I can still beat you up and call you a dork."
"No shit."

-------------------

"I didn't expect lunch to be so much drama. I mean, I eat lunch, I just don't lunch, you know, as a verb."
"Don't worry, honey. Just think of it as a broad stroke meeting."
"You mean execute or get executed."
"Don't you have your work all cut out for you now. It's really not a big deal."
"I'm sorry. I don't want to make it sound like it's so much work, but...I just know what I'm not, okay, and I'm no good at this kind of thing. But I'll do it, for you."
"I somehow get the feeling that I'll always be in your debt."
"But you are. And I intend to collect, like, right now."

--------------------

"Mmpphh...what time is it?"
"It's an hour before sunrise. The night weeps at its spirit's breaking. Just the perfect time for a parting. Coffee's ready."
"Thank you, but I'd rather take tea right now. I'll go ahead and make it."
"Your boy called. He'll be here in an hour. I'd better take out the Cassis and start making ice cubes."
"You're becoming overly fond of him if you're willing to spike his water this early."
"He's a good boy. An old lady can't complain."
"I'm glad you approve."
"I was in love too, once upon a time. He was very handsome too."

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I...

(part of the Beeb's EgoCentric challenge )

I AM Leah's younger sister dreaming of a favor-laden apricot in a Nara meadow.
I WANT to believe a parallel dimension is created whenever one makes a choice
I LEARNED that I don't always have to know where I'm going next when the time comes to get a move on. I just summon a dash of cavalier and bit of improvisation and all'll just be peachy keen.
I HAVE no friggin' idea, but I can take a pretty damn good guess as to what it is ;)
I WISH I COULD stare with the vacant optics of a woman so utterly smitten.
I HATE long-ass talk, the kind that makes one lose sight of what really matters.
I FEAR the dark places of my mind, those insidious paths and spaces where I can easily get lost.
I REGRET nothing.
I LOVE it that no moment of love is in vain; it's within that moment that makes our time in this world sacred, and keeps us calm in the implications of forever.
I SOMETIMES like to hear certain things to make a bad day bearable. S'ok, I got you is at the top of the list. Strangely, point one four one five nine two six five also helps.
I DANCE until I hear my heart drumming crazily in my chest: fast, too fast, but so, so, so alive!
I SING like a jittery mess of bad dreams following me out of clumsily thrown-off covers into the backwash.
I CRY when I see a solitary image of beauty in a world gone wrong.
I KISS with passion, hunger, want and need
I *HEART* someone na tarantado mag-isip at (mas!) guwapo pag galit :)


Freakin' nonsensical fun. I'm tagging them goose eggs next.
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toning down the rhetoric

I don't need to agree with somebody in order to respect that person. I won't demonize you or depersonalize you into something less than human just because you went against a value I hold dear. If I even start to think of you that way, I will also begin to think it's my right to get rid of you and all others like you. I don't want to go down that path. I believe you're still worthy of dignity.

Peace out, slut.

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When you go away, shadows will remain...

...something or other of your beauty's grace will remain.

I will meet you again
Where? How?
I don't know
Perhaps as a figure
Of your imagination
I will appear on your canvas
Or perhaps on your canvas
Appearing as a mysterious line
Quietly I will keep staring at you.

For Krishna, thank you for leaving me with that much.
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The Music Lesson

Jan Vermeer, 1664

I met up with my former music instructor and opera star A. in Berlin, where he was doing a recital. Set against the chill in a jaunty deerstalker, sunglasses(!), charcoal greatcoat and signature red cravat, he was every inch the diva. He was living his dream, and as he liked to tell me, he'd metamorphosed into his very own Hoffman.

We tucked into a small pub, got our drinks, and caught up fast. I told him of my foray into the Dutch indie scene some months back, and even sang him a few lines of the new song I've been working on.

He drummed his fingers disapprovingly on the table. "Your passagio's a little wobbly. It affects your projection. You might want to sing in a lower key."

I took out a pen and scribbled something on a napkin, sighed, and began listlessly picking at our shared torte.

"I guess I'm a little rusty."

As if on cue, he whipped out a CD from his coat and handed it to me. "Vocalises. Knock yourself out with it for a week, and it'll be like the old times."

I wryly raised my mug in salute. "I missed you, A."

"No less for the most difficult woman I've ever met. Die frau ohne schatten."

I looked outside. Darkness was setting in, but the snowing had abated a bit. "When the streetlights come on, I'll stand under every one of them to prove you wrong. Why don't we take a little walk?"

"Looks like a fine night for it."

I smiled. "Just like old times."



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A feeble stew...

Most people like the idea of certainty; all that I claim to know about life is just a result of several conjectures I hope to be true in all cases.

Truth is just a personal approximation of universal wisdom - proof of it is immaterial, and it doesn't always set a person free.

The attempt to affect a profound tone on cynicism makes it all the more conspicuous and unattractive.

The more a person evolves, the more he finds ways to conform with everyone else.

Genius is the scourge of a sophisticated society, that's why it's only recognized posthumously.

A fine bottle of Stella Rosa 1917 is a stimulating companion to late-night musings. Makes you feel a bit randy too.




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Succubae

I opened my door to him wiping his rain-soaked glasses on his cravat. His hair, damp and slick, swept over his temples like wings.

How beautiful he is. And how lost.

A smile cuts across his lips. "I came halfway 'round the world hoping you'd ached for me a little."

When I kiss him, an uncontained ferocity struggles out of me, pushing him up against the wall. I imagine the quiet shift of bones against the unrelenting sharp edges of unfinished brick. His pulse beats like quicksilver, and I don't miss how he shudders, just a little, when I press tightly against him, scraping my teeth on the sensitive skin over his jugular. I'm wrapped up in the tempo of his blood flowing, the pleasurepain osmosing through flesh. I want to see him shatter and pierce my hands on the splintered shards. I want my name smeared carmine-ripe on his mouth.

I've always been warned of men like him - the ones that drive you mad, suck you dry, steal your breath, twist you up beautifully until you're no longer a lily-white plane of smooth girl-flesh. He's the stuff of fractured fairytales, and at that moment I wasn't springtime and candy and the girl you'd take home to mother. I fucking love it, love him. He understands me, perhaps.

I take what I want, just as he'd always wanted me to.
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Fluff and fold, buddy...

This song somehow reminds me of you. Happy birthday, honey.

Just once in his life a man has his time and my time is now, I'm coming alive...



Gonna be your man in motion, all I need is a pair of wheels. Take me where my future's lyin'...

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