Intermezzo

"Why do you think most love stories have happy endings?"

"Because most people prefer happy endings at all costs."

"Life isn't like that."

"No, but a good love story deals with that fact. It teaches one to survive - and perhaps, hope."

Are we learning from the stories we tell each other? Our discussions of philosophy, art, our past...and how the simplest things are changed when shaded by your presence?

"What it really all comes down to," he continued, a trifle sardonically, "is that a man cannot help what he does when bespelled by a woman."

I smiled. Yes, I think we are.

**********

"So tell me how you got that ridiculous nickname."

"It's a long and boring story," he replied wryly.

"Please. You know I like stories."

"I don't think now is the time for stories." The firelight caught the predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Oh." I tried to sound exasperated and failed. "Well, later then."

"Much later."

**********

I traced his every feature, taking my time, memorizing the details, slowly and gently. The darkness deepened and the air hummed. The night stood still, only complete awareness remaining.

On the other hand, he was learning about me too.
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The tide is coming in...

...and you will dance on top of the waves.

You're closer than you think. Speak faith into your heart. Don't give up on your dreams. The tide will come back to you, my love.

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Ever After ( A Fairy Tale )

Some passions don't play by the rules

I.

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

II.

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

III.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

IV.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks
complaining
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
'The Lady of Shalott'.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:


But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."



Alfred, Lord Tennyson


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Elemental

Sol y Luna

it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing...here is the deepest secret : i carry your heart ( i carry it in my heart )
- e.e. cummings

You lounged beside me with easy grace, your shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. As one we watched the sea flow and crash, one briny wave chasing after another in infinite rhythm.

"I brought you a gift."

You reached into your pocket and pulled out a velvet case. From within you lifted a necklace. A pendant fashioned in the shape of the sun and moon dangled from the chain. Both are entwined inside a single sphere, the moon caught in shreds of fire, the sun lassoed within a silvery embrace. Fine, undulating filaments radiated from the center to touch the edges of the circle, framing the motion of their celestial dance.

It was exquisite.

I turned, and held my hair up as you wound the delicate cord around my neck and fastened the clasp. "I had this made while I was visiting South America. I asked the artist to create a special mold for the design. After the necklace was finished, I had him destroy the mold. So you see, it's the only one of its kind in the world." Your voice dropped to a murmur near my ear. "And it belongs to you."


"It's beautiful." I ran my fingers over the chain, felt its weight pool in the dip of my collarbone. The ornament warmed against my skin with uncanny familiarity; I felt my pulse quicken beneath the supple metal, a first creation, an honor far better than I deserve.


"There's a legend that goes with it. The sun and moon are lovers. They loved each other so much that they left their places in the sky to be together. When they did that, the world suffered. The sun's heat burned the earth while the moon's tears flooded it. So it was decided that they should live apart. When the morning comes the moon must yield the night, but the sun knows that she is with him in the same heaven, even if he cannot see her."


In the same heaven. There is no place I can go you will not be.


I leaned over and caressed your face, brought my lips to the curve of your cheek, tasted salt and honeyed wine down the line of your jaw, breathed the scent of rain and wildflowers in the hollow of your throat.

You gently pressed your forehead to mine. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you keep on turning my world upside down?"

I felt something in me break, dissolve, liquify; the sea seemed to pour through, roaring like a thousand hooves in my ears. My vision blurred; moisture beaded on my skin, then slid down in tiny rivulets down my arms to the sieve of my fingers, onto the swath of silk hovering over the barren sands.

My eyes wandered over to the distant horizon, to the the path of the dying sun. "What do you think you do to mine?" I whispered, so quietly that only the wind seemed to hear.

You took my hand in yours, your thumb lightly tracing circles on my wrist. Your eyes glowed sapphire, taking on a secret gleam in the fading light of the Palisades. The shadows of the gloaming cast your countenance into stark, near-perfect symmetry. I remembered how the foreboding beauty of the ancient Greek statues thrilled and terrified me, but oh so much less than you did.

"Well, ma princesse, it's starting to get cold out here. Let's head back in."

I stood, my feet vainly seeking purchase on the uneven bank, wet with the rising tide. A tremor began in my soul, deeper than waves, and I found myself grasping your arm, trying to find an anchor in our linked limbs and the steady heat of your gaze.

print by random walffles

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The Arrival

The Blue Door, Paris. Photograph by L. Style.

I saw you leaning against my door. When you heard my footfalls on the flags you turned your head and uncrossed your arms.

I allowed myself to take a step. You smiled, and it reached your eyes.

"Hey, ninja-girl."

I took another step toward you, marveling at how my heart can stand still at a voice. A face. A name.

And then I was running.


Under the lambent glow of every streetlight, at every distant doorway - I look for you. I will be waiting for your knock. I will be hoping.

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To Lola* C., on your 86th...

Le Barroux, Aix-en-Provence

Birthdays are like beginnings, you said. Last year I was with you on that hilltop off Mulholland drive where you marked the restarting of your life, under a vista of staggered stars.

You told me that evening reminded you of another one long ago, on that same spot. It was your first birthday far from home, in a new country, and you felt a trepidation that came from having to start over so late in your life. You drove through the poorly-lit bends on that narrow strip of road, unmindful of the steep drop on one side because up there the night looked more luminous, the moon and the stars more vibrant in their usual configurations (or did it seem that way because you were with the one you loved best?). You lingered until dawn, when the sun lazily opened its orange-red eye, and watched as the first sunrays splayed out across the sky in a riot of soft pale hues. As you reveled in the peace and stillness of a new day, your companion, who was not particularly devout, broke through his usual reserve to say," It's like being in the palm of God."


Nobody else I've known can tell a story like you. You are so generous with the details, for each one is deeply rooted in the landscape of your heart. Sometimes you would get so immersed in the recollection of a story that it scares me that you would disappear into it completely.

I told stories of my own that night. They came out as an avalanche of disordered thoughts and feelings, the kind that make people shake their heads and look at you funny should you have the misfortune to almost cry while telling them. These were the things that wallowed in silence for so long that when they finally found expression they were reduced to hackneyed bits of sentiment. And you listened anyway. It's as if you decided, at that moment, to indulge me like it's 1983 and I was a little girl in pigtails running up to you, grieved over my latest offense: I had scrawled my big and ungainly loops on almost all the pages of Lolo V.'s first edition Dillard with a thick-nibbed marker. I cried for days after he told me, rather morosely, that while he appreciated my artwork he'd have a bit of trouble reading his favorite book. Yeah, I miss him too.

I told you about my decision to move across the sea to the continent. What I considered a necessary passage at this stage of my life was looked at by many as an inexpedient attempt at displacement. I couldn't really explain why I felt that way, except that I wasn't ready to stop changing. You didn't immediately reply to that, but just gazed down at the expanse of city lights below. And when you finally did answer you told me that to willingly disconnect myself from the familiar is a tenuous freedom, fraught with a lot of uncertainties, a lot of risks. "But in the end it may be the only way to get you to that place of contentment within yourself. And there is no better time to go than when you feel that pull the strongest. The journey won't change you as much as you'd want it to if you even delayed another day. Besides," - and you looked at me as you said this -"you can't die knowing that you haven't even begun to live."


Some weeks back I was at Provence for my birthday. As soon as I arrived I was greeted by the phenomenon called the Mistral. A dry, violent wind from the northern regions, it is renowned among the residents as le vent qui rend fou or the wind that drives people mad. And indeed, it did not leave me alone, gusting heartily beside me on the street on my way to dinner, then took to rattling and bullying the doors, locks and rafters around the inn when I retired for the evening. I spent the night sitting in a corner with my head on my knees, hands clapped to my ears, thinking what a way to celebrate, and even then I couldn't hear myself think for all the howling outside as Le Mistral bent and twisted everything to its will. Finally in a fit of exasperation, I threw open the shutters. The wind whipped past with its usual ferocity, but when I looked up what I saw was nothing short of wonderful: a sea of blue-black cracking into tendrils of peach and rose that stretched towards the shell of the sky. It's as if the wind blew so hard it drove the twilight to relinquish its darkness and coaxed the dawn into being. As I looked on this confluence of elements refashioning creation I understood how you had felt a year ago on that peak over Mulholland. I experienced an ineffable sense of renewal, and to some degree, hope. I witnessed my beginning.


Happy birthday. May you be blessed with many more years. Many more beginnings. I love you very much. I miss you.

Card's in the mail :)


P.S. I'm sorry I can't be there to play your favorite songs on the upright, but I do have something for you. Happy listening :)

.

.

.

*Lola is the Filipino term for "grandmother"


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Near Perigord*

Dordogne in Perigord

If you wait for me then I'll come for you
Although I've traveled far...

You take me to a church terrace perched atop a limestone valley. We watch the Dordogne far below, wending its way with inexorable and disquieting patience towards the sea.

“So tell me why you’ve brought me here.”

You shrug and give me a solemn smile. “I’m waiting.”

You would say no more after that.





“ I didn’t want to wait until my next visit to give you this.”

You hand me a slim volume bound in midnight blue silk fretted by a band of silver knotwork. I run my fingers over the cover. The book falls open in my hand.

The pages within are pure and perfect in their ivory blankness, untouched by pain.

“You’ve written stories for others,” you explain. “ I thought perhaps, this time… you might like to write your own.”

“Thank you.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.





It is an hour before evening. The rose-gold sky cast a pallid hue over our solitary figures.

I pick up my bags. “ I have to go.”

You come forward and slip me under the bridge of your arms. I am anchored there with quiet intensity, shielded from the world in the space of a heartbeat.

I look up, and you step back, your hands falling to your sides.

“Leave me quickly,” you say.





I sit near the window lost in thought, the silken material of the book pressed against my lips. I've tried to turn through the empty pages to the very end, but there doesn't seem to be one. There is always a clean page, waiting to be filled.


…write your own.


My own stories cannot exist in reserve. They require words. And words, like names, have the power to bind…to summon.


I’m waiting.


Though unbidden, it’s always the thought of you that stands at the edge of these words.


I'll find my way back to you
If you'll be waiting...






* title borrowed from the Ezra Pound poem
* The Promise by Tracy Chapman

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La T'nemele

La liseuse à la fenêtre, Jan Vermeer v. 1659. Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, Gemäldegalerie, Germany

Pour une femme à qui la vie a tout pris, le peu de temps que je passais avec lui était un petit miracle. Je voulu le lui dire, et bien d'autres choses encore, mais quand enfin je trouvai le courage de lui dire, je perdis la voix.

On parlait peu au final, lui et moi. Cette sécheresse dans la voix, qui se perdent sous des lignes torturées.

Il soupire. Une fois. Deux fois. Ça fait mal, un tréfonds qui remue! Mais ça va plus loin encore:

Sans lui je recule et regresse. Les nuits sont longues. Me laisse sans souffle.

Je n’en dirai pas plus. J’en ai déjà beaucoup trop dit.

Les choses qui ont la plus grande significance pour nous sont souvent les plus difficiles a exprimer. Elles restent dans les endroits les plus sombres et secrets de nos coeurs. Nous esperons qu'un jour quelqu'un sera assez comprehensif pour ecouter - et nous liberer.

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