Wednesday, 8 June 2016

Three Pieces

3 June 2016 Writing Retreat at Knepp Wildland Safaris
He tucks the gun under his coat and walks hurriedly across Alexander III bridge. The construction and refurbishment haven’t completely finished, but the hustle buzzle of the day has dissipated. The shadows of the workers and passers-by have melted into the darkness of the night. Only the river is still pursuing its course. In the dim moonlight, the murderer could get away effortlessly. Is a crime of passion really a crime? Is it not just poetry misunderstood by most? He wonders. In the distance, a woman argues with a policeman, what a perfect opportunity! He can get into the cellar unnoticed. He tried to suppress his rage with a deep breath, but it only served to infuriate his whole body, nearly setting it alight. He wants to jump into the rapidly rising water in the Seine. Tomorrow is another day. It’s a promise.

4 June 2016 Writing Retreat at Knepp Wildland Safaris
My unruly passions once upon a time were revealed the sight of him emerging from the Arrival gates. He came towards me with the smile so familiar many years ago. It wasn’t an illusion, the child of the journey meeting me again, emerging from a thousand wild dreams. My heart is like the sea, his words beating its shores like a wild drum, constant, erratic. The nomadic-hearted boy, have you really ended all your wild journeys for me? Have you chosen this most
unconventional destination? Are you returning to my embrace, whatever the cost might be? I carved words of my prayers in jaded beads and bond them into a rosary. Let my faith be the brace that brings you back from a crippled life. Let my rapture be the glow on your triumphant crown. Oh come and kiss me on the cheeks. I am a fat cat with cream. Oh kiss me on my lips now, just like our first time at your parent’s house, in another life. It’s hot breath. It’s wild truthfulness.
“My little Dot Kom, I missed you so much!”, says he. His rapture shining in tandem with the tears in his eyes. I still remember his hot breath and its wild truthfulness, the day we parted. He said we’d meet again one day. My heart was like the sea, giant waves wildly beating the drum, constant, erratic. I didn’t know “one day” would take this long. My child of the journey, nomadic-hearted love. The rosary of hopes dropped to the floor, in that lonely winter morning, when he wrote to say he was tired of waiting. He was getting married. One precious prayer falls through the floor boards. Shattered kisses spread across the kitchen, little beads bouncing up and down. My hand still clutching to the bunch of buttercups. My unruly passions once upon a time, when all hopes were gone and it was time to move on.
I watch him put his hands on my shoulders. Then, he picks me up and says “you’ve grown, my little Dot Kom!” My hands wrap around his head, in an unconventional crown of faith. Olivia,
Messy or Chandry, whatever her name was, none of it matters from this instant. Like a fat cat with cream, I know I could never resist him again. I want him to close his eyes and unbutton my dress, his arms braced tightly around my waist. For the first time in so many years, this wasn’t an illusion.
We get into the rental car and drive away from the airport. He makes a full confession to me about the lost years, the yearning and the hopeless nights filled with the most unconventional dreams. How could he escape from the black hole that engulfed his body and soul. The emptiness that braced him strangled our feelings, as if mother nature, father god, both of which he believed, had abandoned us in our silly billy youth. The only way out was through the sky light. Or could we climb into a rice barge and row to the shimmering shores of another life? From Daisy’s mansion to the Great Gatsby’s cottage? There were five children waiting down below. We were friends, we were the moons and the stars. “You are where I belong. Promise me not to disappear again!” He whispers into my ears.
He shows me a pocket full of stones, each a wild dream from the distant memory. Life in the wilderness is full of wild parties, wild imagination, wild passion… And yet, a wild life proved to be most creative and unconventional. I confess to have his name tattooed in white under my breast, so it can only be seen when I’m tanned. He never told his wife anything about us.
“You are going wild my friend!”, I’d often say to him. My prince of rapture, here is your crown. Here is a rosary of hopes you’ll carry around. They will remind you our history is not an illusion. Keep it in writing or transmit it orally. Today the past is our true destination.

5 June 2016 Writing Retreat at Knepp Wildland Safaris
A long lonely walk down the country road. What brought me here? I do not dwell on this question. Let’s go to the fete and have my fortune told. I’m not afraid of fate, so long as I’m holding a candy floss in my hand. The bells are ringing; people are gathering at the church. The mid-summer sun shining down on every earthly thing. Even mushrooms are radiant. Today the bucolic marries the romantic. Fate is a feast. Sour, sweet, bitter and sometimes spicy. What’s the destiny of that little boy, walking towards me, with an ice cream covered face, the milky way dripping out of his mouth? All the world’s a dazzle. He says a French word meaning Bon Ami. In the distance, in the field, a wheel with an old hankie dangling out where the wood cracked and some rusty bells lie beneath. What a dog daisy summer day! He has three weird sisters but he is the only one chosen by God. “I am destiny’s child.”

The copyright of these posts belongs to Viviane d'Souza