I started out in the landscape's cups and valleys, shrouded in
a cloak of morning mystery. The postman had already got well underway,
spreading his Santa's bag of parcels and cards. I could see his slow
progress, a red bug crawling the meandering contours of the distant
hillside. I climbed further up, further in, to the bowl of the valley,
it's arms reaching around both sides of me in an earthen embrace. I left
behind the wet meadow grass glittering with ice crystals melting in the
weak warmth of the solstice sunrise and let my feet follow the mud path
into the woodland. A melange of broken semi-skeletal leaves were strewn
at my feet, dulled from their original autumnal passions. A tracery of
frost sat on the leaves, and every so often a crème brûlée crunch would
cut the stillness as my foot broke the surface of an iced dip or puddle
sending skittering shards into disarray, a jagged spiders web of ice
telling where I had been.
A figure appeared from the
camouflage of moss and branches on the track ahead. His clothes made him
almost indistinguishable from the surrounding crepuscular light. A
trapper's hat was firmly fixed on his head and a worn out waxed long
coat was wrapped loosely about him. There was no camera or binocular
about him so I looked round for a dog. Normally it was a bird watcher or
a farmer if I saw people out at at that time of day. No dog. I looked
at the figure again. He appeared to be leaning forward, slightly
hunched, with one hand clutched in a downward claw, as if he had been
holding a ball or something, and it had been stolen from him.
Instinctively I slowed my pace, scanned the woods again while walking
but still saw no dog. Everything was still, even the birds had ceased
their song. Something made me stop then, a dip in the temperature, a
solidity to the air. I looked again at the figure, closer to me now. Odd
that he had not moved at all, had not turned to nod or greet me.
"Morning," I tried experimentally. No reaction. Perhaps he was
deaf. I didn't want to startle him so moved forward away from his
peripheral vision. His face was pale and deeply creased, weathered with
age, deep set eyes lurked in the shadow of bushy eyebrows and a crooked
nose. An expression: surprise, anger, was frozen on his face. I
shivered, my teeth chattering, feeling the intense cold penetrating my
warm layers of clothing. I hadn't realised I was holding my breath until
I let it out in a steam of condensation. And yet this man was not
creating breath clouds at all. It hit me with a rush of adrenalin: he's
not breathing. I pulled my gloves away from my fingers, holdings the
back of my hand up to his mouth and nose.
"Hello? Sir, are
you alright?" No breath, not even a blink. I pulled my hand away and
reached for the phone in my pocket, ready to call for help. What should I
say? I didn't know what had happened. I looked about for clues and
noticed a shimmer to his clothes. The coat in particular seemed to
glisten, and the waistcoat and scarf beneath. Instead of my phone I
found myself reaching for his clothes. They were stiff with cold. Beyond
stiff really, they seemed frozen but glittering with frost, a suit of
lights. The clothes seemed rather old fashioned up close; a linen shirt
with no buttons, the waistcoat roughly cut in worn leather, his shoes
were simply cut, hand stitched leather and the trousers were split
legged, felted wool. The ground beneath his feet seemed even more
thickly coated with ice and frost than elsewhere.
Jack Frost.
The name came to me from nowhere.
"But that's a fairy tale" I scoffed at myself. "It can't be." And
yet there was no sign of injury, he had not collapsed. This figure,
standing stock still in the cold dawn, glittering like magic, defied
logic. He appeared to be as old as the hills themselves but that was
impossible, surely, and even if it was Jack Frost, how had he come to be
here, frozen stiff, caught in his own trap.
I looked
around for clues. I could hear the gentle burbling song of the brook
still flowing nearby; it was not held in Jack Frost's curse! But there,
on the ground, leading towards the river there appeared to be a trail of
golden grains of yellow sand on top of the mud. It seemed so out of
place. My curiosity piqued, I bent to touch the gritty granules and
found them to be warm. I followed its morse code line first with my eyes
and then with my feet, broken in places, puddling in others, to the
edge of the brook and then back upstream towards the waterfall. The head
of the valley was one of desolation, rocks split asunder many harvests
before and smoothed by the mysteries of time. A mixology of tumbled
trees split like broken bones, sat in company with raw earth and jagged
roots, strings of moss and fern. Some rocks, like giant stone marbles,
lay half submerged in the plunge pool at the foot of a curtain of water.
But away from the fierce frothing of the deep water was a way across, a
path of stepping stones, and on each there was a hint of golden sand. I
crossed the slippery stones with care and carried on up the bank at the
other side, the wayside lit with sunshine and emerging flowers of a
species I had never seen before.
As I followed the
path the flowers seemed to multiply and I was soon surrounded. It seemed
in a space of a few metres I had walked from winter to spring and into
summer. I marvelled at the wonder around me and, bathed in the delicious
perfume from the blooms. A little further the trees too came into
bloom, the new lace of lime coloured beech leaves curtaining the path.
And then I came upon the shortest daughter of the Shah of Persia in a
shallow dell. She was sitting on a tree stump a small mirror in her
hand, crying rainbow tears quietly into the silk folds of her turquoise
kurtah. She looked like a study of a young lady who had learned not to
be noticed. I didn't know what to say, whether to stay or slip away.
Could she even be real? Questions flooded my mind and I found I could
not leave without satisfying my curiosity.
"Are you real?"
I asked tentatively. She looked up startled, burnished almond eyes open
wide, as deep as black holes in space.
"For certain I am real. Can you not see me with your own eyes?" She sounded put out.
"Yes I can. But, forgive me, I am not sure I trust them. There
has been a lot of magic in the world this morning. Why are you crying?"
"Who are you?" She asked ignoring my question.
"I live here. I- I think I followed your trail to this place. The
sand? Maybe it was in your gown. And the flowers. Did you make the
flowers grow? We don't usually have many flowers in the winter."
"You ask many questions. Will you tell me your name?"
"Sorry, I'm Emille, my family live just down the valley, all seven
of us. I come here to be alone sometimes. What is your name? Where did
you come from?"
Seemingly satisfied she wiped her tears and stood to curtsy.
"I am Princess Nasmina, daughter to the Shah of Persia. I am the
shortest of my Father's many daughters, the most overlooked. My Father
was displeased with me for learning the Jin's Magic. He shouted at me,
told me that he would never find me a husband if I continued to be so
wilful. I was upset for displeasing him and ran away. But as I ran the
Jin's seeing eye fell from my sirwal pocket and smashed at my feet. I
was sucked through time and space and transported here.
"A man dressed in a suit of lights found me. He told me he was the King
of Winter and would make me his Queen, but he was cold inside and out
and I refused to go with him. I could see he was just greedy for my
magic. He bound my wrists with trailing Ivy and forced me to go with
him. He pulled me on until the dawn but then said we must both become
invisible and ride the wind. He threw me to the floor and began to chant
an ancient rhyme:
'Cold of night make cold the day,
Death upon me if I stay.
From the North winds I shall spy
In the cracks 'tween Earth and sky'
"As he chanted the air around him shimmered and cracked with
cold. That was when I remembered the Jin's magic mirror. He had given it
to me as a talisman against evil and I knew I must use it to protect
myself. As I pulled it free of my sirwal the King of Winter saw that I
had something in my hand and went to grab me, but in doing so he looked
in the mirror and his own magic rebounded on him. The ice in his heart
consumed him and he turned into frozen form.
"I ran away
as fast as I could. But how can I run when I do not know which way to
go? My only hope is to rely on the kindness of strangers."
As I digested her story she began to cry again and my heart went out
to her. I had no idea if she knew about the celebration of Christmas
but I knew it was a time of goodwill, a time to be with those you love
and a time to help those in need.
"Tell, me, is there anything I can do Princess?"
She thought for a moment and then looked at the Hazel switch in my hand.
"Will you make me a gift of that wood?"
"Of course," I said, handing it to her, " but I don't see how that will help."
"You will."
As
I watched she bent the wood into a circle, the wood blossoming beneath
her hand into a berry wreath in all its bright glory, the two ends
knitting together into an eternal loop. She placed the coronet on her
head and made a deep curtsy.
"Thank you, Emille. What a beautiful gift you have given."
"But it was just a stick"
"Yes, it was, but the kindness in your thoughts made it blossom
into something quite spectacular, wouldn't you agree?" I smiled and
returned he curtsy a little awkwardly, feeling embarrassed. "I have
nothing to give you in return Emille, but I can grant you one wish."
A
wish! What would you wish for: toys, games, clothes? I wanted something
that would last a life time. The knew that making a difference to
someone's life would make me happy far longer than things I would grow
out of.
"I've made up my mind Princess. No one should be
lost and alone, especially at Christmas. I wish for you to go home to
your family."
At that moment the sun's rays broke over the
top of the dell flooding the hollow with golden light. I put up my hand
to shield my eyes from the glare and saw the air waver around the
shortest daughter of the Shah of Persia like a heat haze and heard her
whisper her thanks, before I was forced to look away. A moment later and
the dell was filled with warmth but the princess was gone.
Where
she had stood by the tree stump lay the berry wreath on the ground. I
picked it up and sat on the tree stump. I turned my face to the sun,
smiling with pleasure at my good deed and imagining the homecoming she
would enjoy.
Later, as I walked back through the woods
there was no sign of Jack Frost. It seemed he too had been released from
the Jin's magic when the princess returned home. I took the wreath with
me and placed it on the windowsill at home for all to see. Many years
have passed since that solstice in the woods when I was just a young
girl. Now I have a family of my own and the berry wreath sits at the
heart of my family table as fresh as the day it was made, a symbol of
giving and of the gathering of loved ones, a symbol of rebirth and hope
for the year to come.
The copyright of this post belongs to Holly Khan
Tuesday, 5 January 2016
Thursday, 3 December 2015
The Bonfire
My view of you, skewed by experience and the dark slanted
line of the bonfire structure growing between us, did not change,
mangled by dusks imaginings. To everyone else you were a curmudgeonly
old battler but not to me, I knew it was just a crust, a gruff
exterior,the grit of crumbs on a piece of warm buttered toast. Other
people, they didn't know how to approach you, didn't know what to say to
disguise their own embarrassment at your misfortunes. They had not
figured it out, the secret; that it wasn't about what you said but
whether you were able to just be, listen for the wisdom and peace. There
is communion in being with you, and even standing out here in the rain
with you, silently, I could see there were angels in the margin of your
notebook. There is far more to you than the eye can see, rays of
sunshine at the heart of you. Already the tensions that had been
spilling out of me, the frustrations of butting heads with my peers,
literally and figuratively, as I kicked uselessly at the wood when I
arrived, were beginning to slip away.
You always had a way to occupy my idle hands, my idle thoughts, and if I waited long enough you always instructed me.
"Rub off your sharp edges and fit in. Take time to find the right angle to approach someone. I know you have it in you, you're here aren't you." And there it was, a beacon of hope in the murk, a way forward. I was not required to reply, explain myself, just build the bonfire with you and consider the truth. You continued changing gear imperceptibly. "Triangular shapes make the most stable structures, wide and solid at the base. You want to make sure that the fire falls in on itself, not over you."
I watched the angles of the mangled branches knit together in a loose weave, manoeuvring them into relationship with one another and went to collect more of the brushwood from the side of the pond. The rain had stopped now, as you said it would, and feathered flies flew into the stillness of the water's tension, landing in the last rays of sun as it peeked from behind the sluggish grey clouds. The angle of the sun was so low that it lent the flies halos even before they were gobbled by the fish. I stood there a moment contemplating what had passed. The summer seemed so long ago now, the days of skinny dipping and paddling, of stolen kisses behind the reeds, of laughter and splashing, days where the pond would daily be fed with wet swimming costumes and hot limbs. It would come round again, I knew it would, as sure as the freckles on my nose, but it would not be the same. Innocence can only be lost once. Now the water was a shadow in which temptation swims.
I turned back and watched your elongated alter ego angled over the grass as you bent to strike a match. It began with smouldering and dry grass turning to glinting strands of tinsel and then the timber caught; a blister of heat and fire and life in the dark, a glow of ethereal mathematics, of fortune and physics. And there you stood, head bowed with age, arthritic knotted hands mangled together on the fork handle, your secret joy dancing in the waxing lights of it.
The copyright of this post belongs to Holly Khan
You always had a way to occupy my idle hands, my idle thoughts, and if I waited long enough you always instructed me.
"Rub off your sharp edges and fit in. Take time to find the right angle to approach someone. I know you have it in you, you're here aren't you." And there it was, a beacon of hope in the murk, a way forward. I was not required to reply, explain myself, just build the bonfire with you and consider the truth. You continued changing gear imperceptibly. "Triangular shapes make the most stable structures, wide and solid at the base. You want to make sure that the fire falls in on itself, not over you."
I watched the angles of the mangled branches knit together in a loose weave, manoeuvring them into relationship with one another and went to collect more of the brushwood from the side of the pond. The rain had stopped now, as you said it would, and feathered flies flew into the stillness of the water's tension, landing in the last rays of sun as it peeked from behind the sluggish grey clouds. The angle of the sun was so low that it lent the flies halos even before they were gobbled by the fish. I stood there a moment contemplating what had passed. The summer seemed so long ago now, the days of skinny dipping and paddling, of stolen kisses behind the reeds, of laughter and splashing, days where the pond would daily be fed with wet swimming costumes and hot limbs. It would come round again, I knew it would, as sure as the freckles on my nose, but it would not be the same. Innocence can only be lost once. Now the water was a shadow in which temptation swims.
I turned back and watched your elongated alter ego angled over the grass as you bent to strike a match. It began with smouldering and dry grass turning to glinting strands of tinsel and then the timber caught; a blister of heat and fire and life in the dark, a glow of ethereal mathematics, of fortune and physics. And there you stood, head bowed with age, arthritic knotted hands mangled together on the fork handle, your secret joy dancing in the waxing lights of it.
The copyright of this post belongs to Holly Khan
Monday, 30 November 2015
O Krish
"This is me in my short white dress". said The Lord Krish as he sat in the fruit-dirt. Long lengths of cloth hung from trees in red and gold like the sun, He blessed the kissed-crowd in their lace hems torn like hedge-rows. They gave him food and loops of white sweet knots for his kind neck. The wet waves in the pond knew he was a great man. His scent was hot spice. He could coil in their dreams like a King snake. He could cut the moon like a sharp knife and toss out the stars as though they were kites. He held light in his hands. Their eyes stung with his love. The black horse and dog bowed before him. The long and the short of it was they knew he would love them like a deep-knit stream; for a long time; for all time. One day he went off. Alone. The kind tree where he had been died. No one could speak. Their jaws ached. Their jaws were shut, tied in grief.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claudia Anne
Wednesday, 25 November 2015
And Still
With only skin to protect us, run deep in harm's way.
Stone has no breath,
Arms wide open, heart wide shut.
Then
Above your still still waters
His veins thrill
With the skin you were born into.
Rising blood,
Arms wide open, heart wide
Wide above
With only your skin to protect us
Then above your breath,
Above your skin
Something in harm's way
Deep, open, still.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
Stone has no breath,
Arms wide open, heart wide shut.
Then
Above your still still waters
His veins thrill
With the skin you were born into.
Rising blood,
Arms wide open, heart wide
Wide above
With only your skin to protect us
Then above your breath,
Above your skin
Something in harm's way
Deep, open, still.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele
Still
His veins thrill with rising blood, arms wide open, heart wide shut.
Still waters run deep in harms way, stone has no breath with only skin
to protect us; the skin you were born into. Then above your something
waters thrill with rising blood - the harm you were born into. With only
your heart, your breath to protect us. Still, blood rises above your
open heart. In water’s way, only skin to protect us. Arms wide shut,
heart wide open, something to protect us above your thrill veins breath.
Still veins wide shut.
The copyright of this post belongs to Ellen MacCree
The copyright of this post belongs to Ellen MacCree
Friday, 20 November 2015
The Walk
Share this meandering alleyway with me, where the crow watches from a carved gate with his black eyes. I did not know he had russet feathers beneath his coal-black wings, just as I did not know there were flecks of topaz in your down-cast eyes. Take my hand and lead me in your imagination. On this uneven path of cracking concrete I still cannot bear your tears behind closed doors. Keeping it to yourself keeps me in the dark. Let's stop so you can spoon pieces of mango into my mouth like a baby bird. I open up to you waiting to be fed, to drink your breath which tastes like Jamaican rum. I am drunk on you and have to hang on for dear life. Such loads my back can carry. Such heaviness can bring you to your knees, and they are already swollen. I see the trinkets, the sweet gifts left in the gaudy shrine. The candle is lit but the wax has pooled in the plastic saucer. I stare into your face and I feel my cheeks grow hot when I see the shared laughter and the light in your eyes. I want to be in your movie but not as an extra. These gifts we give wrapped in heart-paper; my offerings on the altar of love. If only you could share.
The copyright of this post belongs to Claudia Anne Kerala Nov. 2/15
Monday, 28 September 2015
The Makings of a Virago
THE MAKINGS OF A VIRAGO
The signs were all there: insomnia, talking to myself wandering from room to room, kissing mirrors leaving bright scarlet lips, eating tubs of fudge ice cream while sitting on the dusty floor of my closet, squeezing the compliant cat so hard he ran out into the rain never to reappear. Like somebody else I know. I started thinking about underwear again. Not the super-enriched cotton full-size briefs and saggy vests designed for plain comfort, but beautiful, sensuous silk brassieres and panties sewn in delicate Belgian lace. This was my madness; this awful knowledge that my old undies must go. You see, I realized this fact when I found myself crawling across my bed, on hands and knees, nose pointed into the fragile fabric of the Venetian coverlet. Sniffing, inch by inch, for any sign of your earthy scent. Snarling like a police dog looking for a running man. It all seemed so futile. What I actually smelled was not clear. Whiffs of laundry detergent? Cat pee? After shave by Jean Paul Gaultier? No matter. I made a sad ceremony of violently balling up the bedspread and tossing it into the washing machine. I turned the temperature dial to 90 degrees, the maximum. I said it out loud. "Disintegrate, please disintegrate." I had one more important job. I emptied the top dresser drawer onto the carpet stained from the dregs of red wine. Once I took a sip of that Merlot and held it in my mouth while you kissed me hard and sucked the alcohol and spit it out, like a fire-eater in a circus. I've drawn your face on the large stain with a black magic marker. Now you are absolutely permanent. I can see your face whenever I want. the big brown paper bag was stuffed to the brim with my lingerie rejects, and I dumped the lot in the recycling bin.
I've been thinking. I've always tended to rescue men as though they were an endangered species lost in the wild. I kept them as exotic pets. I loved them passionately until they wanted their freedom. I found them on street corners, smoking like old delinquents, recollecting their night raids of vandalizing cars in midnight parking lots. I found them angry in their leather jackets, pounding their steering wheels. I could make them shed tears on my shoulder. I found them exiting bad marriages, and biting their manicured fingernails until they bled over their suits. They were all ready to talk when I invited them home to huge bowls of spaghetti and plastic tumblers of cheap red wine. Sometimes I ironed their shirts. They fought over me in kitchens, punching with hard, clenched fists, and grappling on the linoleum tiles with the shouts, "Don't you touch her!" "Don't you go anywhere near her!" They came out with bloody noses. I should have been happy with that. They were clever and funny and ruthless. I walked down the aisle, knees trembling beneath white satin, and married the man who would leave me.
There are some images that stay with you for the remainder of your days and nights. These continue to haunt my dreams. I've tried to make a film in my mind, splicing together the times of my life when I felt in love and alive. The film is finished, now. Of course, it has to be private. But I have the privilege of running the reels anytime, anywhere. I've seen the film many times: waiting for a bus, pushing a trolley down supermarket aisles, putting my head under water in the bath wondering how long I could hold my breath. In the kitchen I let the tea kettle boil dry. The red plastic clock ticks as loud as a metronome, and matches the thundering palpitations of my heart. Perhaps I could label these beats as 'Andante' or I could speed everything up and go for 'molto Allegro'. I'm watching as each frame moves by in slow motion. there is no sound except the lines I provide myself.
FRAMES 1-3
1. Late at night Richard tapped on my bedroom window. His Christmas-rush shift at the city's post office was finished. Under the blankets his body froze me until we held each other in a death-grip. I breathed my hot breath into the crook of his neck. He said, "I broke the guy's arm. He kept baiting me, calling me "Jew-boy", so we had a fight in the elevator, and I twisted his arm behind his back until I heard the bone snap." I wanted to say, "he deserved it." I wanted to be horrified. Instead, I felt some thrill of danger in him. So I rescued him that night, and lost my virginity. Blood seeped onto the sheets. For months I wore his engagement ring, with its tiny stone, on a chain around my neck. The secrets started then.
2. "Carry me to your castle", I said, and he would scoop me up, and gently place me on the bed. That night he was the conductor. On the turn-table was his surprise; the climactic movement of Wagner's 'Tristan and Isolde'. he instructed me. I was his eager pupil. The music played so I could recognize the soaring phrases, and hear the exciting build-up of the exhilarating crescendos. "Can you hear it?" he whispered. He started the music again. He wanted me to wait and wait, and I now knew when to let go. We made filmic-love for 6 minutes and 24 seconds. The timing of this was impeccable, and he came at exactly the right moment. The tormented chords moved over our bodies, and it was thrilling. But I was young, and wanted that night to be the template for our always love. More fool me.
3. When my husband walked in I had no idea where he'd been for all the hours I waited. his face was set. His lovely mouth looked like a slashed black line. His eyes were defiant when he said, "I don't have to explain to you where I've been." All I remember is the overwhelming rage and fear coursing through the hands, arms and legs that had been sitting, so afraid, yet quietly mending a dress that resembled a painting by Picasso; so colourful, such a happy pattern of abstraction. he seemed grey to me, standing across the room, legs astride. I still held the tiny sewing scissors, and I saw myself, from afar, run ning at him. I thought of spurned, faithful Jocasta, wife of Oedipus, and I wished I could stab out his lying eyes myself. For I was already blind. Vengeance is always a crowd-pleaser on film. We got a divorce, and I framed myself as a cinematic mourner in the court room. I can never remove the shock of walking down the office stairs, and seeing him with his arm draped so intimately around the long-haired woman, stroking her arm. Everyone knew except me. I can still hear him say, "You think making love has to be spiritual, but it's really just fucking." I'm going to burn this cruel bit of celluloid, now.
FRAMES 4-5
4. This is my favourite section of the movie: those wild and unconventional places to make love. here is a winter walk with Mason, our cold hands swinging, our talk leaving small frost clouds. There were snow drifts beneath the trees looking like soft eiderdown pillows from a Norwegian bed. He pulled me down on the cold ground, and lay my head on the settled snow drift beneath a tall, snow-laden Spruce. It was quick.
, minimal undressing, just enough openings. I felt the cold through my back and then the heat. Soft flakes fell from the branches like little cotton stars over our bodies, and I dreamed I was inside the most beautiful snow-globe that the Norse gods had violently shaken.
5. Under the old, dark eaves of the costume department; sneaking up the rickety stairs so no-one would see us. A Sunday. I said, "I want to put on the most beautiful dress for you." it had to be a courtesan's gown, yards of lace over vast crinolines. I'd wear a feathered mask. But there was nothing as erotic as that desire hanging beneath the plastic dry cleaning bags. Instead, I dressed in a simple, elegant grey crepe with pearls and sequins on the bodice and 21 hooks and eyes. I stood with my naked back to you, and you came to me in silence, and slowly fastened each one. I could feel your breath on the nape of my neck. You stayed in the same clothes. The uniform you always wore; jeans and a blue shirt. I don't know of anyone else who expressed her love on an improvised pile of winter coats, furs and an old chenille bedspread. I stole that dress.
FRAME 6 FINIS
6. I threw your twelve string guitar at the wall. I have gone mad. I went from room to room in the emptied house, singing five versions of Ophelia's lament. When I reached our bedroom I chanted your name over and over and over until I lay down on the scuffed floorboards. You see, being awakened can be dangerous. I should know.
CREDITS
A cast of two
The copyright of this post belongs to Claudia Anne September/15
The signs were all there: insomnia, talking to myself wandering from room to room, kissing mirrors leaving bright scarlet lips, eating tubs of fudge ice cream while sitting on the dusty floor of my closet, squeezing the compliant cat so hard he ran out into the rain never to reappear. Like somebody else I know. I started thinking about underwear again. Not the super-enriched cotton full-size briefs and saggy vests designed for plain comfort, but beautiful, sensuous silk brassieres and panties sewn in delicate Belgian lace. This was my madness; this awful knowledge that my old undies must go. You see, I realized this fact when I found myself crawling across my bed, on hands and knees, nose pointed into the fragile fabric of the Venetian coverlet. Sniffing, inch by inch, for any sign of your earthy scent. Snarling like a police dog looking for a running man. It all seemed so futile. What I actually smelled was not clear. Whiffs of laundry detergent? Cat pee? After shave by Jean Paul Gaultier? No matter. I made a sad ceremony of violently balling up the bedspread and tossing it into the washing machine. I turned the temperature dial to 90 degrees, the maximum. I said it out loud. "Disintegrate, please disintegrate." I had one more important job. I emptied the top dresser drawer onto the carpet stained from the dregs of red wine. Once I took a sip of that Merlot and held it in my mouth while you kissed me hard and sucked the alcohol and spit it out, like a fire-eater in a circus. I've drawn your face on the large stain with a black magic marker. Now you are absolutely permanent. I can see your face whenever I want. the big brown paper bag was stuffed to the brim with my lingerie rejects, and I dumped the lot in the recycling bin.
I've been thinking. I've always tended to rescue men as though they were an endangered species lost in the wild. I kept them as exotic pets. I loved them passionately until they wanted their freedom. I found them on street corners, smoking like old delinquents, recollecting their night raids of vandalizing cars in midnight parking lots. I found them angry in their leather jackets, pounding their steering wheels. I could make them shed tears on my shoulder. I found them exiting bad marriages, and biting their manicured fingernails until they bled over their suits. They were all ready to talk when I invited them home to huge bowls of spaghetti and plastic tumblers of cheap red wine. Sometimes I ironed their shirts. They fought over me in kitchens, punching with hard, clenched fists, and grappling on the linoleum tiles with the shouts, "Don't you touch her!" "Don't you go anywhere near her!" They came out with bloody noses. I should have been happy with that. They were clever and funny and ruthless. I walked down the aisle, knees trembling beneath white satin, and married the man who would leave me.
There are some images that stay with you for the remainder of your days and nights. These continue to haunt my dreams. I've tried to make a film in my mind, splicing together the times of my life when I felt in love and alive. The film is finished, now. Of course, it has to be private. But I have the privilege of running the reels anytime, anywhere. I've seen the film many times: waiting for a bus, pushing a trolley down supermarket aisles, putting my head under water in the bath wondering how long I could hold my breath. In the kitchen I let the tea kettle boil dry. The red plastic clock ticks as loud as a metronome, and matches the thundering palpitations of my heart. Perhaps I could label these beats as 'Andante' or I could speed everything up and go for 'molto Allegro'. I'm watching as each frame moves by in slow motion. there is no sound except the lines I provide myself.
FRAMES 1-3
1. Late at night Richard tapped on my bedroom window. His Christmas-rush shift at the city's post office was finished. Under the blankets his body froze me until we held each other in a death-grip. I breathed my hot breath into the crook of his neck. He said, "I broke the guy's arm. He kept baiting me, calling me "Jew-boy", so we had a fight in the elevator, and I twisted his arm behind his back until I heard the bone snap." I wanted to say, "he deserved it." I wanted to be horrified. Instead, I felt some thrill of danger in him. So I rescued him that night, and lost my virginity. Blood seeped onto the sheets. For months I wore his engagement ring, with its tiny stone, on a chain around my neck. The secrets started then.
2. "Carry me to your castle", I said, and he would scoop me up, and gently place me on the bed. That night he was the conductor. On the turn-table was his surprise; the climactic movement of Wagner's 'Tristan and Isolde'. he instructed me. I was his eager pupil. The music played so I could recognize the soaring phrases, and hear the exciting build-up of the exhilarating crescendos. "Can you hear it?" he whispered. He started the music again. He wanted me to wait and wait, and I now knew when to let go. We made filmic-love for 6 minutes and 24 seconds. The timing of this was impeccable, and he came at exactly the right moment. The tormented chords moved over our bodies, and it was thrilling. But I was young, and wanted that night to be the template for our always love. More fool me.
3. When my husband walked in I had no idea where he'd been for all the hours I waited. his face was set. His lovely mouth looked like a slashed black line. His eyes were defiant when he said, "I don't have to explain to you where I've been." All I remember is the overwhelming rage and fear coursing through the hands, arms and legs that had been sitting, so afraid, yet quietly mending a dress that resembled a painting by Picasso; so colourful, such a happy pattern of abstraction. he seemed grey to me, standing across the room, legs astride. I still held the tiny sewing scissors, and I saw myself, from afar, run ning at him. I thought of spurned, faithful Jocasta, wife of Oedipus, and I wished I could stab out his lying eyes myself. For I was already blind. Vengeance is always a crowd-pleaser on film. We got a divorce, and I framed myself as a cinematic mourner in the court room. I can never remove the shock of walking down the office stairs, and seeing him with his arm draped so intimately around the long-haired woman, stroking her arm. Everyone knew except me. I can still hear him say, "You think making love has to be spiritual, but it's really just fucking." I'm going to burn this cruel bit of celluloid, now.
FRAMES 4-5
4. This is my favourite section of the movie: those wild and unconventional places to make love. here is a winter walk with Mason, our cold hands swinging, our talk leaving small frost clouds. There were snow drifts beneath the trees looking like soft eiderdown pillows from a Norwegian bed. He pulled me down on the cold ground, and lay my head on the settled snow drift beneath a tall, snow-laden Spruce. It was quick.
, minimal undressing, just enough openings. I felt the cold through my back and then the heat. Soft flakes fell from the branches like little cotton stars over our bodies, and I dreamed I was inside the most beautiful snow-globe that the Norse gods had violently shaken.
5. Under the old, dark eaves of the costume department; sneaking up the rickety stairs so no-one would see us. A Sunday. I said, "I want to put on the most beautiful dress for you." it had to be a courtesan's gown, yards of lace over vast crinolines. I'd wear a feathered mask. But there was nothing as erotic as that desire hanging beneath the plastic dry cleaning bags. Instead, I dressed in a simple, elegant grey crepe with pearls and sequins on the bodice and 21 hooks and eyes. I stood with my naked back to you, and you came to me in silence, and slowly fastened each one. I could feel your breath on the nape of my neck. You stayed in the same clothes. The uniform you always wore; jeans and a blue shirt. I don't know of anyone else who expressed her love on an improvised pile of winter coats, furs and an old chenille bedspread. I stole that dress.
FRAME 6 FINIS
6. I threw your twelve string guitar at the wall. I have gone mad. I went from room to room in the emptied house, singing five versions of Ophelia's lament. When I reached our bedroom I chanted your name over and over and over until I lay down on the scuffed floorboards. You see, being awakened can be dangerous. I should know.
CREDITS
A cast of two
The copyright of this post belongs to Claudia Anne September/15
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