We
walk the Paris streets at night talking. The streets glisten with the
slick dampness of a recent rainstorm. We find places along the way to
stop at. We eat and drink. He holds my hand as we walk,
“I
was reading from your other blog recently,” he tells me.
“Which
one? You are funny. You may be the only one who ever reads them.
Unless I write about sex.”
“The
one about John.”
“Oh,
that one. I haven't touched that one for awhile.”
“Does
your husband know you still talk to him?” Bran asks and stops me.
The l'arc de triomphe is looming like a construct around him.
His tall frame seems to fill the arch when I look back up at him. He
has turned intense suddenly. It seems like a strange place to be
having a serious conversation. Here where there is history, like a
backdrop to a film.
“We
don't talk any more,” I tell him.
“No?
Are you sure about that? When was the last time you spoke to him?”
“About
six months before I met you. Why? Did it make you jealous?” I ask
him. But I am really just teasing him. “I don't even remember what
I wrote on there. You shouldn't be jealous. You see, I think I
realized that it was my perceptions that made it so....at the time
--epic. And that is what a writer or any artist tries to
capture. The bridge between a transition of self. Don't you do that
too with your art? Don't you find that?”
Bran
does not seem convinced. He is giving me a doubtful look but I see
that he is trying to work out a thought. It takes him awhile but then
he says,
“no....
”
I
wait and just look up at him. He says,
“we
should probably head back.... we have that meeting in the morning.”
“Do
I have to go?”I ask.
“Why
wouldn't you want to?”and he is now looking thoughtfully down into
my eyes. He removes my glasses to look right in but the moss of his
has turned Monet in my vision.
“I
don't like meeting people. Especially if I have to sell myself,” I
tell him. “I'd rather you just did it for me.”
But
he shakes his head,
“he
wants to meet you. He told me he likes your quirkiness.”
“Am
I quirky?”
“He's
interested,” I see in blurry vision that he is smiling, “this can
be good for you.... for us.”
***
And
in the middle of the night I wake because my dream mind has forgot
what is real. But no, he is there.... his presence.... reassured. We
sleep in some stranger's bed. We sleep closer than anyone I have ever
slept next to.
And
my mind goes places. With him. Between sleep, the trap doors
unlatch.... streams of consciousness.
I
never meant to be too much too take. Because that is what they would
say. Too dark. Too moody. Too unpredictable, too much in character
with my red hair.... too passionate. Too poetic.... too tragic, too
mental.
I
never meant to be this way. I was not trying to be. I just never
figured out how not to be. But I guess, by now, I have given up
trying to be something else. I guess, maybe, I am feral. I am strong
and tough but not where it shows. It is in the internal world. My
father said I looked like a cream-puff but was a sharp-edged blade of
steel inside. Only he got it wrong. How could he know that father
that he killed made the razor edge so sharp? Behind the edge is a
universe. In there are so many fractures of celves.
Within
the tomb
within
the womb.....
The
pace of his breathing lulls me to sleep even as I try to think, my
mind lets go....
there
is no access here. You peel off the layer like an article of
clothing. You inspect the wear and tear or damage. You put it away
either hung in the closet or folded in a drawer. You shut the drawer,
shut the door. And as you go down the hallway, you can see light that
comes from a window in another room. You follow it and go inside. You
look out the window. Your mind is transported into day dream. You
think of what you are running from. Hiding from. You sit on the floor
and cry..... because only in here you can. Here in this soundproofed
room. Wail out the monsters where otherwise there is no voice. Here
you can fall apart.... and then as you dream out the window.... you
see a garden and then you climb out the window.... you go to the
garden and find a tree to climb.... and fall asleep on a branch....
and dream of love....
What
is it about music....? it enters in and becomes a part of the
cellular mind. But then there is the denouement for me. It captures,
like a picture; or scent; a snapshot in time. The emotions, sealed
within the walls of sound in this metaphorical jar. All of it is
there. My whole life at the time, all contained in the timing of
notes and sounds. Which is why I cannot listen to old songs or songs
from my past. Those jars are meant to be left sealed off, like a
stairway to heaven, and filed in the archives like a
girlfriend in a coma..... those old songs were just my rough
drafts.... I had to go around the bend. But I am further evolved this
way. Still perfecting the stone and now
....as
I try to figure out how to go from Garbo in Anna Karenina to
Hepburn in the African Queen ….and then....
finally.... to truly just me.... I wonder if it is only me or is it
always such a struggle to figure out the purpose and how to be and
accept the tragic riddle we call life.
In
Freud's descriptions of the emotional map of the mind, he was known
to site how the early environments engrave the person for life. The
absence where the illusion of security was never suggested is not
possible to mourn. This void is entrenched into the muscle memory of
the mind. It is not possible to recover a loss for something you
never had. It is best to acknowledge this. Because there are other
methods better to counter balance this void. But there is a negative
side which is.... that often those you encounter will find that you
are too much to handle.
Too
intense. Too much. But maybe it is because we have gone over
the edge and lived to tell. It scares the rest away. But I don't
really blame them. And this is why I really just like to be alone,
less prisoners to carry back.
But
I see it is different to Bran. He does not seem to fear my darkness.
But
he is an artist too and I think this may be why.
I
think it is a common mistake to believe that the artist is creating.
The artist is a medium. The artist channels energy. Like a lion
tamer, an artist constructs the random impressions into composition,
but the composition was always there. The failure of the artist is
that the artist's ego tries to get in the way of what the muse is
revealing. The artist's role is to be a tuning fork. Artists should
be like archaeologists uncovering a buried treasure. Of course, this
is just my belief and maybe I am speaking in satire partially. But
no. I am not really. I do really believe this.
He
says in half sleep,
“Beth,
go back to sleep,” as though he senses me. He runs his fingers
through my hair. And I am tangled and released.
No comments:
Post a Comment