The drawing of the curtains created a sudden sharp zapping sound and his eyes focussed for a while on the flame of the steady burning candle behind her. He did not dare to look at her, her eyes often drawing him in and locking him. It gave him an intense pang in his heart he was uncomfortable with, and yet the outline of her face highlighted by the orange flame enticed him to look at her. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of lavender and vanilla. Opening his eyes he found her sitting perfectly still, her eyes focussed on the words of the book she was holding and her lips tenderly kissed the cigarette buds and her chest raised as she drew in. She looked up and smiled. The sweet smile that would take him years to forget. And there it was again. The intense pang in his heart that made his stomach flutter. His heart ached with the sudden intense want for her.
He moved slowly towards her lengthening the minutes of deep desire. She looked back down at her book and he allowed his eyes to explore every single inch of her. Her toes, calves, and the bare skin of her thighs. Her pink boxers and the ribbon that held it around her hips. His chest raised as he drew in deeply the sweet smoky frgrance of her. He looked at the pink camisole hung loosely to cover the skin he desired to touch. He looked at the slender long fingers that held that book and the slender white arms that extend towards her graceful shoulders. On her neck hung the platinum necklace he had gotten her for their first anniversary. The diamond pendant sat at the dip of the necklace right where the lace of the camisole starts. He watched as her chest rises as she drew in another breath.
She was not a striking beauty, and yet she had a beauty that held one's heart tightly. The grip of her beauty was gentle, open and yet there were strings, invisible that tied one to that beauty. Almost like an addiction. It was bitter, sweet and salty, all at once. Her beauty was inviting, and old, comforting, not much like the commercial make up models that cut into any tranquil scene with their seductive glare. Looking back at them only caused a great disappointment for there was nothing in their sharp sudden beauty that held the heart tight. She was different. She gently draws you in, she gives you something else. Something about that beauty makes you want to linger. Linger on.
Beauty has this ability to cut through to the deepest part of the heart and beauty has the ability to stay there in its centre. That was his thought as he slowly reached out to touch her face. He drew close and lifted her chin and looked deep into her eyes. She smiled as she put her book aside and looked at him with eyes so tender. Deep desire fanned the steady flame burning in his heart for her. The flame that flickered fast to burst out and burn blue. A deep blue in the middle of fiery orange. He placed his hands on her waist and pulled her close. Their eyes meet and in that second the world faded. Nothing but her beauty held him close He kissed her moist lips that tenderly kissed him back and he began to explore, as if it were for the first time, the feel of her bare skin on his palms.
Beauty has the ability to hold the deepest part of the heart. This beauty in her had the ability to make walls of his heart give way to its centre. And at that moment she had acess to the very centre of his heart. The very core. She touched it lightly, and he wanted more.
He held her tight and as her bare skin touches his, he began to dive deeper. Deeper and deeper into the depth of her beauty. Slowly he swam, in her arms. He plunged. His skin tingled cold and hot. He reached in for more and her beauty fluidly surrounded him. As he floated, swam in the ocean that was her beauty, all things stood still in time.
Her beauty opened up and under it lay something more. In moments where he thought he had all of her to himself, he was left wanting, for more. He held her tight, close and beauty upon beauty unfolded. The layers slip off revealing another. Layer upon layer beauty unfolded. Layer upon layer he plunged. She lay allowing each layer unwrap. Unwrapped from herself he discovered there beneath it all lay the heart of the the creator from whom all her beauty flows, where all her beauty rests. He stood still, breathless and in awe at the glory. Her beauty was pure.
In that beauty pure the man lost himself and gave all that was within him. Unwrapped from himself she discovered in him the glorious presence of what was beneath that flesh. His love, pure. The candle flickered and let out its last light as it gently rests to allow darkness to envelope them. In that moment beauty and love drew in, deeply and rested. In that soft, smoky fragrant darkness she rested in his arms, she felt like had seen the world and even heaven.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Yellow dress,yellow dress, life is more than less...
It was raining heavily and the cold air hung heavily around. She pulled up her worn leather boots under her yellow dress and put on her hat. The heels of her boots made a pleasant clucking noise as she briskly walked across the streets towards the park in the corner. She needed to speak to her today, it had been a while now that she is back on those meds and she wanted off. She needed to speak to her. Cuddling herself underneath her coat she broke into a slight run as she panicked at the sight of the empty seat on cathedral square. The ginger cat sat curled in a ball on the park bench motionless. She sat down beside the cat and all of a sudden felt a pang of loneliness wash over her. Her heart began to beat faster as she heard hymns being sung in the chapel of the cathedral in the middle of the city. Chatter from the crowd that is huddled on the steps of the overflowed chapel drew her attention to listen hard to the conversations that were revolved around a single subject. The little old lady that lay in that coffin inside.
As the rain turned into a storm and the thunder began to roll, the crowd huddled closer, undispersing. She drew her knees up towards her chin and lit a cigarette. The ginger cat huddled closely beside her. I watched her eyes attentively as her eyelids fluttered slowly. The cold air closed in tightly around me as I approached the cathedral building and walked around in search for an open window. I crouched to sit on the ledge of one close to the pulpit and peered in. Taken by the sight of tears streaming down the faces of the strangers I listened attentively to the words of each person as they told the story that painted me a clear picture of the little old lady.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
I observed every detail of that tall distinguished gentleman closely. His voice boomed loud and clear as I listened attentively. His white hair was neatly combed and his black leather shoes were shiny. The well-fitted black suit complemented his well-built body perfectly. There was an expectancy in the silences when he paused. He slid his right hand into his pocket and his eyes searched the crowd. He was articulate, intelligent, and appropriately humorous. The man, who most recognised, I gathered had a social status and a bank account coveted by many but as his words gushed out and his voice began to quiver I saw behind that integrous stature, the raw soul that was touched deep by the little old lady.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
Stranger upon stranger stood upon that pedestal to give tribute to the little old lady and I watched in amusement. For me she was but a small part of my life. She was my Monday morning coffee companion. My Monday mornings were the most depressing of all days. Usually waking up with the blues these mornings were devoted to the homeless shelter where the most depressing of all faces bearing sad stories were soaked up by my raw soul and by the late morning, when it was time to walk out again, I often found that all hope had been quite zapped from me. The little old lady, the one who saw my baggage carrying soul. On one of these morning I found myself being the recipient of a charitable act from a homeless hob of a lady in the form of a take away coffee, company and a wholesome heartfelt conversation. From that Monday onwards I bought the coffees, but she never failed to be there, just for me to pour my raw and sore soul.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
The morning turned to noon and the voices that related similar stories to mine streamed. As the middle aged single mother with a baby on her hip stepped down the yellow dress floated slowly towards the pedestal. The heels of her boots clucked pleasantly against the wooden floorboards of the old church. Her voice began strong and confident as she animatedly drew the crowds in as I began to enjoy the slight warmth from the slice of sunlight that shone through an opening in the morning mist. The afternoon sun was beginning to show through the grey clouds and I took a deep breath as she took hers to swallow the lump in her throat. The cool air however suspended and hung tight as the silence was broken by her gentle whispery voice.
For me, to wake is an achievement. She paused and searched the crowd and looked into each teary eye that was on her. To steer myself away from overdosing on another sleeping pill, or cutting myself with another blade is my daily challenge. Darkness often has a tight grip around me and to get a glimpse of hope, in any form at all I consider a miracle. Like any cancer patient in pain, for me, to live a day without pain, and to break my lips into a smile, is a day better than any other. A pained yellow dress, bearing pains of humanity like any other.
The drizzle turned back into rain as all ears turned to listen to her story. It was almost as if the whole city stopped to hear her story. Each ear linked to a heart that hoped to be inspired by the voice of that yellow dress in leather boots. Each heart hoped very hard that the little old lady did not live a life of nothing, despite having nothing, and so each silence, each breath, in that cathedral was filled with expectancy of a story that will tell us what we hope. That each life, means more than less.
Her gentle whispery voice continued. The quiet orphan girl, who found charity not in the social worker, nor the homes of the hundreds of foster families she had breezed through. She found charity not in the cold hard school teacher nor the nun that failed to take a moment to stop judging her for wanting nothing other than to find relief in death. She found charity not in the employer who thought she was giving her the biggest favour in helping her find a career. Charitable favours, in those she saw. But the charity that held her tight to the promise to wake up each day was given her by a little old lady on the park bench at cathedral square. In that trivial little lady, who found time in her triviality to see an aching raw soul among the millions that pass her by. There before her was a little old lady, a cold wintry afternoon and lukewarm coffee. In a cup of take away coffee, company and a wholesome heartfelt chat the girl found reason to trade her black dress for a yellow one. The lady taught her to see through the coloured lenses of hope and through the little old lady's lenses she saw for the first time, the world in colour. The girl in the yellow dress whispered from the wooden pedestal. She always told me life was more than less, that trivialities, are the big matters. Each life is more than less.
I looked around the art gallery at every shot and scene of the photographs that were displayed around the hall. On the right were black and white and grey figures, apart from the single figure on the park bench at cathedral square, and on the right were coloured figures, apart from the single black and white figure on the park bench at cathedral square. In the centre of the room a row of photographs, in black, white and grey, and a small space on the park bench at cathedral square. A small space that screamed loudly indeed. The single space that used to colour hopeless faces. That is why, in the absence of the single coloured figure, is a space too big to ignore.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
She left a space bigger than just the absence of Monday morning coffee, and in that space I was inspired. She left a space bigger than I could imagine, and in that space she was inspired. I smiled as she packed up, slung the camera on her right shoulder and shook some hands as she turned to walk out.
That little old lady was not much to look at. In the cathedral that morning the picture was painted. She was more than a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. She was more than just another homeless hob. The little old lady, when she lived, coloured a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine. The little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
As the rain turned into a storm and the thunder began to roll, the crowd huddled closer, undispersing. She drew her knees up towards her chin and lit a cigarette. The ginger cat huddled closely beside her. I watched her eyes attentively as her eyelids fluttered slowly. The cold air closed in tightly around me as I approached the cathedral building and walked around in search for an open window. I crouched to sit on the ledge of one close to the pulpit and peered in. Taken by the sight of tears streaming down the faces of the strangers I listened attentively to the words of each person as they told the story that painted me a clear picture of the little old lady.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
I observed every detail of that tall distinguished gentleman closely. His voice boomed loud and clear as I listened attentively. His white hair was neatly combed and his black leather shoes were shiny. The well-fitted black suit complemented his well-built body perfectly. There was an expectancy in the silences when he paused. He slid his right hand into his pocket and his eyes searched the crowd. He was articulate, intelligent, and appropriately humorous. The man, who most recognised, I gathered had a social status and a bank account coveted by many but as his words gushed out and his voice began to quiver I saw behind that integrous stature, the raw soul that was touched deep by the little old lady.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
Stranger upon stranger stood upon that pedestal to give tribute to the little old lady and I watched in amusement. For me she was but a small part of my life. She was my Monday morning coffee companion. My Monday mornings were the most depressing of all days. Usually waking up with the blues these mornings were devoted to the homeless shelter where the most depressing of all faces bearing sad stories were soaked up by my raw soul and by the late morning, when it was time to walk out again, I often found that all hope had been quite zapped from me. The little old lady, the one who saw my baggage carrying soul. On one of these morning I found myself being the recipient of a charitable act from a homeless hob of a lady in the form of a take away coffee, company and a wholesome heartfelt conversation. From that Monday onwards I bought the coffees, but she never failed to be there, just for me to pour my raw and sore soul.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
The morning turned to noon and the voices that related similar stories to mine streamed. As the middle aged single mother with a baby on her hip stepped down the yellow dress floated slowly towards the pedestal. The heels of her boots clucked pleasantly against the wooden floorboards of the old church. Her voice began strong and confident as she animatedly drew the crowds in as I began to enjoy the slight warmth from the slice of sunlight that shone through an opening in the morning mist. The afternoon sun was beginning to show through the grey clouds and I took a deep breath as she took hers to swallow the lump in her throat. The cool air however suspended and hung tight as the silence was broken by her gentle whispery voice.
For me, to wake is an achievement. She paused and searched the crowd and looked into each teary eye that was on her. To steer myself away from overdosing on another sleeping pill, or cutting myself with another blade is my daily challenge. Darkness often has a tight grip around me and to get a glimpse of hope, in any form at all I consider a miracle. Like any cancer patient in pain, for me, to live a day without pain, and to break my lips into a smile, is a day better than any other. A pained yellow dress, bearing pains of humanity like any other.
The drizzle turned back into rain as all ears turned to listen to her story. It was almost as if the whole city stopped to hear her story. Each ear linked to a heart that hoped to be inspired by the voice of that yellow dress in leather boots. Each heart hoped very hard that the little old lady did not live a life of nothing, despite having nothing, and so each silence, each breath, in that cathedral was filled with expectancy of a story that will tell us what we hope. That each life, means more than less.
Her gentle whispery voice continued. The quiet orphan girl, who found charity not in the social worker, nor the homes of the hundreds of foster families she had breezed through. She found charity not in the cold hard school teacher nor the nun that failed to take a moment to stop judging her for wanting nothing other than to find relief in death. She found charity not in the employer who thought she was giving her the biggest favour in helping her find a career. Charitable favours, in those she saw. But the charity that held her tight to the promise to wake up each day was given her by a little old lady on the park bench at cathedral square. In that trivial little lady, who found time in her triviality to see an aching raw soul among the millions that pass her by. There before her was a little old lady, a cold wintry afternoon and lukewarm coffee. In a cup of take away coffee, company and a wholesome heartfelt chat the girl found reason to trade her black dress for a yellow one. The lady taught her to see through the coloured lenses of hope and through the little old lady's lenses she saw for the first time, the world in colour. The girl in the yellow dress whispered from the wooden pedestal. She always told me life was more than less, that trivialities, are the big matters. Each life is more than less.
I looked around the art gallery at every shot and scene of the photographs that were displayed around the hall. On the right were black and white and grey figures, apart from the single figure on the park bench at cathedral square, and on the right were coloured figures, apart from the single black and white figure on the park bench at cathedral square. In the centre of the room a row of photographs, in black, white and grey, and a small space on the park bench at cathedral square. A small space that screamed loudly indeed. The single space that used to colour hopeless faces. That is why, in the absence of the single coloured figure, is a space too big to ignore.
That little old lady was not much to look at. To some, more than others, she was but a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. The stench of her was rather strange, almost like one who is so old she has absorbed all the smells of the earth, and so to most she was just another homeless hob. And yet, the little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
She left a space bigger than just the absence of Monday morning coffee, and in that space I was inspired. She left a space bigger than I could imagine, and in that space she was inspired. I smiled as she packed up, slung the camera on her right shoulder and shook some hands as she turned to walk out.
That little old lady was not much to look at. In the cathedral that morning the picture was painted. She was more than a sore sight on the park bench feeding them stray cats every morning. She was more than just another homeless hob. The little old lady, when she lived, coloured a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine. The little old lady, when she died, left a space bigger than anyone could think or imagine.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Frere jacques
Art thou asleep father john? Awkward for her, the dear li'l sixteen year old. All alone in rich prissy france and all she knew of that language was that song she sung the children to sleep each night, frere jacques ferre jacques dormez-vous dormez-vous...and even that she hummed the last bit, for it was rarely she recalled those words. Sometimes she reverted back to english morning bells are ringing, morning bells are rining, ding ding dong, ding ding dong.
She crept into his office, father john. and sure enough he was asleep. afraid to wake him she crept back out again and back to the seminary. dear little miss muffet who likes strawberry shortcakes. Too afraid to wake father john. and so she lay in bed and her thoughts went all arond the mulberry bush so tempted to unroot it. She diverted but then all she could hear were the children singing ring-a-ring-a roses again and again. Drove her nuts. She had to leave before mary mary quite contrary came around to water them gardens. she had enough. So she packed them bags.
Dear little sixteen year old whose grandfather's clock just stopped, and gone was her guardian and only relative, for she was nobody's child. She was sent to father john. father john was nice, except he was asleep most of the time, and when he was awake, he took not much interest in the real world, all he talked about with her were of big fishes, and jack's beanstalk, fee fi fo fum, the next door lady lives in a shoe. Probably because the only real thing he remembers was the london bridge falling down, and no he didn't want to reminisce on that. Who would?
And so she packed her bags and ran to catch michael as he rowed the boat ashore, to see if he could row her back out again to the other side of the river. and then she ran pass humpty, who seemed to keep insisting he saw the cow jump over the moon, she could care less. She wanted something real. So she ran pass mary whose carpet bag seemed too light to hold that horse she just pulled out of it, and dear mr chimney sweep lifting his hat off to her greeting her - supercalafrgalistic god knows how u spell it. And then jack spratt argued with his wife, and sure enough she passed the old woman who lived in her shoe. Good grief! And then pop went the weasel as it ran pass her, and she thought, father john! he must be awake now. she must go back for she's just been a bit silly.
So she turned around, and left her silliness behind. and trotted back to neverland where peter pan was a really good friend. and there he was father john, wide awake and smiling, protecting her from dear handsome georgie porgie who thought he could kiss all them gals. Peter piper there again, with all them rats behind him, and there in father john's office, two new friends, just like her, dear gretel, gingerbread still in hand, and her brother hansel. Hansel was to cook for them. How lvoely. And then she passed by mary who was quite contrary as she walked back to her room which was beside the little girl who always wore a red riding hood, who always told of how her grandma was eaten by a wolf. NASTY!
She crept back into bed, and closed her eyes, exhausted. How glad she is to be back in frere jacques' care.
and then tomorrow, awaits her and unlike oliver twists' dreadful meals, hansel always cooks up some lovely pot-roast. blessings indeed.
Golliwog in, Golliwog out
He sat and sipped his coffee as she watched intently, a milllion thoughts firing the her mind. her mind, the atelier of most things in her life, whether or not concrete. A million thoughts fired, as he sat and sipped his coffee. Like an art, his coffee sipping. not delicate, and yet, not quite brash, nor bold. it's artful sipping.
The gallery owner was overseas and she had managed it quite badly. Point of conversation this morning as he sipped his coffee was the Roslyn gallery. The amonut of debt was unthinkable. Bad management, how it could be so destructive huh? She nodded. The sipping turned brash as he frowned at her disatisfied at her nonchalance. She sighed, this time resolved to let go for she knew what was in her heart, no need to explain, no need to explain. She was interested, and what he said was interesting, she just did not react the way he wanted. This time, she let go. The golliwog peered in.
Take the golliwog out.
She watched him intently. Golliwog spoke, she swore the golliwog spoke.
Take the golliwog out!
Take the golliwog out!
Take the golliwog out.
And then in the attic. Salt-fish cafe, fish-cakes and salted coffee, the specialty. And the familar comfortable picture. Emotions, senses as you stare at the picture. Senses which washes your body with a sense of relief, and your mind almost immediately relaxes as you smile. And that the heart stopped as her lips curled with disgust, golliwog in the garden of the salt-fish cafe. Golliwogs in her attic.
Take the golliwog out.
Take the golliwog out.
She watched intently and peered in the window. The atelier of most things in his life, his mind. A window. Clear blue sky, noon-day sun. Emotions and senses washed over her body again. And there at the edge of the painting, the sillhoute of a quarter of a golliwog, running.
Golliwog, golliwog, gone.
Peer in.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
floating on black clouds
My lack of desire worries me, she says. To be honest, her lack of desire worries me even more and I see her floating up on black clouds. It worries me when she turns inside only to see a tar baby staring back at her, wrestling with it leaves her black and blue. It worries me to see her trudging along in her black canvas shoes with black shoestrings. I have witnessed it when the balance of all things in her little circle flips itself all out of proportion and she is balancing on a thin string amongst black clouds.
I want to scream, she says, in a strangely calm manner. I see red. It is when she screams silently I get worried. She is losing her grip and going back to a place where it is just her, alone, and she stops living. No one can get in, and she brings out her scissors to cut all strings. I see her retreating and I reach out. I try to hold her hand, so she can feel skin on her skin. Not tar. Isolation on black clouds turn all things black. Oh how I get worried when she starts seeing grey.
It has been a while since she saw grey. Life has been in colour for a while, and then the mat was pulled out from under her. I see her now struggling to stand, she is beginning to float.
Numbness radiates inside out, a numbness that aches, she says. And tears stream down my face. My extended hand may not be enough to pull her up from either side. The tar baby stirs and fights back and she has lost the energy to wrestle. I want to step in and kick it out, but how. I may drown in there with her. I want to stay out here, out where the black clouds are just a view, and I am still walking, not floating.
I am turning around, and hope, she follows me. After all, my hand is always extended.
I want to scream, she says, in a strangely calm manner. I see red. It is when she screams silently I get worried. She is losing her grip and going back to a place where it is just her, alone, and she stops living. No one can get in, and she brings out her scissors to cut all strings. I see her retreating and I reach out. I try to hold her hand, so she can feel skin on her skin. Not tar. Isolation on black clouds turn all things black. Oh how I get worried when she starts seeing grey.
It has been a while since she saw grey. Life has been in colour for a while, and then the mat was pulled out from under her. I see her now struggling to stand, she is beginning to float.
Numbness radiates inside out, a numbness that aches, she says. And tears stream down my face. My extended hand may not be enough to pull her up from either side. The tar baby stirs and fights back and she has lost the energy to wrestle. I want to step in and kick it out, but how. I may drown in there with her. I want to stay out here, out where the black clouds are just a view, and I am still walking, not floating.
I am turning around, and hope, she follows me. After all, my hand is always extended.
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