Frozen fingers, toppled skies
Date: 31 March 2007
Time: Closer to evening
Location: Deirdre's flat
Characters Involved: Myron Wagtail and Deirdre Burke
Rating: PG-13 or thereabouts
"I am too alone in the world," whispers flew asunder perched atop his head. "And yet not alone enough to make every hour holy*." Broken piano notes crawled over unto the floor.
That day the sky had toppled over. Diagonal lines, cutting (slicing) through, thick layers of storm clouds with gleams of sunlight, remnants. An ecumenical leapfrog with what's beneath and what is up, alteriora peto, and something entirely else.
"I am too small in the world," the sky was threatening to spill over from a slanted cup. "And yet not tiny enough just to stand before you--" he frowned against the biting cold of the window-glass. "Like a thing--" his hand juxtaposed itself against the latch. "Dark and shrewd." The wind burst into the inside, blowing papers on an oaken desk away.
The piano was untuned. Dust had piled itself over its enameled surface, in celebration of his neglect, leering. "I want my will, and I want to be with my will," whispers-- like black crows circled around in their ephemeral dance. Imagine them. "As it moves towards deed..." A frail rustling of old parchment echoed around, tapered fingers turning the pages over, and black ink conveying the meaning of smiles and heartbeats in a silent room. "And in those quiet, somehow hesitating times," he looked outside at the ancient oak tree, bare and black and presaging. "When something is approaching... shhhh--":
It had been a near-month, a far-off year: here and not, closer/farther, two universes colliding almost and running away into the wilderness, or perhaps from. She liked disappearing, like quicksilver-- like himself.
A near-month.
"I want to be with those who are wise
or else alone."
... [a thousands of years pass] ...
The creak scratched against his bowels, as he wandered in. Inside it was dark, the last rays of a dying sun reflecting lazily against the walls. No light, as if dead and forgotten and thrown out. Hidden smiles, and curves, and quiet evenings with games of hide-and-seek, 'come closer or disappear'. And something entirely else.
There was a picture of her on one of the stands.
"I want always to be a mirror that reflects your whole being,"
- he slanted his head to the side, cloudy gaze lost in the broken shards of her own.
"and never to be too blind or too old
to hold your heavy, swaying image."
He walked into another room.
"I want to unfold.
Nowhere do I want to remain folded,
because where I am bent and folded, there I am a lie,"
he argued with himself, nervous, existentially challenged. He frowned, and walked on, wandering into the further innards of her fairy abode. He bit on his lip, closing eyes. And leaning against the walls, as twilight's spectrality drained the colour away from him. [Sometimes, in the synergetic musicising moments, it felt just as impossible to:] convey the meaning of TWO.
It had began as an advice. It had continued as a discussion of the qualities of a sunrise. Then he had invited her, still as deaf as a fool!- to his band's first performance, where they wondered at the roots of rug-making.
And then it had turned into a never-ending dance: gentle as a waltz and awkward as Beck's robot-pas, cruel razor- slits and almost summer meltings.
She was his Muse, fair-skinned and stormy-eyed. His Eos, his Hecate. Without her he was a meaningless fool, wandering from country to country, restless, mindless, heartless. He had no home, he had no ground without her. He was a kite with no one to hold him and to teach him how to fly higher and wider. How had he lived all his life without this understanding? He knew that now, as he squatted in front of her slouched form on a couch in the farthest room, darkened. Life simmering out of her, she had been withering away-- while he waited, cowardly, for a note, for a single letter from her. How foolish!
He now understood--
"And I want my meaning
true for you. I want to describe myself
like a painting that I studied
closely for a long, long time,
like a word I finally understood,
like the pitcher of water I use every day,
like the face of my mother,
like a ship
that carried me
through the deadliest storm of all."
"My love," he whispered into her marble hands. "I pick up the motley shards of me, and I give them to you."
________________________________
A/N: *- a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
Time: Closer to evening
Location: Deirdre's flat
Characters Involved: Myron Wagtail and Deirdre Burke
Rating: PG-13 or thereabouts
"I am too alone in the world," whispers flew asunder perched atop his head. "And yet not alone enough to make every hour holy*." Broken piano notes crawled over unto the floor.
That day the sky had toppled over. Diagonal lines, cutting (slicing) through, thick layers of storm clouds with gleams of sunlight, remnants. An ecumenical leapfrog with what's beneath and what is up, alteriora peto, and something entirely else.
"I am too small in the world," the sky was threatening to spill over from a slanted cup. "And yet not tiny enough just to stand before you--" he frowned against the biting cold of the window-glass. "Like a thing--" his hand juxtaposed itself against the latch. "Dark and shrewd." The wind burst into the inside, blowing papers on an oaken desk away.
The piano was untuned. Dust had piled itself over its enameled surface, in celebration of his neglect, leering. "I want my will, and I want to be with my will," whispers-- like black crows circled around in their ephemeral dance. Imagine them. "As it moves towards deed..." A frail rustling of old parchment echoed around, tapered fingers turning the pages over, and black ink conveying the meaning of smiles and heartbeats in a silent room. "And in those quiet, somehow hesitating times," he looked outside at the ancient oak tree, bare and black and presaging. "When something is approaching... shhhh--":
It had been a near-month, a far-off year: here and not, closer/farther, two universes colliding almost and running away into the wilderness, or perhaps from. She liked disappearing, like quicksilver-- like himself.
A near-month.
"I want to be with those who are wise
or else alone."
... [a thousands of years pass] ...
The creak scratched against his bowels, as he wandered in. Inside it was dark, the last rays of a dying sun reflecting lazily against the walls. No light, as if dead and forgotten and thrown out. Hidden smiles, and curves, and quiet evenings with games of hide-and-seek, 'come closer or disappear'. And something entirely else.
There was a picture of her on one of the stands.
"I want always to be a mirror that reflects your whole being,"
- he slanted his head to the side, cloudy gaze lost in the broken shards of her own.
"and never to be too blind or too old
to hold your heavy, swaying image."
He walked into another room.
"I want to unfold.
Nowhere do I want to remain folded,
because where I am bent and folded, there I am a lie,"
he argued with himself, nervous, existentially challenged. He frowned, and walked on, wandering into the further innards of her fairy abode. He bit on his lip, closing eyes. And leaning against the walls, as twilight's spectrality drained the colour away from him. [Sometimes, in the synergetic musicising moments, it felt just as impossible to:] convey the meaning of TWO.
It had began as an advice. It had continued as a discussion of the qualities of a sunrise. Then he had invited her, still as deaf as a fool!- to his band's first performance, where they wondered at the roots of rug-making.
And then it had turned into a never-ending dance: gentle as a waltz and awkward as Beck's robot-pas, cruel razor- slits and almost summer meltings.
She was his Muse, fair-skinned and stormy-eyed. His Eos, his Hecate. Without her he was a meaningless fool, wandering from country to country, restless, mindless, heartless. He had no home, he had no ground without her. He was a kite with no one to hold him and to teach him how to fly higher and wider. How had he lived all his life without this understanding? He knew that now, as he squatted in front of her slouched form on a couch in the farthest room, darkened. Life simmering out of her, she had been withering away-- while he waited, cowardly, for a note, for a single letter from her. How foolish!
He now understood--
"And I want my meaning
true for you. I want to describe myself
like a painting that I studied
closely for a long, long time,
like a word I finally understood,
like the pitcher of water I use every day,
like the face of my mother,
like a ship
that carried me
through the deadliest storm of all."
"My love," he whispered into her marble hands. "I pick up the motley shards of me, and I give them to you."
________________________________
A/N: *- a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke