A very effective fiction...
The advantage of New York City, which I had never properly appreciated, is that when I want the small space of our modest hotel suite to myself, I can send my two servants out and they have what seems an endless number of places to go and be to entertain themselves, regardless of the hour of the night.
However, even I am not so devoid of compassion as to send them forth in this blizzard, but they know my habits well enough, and they are so quiet and unobtrusive, it is as if I am alone at my desk to write.
I detest ball points -- the hand moves to fast and my antiquated script is barely legible to even myself, but it is all I have available to me. I had not actually planned on leaving and thus have only the barest necessities. Despite the relative speed of my pen, it takes me several hours to draft the letter to the Archon. I had promised as much brevity as I could manage, but the nature of the situation is simply too complex to abbreviate. The question is simple enough, and the answer too, but I know the simple answer is not what is desired. Surely, a meaningful answer is desired, and that is not the same thing at all.
I finally lay the pen down and read my draft, pondering whether or not to revise it. It is long, and in places perhaps not entirely incoherent, but for once I set my artistic sensibilities aside. It is not an essay: it is the first exchange in what I pray will be a long association, and I will give the words straight from heart to pen, unchanged excepting a few minor corrections for clarity or grammar.
I type the letter and email it off before I can have second thought, and burn the original in the bathroom sink, and ponder the brief and tiny flames. What is it I said to Verbena? Ah yes...
I am a Rose, and a rose blossoms whether anyone is there to see it or not.
I rinse the ashes down the sink with a small smile. I am no eternal flower, and it is likely I will perish long before those who align against me. But if they come seeking my secret garden, they have no one to blame but themselves when they discover who the gardener is.
However, even I am not so devoid of compassion as to send them forth in this blizzard, but they know my habits well enough, and they are so quiet and unobtrusive, it is as if I am alone at my desk to write.
I detest ball points -- the hand moves to fast and my antiquated script is barely legible to even myself, but it is all I have available to me. I had not actually planned on leaving and thus have only the barest necessities. Despite the relative speed of my pen, it takes me several hours to draft the letter to the Archon. I had promised as much brevity as I could manage, but the nature of the situation is simply too complex to abbreviate. The question is simple enough, and the answer too, but I know the simple answer is not what is desired. Surely, a meaningful answer is desired, and that is not the same thing at all.
I finally lay the pen down and read my draft, pondering whether or not to revise it. It is long, and in places perhaps not entirely incoherent, but for once I set my artistic sensibilities aside. It is not an essay: it is the first exchange in what I pray will be a long association, and I will give the words straight from heart to pen, unchanged excepting a few minor corrections for clarity or grammar.
I type the letter and email it off before I can have second thought, and burn the original in the bathroom sink, and ponder the brief and tiny flames. What is it I said to Verbena? Ah yes...
I am a Rose, and a rose blossoms whether anyone is there to see it or not.
I rinse the ashes down the sink with a small smile. I am no eternal flower, and it is likely I will perish long before those who align against me. But if they come seeking my secret garden, they have no one to blame but themselves when they discover who the gardener is.