Nights of white satin
Through the snow, through the pixelated mist of our lives, I see him. Writing about him – only the antlers prevent me to say “her” – is another story: precisely.
Inspiration is like this vision, looking back at us, shrouded in doubt, shying away from the obvious, a myth. The stag will soon disappear, absorbed by the shadows, by the blank page. Alone, the white flakes of memory will, briefly, lit our darkness.
I am working on this “draft” (of drafts) again. It says I last worked on it in 2016, the first words go back to 2011, which I find both curious, and almost desperate. The plot is vague, the characters unbelievable, well, not so deep anyway. Yet I find this important, even vital: retracing these steps, pausing on the good bits, not yet editing but planning to.
This project was, at the time, very time consuming. I looked for every opportunity to work on it, despite… a rather busy life. And, now, I really want to turn it into something worth reading, not just by me, but even by others too. There is something in the story I find, again, puzzling. I think it is the geography of the thing, its way to send the characters… maybe where they want to go. Not so random.
leaf, home, alter, light, front
There, she knew well, it was her home, her friends, where she’d met him. Here, was another leaf, both of them now almost past the light, an alter-life she did not understand, even feared a little, however familiar she was with the language, the everyday words. Indeed this was different, in a way she had not expected. She did not know where to be, there was her past, and much happiness, here was the unknown, only clouds in front of her. But him, did he know?
Image: ©2019 Mark Fernyhough, The Berlin Architecture Series, Kaltblut Magazine
It was the time in the evening, when, wherever I may be, whatever the season, I love to wander: when Sol prepares to set, that is when our small globe turns his face away from the star. This was perfect. When you reach my age, a clear sky at dusk, a small cloud lit by the dying rays of the sun, those clichés suffice to make one happy, at peace.
The megaliths stood silent in darkness. I was close to one and started walking slowly around it. Bless this world, I thought, men have walked this ground for tens of millennia, already, four thousand years back, they knew much about Sol, the stars, Space, and the Moon… A tall shape was facing me, but I could not decipher if it was human or… With my stature I am rarely surprised, and most potential aggressors are deterred, but it was human, or, of human shape; as he turned his head toward me, pushing back his hood, I saw a young man, so much like many others, long hair and a short beard, a beautiful, luminous face. He smiled – oh that smile… – and talked. I thought I recognised the smile, I had seen it so often, on those ancient paintings, but I was disconcerted by the tongue he used. At first I could not understand, but I knew. The young man smiled again, walking slowly away, back to the shadows. I knew: it was Aramaic, and then I understood, the words of reassurance, the angel’s smile. His hand was on my shoulder, so strong, so warm, He wished me a happy Sabbath, I was drinking His words.
When you reach my age, you may expect miracles, but mostly, they don’t happen. I fell on my knees, words failing me, He laughed, and glided away. Petrified, I kissed the ground where He’d had His bare feet a second earlier…
“Are you alright Sir?” The young ranger was shaking my shoulder. I had not moved, and it was now pitch dark. “These hills can be dangerous at night, Sir”, said the ranger, who probably meant to add “for an old man like you…” I stood up, thanked him. “No worries, I have a wise guardian angel!” I said smiling, picked up my bag, and started walking toward the hills.
His smile was lighting my path.
Away from this stage,
is another test –
another round,
where force plays no role,
but the changing face,
the soft verses,
of an everlasting poem…
Photo: Jardins du Luxembourg, Paris, ©2013 Honoré Dupuis
Francis wanted to capture the dream: for the third night, he had read the name of a place he had known, and, now, wanted to build into the story. There were three, at equal distance from each other, the monk had said. The last day, his stare fixed on some old manuscript he had dug out from the loot of a raid, years back, he’d looked for clues. In the morning, like today, he could not recall the names. Long ago, he had travelled, feverish, and briefly lived there, at the vortices of the triangle, carried away by the rage to discover the truth.
Where he was now, near the small park, in the city he loved, was one of those places, he was certain of it. He tried to lift his arm, and discovered he was almost unable to move: he would have to go back to his therapist. He had to work, look again at the archives.
In the park, he had met the shadow of an old monk, one night. That was before the first dream. The monk had spoken in an old, forgotten, language, and Francis had only understood a few words. Where were the other two places?
Picture source: Monastery Garments
He must’ve known those people, sometime, some year, in the distant past. But whose past? The voices sounded far away, in a language he thought he should remember, the faces in semi darkness, when he knew that – somewhere – it was already daylight (but he could not be completely sure).
At last he looked out, from the vanishing dream. There was sunlight. He was alone, the voices had gone, the faces vanished. Everything was there, as it had been the day before. He had just slept longer than was his due.
Earlier, he realised, he’d been out, in the street, in the fog. There was a group of people, talking. It was in the past. Whose past?
Photography: Brassaï (1899-1984), Avenue de l’Observatoire dans le brouillard, c. 1934, courtesy Christie’s Modern Visions
We have known each other for a long time. In the garden of the small house, some distance from here, she used to perch in the old tree, just in the corner, and was able to follow my progress in the morning, making coffee, in the kitchen. Often the Crow and I looked at each other, appreciating each other’s company, and the morning peace.
When we moved here she gave me a recommendation for her jackdaw cousins (large birds with streaks of white on their bellies), who inhabit this neighbourhood, and, to tell the truth, most of the city’s parks and streets.
I think she has a beneficial influence on us, and I have concluded she’s in fact a guardian angel. Her speech is always to the point, sober, if not melodious. I trust her judgement, and whenever she’s unhappy, so am I.
In the little garden we had hilarious moments, for example when she, and her sisters, kept a watch on the local heron… For she’s a good fighter, she looks after her partner and family, and don’t bother her neighbours.
I wish all humans were like her.
Photo: the Crow and the Heron © Honoré Dupuis, 2012
This was her city, she’s lived here all her life, and even before she became the angel she now is, she knew the streets, the people who haunted them, and the sort she could meet, the day people, and the night creatures. She was a little of both, and even now, if you could see her, it might be in the glory of dawn, or in deep darkness, in those hours when the ghosts of the city roam the deserted parks, the tree-lined alleys and the silent museums.
She’s here on her territory, she knows the history, she knows the truths, the myths, the real faces behind the masks. She can read the stories the old houses tell, the dreams of the humans who live there. She can hear distant voices, she recognises them. She can read ancient books, she can read what is engraved on stones, hidden from view, forgotten, in abandoned buildings no-one ever visits.
She’s here for a reason: she’s the angel of Death, and close to her the Devil never comes.
Image: “Angel statue in a destroyed city“
“If such things creep quietly and unnoticed into our work, then perhaps that is not plagiarism but homage.”
I was writing late last night and, on re-reading what I had written became aware of an odd juxtaposition of certain words. They took me straight back to a book where a particular passage had left its mark. There was no thought of copying; no intent to re-use or appropriate the work of another writer, and what I had noticed was no more than three words long. Perhaps it was the context rather than the phrase that had been the reminder. Even so, it got me thinking.
With all the words that have been written by the human hand over the millennia, are there any that have been left unsaid? Can we ever write without plagiarising, consciously or unconsciously the work of another who has gone before? I remember reading once that Shakespeare had summarised every human emotion in his work. That is open to debate, of course, and the…
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