lust

Remains #writephoto

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Remains

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He had come to the city, perhaps even unaware, only to write the story. It was about love, of course, or rather loves, lost, found again, unreconciled. That was two years back. The story, like a forgotten symphonie, was now left, unfinished, unpolished, and even, dare we say, unloved.

Something, someone, was missing, he feared he may know what. Somewhere in the unfathomable memories that submerged him, was a woman, the woman. And she, the sombre beauty of his dream, the one he had wanted to write for, was unwilling to belong, to fit in, to submit to his will.

Without her, what remains was a ghost, an empty shell, the faint shadow of what could have been, of what he so wanted to be.

So it was that he had to reignite the fire, and seduce her, again.

A witness in the night

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warrior_angel___23_06_12_by_lucastorquato27-d5mlyi7

Acknowledgement lucastorquato27.deviantart.com

I wasn’t at my best, hot, bothered, coughing, feeling sick. But that’s the time she chose. We hadn’t had a real talk, the way she wants, for a while. Evidently, I had been working, making progress, trying to move forward, damn.

The shimmer around her was an omen of what was to follow: the bitter complaints of a very dissatisfied lady, or rather ladies, since she was wearing all their faces, at once. I could tell she was furious.

“You have been at it again,” she said, as I was trying to focus on her shape in darkness, almost frightened, “yes, don’t play the innocent, it ain’t working, Monsieur le littérateur, de mes fesses, you are! First you set me on with a couple of robotic morons, and in uniform, just showing what a lamentable case I am, in your words, Sir!”

What the heck was she talking about now… It must be about the story, the girl… “Yes,” she resumed, pointing a vengeful finger at me, “You know perfectly well what I am talking about. No respect for anything. The last thing I know I am described, hopeless, as a sort of female predator, but, just a minute, not only that, an immoral kinda despicable spy. Yes Sir, no denying please! And once again, no discussion, no consultation with me: to hell with your feelings, girl!!”

I was speechless, which was probably best. I urgently needed the loo, but she was in the way, less than a meter from the bed. I had a sweat.

“Besides, you are now setting me up, again, as a complete idiot, a kinda pussy cat, ready to roll over for that distinguished, and rich, of course, lady. I assume you modelled her on your wife! YOU are, Sir, the despicable character in this story…”

There was a pause. Her shape was getting a little vaguer, was she going? Bad luck, she must have been thinking.

“Just one word of warning: don’t, just don’t set me up to become her lover! This is not me, I am not like that! I…”

I risked a word, to my peril,

“You mean, you don’t like women?”

“You, innocent you, you know perfectly well this is not what I mean, I am a human being, I have feelings, I let you know! I am not someone you, or that slut, can pick up in a club, and then pack up like, like…”

“This is not what I…”

“Shut up! You don’t even know what you’re doing. You use creatures like me as if they were your slaves, no respect, no real understanding, is this what you call writing?”

Another pause. I was by then desperate, but she gave no signs of wanting to move on.

“I am not going to have this. Not again. You never put things right. You start something, you don’t finish. And I, am the victim! I had enough!”

I attempted conciliation.

“I’ll rewrite those scenes. You know what work in progress is, don’t you?”

She was laughing, how beautiful she was in her anger…

“I despair. Your punishment will be your own readers, I mean the few who risk approaching that… well, pretend story! I am going home, where you cannot touch me!”

I felt confused, abused, abandoned. As she disappeared I could hear her laughter down the dark corridors of my imagination. I was alone, morning was still far away…

 

Image: Warrior Angel – 23-06-12 by Lucastorquato27 on DeviantArt

Loop #WritersWednesday #DailyPost

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Inspired by today’s Prompt

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The shed stands in a little hollow, surrounded by trees and bushes. The bushes are of a climbing sort, maybe  roses, or jasmin. This place is old, but not decrepit, although as we approach it, I notice someone has removed the small inside lock on the door. It was a kind of light latch, just to allow the occupier to get privacy. My friend has disappeared inside, and I keep watch, to ensure she is not disturbed. I look around the shed, and notice some tools against its walls. My neighbour is working nearby. I mention to him the broken, or vandalised, latch. He’s aware of it, and says he will fix it. Then I remember I have that urgent phone call to give. It seems that all the public phones nearby are either not working, or of a type I cannot use. Is it that I have no change? Yet I have several cards, of a type that looks old and way past their usefulness date.

I quit the shed, with much regret, and walk toward the town hall. I never knew it was so close. I must talk to that councillor. Now there is a puzzle, what councillor, and why? Is this a throwback from that silly TV program we watched last night, where the mayor wants to buy the priory in order to build a casino? The one with the sexy nun who looks like my sister in law…

I take the familiar steps and enter the main hall. I am aware of people around, I hear them talking but cannot see them. I am worried about the friend left behind, a sweet worry tainted of lust. I try to use the hall’s telephone, but of course, do not know the extension. I am afraid of attracting attention: how could I justify my presence here? I recall that my neighbour said I could use his phone at home. I walk there, and follow a well kept path through the woods. His wife welcomes me, explains she’s now much better, and indeed looks even younger than I recall. We chat amiably, and when I try to give this call, I have forgotten what it was about, and to whom. I am now back, walking toward the shed, and found that my friend has gone. There is now, somehow, more light around, I keep looking at those useless bank cards in my wallet: a waste of space. Sometime, finding people we love, in this world, is nigh impossible. One moment they are there, just so close, and the next they are gone, and we cannot reach them.

I know this is dawn, and I have a choice, carry on the search, or pause. I know it may be prudent to pause now.

Image: Magritte Museum, Brussels

Afrikanische Straße

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I leave the lutheran bells ringing clear, behind, the sky a dull lead blanket, but soon I see the green shoots: Nature, the knowing lover, is holding them back, in this chilled Sunday morning, as if to moderate our impatience. She knows how to prolong the foreplay, make us wait, nurse our lust, dream of future ecstasies.

The park is silent, even the birds talk in polite, muted voices. A few runners, the dog walkers, I must be the only tramp. The lake lies still, its waters not yet enticing: the beach is deserted, but for a couple of philosophical ducks. An old crucifix stands, alone, reflecting on a better, perhaps even, glorious past. Yesterday’s winds have covered the ground with small, brittle branches, it may rain soon.

The cool bier goes down so well, a not-quite-Spring treat, solitary pleasure. Some youths walk past, so quiet, survivors of some late Saturday’s party. I take my bulk further north, to the limit of the park; on the other side of the motorway lies the airport. The grumble of sparse traffic can be heard, faintly. The sport grounds are busy, with the serious shouts of enthusiastic soccer players. More dogs are entertaining their mistresses, bored, probably wondering about the human mind . The rain has started its cool morning exercise.

There are two small ponds before the street: I am back in Africa now. I follow Afrikanische for a short while, turn left on Transvaal: where else could I walk in a few minutes across thousands of miles? When I cross over Togo, the pavement is shiny with rain. Soon I find Kameruner: I am home. Girls are walking back to their nests, carrying bread.

Back to my space, I carefully recycle the beer bottle. Bless this city, and its inhabitants.

Image: Samuel Araya, via aeszaaesza.tumblr.com

Hesitate #WritersWednesday

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Today’s prompt

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“You have to tell the truth,” she said, serious and mocking at the same time, “the truth about me, the person I am, not the one you would wish me to be!”

I was a little peeved about that statement. I thought I was truthful, without hesitation about her qualities and shortcomings, being a cool and objective observer. Now, in the middle of the night, as she looked at me, I was beginning to doubt. Was I writing about her real self, or someone who did not exist? A doppelgänger of sort?

“But,”she continued in her calm voice, “you should know, if you can’t do it naturally, I’ll do it for you. And I won’t hesitate to show to your readers what the truth is about this great author!”

Then I woke up. Her voice was still ringing in my mind. There was a long time to go before dawn. I wished she’d been here, for real, telling me more about herself. My beloved hero, the perfect woman…

Picture: Joanna Pallaris, via  ilpianobis

 

Mythical #DailyPost #FaustCity

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Friday’s Prompt

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The clouds came with the giant moon, as if to hide us, humans, from the glare of its pitiless light. At the corner of our street workers rush home, to warmth, love and a well deserved rest. Friday night is for joy, dancing, the smiles of lovers, the hopes of poets, and, later, as ghosts start roaming the quieter streets, the shadow of Faust…

Bless be the City, and be pardoned those, who believe in the right of man to walk alongside the gods.

Image: Dr. Fausto by Jean-Paul Laurens

Irksome #DailyPost

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Today’s Prompt

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It’s a recurring dream, not a nightmare, only its frequency makes me wonder. I look for her, she’s not there, but apparently I have just missed her, or so they say. Yet, she does not answer calls, she’s absent, or somewhere, where I am not.

But who is she? Is she my wife? Is she an old flame? Does she come from a hidden future, from a landscape where I err, lost or condemned soul?

I could do without those searches, before dawn, or so early that I cannot make up my mind: should I get up and make coffee? But then the noise of the grinder would wake up my companion from her sleep. Or should I attempt to find rest, at last, away from her?

But there is the dilemma: she’s not looking for me, it’s me who seems to be pursuing her. But what for? Lost keys? A borrowed book? A forgotten promise?

Next time round, the place will be slightly altered: another room where the search starts, corridors, maybe an underground station? But the feeling would be the same: not that again! I don’t want, I swear, nothing to do with me!

Or is there something I refuse to admit?

Image: Hiromu Kira, The Thinker, 1930, via                           last-picture-show                                          

Rearrange #DailyPost #Berlin

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From the crazy crowd

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She asked: “Do you think the City is less sexy in winter?”

This made me smile. All the way to Frannz Club in Prenzlauer Berg, I reflected on what my lover said. Later, immersed in Erik Truffaz’ amazing trumpet, I had the answer. If anything the City is more captivating, as the light declines: more secrets come to the fore, less nudity, and more soul. Dark jackets and woollen scarves may hide the skin, but, ah, the search for a hint, a blink, a smile…

“You may be right,” she finally declared, “But that is because you rearrange the world to suit your dreams…” Yes, how true this is. Where else could we accommodate, not merely our dreams, but also those of others, mysteriously readable to us, as dead leaves rush past our steps, and Erik’ tunes still resonate in our hearts.

The City holds us, and won’t let go: street by street, note by note, we learn her language, as her silent words float through the cool night air, one beautiful face at a time. Ghosts, strangers, they become us, and us them.

Image: Erik Truffaz, By Xpeeterx – Own work http://www.flickr.com/photos/peter_es/4454478410/, CC BY 3.0, Link

Unfinished #DailyPost

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We have got so far, much is still to be done. We have to go further, down the quiet streets, and the wide avenues, through the small parks, along the canals… There, somewhere, we’ll find ourselves, the meaning of us, the ultimate ecstasy.

Till then, it’s unfinished business, work in progress, the novel unfinished.

Till then, there is only you and me, lovers, haters, fighters, humans.

After us, the déluge…

Image: Maurits Cornelis Escher – Procession in Crypt. 1927 – via drakontomalloi

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