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
We wish to leave behind the negatives, open our minds to the new, the innovative: the positives. Around us we see the future being built, as our present. Of course the signs of the past are all there, as if to remind us all that nothing is, ever, unchanging, immutable. Time, they say, is a great healer. Perhaps.
Rather, we see time as the veil that keeps us guessing about the meaning of the present, about what is around the next twist of destiny.
We look at the approaching winter sky: banned be regrets about a past that may never have existed, beyond now. Only the Dead know what it might have been like. We, the still living, can only dream of asking them, or reading the signs…
Photo: Sunset, Santa Catalina Mountains, Arizona, USA, ©2016 Honoré Dupuis
From the exquisite crew
We look out on the street, the scenery of everyday, ever changing, never fading. Autumn is there, palpable, in the leaves blown across the sidewalks, in the colours of the trees, in the chill in the air. Slowly, implacably, the city changes to its winter clothes.
You and I are waiting, loving, reading, light jazz floating through the rooms. Soon the chill will turn to ice, us too will wear our winter coats.
We love the city, we will never stop waiting.
Image: Glas und Metal, Berlin , September 2016 – via jasminmeyer
When you possess a creative brain, says Coady, everyday experiences are used as ingredients for the work you hope one day to make.
I know her names: I’ve have known her since a child, she’s always been there, not far, even if inaccessible.
Imagination, or muse, she’s influential, and, very, very pretty. The more inaccessible the prettier: it is well known…
So, I know, the day she goes, the day she disappears from my life, will be the day I die. She will go and find another host, another malleable soul.
Today I am not ready: I want to live longer, and write, and keep admiring her, the long legs, the heavy breasts, the smile of a young goddess, the lips of Aphrodite…
You will tell me I’m a fool: just write her off in your novel, and you will be free, it is that simple: write and free yourself.
Melissa, Joan, Nina, Elsa: how could I forget you, my heroines, the ones I worship, in the midst of darkness…
When I face my Maker, I will say: I have lived happy, under her gaze, blame me if You wish, she is the one for me.
To what extent is your blog a place for your own self-expression and creativity vs. a site designed to attract readers? How do you balance that? If sticking to certain topics and types of posts meant your readership would triple, would you do it?
It’s my space. Here I write on subjects that interest me, whatever they are. My only concession to readers is to have separated the blog into several, to accomodate specific interests, such as photography, erotica, travel, French language, and my novel. I welcome visitors and comments, but at the end of the day I write – here and anywhere – for my pleasure, and that of close friends. It’s a very egotistic hobby. I like to reread a good post, and, of course I appreciate a favourable comment – but I don’t seek those, let alone design the blog for it.
I don’t give a X for statistics of any sort generally, being a (still) good mathematician. I daresay the same applies to the novel’s readership, trotting on at its own pace. Life is too short for accounting! But I do appreciate meeting people with similar interests, when it’s genuine…
If you could be someone else for a day, who would you be, and why? If that seems too easy, try this one: who would you like to have spend a day as you and what do you hope they’d learn from the experience?
You know I want to be you, for a day, for us to exchange our rings, our collars, our devotions. It may not be easy: the challenge is to try and ignore my “old” self, and for you, yours… For we share more than our love: with intimacy comes the kind of knowledge that goes beyond the familiar, you know what that meant – knowing someone – in the middle ages… So, turning this round, me becoming you, you, me, this will send us spinning – aren’t you afraid? I am, a little anxious: after all, this is more than reversing roles, it is about being from inside, not merely naked, in front of you, it’s being possessed by you in a way which may not be reversible. So, if I am to be you, and you, me, for a day, maybe the risk is then for us to chose to stay that way? Are you ready?
Why do you blog?
I write for you
So that you know
Wherever you are
That nothing is forgotten
Nothing has passed
Slow flows the river
And deeper still our love…