I closed my eyes and saw you: the blazing yellow, orange, and red of your necklace, your headdress, your crown. Light shown from all around you, and yet you yourself were a dark cypher, features all in shadow.
I opened my eyes. Closed them again, and there was the sun, an orange sphere, and a golden bird catching hold of it in its talons, dragging it from the sky.
Showing posts with label surrealism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label surrealism. Show all posts
08 January 2014
03 November 2013
The Weight of Memory that Clouds a Space
As I step into the flat, he immediately asks, "Well?"
I turn to frown at him. "Well what?"
"Is there . . . anything . . .?"
My eyes take in the room, and though I see it as he would, I also see and feel a cold mist; it is as if a cloud has moved into the space and taken up residence there. The tiny droplets prick my skin up into goose flesh and make me want to go stand by the tall windows, to find the warmth of the sunlight there. But I stay where I am. To invade his space would be unforgivable, I think.
"Not . . ." I begin uncertainly. I clear my throat a little and start again, "Not like what you're thinking. It's just . . ." My eyes scan the cloud, not even all that dark, but most definitely grey. "A memory."
"A memory?" he echoes.
I shrug. "Not even a very old one." Shaking my head, I add, "I can't see it, but this," and I hold up a palm as if to display the fog that he cannot see, "it is just a memory, something a little bit sad that hangs in here, a melancholy. How long have you lived here?"
He is visibly startled by the question, and I can see he momentarily considers lying, or maybe not answering at all. But then he says, "Eight years," and I know it is true.
"It's yours then," I tell him. "This memory isn't older than that. This is your own sorrow hanging over you." I turn to the door.
But he puts a hand on my arm. "How do I get rid of it?"
And I look into the blue, blue eyes and say, "Make a new memory."
I turn to frown at him. "Well what?"
"Is there . . . anything . . .?"
My eyes take in the room, and though I see it as he would, I also see and feel a cold mist; it is as if a cloud has moved into the space and taken up residence there. The tiny droplets prick my skin up into goose flesh and make me want to go stand by the tall windows, to find the warmth of the sunlight there. But I stay where I am. To invade his space would be unforgivable, I think.
"Not . . ." I begin uncertainly. I clear my throat a little and start again, "Not like what you're thinking. It's just . . ." My eyes scan the cloud, not even all that dark, but most definitely grey. "A memory."
"A memory?" he echoes.
I shrug. "Not even a very old one." Shaking my head, I add, "I can't see it, but this," and I hold up a palm as if to display the fog that he cannot see, "it is just a memory, something a little bit sad that hangs in here, a melancholy. How long have you lived here?"
He is visibly startled by the question, and I can see he momentarily considers lying, or maybe not answering at all. But then he says, "Eight years," and I know it is true.
"It's yours then," I tell him. "This memory isn't older than that. This is your own sorrow hanging over you." I turn to the door.
But he puts a hand on my arm. "How do I get rid of it?"
And I look into the blue, blue eyes and say, "Make a new memory."
27 July 2013
The Quest to Rise
He looked over at her and froze, an animal trapped in the brilliance of her gaze. The world split in two, the high and the low, spiritual and physical. Frightened, he turned away.
But he would return many times in his memory to the blank, angelic face that had so briefly lifted him. He would expend much time and energy in search of, not her exactly (though if only . . .), but of that higher plane she'd revealed to him, the place where love flowed freely between beings. He liked to think he existed in that place; he even made himself believe it, that he was above in some way. But at the core of him was the fear, the place where the physical world intruded on his ability to rise. He was a coward at heart.
Because in order to live on that plane, he was required to open himself. The love could only flow freely if he put up no defense.
To be shown something lovely and have it disappear is life's greatest sorrow. The retracing of steps, the reaching for that grail, is life's greatest purpose.
But he would return many times in his memory to the blank, angelic face that had so briefly lifted him. He would expend much time and energy in search of, not her exactly (though if only . . .), but of that higher plane she'd revealed to him, the place where love flowed freely between beings. He liked to think he existed in that place; he even made himself believe it, that he was above in some way. But at the core of him was the fear, the place where the physical world intruded on his ability to rise. He was a coward at heart.
Because in order to live on that plane, he was required to open himself. The love could only flow freely if he put up no defense.
To be shown something lovely and have it disappear is life's greatest sorrow. The retracing of steps, the reaching for that grail, is life's greatest purpose.
07 May 2013
A Visitor at the Office
HER: Can I help you?
HIM: What is that?
HER: A cauldron.
HIM: You do magic?
HER: Can I help you?
HIM: The candles, too . . .
HER: Are you here for a reason?
HIM: Do you know who I am?
HER: Should I?
HIM: That doesn't really answer the (looking around) . . . No crystal ball, though.
HER: Why are you here?
HIM: I was hoping you could tell me.
Long pause.
HER: Do you know who I am?
HIM: Not exactly.
HER: Then how did you find me?
HIM: No crystal ball for me, either. (beat) You have a lot of books.
HER: Well, it's been lovely. Since you found your way in, I'm sure you can—
HIM: No. No, wait. I see things.
HER: What, like in your sleep?
HIM: Sometimes.
HER: Those are called dreams.
HIM: But I see you. And then it took me a while to put all the pieces together, but . . .
He turns a palm up as if to say: ta-da!
She mimics the gesture.
HER: And?
HIM: Here I am.
HER: Here you are. (beat) Can I help you?
02 April 2013
[An idea I'm playing around with for a new story/novel]
"Mmm . . ." He almost said her name as he awoke, stopped himself just in time as his eyes opened and were greeted with the full cascade of Solange's red-gold hair.
An irrational anger rose up in him then. Solange was not Marise, not at all who he wanted at that moment. Solange was, quite literally, not the woman of his dreams.
But did Marise even truly exist?
Julian conjured up the smell of Marise's neck, the smoothness of the skin that covered her throat . . . She had to be real. Somewhere. Dreams were vivid, but not that vivid.
Where was she? Who was she, other than the woman who returned to him again and again in his sleep?
Beside him, Solange shifted, and the stab of guilt made Julian angry again. After all, it was easier and more efficient to be angry than to feel guilty for something he'd done in his dreams.
Something he hoped to do again.
An irrational anger rose up in him then. Solange was not Marise, not at all who he wanted at that moment. Solange was, quite literally, not the woman of his dreams.
But did Marise even truly exist?
Julian conjured up the smell of Marise's neck, the smoothness of the skin that covered her throat . . . She had to be real. Somewhere. Dreams were vivid, but not that vivid.
Where was she? Who was she, other than the woman who returned to him again and again in his sleep?
Beside him, Solange shifted, and the stab of guilt made Julian angry again. After all, it was easier and more efficient to be angry than to feel guilty for something he'd done in his dreams.
Something he hoped to do again.
25 March 2013
In the Well of Souls
In those seconds before we were parted and delivered, each to our own destination, we clasped hands and promised one another we would find each other again.
Life is a slowly creaking wheel, plunging into the depths and out again, even as the river flows so quick and free. The wheel captures and heaves, lifts up and dumps down.
And yet hearts and souls reach across distance, across great expanses of air and water and time. We do not remember our promise, but when faced with its evidence, our consciousnesses crack open and spill their contents. When I see you and you see me, the river flows backward and enlightenment becomes ours to hold as we are returned, even briefly, to the place where we began, that Well of Souls.
Life is a slowly creaking wheel, plunging into the depths and out again, even as the river flows so quick and free. The wheel captures and heaves, lifts up and dumps down.
And yet hearts and souls reach across distance, across great expanses of air and water and time. We do not remember our promise, but when faced with its evidence, our consciousnesses crack open and spill their contents. When I see you and you see me, the river flows backward and enlightenment becomes ours to hold as we are returned, even briefly, to the place where we began, that Well of Souls.
10 March 2013
Metamorphosis
My world is about to break open; I hear it cracking beneath my feet like a gigantic egg, and I wonder: Will I fall in?
From here and now things pick up speed. Nothing will be as it was. I have longed for this change, this transformation, but to be engulfed by the unknown . . . Is it the same thing as an embrace?
No one says the water embraces the man who is drowning.
But maybe it does.
The rumble, the shift, the growing roar. I brace myself for whatever comes next.
From here and now things pick up speed. Nothing will be as it was. I have longed for this change, this transformation, but to be engulfed by the unknown . . . Is it the same thing as an embrace?
No one says the water embraces the man who is drowning.
But maybe it does.
The rumble, the shift, the growing roar. I brace myself for whatever comes next.
07 February 2013
Into the Wind
Someone has left the door open. He doesn't want to go out there; it's raining. They're telling him to turn his umbrella into the wind.
His mother won't look at him. Her back is turned; she refuses to speak. But who are all these others? They're telling him it's time to go. They're telling him to turn his umbrella into the wind.
Pain, peach-pit sized, rests in his diaphram. Vines of it grow up through his chest, wrapping around his heart. He won't open his mouth for fear the vines will grow out of it and choke him.
He looks up at the stone angel that leans over him, peering, laughing, curious. He can feel the fingers of cement holding him in. He cannot sit up. He cannot breathe. He cannot stop staring up and up and up into eternity.
His mother won't look at him. Her back is turned; she refuses to speak. But who are all these others? They're telling him it's time to go. They're telling him to turn his umbrella into the wind.
Pain, peach-pit sized, rests in his diaphram. Vines of it grow up through his chest, wrapping around his heart. He won't open his mouth for fear the vines will grow out of it and choke him.
He looks up at the stone angel that leans over him, peering, laughing, curious. He can feel the fingers of cement holding him in. He cannot sit up. He cannot breathe. He cannot stop staring up and up and up into eternity.
06 February 2013
See-Through
He stops by to see her, not knowing why, and she stares and sees in. It irritates him. He fidgets. Why does he come to see her?
She knows he is not so complex, and it upsets him. He cannot, cannot believe that this is all there is to him. He wants desperately to believe he is uncommon. But she stares and sees in. And she knows.
He doesn't want to be known. He wants to be as special as the people he keeps around him like to tell him he is. But she knows better. And he keeps stopping by to see her, not knowing why.
She doesn't speak. She doesn't have to. She stares and sees in, right through him because he is that thin. It is all surface and she reads him like a paperback book. Not even the kind you keep but the kind you take to the used book store and exchange.
She knows he is not so complex, and it upsets him. He cannot, cannot believe that this is all there is to him. He wants desperately to believe he is uncommon. But she stares and sees in. And she knows.
He doesn't want to be known. He wants to be as special as the people he keeps around him like to tell him he is. But she knows better. And he keeps stopping by to see her, not knowing why.
She doesn't speak. She doesn't have to. She stares and sees in, right through him because he is that thin. It is all surface and she reads him like a paperback book. Not even the kind you keep but the kind you take to the used book store and exchange.
03 February 2013
A Gathering Like Clouds
There was no assuaging the uneasiness in him, the restlessness. He tried to read but couldn't focus. His sleep was bedeviled by the strangest of dreams. There was no pleasing him in anything, and his wife and friends became concerned, and then angry.
He walked to the windows one hundred times a day and more, and looked out over the city. But he could not figure out what he wanted; he could not see it.
After many weeks passed this way, he decided he must drive out into the countryside. Maybe he would know then what it was he sought. Maybe he would find it as he drove.
The leaves were almost gone from the trees, and the sky was gunmetal grey and low. He turned north, although he did not know why. He tried listening to the radio, but it only overset his nerves. He turned off the music and rode on in silence.
The world became beautiful to him then, like a dream.
He passed quiet fields held back from the road by decaying rails that were meant to be fences. He passed farmhouses and barns that sagged under the weight of rain and age. He passed under tunnels of dying trees, the fallen leaves rolling under the wheels of his car.
Then he came to a place where a woman stood beside the road and he stopped. The woman, he knew, looked as he did: the same straw-colored hair, the same blue eyes, the same sharp nose. And the same wary expression.
He had always been a bit too pretty for a boy, and she was a bit too handsome for a girl.
He got out of the car, leaving it right there in the road. It didn't seem to matter now.
The woman did not lose her wary look, but when he held out his hand to her, she took hold of him. "Do I know you?" he asked her.
"Only as well as I know you," she replied. And it made sense to him, in a subconscious way.
"Were you waiting for me?" he asked.
She shrugged. "I was waiting for something," she said, "and I guess you're it."
He walked to the windows one hundred times a day and more, and looked out over the city. But he could not figure out what he wanted; he could not see it.
After many weeks passed this way, he decided he must drive out into the countryside. Maybe he would know then what it was he sought. Maybe he would find it as he drove.
The leaves were almost gone from the trees, and the sky was gunmetal grey and low. He turned north, although he did not know why. He tried listening to the radio, but it only overset his nerves. He turned off the music and rode on in silence.
The world became beautiful to him then, like a dream.
He passed quiet fields held back from the road by decaying rails that were meant to be fences. He passed farmhouses and barns that sagged under the weight of rain and age. He passed under tunnels of dying trees, the fallen leaves rolling under the wheels of his car.
Then he came to a place where a woman stood beside the road and he stopped. The woman, he knew, looked as he did: the same straw-colored hair, the same blue eyes, the same sharp nose. And the same wary expression.
He had always been a bit too pretty for a boy, and she was a bit too handsome for a girl.
He got out of the car, leaving it right there in the road. It didn't seem to matter now.
The woman did not lose her wary look, but when he held out his hand to her, she took hold of him. "Do I know you?" he asked her.
"Only as well as I know you," she replied. And it made sense to him, in a subconscious way.
"Were you waiting for me?" he asked.
She shrugged. "I was waiting for something," she said, "and I guess you're it."
30 January 2013
A Strange Gravity
There is a strange gravity between bodies.
It is the force that causes two people standing near one another to sway towards and lean in.
It is the force that causes two people facing one another to embrace or kiss.
And like all heavenly bodies, some have more pull than others.
Some spin faster.
Some shine more brightly.
And some collapse inward, pulling everything around them down and into the darkness, the black hole.
There is a strange gravity between bodies. It is the force that causes them to collide, and to sometimes consume one another.
It is the force that causes two people standing near one another to sway towards and lean in.
It is the force that causes two people facing one another to embrace or kiss.
And like all heavenly bodies, some have more pull than others.
Some spin faster.
Some shine more brightly.
And some collapse inward, pulling everything around them down and into the darkness, the black hole.
There is a strange gravity between bodies. It is the force that causes them to collide, and to sometimes consume one another.
29 January 2013
In Love
"I don't know where we are," he said as he peered through the windscreen. The road ahead seemed straight and smooth and disappeared into the distance with nary a bend.
"The sign back there said Love," she told him.
Had there been a sign? He couldn't recall having seen one, and he wasn't entirely inclined to take her word for it.
"Anyway, I've been here before," she went on. "It's nice."
He glanced this way and that, but nothing looked familiar. Seemed more like the kind of place you passed through on the way to somewhere else. "Is there anywhere to stop?"
"Lots of places," she said.
"Road just seems to go on," he insisted. "No place to turn around or . . ."
"Turn around? Why would you want to?"
"I'm pretty sure I've never come this way," he said after a few more minutes of driving. "Must be a flyby or something I took last time. This is all new."
She sighed and settled back in her seat. "Just go slow and let me enjoy the view."
***
I might try expanding this somehow to make it into a 10-minute play.
"The sign back there said Love," she told him.
Had there been a sign? He couldn't recall having seen one, and he wasn't entirely inclined to take her word for it.
"Anyway, I've been here before," she went on. "It's nice."
He glanced this way and that, but nothing looked familiar. Seemed more like the kind of place you passed through on the way to somewhere else. "Is there anywhere to stop?"
"Lots of places," she said.
"Road just seems to go on," he insisted. "No place to turn around or . . ."
"Turn around? Why would you want to?"
"I'm pretty sure I've never come this way," he said after a few more minutes of driving. "Must be a flyby or something I took last time. This is all new."
She sighed and settled back in her seat. "Just go slow and let me enjoy the view."
***
I might try expanding this somehow to make it into a 10-minute play.
25 January 2013
Alice
The Cheshire Monkey swung from his tail while holding a cup of tea in his back paws, from which he occasionally sipped. He also wore a little green hat, borrowed from a leprechaun.
“And so this rabbit,” he said presently, “you say he had a pocket watch?”
“Yes, yes,” answered Alice with mounting impatience. “I must find him!”
“And so, then, where was his pocket?”
Alice only blinked.
“I assume the pocket watch was adhered to a pocket? That is the usual way of pocket watches,” said Cheshire Monkey.
“I don’t know,” said Alice. “He was moving so fast—”
“Then how do you know he was a rabbit at all? I don’t see what reason you have to look for him, in any case.” Cheshire Monkey took another sip of tea, then grimaced. “Cold,” he muttered.
“He can tell me how to get home!” Alice explained. “He’s been there, you see.”
“No, I do not see. I just said that. But if you think about it this way, rabbits do tend to come out of hats.”
“Hats?” asked Alice.
“Not my hat, mind you. Too small by far for a rabbit. Too small even for me, really. Leprechauns are known for that.”
“Leprechauns?”
“You should cease to repeat words I’ve said as questions,” instructed Cheshire Monkey. “You’ll never get anywhere that way.”
“I’m not getting anywhere this way, either!”
“Hats,” said Cheshire Monkey. He began to fade. “And more tea, I think . . .” But even as he disappeared, his beautiful little china tea cup fell to the ground and shattered.
“Hats and tea,” sighed Alice, seeing nothing for it but to carry on in the direction she’d been going all along, only because going back the way she’d come would seem to admit defeat.
“And so this rabbit,” he said presently, “you say he had a pocket watch?”
“Yes, yes,” answered Alice with mounting impatience. “I must find him!”
“And so, then, where was his pocket?”
Alice only blinked.
“I assume the pocket watch was adhered to a pocket? That is the usual way of pocket watches,” said Cheshire Monkey.
“I don’t know,” said Alice. “He was moving so fast—”
“Then how do you know he was a rabbit at all? I don’t see what reason you have to look for him, in any case.” Cheshire Monkey took another sip of tea, then grimaced. “Cold,” he muttered.
“He can tell me how to get home!” Alice explained. “He’s been there, you see.”
“No, I do not see. I just said that. But if you think about it this way, rabbits do tend to come out of hats.”
“Hats?” asked Alice.
“Not my hat, mind you. Too small by far for a rabbit. Too small even for me, really. Leprechauns are known for that.”
“Leprechauns?”
“You should cease to repeat words I’ve said as questions,” instructed Cheshire Monkey. “You’ll never get anywhere that way.”
“I’m not getting anywhere this way, either!”
“Hats,” said Cheshire Monkey. He began to fade. “And more tea, I think . . .” But even as he disappeared, his beautiful little china tea cup fell to the ground and shattered.
“Hats and tea,” sighed Alice, seeing nothing for it but to carry on in the direction she’d been going all along, only because going back the way she’d come would seem to admit defeat.
24 January 2013
Wanting
He goes to bed wanting. He wakes up wanting. He spends his days wanting, except when he is able to distract himself with work or other people.
He is hungry, and though he has no lack of choices the one thing he craves is not on any available menu. He has tried satisfying himself with alternatives, but they do not suffice. And so he begins to think he may need to go—travel—to get the one thing he really desires.
He can be bold when necessary. Inside him lies the heart of a lion, though he is sometimes reluctant to roar. But now he is tired of spending his nights dreaming, only to wake hollow and unfulfilled.
And so, on a morning when he is expected elsewhere, he calls for a car to the airport instead. It will be hours before they miss him, hours more before they figure out where he's gone. And, with luck, by then he will be sated.
He is hungry, and though he has no lack of choices the one thing he craves is not on any available menu. He has tried satisfying himself with alternatives, but they do not suffice. And so he begins to think he may need to go—travel—to get the one thing he really desires.
He can be bold when necessary. Inside him lies the heart of a lion, though he is sometimes reluctant to roar. But now he is tired of spending his nights dreaming, only to wake hollow and unfulfilled.
And so, on a morning when he is expected elsewhere, he calls for a car to the airport instead. It will be hours before they miss him, hours more before they figure out where he's gone. And, with luck, by then he will be sated.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)