In front of me, filling my view utterly and completely is a black lacquered box - it contains her, my China Doll, my everything.
For days now I have been staring at the delicate mother-of-pearl inlays depicting the scenes of her childhood; the girl with many masks. But I don’t seem able to pluck up the courage necessary to peek inside the lid. I can hear her gently breathing, deep in dreamworld as she curls up against the folds of the red velvet inlay – just waiting to be released.
But l am inanimate, frozen by fear, panic and a crushing melancholy; obdurately insisting on bathing in my own self-doubt.
How can I do justice to this moment of her life? This is the time when the sketch is complete and the first brush of colour is applied, the moment the arrow flies from the bow nearing its mark.
This is the moment she first falls in love, and the first time she makes love. It will be he who breathes life into her not me, he who will mould and shape her with his young hands as if she was still made from the freshest clay. It will be he who will forge her heart and yes… it will be he that will first tear that same heart in half.
Do I describe the utter liberation she felt when their lips first found each other, or how her heart beat with such ferocity that she feared it would explode as he slowly and deliberately put his hand up her top gently caressing her perfect breasts? Do I dare write about that time, the time, she felt his eager tongue taste her wetness until she…
… What is stopping me? My eyes close. I am pulverized by the weight of her expectation – she will read you know and she will judge me. I will tell her that a writer simply has to fall in love with his heroine?
O f course you must – comes a whisper I recognize so well, for I have given her this voice.
She is standing in front of me her face inches from mine. I can see every divine and perfect freckle beneath those eyes that promise me the world, for they are my world.
I am you, and ipso facto, you are me she says as she offers me her hand. I take it willingly.
… And soon we are running, leaping, flying over blank pages of books yet written, and she turns to me gently, with pride, with love… you will fill these blank pages with your words, and I will be with you always, your source, your inspiration. And I know what she says will be true, for she has released me as much as I her. And I will always love her with all that I am for this gift.
And then she stops. Looks at me with reassurance before gently letting go of my hand. I am stood beside her, but where she ends and I begin has been lost forever…
A wedge of sunlight is slowly slipping into the sea as she closes her eyes and lets the warmth of the sunset light up her flawless features. Her delicate toes gently massage the sand and as she breathes in… hushhhhhhhhhhhh… a breaking wave hits the shoreline as if answering to her call and then slowly she breathes out releasing the wave back out to sea once more woooooooshhhhhhhhhhh
I feel all that she feels, sense all that she senses and I bathe in the propulsive and unstoppable force that she has become… I notice the smallest changes in the rhythm of her heart, her breathing, her smile… And the very Earth around her responds likewise as if she is Gaia herself come to see her child once last time, to take pleasure in its beauty…
The intensity builds subtly and she has become both the conductor and audience - the world around dances to the fugues and cadenzas that are the emotional symphonies of her life.
The flush in her face is palpable now… and I hear her gentle sounds of pleasure, her moans, the shortness of her breath, her glow… A last stuttering breath each note punctuated by a corresponding heartbeat…. Until… she screams…
A pause.
I am drained.
A lone tear falls from her eyes. She stares at me.
With both sadness of loss and pleasure of memory she whispers, That is what it felt like to make love to him…
I understand.
Eventually she sleeps and I carry her in my arms. I am totally satiated, lost in admiration for all that she is, and all that she will be. I lie down beside her letting her curl into the warmth of my chest…
And then I remember - in this perfect vision of letting go, in ‘her’ vision, way off in the distance almost out of sight, were some dark clouds… She holds me closer, kisses me gently, and whispers in half-sleep, Yes my darling one, there will always be dark clouds… But for now we’ll sleeeeep…
So heart-wrenchingly beautiful... so painfully sad... yet I can feel every inch of honesty trembling behind those words. Thank you for sharing, I shall cherish this post.
Wow, that picture just makes it all... come together.
ReplyDeleteThe China Doll
ReplyDeletePart 2
A work of fiction
In front of me, filling my view utterly and completely is a black lacquered box - it contains her, my China Doll, my everything.
For days now I have been staring at the delicate mother-of-pearl inlays depicting the scenes of her childhood; the girl with many masks. But I don’t seem able to pluck up the courage necessary to peek inside the lid. I can hear her gently breathing, deep in dreamworld as she curls up against the folds of the red velvet inlay – just waiting to be released.
But l am inanimate, frozen by fear, panic and a crushing melancholy; obdurately insisting on bathing in my own self-doubt.
How can I do justice to this moment of her life? This is the time when the sketch is complete and the first brush of colour is applied, the moment the arrow flies from the bow nearing its mark.
This is the moment she first falls in love, and the first time she makes love. It will be he who breathes life into her not me, he who will mould and shape her with his young hands as if she was still made from the freshest clay. It will be he who will forge her heart and yes… it will be he that will first tear that same heart in half.
Do I describe the utter liberation she felt when their lips first found each other, or how her heart beat with such ferocity that she feared it would explode as he slowly and deliberately put his hand up her top gently caressing her perfect breasts? Do I dare write about that time, the time, she felt his eager tongue taste her wetness until she…
… What is stopping me? My eyes close. I am pulverized by the weight of her expectation – she will read you know and she will judge me. I will tell her that a writer simply has to fall in love with his heroine?
O f course you must – comes a whisper I recognize so well, for I have given her this voice.
She is standing in front of me her face inches from mine. I can see every divine and perfect freckle beneath those eyes that promise me the world, for they are my world.
I am you, and ipso facto, you are me she says as she offers me her hand. I take it willingly.
… And soon we are running, leaping, flying over blank pages of books yet written, and she turns to me gently, with pride, with love… you will fill these blank pages with your words, and I will be with you always, your source, your inspiration. And I know what she says will be true, for she has released me as much as I her. And I will always love her with all that I am for this gift.
ReplyDeleteAnd then she stops. Looks at me with reassurance before gently letting go of my hand. I am stood beside her, but where she ends and I begin has been lost forever…
A wedge of sunlight is slowly slipping into the sea as she closes her eyes and lets the warmth of the sunset light up her flawless features. Her delicate toes gently massage the sand and as she breathes in… hushhhhhhhhhhhh… a breaking wave hits the shoreline as if answering to her call and then slowly she breathes out releasing the wave back out to sea once more woooooooshhhhhhhhhhh
I feel all that she feels, sense all that she senses and I bathe in the propulsive and unstoppable force that she has become… I notice the smallest changes in the rhythm of her heart, her breathing, her smile… And the very Earth around her responds likewise as if she is Gaia herself come to see her child once last time, to take pleasure in its beauty…
The intensity builds subtly and she has become both the conductor and audience - the world around dances to the fugues and cadenzas that are the emotional symphonies of her life.
The flush in her face is palpable now… and I hear her gentle sounds of pleasure, her moans, the shortness of her breath, her glow… A last stuttering breath each note punctuated by a corresponding heartbeat…. Until… she screams…
A pause.
I am drained.
A lone tear falls from her eyes. She stares at me.
With both sadness of loss and pleasure of memory she whispers, That is what it felt like to make love to him…
I understand.
Eventually she sleeps and I carry her in my arms. I am totally satiated, lost in admiration for all that she is, and all that she will be. I lie down beside her letting her curl into the warmth of my chest…
And then I remember - in this perfect vision of letting go, in ‘her’ vision, way off in the distance almost out of sight, were some dark clouds… She holds me closer, kisses me gently, and whispers in half-sleep, Yes my darling one, there will always be dark clouds… But for now we’ll sleeeeep…
So heart-wrenchingly beautiful... so painfully sad... yet I can feel every inch of honesty trembling behind those words. Thank you for sharing, I shall cherish this post.
ReplyDelete