Archive for the ‘Literature’ Category

And on the Twelfth Night (my edited piece in short)

The door closed on a Tuesday. No pre-emptive moves had been made to see that he would stay, save for asking. There had been no sign of it and every sign of it from the beginning. Their relationship had started at ground zero and ended in the same manner.

She knew she would make love to him the second their eyes met in passing for the first time. It had been like an explosion of acknowledgement in her brain that there “HE” was, that one man you always dreamed you’d meet. It had been in the entryway of the catacombs where she did her etchings and he his photography. It was if it had been pre-destined that they should meet again in this lifetime, as if they had already known each other somehow before they had even met. She couldn’t explain it. He couldn’t explain it. They were drawn to each other by something more powerful than the rules they were told to live by and those rules would add the complications and the turmoil that were to be the undoing of them. So harbored the signs of ending in the same moment it had not even began.

One year went and came with casual aquaintancy and on the last day of that year, he approached her and asked to buy her lunch. All along she  had felt that she was merely fooling herself to think of him in such ways when after all, he was out of her league, married, older and would be treated as any other. Her heart jumped to her throat in the quiet answer of “yes”. His palms were sweating when he asked her. His heart had raced harder when her answer had surprised him. He had only taken the chance that she had been interested. He was reminded of the movie “Chances Are”. So, they met for lunch, with full intentions on lunch being had and yet, they never made it to their meal. For all it took was one simple thank you and a slight lean forward and he was telling her that he wanted to kiss her. She never backed away. She couldn’t. The fire was rising within her.

One kiss turned into a hundred which engulfed them in the strength of its hold, smoldering. There was no turning back. Their minds connected on the same level. They knew the response of the other before each new touch as if they had known it before.

Life can sometimes be uncanny in how something as simple as lunch can turn into a complex and complicated journey.

For two years they would talk and write to each other, spend secret hours hidden away from the world and lost in one another’s embrace.

She loved him as with both a sickness and the cure. He loved her with an unexplainable fervor he had not felt in two decades. He had not thought it possible to find the passion and depth of emotion he reached with her, yet, with her had found it.
She didn’t claim to be much of anything, though she gave all of who she was. He was lifted to a higher state in her eyes. He was conflicted with the heavenly torture of loving her and not being able to share with the world that she belonged to him. He wondered how it could be that he should find her and yet not be at a place in his life to truly have her. He regreted loving her and couldn’t resist loving her at the same time. He couldn’t stop. She was a part of him. He was a part of her and she felt she was  certainly nothing compared to the light that passed through her, from her lover’s affection.

The two years of hiding from the world began to wear on the mentality of their bonds. As their passion grew with time, the longing to end his marriage came to them both. The reality of their situation plagued their minds daily, eating away at the delicious moments of pleasure. The more they consumed each other, the more it consumed them.

And on no particular Tuesday, he left through the door of their hidden home. Nothing more to be said than they already knew to say.

He loved her. She loved him. Their love was to be the death of one realtionship to breed the life of the new, or it was to be the death itself of them.
Over time, her voice, to him, had become wearing as a forgotten song of a broken record, repeating its play, beckoning him to stay longer each time.
She dared to hold on to web-like wisps of dreamy days, something they once shared, breathed in heavy kisses and deep embraces, entangled with hope.
The words once delighted the ears of his soul who touched her. Now, they formed to fall with brick-like speed in dead air before him.
And his touch, once groping for the flame, became more cold and civil, afraid to burn in the fire of her.
All the many days that shined and all the many nights that sparkled, how they had passed so without care to her of the eventuality of the end, and now, in ignoring its approach it had come all too soon.

She learned without him, the nothingness filled the empty halls of her heart. Those halls that held faint echoes of a joy she held close, too close, for too short a time. The echoes became drowned in present passings of all else that took place over all else.
The face on the old clock was cracked, in its casing, an askew view of the exact moment in time she became nothing more to him than a memory.

The cragged caverns of her mourning were littered with wragged and torn pages, scattered leaves of letters written and never returned, tossed and blown away.
What kindling glow of his passion was left? Was it forever to wane, frigid? She struggled to reach him, her breath heavy with tears she couldn’t let fall. All her attempts were called in vain, for each try proved solely  a movement for herself and not striven to be met by him.
One year and six months marked the calendar. She fell to her knees and gave way to the wrenching cries within her heart. For eleven days she ate nothing, save for sparce attempts at toast and tea, went nowhere and spoke barely a word, her misery her only consolation. And on the twelfth night,…

She arose from her sorrow, to move into the other empty rooms of the house. She stayed seated in the bay window staring at the moon and stars. Her heart beat low and slowly. She fell asleep with his words in her mind and his picture fell from her hand to the cushion at her side. She let go.

In what seemed like only a moment having passed, she opened her tired eyes, still red from the nights of no sleep and many tears shed. She went to the back of the house and opened the doors to the outside world and walked out, realizing the night had turned to day. A mixed feeling of the numbness inside and the peace of the bright day before her moved her to continue her way into the grass.

Her bare feet loved the sensation of the waxy and cool blades of green beneath her. She turned her face upward to the sky and watched the wind push the gray clouds across the bluest sky.  A whispered prayer of thanks left her lips. It was a sense of gratefulness that she could still find beauty even in her state of heart.

In walking, she made her way into the trees, just to the banks of the lake, then stopped. The ripples of the water reflected the sun. She dropped her gown to her ankles and stepped out. She waded out in her nakedness, feeling the level rising to her breasts.

Her eyes closed and she let go of her stance in the wet earth between her toes. The water went over her head filling her ears first and then enveloping her eyelids and forehead until her whole body was in liquid movement. Her arms and legs propelled her deeper into the cold, darker areas.

Turning to look up at the light shining through the water above her, she swam up and out into the sun again. She wiped the water from her face, feeling refreshed from nature’s baptismal effect.

Making her way back to the tree-line, she gathered up her gown and returned to the house, the cotton material clinging to the wetness of her frame. She walked through the open doors and the vision that met her gaze stopped her steps.

In the corner of the room in the bay window, lay her body curled against the glass, face up to the sky and his picture within her curved,  open palm on the cushion next to her.

“Why are you so far away, she said. Oh, won’t you ever know that I’m in love with you. I’m in love with you.”- The Cure-” Just Like Heaven

Categories: Literature Tags: , , , ,

Coffee and Kisses ( new inspired work in progress )

The window reflected a younger man in memory as the steam from the coffee cup fogged one square pane of glass. A smaller figure with an age spotted hand reached out from behind him and drew a familiar “x” and an “o” in the condensation. It was a familiar signature to him.
“Good morning”, she said as she leaned in for a small kiss on his lips.
He turned to look at his wife. Raising his hand to touch her face, he remembered the soft fair skin and darker hair of her youth; even through the years she had remained beautiful, wrinkles and all.
The drawings on the window faded and he was reminded that he was alone. Only the kisses from memory and her empty coffee cup hanging on the rack on the kitchen wall.
He swallowed back the tears with a drink from his mug and moved from the table to the kitchen sink. How old this house was, even older than he and how much they had put into building it into a home. All those days replayed in his head of standing in the kitchen and sitting at the table talking of the plans they had over a hot cup of coffee. She never seemed to be able to resist getting in a few kisses somehow. She loved being close to him and he loved that about her.
As the years rolled on they had their ups and downs, yet nothing that couldn’t be settled over a good talk, cup of coffee and ending in those sweet and sometimes fevered kisses.
He chuckled to himself as he rinsed off the few breakfast dishes, remembering the day she swore she could figure how to change out the line for the water filter. She had drowned herself in the process. She had been so sexy standing there in wet shirt, stringing hair, face dripping. He had put his coffee cup on the table and laughingly gone over to her. Teasing her efforts and seeing she was becoming irritated by it, he had kissed her full on the mouth. This led to a passionate excursion on the wet, cold floor, interrupted by kids busting in from school to grab a quick afternoon snack.
Smiling he refilled his coffee mug and got ready to start working on another project. She was no longer there to come out and see the new idea he was getting going.
The kids were grown and gone, so he had a lot more “busy work” these days, work to keep him from thinking too much on what the heart was missing.
He situated the cap on his head and zipped up his coveralls, heading out to the barn. It was a cold, gray morning. He looked back at the kitchen window, sighed with a smile and then turning around walked on through the brown grass.
Back in the kitchen a small area of the window fogged up and an “x’ and “o” appeared inside the square pane of glass.

“Escape”–Recommended Reading

February 2, 2011 1 comment

Referred to me during a lunch break at the university, “Escape from Reason” by Francis Schaeffer.
It is called, “a penetrating analysis of trends in modern thought”.

I am looking to delve into the content to do a little analyzing myself. A few things have caught my attention, let alone the reference within the material to art history, one of my most beloved subjects for it encompasses all walks of life through philosophy, political science, sociology, anthropology, etc. etc.
Now, due to the fact I attend a Christian college, the book is, of course, written with the concept of Christianity being a main focus. It relates to how each of these categories, falling under art history, are intertwined with Christian beliefs.
Chpt. 3 touches on sexuality-
“The twentieth-century pornographic writers all trace their origin to the Marquis de Sade (1740-1814). The twentieth century now treats him as a very important man — he is no longer just a dirty writer. A generation ago, if anyone was found with one of his books in England he was liable to have difficulties with the law. Today he has become a great name in drama, in philosophy, in literature. All the nihilistic black writers, the writers in revolt, look back to de Sade. Why? Not only because he was a dirty writer, or even that he has taught them how to use sexual writing as a vehicle for philosophic ideas, but also basically he was a chemical determinist. He understood the direction that things would have to take when man is included in the machinery.”
But how does one view the material if they are of another religion?
What points of intellectual debate are founded for the Gnostic, the Atheist, the children of Modernism?
These are questions I will ask myself as I begin to read.

Dueling Dumas’s

Dumas pere

On this day, 23-year-old Alexandre Dumas fights his first duel. He sustains no serious injury, although his pants fall down in the fight. He’ll later fill his romantic works, including The Three Musketeers, with duels, battles, and daring escapades.
Dumas was the son of one of Napoleon’s generals, Thomas Alexandre Dumas, and a Haitian slave woman, Marie Cessette Dumas. Because he was born of mixed heritage and yet still to prominence, Dumas weas sent to receive rich education, but his family struggled financially after his father’s death in 1806. Dumas went to Paris to find work and was hired by the household of the Duke D’Orleans, who became King Louis-Philippe. Dumas began writing plays, which became huge hits with the public, then turned to historical novels. He published The Three Musketeers in 1844, followed by The Count of Monte Cristo in 1845.
Dumas led a tempestuous life filled with ruinous love affairs. Women loved him for his uniqueness of looks (he was Negro/French) and his attention to detail in ALL areas. He fathered many illegitimate children. His illegitimate son, Dumas fils ( French for son), also became a writer-the two were later known as the “Deuling Dumas’s “.
The son reacted against his father’s lifestyle by writing highly regarded contemporary dramas supporting marriage and family, with titles like “The Natural Son” (1848) and “The Prodigal Father” (1859) .  Dumas fils was almost 10 years old before his father recognized him, but when that happened Dumas pere stepped in with a vengenace and sent his son to the best boarding schools of the day to receive the best education possible.  French law allowed Dumas the elder to remove the child from his mother and in turn, her agony inspired Dumas fils to write prolifically about tragic female characters.  One of his most popular plays was The Illegitimate Son, in which he espoused the belief that if a man fathers an illegitimate child, he has an obligation to legitimize the child in any way possible, either by marriage or by law.  During the 1840’s, Dumas fils wrote the romantic novel The Lady of the Camellias, which in English would be translated as Camille.  Like some of his father’s works, Camille is considered a classic in literature, and serves as the basis for the Verdi opera, La Traviata.
Dumas pere died in 1870, his last known major work, nearly completed, The Last Cavalier(Le Chevalier de Sainte-Hermine, 1869), was lost until its rediscovery by Claude Schopp in 1988 and subsequent release in 2005.
Five years after his death, Dumas fils was admitted to the elite Academie Francaise. He wrote one more play, Denise, ten years before his death in 1895.
Dumas fils
Such is Passion, and the brighter its blaze the blacker the ruins it leaves after it–the deeper the misery–the wider the loneliness. It devours itself, with no revival like the Phoenix; but Love occupies the whole of life, however extended, and still has the strength and volume to transport its worshipers to the realm of the happy.–Ch.22, The Son of Clemenceau  ~ Dumas fils

        Childhood chillers!

        Everyone knows that ALL HALLOW’S EVE is just around the corner. The cool weather rolls in and leaves crunch beneath our steps. Wicked creatures start to adorn the doorsteps of even the some of the most “christian” neighborhoods. Fall carnivals and fairs fill empty parking lots with the loud mix of screams and carny music and cackles…smells of beer, corny dogs and cotton candy fill our noses … and I am reminded of a particular movie inspired by a childhood book I read from the creations of Ray Bradbury.

        Something Wicked This Way Comes

        I remember sitting in my room on the bed, my eyes wide with anticipation for the next paragraph and the next page. So engrossed in the characters’ movements.

        Then, they made it a movie and I watched with fascination as the book came to life before my eyes.

        The phrase “something wicked this way comes” originates in Act IV scene 1 of William Shakespeare’s play Macbeth. The speaker is the second witch, whose full line is, “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.” The wicked thing is Macbeth himself, who by this point in the play is a traitor and murderer.

        Like many phrases from Shakespeare, it has become a popular choice for titles in pop culture. Its enduring usage may be due in part to Ray Bradbury’s novel of the same name.

        IN this particular story, two young boys named Will and Jim encountered a sinister carnival whose proprietor, Mr. Dark, lured the townsfolk to their doom by promising to fulfill their childhood desires. The movie trailer asked, ” What would you give a man who could give you your deepest desires?” The characters of Will, Jim, and Will’s father, Charles Halloway, found out these wishes came at a horrific price and the outcome was left within their own hands.

        Here is a link to an intriguing scene: 

        Another childhood chiller, read when I was 10 years of age, Monkey Shines.

        This book gave new meaning to the ever-quoted, ” see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”.  The movie did not do as much just to the story, as sometimes is the case. The story told of a quadraplegic who had given up on life until introduced to a monkey named Ella, who had been trained to help invalids by fetching and carrying for them. The monkey turned out to be a part of another experiment, a darker experiment and started to read her master’s darkest thoughts and then carry them out.

        The first Stephen King ever read as a child of that same age, Stephen King’s Skeleton Crew. I believe I picked it up thinking it was related to the Monkey shines story because of the cover.

        Three of the short stories within this collection were my favorites at the time,  The Milkman, The Monkey and The Word Processor of the Gods (my favorite of the three).

        Without giving much recap on these stories, I will say that the milkman bordered on the demented. The monkey made for a good re-telling in a slightly varied version of The “X-files”(Chinga about a doll which was cursed) years later. The Word Processor of the Gods gave a man a chance to re-write and delete parts of his life and became an episode for The Tales of the Darkside series in the mid 80’s.

        Each of these stories heightened my sense of the macabre.

        As I grew older, around 13, I read more of the dark authors, Poe ( All works), Nathaniel Hawethorne (House of Seven Gables), Henry James (Turn of the Screw), Bram Stoker (Dracula).

        By age 16, M.R. James (Ghosts of an Antiquary), Peter Straub (In the Night Room)

        and H.P. Lovecraft (The Dunwich Horror). Each of these would keep me up secretly reading, eyes wide in suspense of the end…. and by the biting of my thumbs, wicked dreams would become.

        Evolution of Politics in Fairy-tales

        September 23, 2010 4 comments

        Once upon a time,….Long, long, ago, in a faraway land, it was a time of political censorship, where women had few rights and fairy-tales were one way that they could make their opinions known. The fairies themselves in the tales often stood for the aristocrats, having power over many but often caring little, bickering amongst themselves, concerned with their own power struggles. The heroines would comment on the double-standards of the times, arranged marriages, and the false glory of war; the tales also illustrated the authors’ ideas on the standards of correct manners, justice and love.

        The tales were also written in opposition to the literary establishment at the time, which championed Classical literature as the standard for French writers to follow. Fairy-tales were modelled on French folklore and the courtly love of medieval literature. When Perrault joined them in writing fairy-tales, he was taking a stand for the modern style and for women’s tales (although his tales did not exactly feature liberated females– should have been around in the 60’s. I wonder how the stories would play out now?). The “Quarrel of the Ancients and the Moderns” was part of the society which the fairy tales rebelled against – for most women there was no choice over which side to take, as they weren’t considered worthy of eductating in Latin and Greek anyway. Instead of being forced out, they formed their own style.

        Today, there are those who still feel the reformation of socially political statutes/harnesses regarding the female gender should have remained in place (yet secretly they still go to strip clubs and buy Maxim or Playboy).  They teach that women’s talk has been frightening and dangerous since even before the Church taught that Eve’s words (heh, heh, body language most likely) tempted Adam to eat that damn fruit ( which we all know to be a figurative form of speech and not actually partaking of real fruit was the sin- wait…. I can go off on a tangent with this, so, I will stop here) and led to the “fall”.  They preach how dear St. Paul even wrote that women should be silent, and warned others against their idle gossip. The talk of women was seductive and wicked (yeah, I am sure that is what every man is thinking…. how they love their woman to NOT be seductive or a little wicked… Pfffft!!!)

         But politics have changed. Women are able to have their own voice, thoughts and lead other packs of women in this rat race.

        The sun came out on the Dark Ages ” long, long, ago”.

        The only fairy-tales of today would include that Cinderella is a multimillionaire, married to none other than the owner of Mr. Clean company products and she works in interior design. Sleeping Beauty decided 16 was way too young to get hitched, never cared to learn homecrafts, like sewing/spinning, got the  alarm setting fixed on her iphone and teaches kick boxing at the Rec.  Snow White lives in a studio flat out in Beverly Hills and has changed her name to Katy Perry (she still thinks she is marrying a prince….must have nibbled a bit more on that apple).  

        Today, women no longer believe in fairy-tales, even if we are still spoon fed the sweet, “happily ever after’s” as children (except for on our most down of days, when we are hanging on to the last threads of hope, there might still be a real fairy-tale out there waiting to be lived). For the most part, it’s always later on in our lives the real world monsters of politics get us, we run through a slew of broken hearts/dreams and grit our teeth to become the dragon slayers. It is just as much a woman’s world as it is a man’s. If there happens to be a real prince or princess warrior who rides up next to us, they are welcome to join in for the battle and follow up with dinner and a night cap.  We are forced to make our own ways.  We evolve in the limelight of our future to exceed beyond our past expectations of fantasy.

        Categories: History, Literature, Politics


        Thank you “Wit” for the quote posted:

        “If you came here hoping for a miracle, there can be none.  If you believe that you have paid to receive here a magic formula, a secret you may use at will, you have done no such thing.  Writing, in any sense that matters, cannot be taught.  It can only be learned, and learned by each separate one of us in his own way, by the use of his own powers of imagination and perception, the ability to learn the lessons he has set for himself.  That is, if your intention is to try yourself out, to find whether or not you have the makings of an artist. … In the present fevered rush to publish just anything and anybody, and all the critics hailing all wrting on his own level of understanding as great, with books and poets of the year, of the month, of the hour, of the minute, we can get a little confused.  Be calm.  The real poet, the real novelist, will emerge out of the uproar.  He will be here, he is even now on his way.”

        From: “Writing Cannot Be Taught…” (1954 )  in Porter: Collected Stories and Other Writings

        As an author I write about most anything fiction or fact. I write because it is in me to do so. It is like my breath. I really have no preference on genres or styles that others may wish me to write, and mostly write whatever comes to mind on a whim, whatever fills my thoughts and heart. Some compositions on here may offend people, but are just posted for people to have something to read that may entertain a thought or two, a smile or two or reach out of myself to someone who may or may not give a damn.

        Categories: Literature