She Speaks
Yes, I knew the road well; the long, dusty lane that winded down the lonely stretches, the pathways of your mind. I knew these well, for I had laid them once before.
I had uprooted the ferns and fine oak limbs that had stood one thousand centuries ago. I had removed the branches and cleared the leaves from off their plots of ancestry. I had delved into your mind to chart a route to Shangri-la—wherever did you put those maps I had given you?
There were lotus blossoms all around when I walked the path that day, floating in the air and bathing the forestry. It was crisp that day, it was cold that day; the bleak fogs of St. Petersburg herself could not compare to the frosty chill I felt from you. It had awakened me long before the graying dawn, and I clutched my tattered coat closer as I trudged. It was fox fur, the same fox fur that you had once given me. The stoic mistral brought with it the damp scents of dewy rot and, in suggestive undertones, the wisps of far-off homesteads, their chimneys full of cedar smoke. There was a fallen birch not too far from where I walked and I knew the spot well. It was here that I had stopped first to make my breakfast.
Salty cheese and hard black bread never did sit well with any man, especially if that man had not any water with him to wash the meal down with. This morning has been no exception, but it will have to suit though. The air is too ridden with chill to allow any exploration for a stream. I pause for a moment though, before I begin—my back placed hard against the meager protection that the log offers me. With hesitation I close my eyes, and my thoughts are once again returned to you; in a time when autumn had just begun to fall upon the world, a time that was warmer for both of us, in more ways then one.
We had plunged late into the night, last I remembered you. A little fire crackling in the wood stove warmed our house as we sat mesmerized before it, our hands cradling little mugs of coca. Our bodies entwined, we watched the embers blaze, the tidings of frost clinging hard to the outer edges of the windowsill.
I asked you if you loved me, you had smiled nearly as warm as the fire and answered, “Yes.” You asked the same of me, and my answer had undoubtedly been equal to yours.
And we sat entwined there, watching one fire dying low while another flame rise up far within us. Until at last, our bodies squelched in darkness, I carried you up to the little room we shared and held your body close to mine, as the moon looked on abashedly at our brazen playfulness.
Yes, that is the memory I recall last of you—bitter in these circumstances, but not as bitter as the cold wind that now lashes against me. I told you once before that I had seen my doppelganger and you laughed at my adherence to what you considered, “foolish mythology.” I didn’t tell you that I meant it as you—though not in a physical sense—but in a much more devious way.
Each time I had thought of you before—as do I now, beside this tree—I have heard a voice inside my head, beckoning on towards my destination. “Go slow” it says, “Go fast” it says; and always it extols the virtue of remembering what my destination will be. I have been walking long though, and the barren soles of my boots thin beneath the firmness of the frozen ground. Frost has not yet crept to these lands, I still feel that warmth lurks somewhere beneath the earth I trudge upon. Where this warmth is, or how it gets there, I will never know. Perhaps if I meet you soon you’ll take the time to tell me.
The ground is hard though, and terrific billows of dust follow each trump of my boot. Oh for rain!—oh for the virtue of water in a place such as this. At least then the flows would suffice to chase the dust from its long-extended dwelling places. At least the trek would be less weary with the knowledge of fresh mud beneath my toes. By now my toes have become nearly as stiff as the path that lies underfoot.
“Follow the yellow brick road; follow the yellow brick road… somewhere over the rainbow…blue birds fly.” My voice is a poor substitute for the biting howl of wind that graces my cheek; but song is a warmer sound then it. My cheeks have frozen over since the beginning of this journey.
Last I came here it was warm and the forest bubbled forth with animals of every type. Now only the spiteful crow perches upon the trail—his eyes grimace at the sight of my passing near him. I have not seen crows since I was a child, when I played naked in the solitude of my ancestral mountain peaks. I swam in the little pools and chased nimbly each child of the swarthy mountain goat. It was in those humid July afternoons, amongst my searching for blackberries and acorns, that I had first seen you.
“Who are you?” I asked, not telling that I had watched you bathe, long before I had even shown myself to you.
“A girl.” was your playful reply.
I smiled.
I still smile now, even as I make my way further down the little path: over each ascension and around every gentle bend. Though the wind bites, and though the lotus flowers bring an almost snow-like effect to the earth, each place is still familiar to me. If both my eyes were put out I could still walk and never miss a step for its almost as if I see a pair of lips within these woods, pressed lightly into a regretful pout.
These lips I have only seen today though, through this wandering down the paths of forestry and deep into your mind. I must confess, I have been down this way several times before, but never have I seen such a mouth as I now can sense before me. Sometimes I listen, sometimes it speaks. It tells me things that I could not have known before listening, and it tells me nothing at all. I do not see them with my eyes that stand as gateways to my soul, but I do see it in my soul, when I close my eyes to make it so. I do it now, just so I can see them again, and softly I listen to what they tell me:
“Cold, and bleak, and bare today; wake up world, tis Christmas Day. Follow the yellow brick road… follow the yellow brick road.” Soft, and sweet, and even-voiced it rings, clear across my consciousness. In my mind, always in my mind, I have tried before but could never hear it aloud.
The crunching sound of pinecones and twigs beneath my feet brings me back to what I have been doing, what I will continue to do, so long as the day will let me. The sun had risen fully upon the narrow horizon, splashing shadows of elm and pine across the path, along with its rays. They offer some warmth, but not enough to halt the chill that threatens to overcome me with every step I take. I know that, were I to rest without shelter, it surely would. The question is, how long can a man walk before he needs cessation of his journey?—and the end of aspiration is far, so very far away.
There is a little stream that flows across this route and, from this I drink. The water repines every sense I possess with its bitterness. I can smell the mud as I drink it, its flow not worth the shattering cold, or the pungent repulse its taste allows. I need a rest, my body aches with exhaustion; my mind quakes from feeling. The little crow has landed opposite from me, its steady eye set upon me as a black herald of doom. I hate the bird but, lacking the strength to cast a stone at it, my eyes shut in hopes that it will go away.
Your lips have once again found their welcome niche within my presence, as if they know the worth of that hold sufficiently. Wordlessly they move and, if I had the energy to do such, I would strain to read what they intend to say. Come closer, come closer and whisper for me—so soft a fox could ne’er attempt to hear it. Ah I hear it now, “Where are you going, and when are you getting there?”
And, opening my eyes, the corners of my vision begin to fade. It has started first at the edges, top and bottom, and all around them. A slow, creeping blackness, like a swarm of flies, descends over all that I can see. The sun is first to go, then the tallest of the trees, as all becomes enveloped in this sick, strange darkness, and swirls around in little bits of color, like candy pieces being stirred into a cake.
The lips have stayed their place though, clear as ever. Yet, whether or not I have actually opened my eyes or just believed that I have, I am not fully certain of. They have stayed while all else has faded though, clear as a piece of fresh-made glass, and as the vision fades into the dark abyss of black, I become aware that the air around me feels as hot as a blowers chamber.
* * *
There are sprinkles of color all around me, set in patters and swirls of violent delight. Reds and yellows, blue and deep purple: all are set in countless umbrellas that span the horizon of the amusement park. The smell of candy and popcorn is nearly intoxicating, and the ringing poop-poop tune of the organ-grinder reminds me of the gnawing pangs that form a grumble in my belly.
I look across and I see you, just as I remember you, the same hair still falls across your shoulders and down to your waist. Your eyes are still innocent, your face still set as a bluebirds in the time of the cherry harvest. Your lips still move in their wordless pout, the same question still formed on them that had broken my trance-like vision. I take a bit of my hotdog and chew it thoughtfully. Too much mustard put on it and not enough relish. Still, it beats hard bread and salty cheese.
“I don’t know” I say at last, wondering if something was stuck between my teeth upon seeing your emotionless stare. “Perhaps a walk in the pathways we used to walk in when things were different. Do you still remember the trips we used to take?”
You nodded. Not much, but at least better then a blank stare.
“Don’t know when I’ll take them or where they’ll lead me, but when I do I’ll be sure that you know I got there.” Nervously I sip my drink, eyes adverting your own.
“Not alone though, it doesn’t have to be this way.” I feel a warm hand placed upon my own and I know that its you who said this. My eyes meet yours and, once again, the vision is returned to me. The same long stretch of trodden path trough forestry, the same hostile winds from the north. The crow still sits there and lotus blossoms continue to fall to earth from the cloudless sky. Yet all is different, and nothing is quite the same. I can see your lips there, guiding me, softly leading me to the place where we both long to go. They are not the same either, before they moved silently, trying to speak but unable, discomfited at the frustration that they felt in doing so. Now I know something has changed for both of us.
Now, at least, they speak.
I had uprooted the ferns and fine oak limbs that had stood one thousand centuries ago. I had removed the branches and cleared the leaves from off their plots of ancestry. I had delved into your mind to chart a route to Shangri-la—wherever did you put those maps I had given you?
There were lotus blossoms all around when I walked the path that day, floating in the air and bathing the forestry. It was crisp that day, it was cold that day; the bleak fogs of St. Petersburg herself could not compare to the frosty chill I felt from you. It had awakened me long before the graying dawn, and I clutched my tattered coat closer as I trudged. It was fox fur, the same fox fur that you had once given me. The stoic mistral brought with it the damp scents of dewy rot and, in suggestive undertones, the wisps of far-off homesteads, their chimneys full of cedar smoke. There was a fallen birch not too far from where I walked and I knew the spot well. It was here that I had stopped first to make my breakfast.
Salty cheese and hard black bread never did sit well with any man, especially if that man had not any water with him to wash the meal down with. This morning has been no exception, but it will have to suit though. The air is too ridden with chill to allow any exploration for a stream. I pause for a moment though, before I begin—my back placed hard against the meager protection that the log offers me. With hesitation I close my eyes, and my thoughts are once again returned to you; in a time when autumn had just begun to fall upon the world, a time that was warmer for both of us, in more ways then one.
We had plunged late into the night, last I remembered you. A little fire crackling in the wood stove warmed our house as we sat mesmerized before it, our hands cradling little mugs of coca. Our bodies entwined, we watched the embers blaze, the tidings of frost clinging hard to the outer edges of the windowsill.
I asked you if you loved me, you had smiled nearly as warm as the fire and answered, “Yes.” You asked the same of me, and my answer had undoubtedly been equal to yours.
And we sat entwined there, watching one fire dying low while another flame rise up far within us. Until at last, our bodies squelched in darkness, I carried you up to the little room we shared and held your body close to mine, as the moon looked on abashedly at our brazen playfulness.
Yes, that is the memory I recall last of you—bitter in these circumstances, but not as bitter as the cold wind that now lashes against me. I told you once before that I had seen my doppelganger and you laughed at my adherence to what you considered, “foolish mythology.” I didn’t tell you that I meant it as you—though not in a physical sense—but in a much more devious way.
Each time I had thought of you before—as do I now, beside this tree—I have heard a voice inside my head, beckoning on towards my destination. “Go slow” it says, “Go fast” it says; and always it extols the virtue of remembering what my destination will be. I have been walking long though, and the barren soles of my boots thin beneath the firmness of the frozen ground. Frost has not yet crept to these lands, I still feel that warmth lurks somewhere beneath the earth I trudge upon. Where this warmth is, or how it gets there, I will never know. Perhaps if I meet you soon you’ll take the time to tell me.
The ground is hard though, and terrific billows of dust follow each trump of my boot. Oh for rain!—oh for the virtue of water in a place such as this. At least then the flows would suffice to chase the dust from its long-extended dwelling places. At least the trek would be less weary with the knowledge of fresh mud beneath my toes. By now my toes have become nearly as stiff as the path that lies underfoot.
“Follow the yellow brick road; follow the yellow brick road… somewhere over the rainbow…blue birds fly.” My voice is a poor substitute for the biting howl of wind that graces my cheek; but song is a warmer sound then it. My cheeks have frozen over since the beginning of this journey.
Last I came here it was warm and the forest bubbled forth with animals of every type. Now only the spiteful crow perches upon the trail—his eyes grimace at the sight of my passing near him. I have not seen crows since I was a child, when I played naked in the solitude of my ancestral mountain peaks. I swam in the little pools and chased nimbly each child of the swarthy mountain goat. It was in those humid July afternoons, amongst my searching for blackberries and acorns, that I had first seen you.
“Who are you?” I asked, not telling that I had watched you bathe, long before I had even shown myself to you.
“A girl.” was your playful reply.
I smiled.
I still smile now, even as I make my way further down the little path: over each ascension and around every gentle bend. Though the wind bites, and though the lotus flowers bring an almost snow-like effect to the earth, each place is still familiar to me. If both my eyes were put out I could still walk and never miss a step for its almost as if I see a pair of lips within these woods, pressed lightly into a regretful pout.
These lips I have only seen today though, through this wandering down the paths of forestry and deep into your mind. I must confess, I have been down this way several times before, but never have I seen such a mouth as I now can sense before me. Sometimes I listen, sometimes it speaks. It tells me things that I could not have known before listening, and it tells me nothing at all. I do not see them with my eyes that stand as gateways to my soul, but I do see it in my soul, when I close my eyes to make it so. I do it now, just so I can see them again, and softly I listen to what they tell me:
“Cold, and bleak, and bare today; wake up world, tis Christmas Day. Follow the yellow brick road… follow the yellow brick road.” Soft, and sweet, and even-voiced it rings, clear across my consciousness. In my mind, always in my mind, I have tried before but could never hear it aloud.
The crunching sound of pinecones and twigs beneath my feet brings me back to what I have been doing, what I will continue to do, so long as the day will let me. The sun had risen fully upon the narrow horizon, splashing shadows of elm and pine across the path, along with its rays. They offer some warmth, but not enough to halt the chill that threatens to overcome me with every step I take. I know that, were I to rest without shelter, it surely would. The question is, how long can a man walk before he needs cessation of his journey?—and the end of aspiration is far, so very far away.
There is a little stream that flows across this route and, from this I drink. The water repines every sense I possess with its bitterness. I can smell the mud as I drink it, its flow not worth the shattering cold, or the pungent repulse its taste allows. I need a rest, my body aches with exhaustion; my mind quakes from feeling. The little crow has landed opposite from me, its steady eye set upon me as a black herald of doom. I hate the bird but, lacking the strength to cast a stone at it, my eyes shut in hopes that it will go away.
Your lips have once again found their welcome niche within my presence, as if they know the worth of that hold sufficiently. Wordlessly they move and, if I had the energy to do such, I would strain to read what they intend to say. Come closer, come closer and whisper for me—so soft a fox could ne’er attempt to hear it. Ah I hear it now, “Where are you going, and when are you getting there?”
And, opening my eyes, the corners of my vision begin to fade. It has started first at the edges, top and bottom, and all around them. A slow, creeping blackness, like a swarm of flies, descends over all that I can see. The sun is first to go, then the tallest of the trees, as all becomes enveloped in this sick, strange darkness, and swirls around in little bits of color, like candy pieces being stirred into a cake.
The lips have stayed their place though, clear as ever. Yet, whether or not I have actually opened my eyes or just believed that I have, I am not fully certain of. They have stayed while all else has faded though, clear as a piece of fresh-made glass, and as the vision fades into the dark abyss of black, I become aware that the air around me feels as hot as a blowers chamber.
* * *
There are sprinkles of color all around me, set in patters and swirls of violent delight. Reds and yellows, blue and deep purple: all are set in countless umbrellas that span the horizon of the amusement park. The smell of candy and popcorn is nearly intoxicating, and the ringing poop-poop tune of the organ-grinder reminds me of the gnawing pangs that form a grumble in my belly.
I look across and I see you, just as I remember you, the same hair still falls across your shoulders and down to your waist. Your eyes are still innocent, your face still set as a bluebirds in the time of the cherry harvest. Your lips still move in their wordless pout, the same question still formed on them that had broken my trance-like vision. I take a bit of my hotdog and chew it thoughtfully. Too much mustard put on it and not enough relish. Still, it beats hard bread and salty cheese.
“I don’t know” I say at last, wondering if something was stuck between my teeth upon seeing your emotionless stare. “Perhaps a walk in the pathways we used to walk in when things were different. Do you still remember the trips we used to take?”
You nodded. Not much, but at least better then a blank stare.
“Don’t know when I’ll take them or where they’ll lead me, but when I do I’ll be sure that you know I got there.” Nervously I sip my drink, eyes adverting your own.
“Not alone though, it doesn’t have to be this way.” I feel a warm hand placed upon my own and I know that its you who said this. My eyes meet yours and, once again, the vision is returned to me. The same long stretch of trodden path trough forestry, the same hostile winds from the north. The crow still sits there and lotus blossoms continue to fall to earth from the cloudless sky. Yet all is different, and nothing is quite the same. I can see your lips there, guiding me, softly leading me to the place where we both long to go. They are not the same either, before they moved silently, trying to speak but unable, discomfited at the frustration that they felt in doing so. Now I know something has changed for both of us.
Now, at least, they speak.
posted by thisisme | 11:11 AM
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