Borne thither, in the twinkling of an eye

This is how it is, and how I wish it was.  Certainly, how I imagine it would be.

There was a leak in the bedroom ceiling from the roof and it took us a month to sort it out. We can neither of us be bothered to buy a rug for that same room to cover a wide expanse of empty flooring because neither of us care sufficiently – she for feathering our nest, me for the nest, that little chick of ours aside, and you know, she is already flying if not flown, the essence of the job all but done.

(The time we did once buy a rug together, her mother watched on as we deliberated.  It’s unforgiving of me to say, but that tarnished the experience, the choosing, though it was my choice which prevailed.  Once the rug was in place, it was only I who flew it, until the chick came along.  I turned it into a courtyard mosaic in Magna Graecia, the setting for a love story.  I didn’t know it yet, but you were my Theano.  I made you up before I even knew of your existence.)

Whereas I know, if I were with you, and we needed a rug, finding one would be an adventure, a magic carpet ride.  We would go into it believing that, and we would make it so.  You would bring your knowledge to bear, and we would both exert our feverish imaginations.  We would learn a little more about each other’s taste as a shopkeeper – transformed into a wily Indian in a Kashmir bazaar – showed us his wares, and we ummed and ahhed or pooh-poohed, till both our eyes lit up, and you haggled him down.  Our purchase would be aged, perhaps even a little worn, but its pattern-woven strands would depict or tell a story.  Homeward bound with it nose to tail in either the Micra or the Mini, an Indian rug of Persian inspiration would take us so many places.  Its design, its provenance, its history, the rooms in which it had previously lain, and who before us might have coupled on top of it, to ride and take flight out of the window of a house in Bisnagar.  When we got home with it, we would set it down on the floor and sit upon it and stroke it and each other and off we would go, and we’d not know where until we got there.  We might breakfast in Kashan and sup at Le Bilboquet.  It would be the wildest of magic carpet rides, for you are my Scheherazade, and I your Shahryar; and I am your Georges, and you are my Catherine.

I can’t help wanting to re-invest my life with that kind of magic.

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13 thoughts on “Borne thither, in the twinkling of an eye

  1. Every time I read through your posts they call out for many a reflection. I want to thank you deeply for that. I used to read a lot, my world was made up of books and being in nature. However, for years, I’ve kept finding myself putting away a book not even half-read. Somehow reading and observing life has taken over. Being in nature still abides. But now and again I stumble upon something that brings the reflections deeper, like your writing. It inspires me. I continually find myself trying to pick only one part for a comment, because I really feel like commenting on it, and I know there will be posts of yours I’ll go back to and reflect on with new perspectives or re-reflect deeper on the ones that shoved up as I read it the first time. For now, I’ll leave it here, with saying I deeply understand the magic you describe. It’s key and when you meet someone where it can be shared and taken much further, it is literally blowing the mind and gives space for a magic profoundly profound and life seems more flat without it.

    1. Thank you again, Hanne, for seeing right through to the essence of this, and for reading so much of my writing. Some pieces, like this one, seem written so long ago that I am having to reacquaint myself with them as a result of your reading. When I look them over, I try not to worry too much about the little infelicities I see, and test in my head if both the nub and the detail of the piece still holds true. Though there are one or two things I might change now, this one does for me, and I’m glad it does for you too.

      As for reading books, I’ve been through a similar struggle in the past five years, and for a long while came to depend almost entirely on ‘blogged’ words, which seemed somehow more vital and immediate and open and vulnerable and magical than musty old books with their regimented pages and neat conclusions. I like to think of my blogs and those of certain others as worlds in themselves, indeed like that of a novel, but happening in real time. Recently though, I’ve enjoyed finding my way back into the separate, apart world of books, and maybe they will call you back too, one of these days.

  2. You really don’t need to thank me, I thoroughly enjoy when time is still and I can dive into your posts! I’m happy, if I somehow manage to touch the essence, I think it is what I generally aim at with everything, whether it’s listening or reading. There is a simplicity to it of what really matters, details fade.
    I know what you mean, looking back to see if something still rings true, I’ve burned many a photograph or page written that all of a sudden, and often to my own great surprise, doesn’t hold anything for me anymore. If you worry on behalf of the reader, don’t! Everything I’ve read so far, it’s not only the exquisite way you have with words to reach to the depth of what hardly can’t be described, in such a way it can be sensed by the reader, yet, you do it over and over again. Furthermore, it is also bravery of if I dare so, a vulnerable honesty which in truth holds the greatest strength. I always find it fascinating, the last place one would look for strength, is where it is hidden, in honest vulnerability. It is astonishingly beautiful!
    What an immensely wonderful way to describe reading ‘blogged’ words, I can fully relate. I think the door to books will open again too, because I’ve always had this feeling that books have the peculiar magic of finding you just at the right time.

    1. I might not need to say thank you, but I’d still like to say it, and here again for this kind and lovely comment. Thinking about it, I guess with Endless landscape and Myriorama, I worry less about the ringing true, and more about repeating myself; I’m sure I have at least at times over the course of four or five years of writing this way. But time, life and the situation moves on, and hopefully with them so does the writing, without ever losing its sense of a guiding star.

      I don’t know about being brave though. It doesn’t feel brave, it just feels… how I am. And remember I write under a cloak of anonymity, which leaves me better able to say things without restraint. I would say it is braver to present images with accompanying words and for there to be no or very little division between the artist and the real human being making her way through the world.

  3. As you say, I can only imagine your writing moves on with you since what you write has a strong presence to it, it feels alive, the guiding star ever close, so should there be anything repetitive it would still be written capturing the fresh moment you put words to it.

    You have a really good point. I think when you/we as people do what feels natural to us and who we are, bravery and courage are not words one would use about oneself, because it’s just how it is and comes naturally. I often find exactly the thing a person isn’t aware that they have as a natural gift in the small things they do and are, the most beautiful part of a person, it’s somehow unspoiled. When it comes to courage, for the viewer, another persons ways can seem courageous. So, in a way I would reply with the same words as you, it’s who I am. I want to be as true as possible as I can to that with no filters. However, as almost a paradox or at the very least a big contradiction, I’m also a very private person. I still haven’t had, which in this particular case I would call courage, to really put it out there for people to know here where I live. (wordpress feels to me like an anonymous space for some reason). But I’m facing it head on now and I’m having my first little exhibition ever. It feels right, timing, everything, but it’s also challenging. It’s all so new to me, writing and working with photos in this way and even look at myself as having creativity in me as an expression. So, I want to thank you too, even if I perhaps don’t need to either, for making me aware of something I didn’t know could look like the way you described it to another.

    1. Yes, perhaps I should have said – as I debated with myself that I should – ‘for there to *seem to* be no or very little division between the artist and the real human being making her way through the world’. But I didn’t want to seem to suggest you were putting on some kind of act with how you present yourself on your blog, because it absolutely does feel straight and true. Of course, now we get into discussions about how we are all in fact multifaceted and many-layered (as you put it in one of your posts) and even if we are only presenting a part of ourselves, it’s no less true to us than the parts we elect not to show. I guess it gets more confusing where love (and writing about love, with love) is concerned, because the drive is to show everything of yourself to the one you love – and I suppose in doing so, I expose more of myself here with a greater rawness than might ever be comfortable were it not for anonymity.

      I wish you lots of luck with your exhibition. I’m guessing it will feature images of a certain country, and having seen many of those, I’m sure it will be a great success.

  4. Writing about love the way you do and which involves a person you love and the real and raw feelings around it, I fully and utterly understand the choice of absolute anonymity. As I see it, it’s honoring love itselfh by having no or hardly any restraints put on it and gives a beautiful freedom of words and word paintings that reaches out into the world, even if it’s dedicated to one person only.
    Yes, we are multifaceted and many-layered, however there are times when we reach, or in my sense of it, I reach moments when I feel I’m closer to the truest possible essence of ‘myself’, somehow beyond personality, than anywhere else and that is when I wander in solitude, take photos and write words along with them. As a Danish writer put it in his book: “Fragments of a Diary” (lot’s of fragments here) something along the lines of this; “when we forget ourselves is the moment we truly become ourselves”. I’m touched by your words that my expression feels straight and true.

    Thank you much. It will be photos from the emerald isle, the exhibition is part of a writers weekend I’m helping organizing.

    1. Then in love or in solitude, in words or in pictures, I think we both hope to experience the same feeling of forgetting ourselves in the moment. Your comment touches me more than you could possibly know, or I could say. Thank you again.

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