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laura r botsford

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The Balcony From Journeys Of The She
By laura r botsford
Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Rated "PG13" by the Author.

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The metaphysical transmissions of Jeylin and Moorea the magnificent man of fidelity have drawn them into a future sphere to be together.



The Balcony


Laura Botsford


    Sitting upon a general invoice, laid a lavishly handwritten memo from Jeylin’ s assistant Franklin Moore. As Jeylin read the usual information about an upcoming meeting, she unexpectedly found herself translating it as a secrete love note from her dearly referred to illusive lover, Moorea. She considered him to be a man’s man, well rounded and sweet. She was a treasure only fully known by him. He was ‘ Moorea the Magnificent Man of fidelity,’ of this she was sure.

    It was an entertaining escape for her in the middle of a boring day. She slipped into her familiar charmed retreat, where she fashioned a flirtatious French accent as she read it aloud. “My dearest, blithe filled woman, waste not one more heartbeat away from me and flutter in passions gentler rhythm’s beside me now.”  He was also a romantic of old languages who reinvented old-fashioned rose prose for fun. Jeylin felt that the vintage verses coaxed romantic allurements towards an everlasting love.

   She sweetly replied a willing affirmation of his love calling on her from this other time.

   “Yes. I will be there with only ankle bells on.”

   These daily imagined romantic flirtations tendered her occasional lonesome countenance with glimpses of what could be. She often gazed across the street from her balcony into a vacant lot, eyeing just one certain place in the illusive mirage where she could see clearly the image of him standing on his balcony. He would softly play a guitar in spot lighted moonbeams. He was a well-respected promise of proposed love that composed songs and sensual sonnets just for the two of them.

   When Jeylin was in need of confirmation or an answer to a conversance of the soul, she believed that this was where it emerged from, and though he wasn’t real, odd occurrences always took place. A dove’s feather would fall from the sky and softly land before her. It was a love that spoke in magic genie stones found on sidewalks, or when the sky’s natural imagery washed impressionistic Monet hues between feathered clouds over her daily modern life.

    Her vision cleared, revealing the true inscription on the message which was; “Meeting at noon at Le’ Rose Bleu with Lyndon.” She was accustomed to business meetings but this one puzzled her brow into wrinkles of apprehended boredom and then dissolved as she returned to thoughts of Moorea.

   “Oh, sweet escape that leads me to embrace such fantasy.” She turned on Night Spirits, by Angels of Venice to enchant her further into a complete connection with her imagined, diversionary lover. The music insulated her away from the workaday swirl that only daydreams can salt away, saving her temporarily from its fast paced vortex, fanning her softly in the ensuing evening dress of sapphire twilight. She cleared her eyes, shook her head in a collective focused fashion and sat upright to look at it again.

   Plainly on top of the daily report was this memo.  She had to question herself for these increasing space outs.

   “I might be checked into the funny farm if I keep this up.” Jeylin said.

   Again, the memo misted itself into a romantic love note. She carefully reviewed the handwriting that curved meticulously in a tailored, masculine flair, ethereally penned in a blend of blue green ink that she had never seen the distinct color of before. Her heart pondered the complexity of her emotions; she yearned for a clearer revelation of this on going fantasy life.

    She guessed that her interest in the fields of watching her inward aura borealis would eventually stream from pixilated glittering dust into a certain focus, much like sitting in a serenely darkened theater, silently waiting for the inside point when rays come together and the movie begins. Nothing was happening.

    “Intuition is sometimes a badly edited film.” She reflectively mused to herself.

   Who was this Moorea guy any way? Maybe he is a composite from her wish list of compatible male traits or was he real, somewhere living in the world and this was his courtship  from a far? Or maybe she just was a colorist, blending subtle intrigues to make her life more interesting. She thought it best not to tell anyone; for in the mystery of her multiple plane existences there were others places she needed to be. “I wish that there was an answer, ” she said looking out her office window into the sky. “Open up a passage of fresh clarity. Tell me I am not going crazy,” she pleaded in whisper. Jeylin gasped a quick excited clean breath, suddenly aware of the supernatural power of her heartfelt prayer. As quickly as she wished, there was a cautionary pop up in her mind. “Careful what you wish for… You just might get it.”

   Franklin entered her office with a little kick to the side like Stuart from Mad TV. Jeylin laughed at his quirky antics.

     “Look what I can do! Did you read the memo Jellybean? I guess you must know that as your assistant, I must tell you,” He plopped down squarely in a chair, improving smoking a pipe, and began talking in a very drawn out a thick, stiffly affected English accent.

   “Please tell Ms. Botten, that it would serve her well to dress for the occasion as we are going to Le’ Rose Bleu for lunch.” He always was animated as a Jerry mouse cartoon.

   “Oh really and just what does this English, wanna be a fashion consultant, think that he has to impress me with?” Jeylin asked.

  “I don’t know honey but he sure was coming on like Mr. Dandy of haute couture as sure as my Mama named me after old Ben.” Mr. Franklin quipped.

   Jeylin laughed at the thought of her slender, very gay secretary, standing beside the original Ben Franklin in a sepia antiquated flash powdered photograph. Somehow she couldn’t imagine a more miscast name for this guy. “Which part of old Ben’s career did you like best?”

   “Let me see…” He pondered in deliciously unmistakable, melodramatic pauses.

  “The time his kite was hit with lightening. I’d have loved to see that portly old man set his key on fire.”

   Jeylin giggled. He made her laugh even when she didn’t want to; a communicative art few had mastered around Wells Inc. Jeylin then heaved a staunch sigh.

   “Well he’ll just have to settle with the basic black,” Jeylin said.

   Franklin quickly went into his portrayal of a runway version from Benny Hill and began to gleefully model out his approval. “The silk one with the cowl neckline and sexy little slit up the side?”

 “The very same of which you pose.” Jeylin smiled.

” Splendid…he’ll be as pleased as Earl Grey Tea, ”said he.

   Franklin spun around in the office chair, and then sprung out of it like a jack in the box. “Oh by the way, I passed by your place this afternoon. You know that vacant lot across from your apartment?”

   Jeylin tentatively looked up from her papers. “Yes. What about it?”

   “It looks like there’s going to be a new building there?” Ben said.

   Jeylin’s interest was peaked, her eyes widened and her lips parted slightly. Franklin flailed out one arm in a queen’s version of Vanna White “Yes, there is a big sign. Coming Soon, The Wesley Brownstone. You won’t have that ugly view for much longer.”

   “Hmm ya… neighbors.” She guardedly replied.

    She was curiously animated with anxiety into a moment of curling a lock of her hair around her finger, fearing her imagined lover might suddenly become inaccessible. Maybe he only called on women from nearby fantastical vacant lots. She was already to dispense more anxiety upon her already burgeoning insanity when Franklin defused the plunge by smiling and doing a runway turn at the door.

     “Got to go JB, see you tomorrow,” and bowed.

     “Goodnight son of Ben.” Jeylin curtsied in courtly adoration.

   The clock on the wall clicked into the last second of straight up five. She folded up the note, stuck it in between the pages of her daily planner and locked the door.  Her heels heading out into the milieu of traffic into a sea of a hundred faces that seemed to be searching for their beauty among the beasts as the five o’clock throng song played on.

   Leaving the city behind to its continuing exodus, she made her turn down highway 82. Thirty miles out into twilight she viewed a flurry of fireworks emerging above the trees. Their celebrative fanfare of freedom splashes brought back a childhood memory of when she used to write her name with a sparkler in the summers night air, challenging physics to leave it there forever, glittering for all eternity. This in retrospect was probably the beginning of all her forthcoming unrequited realities.

   She clip jagged a curve, crossing slightly over the centerline, recovering quickly from the edge and continued safely on. She was glad to be out of the office for a three day holiday, away from a world of reports and frustrated gossipy office women, who had nothing better to do but topple their precious lives into rumblings about mistreating men and too much work that they never seem to completely do. 

    “I shouldn’t be so negative,” she said out loud.

    “Everyone is just wishing for a better life or telling themselves that it is ok to enjoy the one that they already have.”                         

    Jeylin was relieved to open her apartment door and greet her home filled with plants, her paintings, and her bird, Sallie Mae Nosegay. There weren’t any bills in the mail. There was still wet earth beneath the foliage of her yellow mums and best of all; the first star was coming through the twilight. She entered the sanctuary of her balcony.

   As part of her retreat from the workaday world there was always a ritual lighting of candles. All seven of them emanated lavender and bergamot perfumes in the still humid air. It was her way of ushering herself away from her office life into the sweetness of the evening. She took a long moment to sit in her rattan African Queen chair to breathe it all in.

    Another flurry of fireworks began booming, crackling palm trees and whirly glittering butterflies spinning off in the distance. She leaned against the balcony rail to watch and wait for another contact from her imaginary lover as she marveled at the wonder and scientific magic of pyrotechnics.

   She always waited in a quiet sphere of expectancy, waiting for the next rhythm wave to wash over her thinking about how lonely it must be to not know how entertaining this little bit of spiritual mind travel can be. Yet, then again she did know of real people that were completely driven into states of madness for hoisting too many rides upon the spiral waves that ever sought to capture romantic hearts and snare likely schizoids over the edge into total unreality. But this she knew as true ; that amid the ravings between the sexes, there exists a love braid of enlightened compassionate hearts that are authentically seeking carriage into the blueprint of another. These souls have chosen to share in this eternal vision. They send their own pyrotechnics into the romantic spheres.

   In the end, with or without their common sense, one can only say they tried to be faithful to right love to it’s higher realm but could not withstand the betrayals and disappointments. They gave up their own sensitive hearts to the proclivities of torment and went too far with someone who just never could quite absorb what unconditional love was all about. Most likely they probably never would. This is where some have stopped. You can see their ashes along the glitter highway.

   Jeylin was one that tried although she was well guarded behind a firewall of daydreaming. She was certain that love existed. There is a universal, pure love that in our moments of peaceful openness is able to unmask the weary and forgotten souls out of their blushed secretes to complete one bubble out of two. This love wishes to be felt from another, it is a love that is neither sinful nor is it to saintly. It is connected like an orchestrated masterpiece with each playing every instrument. This was the love that Jeylin sought.

   The radio played a ballade from an era gone by yet ever remained a classic thread of longing for that splendid, serendipitous someone. She hummed along still waiting, watching the sky for more fireworks. She was enjoying the full moon’s glow that ever was a beacon of hope for all love seekers and finders.

   Knowing that the workday still required a little more homework, she went back into her apartment, leaving the French doors to her balcony opened.

   She rummaged around a closet looking for some misplaced notes she had written for the Duke of Well-in-Dress who had the imposing presumption of booking a meeting on her holiday weekend. “Get a life,” she said out loud to the room.                 

   Among the catch all closet of what will someday have built in shelves and become an envied HGTV home office, Jeylin came upon a package of photographs scarcely looked at from 10 years ago. There, about the third one down memory lane was a picture of her first love, a tussled haired blond, blue eyed, young man by the name of Timothy. He was a poet, singer and songwriter. He was enchanting, as first loves always seem to be for incurable romantics such as her self.

   Jeylin soothed her fingertips by running them slowly across his perfect face. She remembered his kiss, his touch, his laugh, which seemed to flow easily from his belly in a wellspring of warmth. It then easily emerged in streams of cherished illumination that spilled from his eyes in a brighter blue as they looked into hers. The lingering remembrance of his love was the beginning of her first adult glance at a heart encompassed in a sharing unconditional love. It was brush stroked with heightened sensitivities, highlighted with long gazes upwards into skies that endlessly were swept with stars watching for falling ones as they lay next to each other on a cool green lawn. This was her ever lasting, poetically classic portrait of a young man in love whose eyes would forever be remembered as the effervescent glowing epicenter of perfect affection.

   She laughed at this because no matter how old young girls get, it is still what every woman seeks; which is to be recognized for every exquisite feminine nature she soulfully emanates. To be truly seen through ones eyes for all time, embroidered on the sleeve of eternity always watching over her.

   Why that doesn’t always last is why romantics go mad or end up alone in life. It is ones quixotic vision that over time becomes its own photographs, that over expose in excessive moonlight. Everyday relationships can’t compete with this collar. It isn’t accurate in real life; real life has sleeves and buttons.

   First love’s tendered spark of divine lovability doesn’t have to disintegrate though by bitter degrees of cynical hopelessness.  Why don’t we remember that it’s just life and learn from it rather than give up?  It can’t possibly hurt so much as to not to try again.

   Jeylin’s peaceful solitude was her only pillow of preservation; she could scarcely conceive ever again being loved so completely like that again. Yet here, she was still superimposed into the possibility of its second coming fully buttoned. She wistfully wondered out loud, “Where is he?”

   She pondered further as the sky lit up with more fireworks. What if the sky opened up and there suddenly was a shower of glitter dust after a cosmic clustergasm; whose would you say it was? Maybe there was some mind-blowing occurrence that connected one to another fragment of its atomic structure. This one she seeks in particular, for home is where the atoms reside. Could one remember this, before we were separated?

   “ I am sparticles; we are twin stars, and soul mates,” Jeylin whispers into the air from her balcony.

   The quantum romantic milieus that love ever yearned for in common carbon. Jeylin understood what that was; she just didn’t know how to find him again.

   If only the stars would line up right or God could part the heavens once again maybe they could both remember that timeless moment before the fall. Not just in twinkling glimmers but simply met in a steady stream of real day to day, on going, ever loving, cook together, sleep together, fight over the remote together lives.

   There was a cacophonous exhilaration in the air, a shift, and a notable turning point that uplifted her heart into the assurance that there would soon be an answer to her dangling, cosmic conversations. 

   I don’t believe there was anyone quite set up for ‘the encounter’ as she.

   Was it because she had been readied with enough love lessons, and had sufficiently fulfilled the requirements of singular travel along Saint Valentine’s love line? Or was it because she had such a consummate imagination that natural physics were finally coming around to her way of thinking?

   She heard music from across the street; the kind of music that on impulse moves one from a material realm to become suspended by another.

    Jeylin looked out the window. There, hovering like an Alfred Steglitz photograph, was a balcony faintly out lined. A man stood deeply looking at her from the rail, effortlessly glowing from an epicenter of perfect affection.

   “Hello,” he softly said.

   “Hello,” she stammered.

   He looked deeply into her eyes so much so that she felt birds could sit perfectly supported upon the beams of recognition between them. 

   He softly spoke in everlasting confidences that only souls that know each other understand.

   “It’s taken awhile but I am coming back to you,” he sent on a beam of silent understanding.

   “When?”  Jeylin softly pleaded.

   Another burst of fireworks cracked opened the violet sky.  A Son of Star iris fell from the sky and floated patiently to the ground, landing in front of the construction sign. From the illusive balcony she heard him say.


       Web Site: Journeys Of The She

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