Facets – The Lovers’ Tableaus

I want to cradle us in the incipience of these tableaus. I think of a room, a room I would paint in watercolour, with more water than colour, but with all the imaterial colours of white, and I think that it would be a room to weave of linen and silken yarn, if I wanted to make of it, instead of paper, a canvas, a mantilla, or a shade. A shade like this one, not upon the windows in the room, but around me and around you, whom I hold and caress here, upon my white lap, within this watercolour with a surprising scent of maternal serenity, of lips that gather kisses of milk and honey upon breasts of giving with purity, within these yarns of linen and silk that let tender blues like your eyes drip, to then dilute them in a very softly pink smoothness of skin awakening very, very slowly.

And then I want to awaken us fast, as if we were bursting forth, beyond that room and into another tableau. To awaken us with tearing avidity, yes, in brush strokes that will blend and unfurl fully grown wheat-fields on a very hot Summer, filled with the ochres of the ripe grain and in its entirety blooming with poppies that no rainfall of rose petals, no matter how scarlet, could flood with a deeper passion. Blood and earth and lots, lots of sun, and a whole air of bird trills that cannot be captured nor do we want to. Birds and trills in a space that a spatula would cleave - to instantly fill the cleavages with them - of lush greens under which and upon which, in alternate notions of tree and meadow, we would seed ourselves in nudity and would be harvest of all desires. Then, we would entwine a wickerwork of afternoon and orgasm with that unparalleled chromatism of the light that radiates from a curving day, and from that basket would mature the unutterable sweetness of our hunger quenched berry after berry and yet of a lingering thirst of further juice adhering to the fingers.

But this is not all. Beyond these tableaus there is still an infinite array, and I want to wrap us in that vastness which is much like that of patches sown together in the coherence of a quilt sheltering a pregnant wholeness. Sepias, profound indigos, rustling glows of sea in the distance and of the breeze near, now salty and then sprinkled of all those subliminal flavours within the dew that rests upon the manes of the stallions and the back of the mares watching over the resting foals. That same dew which is also the core of foam upon that distant beach and is reflection of full moon upon the chant of dolphins as upon the howls of wolf packs, always exuding, after all, the liquid essence of light within the substance of the most unfathomable darkness. There, we could depict in black many fears, as if they were shadows, and we could conceive the whole palette of obstacles, invisible and yet as sharp as thorns, and of those doubts that also pervade us but whose display of hues we never fully pervade beyond the tangible crimson welling up from the wounds. But we could also swathe the paradoxes of night, as if we were welcoming rather than smothering them, in all the ink of this sense of being together with no limits, in the profusion as in the absence of all colours.

And I also want to leaf us through a sketch book, you know, drawing open smiles on faces who could not disengage themselves from that grey traced by some tedium and which not even those clowns, dabbled upon them in gaudy frolics of crayons, have succeeded to obliterate. I want to follow with you the unmeasured contours of a troupe of hearts reciting themselves in total impromptu across pages and more pages, and I want to applaud, with you, their originality, which all the “encores” cannot dim, nor all the arrows shot from an upper circle of round clouds by round cupids can drain. I want us in the convolutions of spirals of no hazard at the center of all hazards, and in cornucopias generously overflowing their own expanded concept of spirals. I want us even upon the pondered line which has quit being rigidly rectilinear to grow transformed into a flexible curve, further ahead forming an archway of passage to enter as to exit, and ending in the newly found beginning of itself, in a perfect ring.

I want to portray us in all the facets, our own, that all the Art will never quite portray, for they are ever incomplete self-portraits of a complete Love; As complex as the wholeness of its mutations, which are our own as well. As simple as the attained nirvana of one more blank canvas of absolute plentitude.

This canvas, which I want to offer us now, just so we will seek it again, tirelessly, the two of us as one, driven solely by wanting to create dreams hand in hand, and by never wanting to paint their end.

© February 14^th, 2006 – Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®