Silence slides on the surface of hanging leaves and she listens to its presence as if it were a shared secret. A sisterly smile that she once recorded on the skin of her memory had a similar feel. Silence plays in the motionless garden, where stillness has no effect on the trained eye. Nothing speaks more to her than the imperceptible movement of truth behind façade.
He thought he was one of them, but he wasn’t. Their tongue and antagonist glances hardly disguised. Their human expectations metal-clad with a designer grim. They said that he was one of them, but he wasn’t. He was dressed in indigo and they knew it. Nothing speaks to them more clearly than a veil of darkness scantly covering the epidermis.
Oh, but I too, think that those two should meet. That’s merely because I identify with a bridge. Missing links are an obsession of mine. (Not theirs, just… just mine).
What a cozy, transfixing write this is. What makes this especially cozy is the last bit you confess to. It's very intimate and "chummy", if you will. I love it.
Let's say they do meet up in a later scene. On a leaf-strewn garden path, she sits Budah-style, palms up on her knees, meditating "imperceptible truths". And while she's thus contemplating, eyes-closed, he noiselessly walks by, the edge of his garment brushing against her fingertips. Inkblots spill silently on her cupped hands.
The moment was brief, but he's left an indelible mark. He might just as well have lost his cloak and stood rooted to the spot, because to her, he was exposed there on her palms, and she read him openly-- façadeless-- beloved-- Truth, revealed.
Afterward: They say that indigo is hard to erase; I think she cups that memory still.
Sounds to me like you're in the throes of devising a very gripping plot for a novel, Axilea, and are delving deep into the psyches of your two main protagonists! Love the allusions to forms of "parchment", inky "indigo" and silence, being the necessary space around words that give them meaning and shape. The silence of your meditations surrounding these characters is teeming with unspoken bridges to and between life. xx
"Missing links are an obsession of mine,"....and in many ways, mine, too. You have written this so beautifully...should they meet at all? Maybe, but then, maybe not...sometimes the mystery...the "what ifs"...the dreaming... are much more than the actual knowing, and perhaps the risk of disappointment. But then again...it might be better to know than to always stay in wonder?
Should they meet at all? I feel more than understand the need, if indeed it is a need, for the objective observer to wish for a bridging...of silence, not stillness, and he 'dressed in indigo', '...a veil of darkness...' (love the particular use of 'veil' in the context) and can only surmise what the outcome may be.
You've set me off here, Axilea, and only the best writing does that.
John
Reviewed by Peter Schlosser (Reader)
Reviewed on September 26, 2010
The "L" stands alone, love perhaps, the link between two souls groping in the darkness, unrecognized and unrecognizable...until the synaptic connecting overpass is established fusing two hearts like bodies of land by a bridge. Cupid highway?? Great poetry.
Dreamin’ Dreams is more than a collection of stories; it is a celebration of Irish life, adventure, and the unforgettable characters who make growing up in Ireland a journey worth remembering.
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Let's say they do meet up in a later scene. On a leaf-strewn garden path, she sits Budah-style, palms up on her knees, meditating "imperceptible truths". And while she's thus contemplating, eyes-closed, he noiselessly walks by, the edge of his garment brushing against her fingertips. Inkblots spill silently on her cupped hands.
The moment was brief, but he's left an indelible mark. He might just as well have lost his cloak and stood rooted to the spot, because to her, he was exposed there on her palms, and she read him openly-- façadeless-- beloved-- Truth, revealed.
Afterward: They say that indigo is hard to erase; I think she cups that memory still.
--Charlie
Peace, love and light,
Amber
You've set me off here, Axilea, and only the best writing does that.
John
Blessings,
Christine
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