Here, now, she is crouched at the rim of the largest body of water she’s ever seen; it could be an ocean, and in one particular way it is. Were you to ask her  what she was feeling at this very moment in time (place your hand on her chest and you would  have your answer in the hard pounding of her heart set free), she would answer, “look at that, will you, look at all that water,” and you could read into that, were you that kind of person, one who took opportunity as it came to you to delve below the surface of the words, to wade among the pebbly shoals of her sub-conscious desires and were you the kind of person who would interpret that pounding in her heart and soul, you could arrive at a destination not unlike the one she finds herself in now, at the edge of adventure, freedom (as proscribed as it is); the world she has known erased with each lap of the waves against the shore, pulling back, rolling in, the sand smoothing out the rough spots and those little water-smooth stones of a past life tumbling in and out and back and forth and away.

She was not someone who suppressed the past, but she also was not one to live her life shackled to it either.  You would not think of her life as one of constant reinvention, but there was a magical quality to it—a flourish of the magician’s cape as the beautiful, spangles glittering, assistant is revealed in the cabinet, whole, the swords having been inserted and removed one at a time until it was too difficult even to watch—should you look into her gray-green eyes or notice the pallor of her olive-tinted skin (and the pulse of her red mouth when she laughed, showing her teeth) you would have seen, divining as we are, how well she guarded that past, not suppressing it, but controlling its appearance, utilizing it to build her house on top of it, her future—not on the shifting sands, that hymn of Christians an undercurrent.

How else to explain the mythology of her past?  You rarely see these muses come together—Clio in the back, hidden from view as history often is; Erato on the left, brazen in her power to seduce and is it Terpsichore, poised to leap into men’s hearts or could it be that it is Thalia on the left, whose power to weaken men with laughter and steal their hearts while they are bent in two and unprepared for her cruel fate?  Love is cruel; it leaves both parties weakened and often defeated and so exhilarated that you gladly lay bare your weaknesses, the loss then that much more devastating, the loss you only could overcome were you made from the imaginings of mankind.

You cannot know if she is in love now.  What you do know is that her past pushed her into her future and soon she would fall in love again, a deep fall, perhaps too deep to be able to make reasonable assessments of what is to come, but not unhappy as the future unspooled.



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"Ariadne's Threads" par Eugenio Carmi, a gauche sur le plancher, tombait aujourd'hui de la mur. KABOOM! Oui, bien sur. C'est tout.  #artdisaster #hangingsystem #fail

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© Robert Patrick, and Cultivar, 2008-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts, photographs and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Robert Patrick and Cultivar with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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