There you are again, laughing in my dreams. What brings you? Is it the season, the memory, the romance? Do you think of days past and wish for days to come? Do you tease out tangles of hair in the morning? Do you frolic in the sheets in the hours after dusk? I know you do. Or I wish you would. With me.
If once I touched your fingers, and twice I kissed your lips, what wonders, I wonder, a thrice might bring. Friendship, we see, is ever ours, free from the shackles of obligation, unburdened by the finality of decisions old. But what more, I ask, can lurk in the shadows of passion denied? What glorious emotion might be conjured out of common thought? What love may twist about the orchids in the fields? What lust may burn in the meadows of eternity? What that is mine, and what that is yours, could blend into that which is ours?
To you I ask: cannot the Fates be lured with drink? Cannot their endeavors be thus inebriated, so that paths once straight and predetermined might twist and bend and intersect with the unexpected? Cannot the wine of gods quench the dryness in our separation and flood our pallets with the flavor of lifetimes shared? Is it not so? What answers have you? I fear no more than I.
So too I'm afraid that ours is a fairy tale without a fairy. And though I clap my hands every morning and night, there is yet no sign of a happy ending. Do not think, however, that I have given up, or that I ever will.
For there is a question between us unasked and unanswered. Must it remain forever so?
To unfamiliar lands, to dreamscapes of pleasure, to
nightscapes of passion and longing, to a world unlacking, a world still living,
a world of inconsequential decisions, where happiness mingles with lust, and
demons of drama are daydreams of the wicked. Take me there. Hear me laugh.
Teach me to imagine. Dance with me on tables of fire. Swim with me in oceans of
wine and spirits. Walk with me, hand in hand, on clouds beyond the rainbows, where
lollipops sing and unicorns play, where feasts and orgies of decadence and
debauchery introduce us to citizens of wealth and power. Sing to me the Devil’s
lullaby, sweet with vice and seduction, as we climb the grandest peaks of creativity,
smug and smiling at our followers below.
We are leaders in this fantasy, innovators in a
land of style, brilliant in our ambition and flawless in our
execution. Raindrops splash in pools of color and we gallivant to glory, past
the mundane riches of the ordinary to a fortune of knowledge and ecstasy. We
are untouchable. We are impeccable. We are the Lords of imagination, the Rulers
of carnality, the King and Queen of desire, to whom even those singing
lollipops must offer devotion.
I cannot
get there alone, and without you all the colors of the world descend into a
dull gradient of despair. So let us travel now. Together.
And get lost forever...
"Isabel!"
The voice sang through the streets and danced with expectation.
"Isabel," it cried again. "Isabel!"
A high shrill of excitement filled that voice along with a discordant whine of exasperation,
a breathless sigh of relief, and, perhaps greatest of all, a piercing howl of desire.
That voice was a song, and it was the song of a man beholden to nothing, a man on
the verge of storied accomplishment, a Conquistador under the arches of the chamber
where his treasure has hidden for centuries. And that song was mournful, having
been uttered only in whispers and cries for over a decade. It was fearful, having
been the theme of countless nightmares. It was hopeful, tinged with the magic of
dreams and an unquenchable thirst for passion. And it was powerful, indeed more
powerful than any tune in the long history of Time, but let us come to that later.
The voice sprang from the lips of our Conquistador as footsteps echoed in the distance.
He ran as he sang and sprinted down unfamiliar streets. There was but a single turn
remaining in the road ahead, a blind corner standing between two souls and their
destiny. Of course, destiny is a mistress of the future, and she is easily cast
aside by the greed of reality once two souls are reunited. Reality, it's been said,
maintains a disturbingly unromantic outlook on the nature of souls.
But Fernando, for that was our Conquistador's name, charged around that final turn
with abandon, searching for his Isabel. He knew she was nearby, and his news could
wait no longer. How many years had he worked toward this moment? How often had he
dreamt it, rehearsed it, played out its conclusion in the quiet rooms of his apartment?
When the questions came from worried family, when the bill collectors knocked down
his door demanding payment, when other women snuggled close in bed, naked, satisfied,
and asked why he was so distant, so untrusting, so secretive, what answer did he
always want to offer? What answer justified their concerns? It was an answer he
never spoke, because they could never understand. The answer was Isabel. And the
answer would always be Isabel.
He sang her name again, and as before the song spun with expectation, licking at
the cobblestones, twisting around the street lamps. It filled the night with warmth
and anticipation, and every pair of feet walking the streets hesitated. Every man
felt a pang of empathy. Every woman with a romantic heart recognized the longing,
and each secretly wished she was the object of the singer's desire. Longing of such
an exuberant nature is rare, as is the love that propels that longing into madness.
Isabel was a romantic soul, but there is a difference between wishing you were the
object of someone's affection and hearing the wind cry your name in the night. Fernando
knew this, and so he wanted to reach her before she fled in fear. He raced around
the street corner. There she was walking with friends. They were heading home from
a night at the theater and they all stopped when they heard his song. He watched
them tease her, amused by the coincidence of her name on the tongue of a mystery.
Perhaps they didn't yet understand, and perhaps that's why they turned, startled
and in unison, when his footsteps chased them through the night.
"Isabel!" he cried. He stopped a dozen paces from the women, and a moment later
she emerged, at long last, stepping forward out of the crowd. She was as beautiful
as Time itself, and he should know, for he had an intimate relationship with Time.
"Fernando?" she asked. It was only partly a question of recognition. Mostly it was
a demand for answers. She could fit more meanings into a single word than anyone
he knew.
"I've been looking for you," he said.
"And you've found me. But why?"
He smiled at her. It was a proud smile, a naïve smile, a smile blinded by too many
years of imagination.
"Don't grin like an idiot," she said. "It's cold, and my friends have places to
be."
"Send them home. I have something to show you."
"Show me then, and be done with it."
"Come back to my apartment with me. Please. I'd rather show you there."
"Are you kidding?" she pleaded.
"I did it, Isabel. It took a long a time, but I found a way. You asked, and I succeeded."
"What did I ask, Fernando?"
"Remember your words on the pier when you touched my hand?"
"No."
Fernando laughed. "Come now, you remember. Under the stars, gazing at ships on the
Med. Your hair was crazy from dancing in that lucky westerly wind. You touched my
hand and wished upon the moonlight…"
"Fernando, that was fourteen years ago."
"You remember. It was your wedding night, and a woman never forgets her wedding
night."
"Can you blame me for trying to forget?"
Suddenly one of her friends shouted, "Everything okay?"
Isabel turned and stepped backwards. "I'm sorry, Fernando. It's nice to see you,
been a long time, but I need to go. Take care of yourself."
Fernando reached for her arm. "I guess you don't remember."
"I'm sorry," she answered, pulling away and turning to go.
But our Conquistador was not so easily discouraged. He suffered, as all daring explorers
do, from an abundance of ego and pride, and why not? He had achieved the impossible.
Plus, he saw hesitation in her steps.
"Isabel," he said, and she paused. "Let me help you remember."
Then he lifted his chin, inhaled, and began to sing...
Click Here to read more...
Usually I reserve these blog entries for creative writing. That makes them much less bloggish and much more like a notebook of writing snippets. They rarely amount to much, and most of them are ideas I crank out in a few hours, but the idea of putting anything in front of an audience who takes the time to comment carries with it a powerful allure. I'm not a great writer. There's plenty to learn, and I need the practice, so I'm forever grateful to everyone who takes the time to assist me in my endeavors.
In any case, I thought I'd take a moment to mention an undertaking that has reinspired me. This undertaking: a return to reading Fantasy.
The first adult novels I read, discounting any school books, were fantasy novels. The fascination began with Tolkien, as it does for so many, and from there progressed to authors like Terry Brooks, Tad Williams, Robert Jordan, writers of epic fantasy. Not only could these authors tell a good story, but they built entire worlds out of experience and imagination. They invented cultures, religions, politics, and histories that thrilled and delighted me. In many cases, the worlds were as believable as our own, and yet somehow they held a timeless quality that I continue to find appealing.
I haven't read many fantasy novels over the past ten years. In my early twenties, I shifted to the suspense and mystery genre. From there I moved to political thrillers, to real world histories and biographies, and those I mixed together with any literary fiction I found appealing. There's very little logic to my reading choices. I'll buy any book that feels like something I would read, whether or not I ever actually read it (thus accounting for many shelves in my office stacked with UNREAD books). But through it all, I've always found the most pleasure in books that offer glimpses of timeless eras. Revolutionary history holds a bit of that allure, seeing as it's been so mythologized, as do stories of ancient civilizations. My favorite fiction novels, though often set in a specific period, always possess a hint of timelessness. Zafon's The Shadow of the Wind, Greer's The Confessions of Max Tivoli. They touch upon the surreal, and I love it, and I try to convey a similar atmosphere in much of my writing (though with far less mastery and success).
A year ago I decided to finally get around to reading the first book in Tad Williams' "new" fantasy trilogy, Shadowmarch (Note to Tad: 4 books does not a trilogy make). And I enjoyed it, as I knew I would. It tickled at my fondness for epic fantasy, which has apparently lingered despite the self-inflicted boycott. So I sought out a new fantasy author to read. After one or two unique and decent reads, I found The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss. I'll be honest. I bought it because both Mr. Williams and Terry Brooks recommended it. And you know what? It was fantastic! Smart, surreal, romantic, epic, sarcastic, and perfect. I loved it. Read all 700+ pages in a few days. Been a while since a book did that for me.
So I felt a need to express my joy. I'm returning now to the world of fantasy. The next Shadowmarch book is on the list, but first I will begin to reread one of the more celebrated and ultimately tragic fantasy tales of our generation. The Wheel of Time, by Robert Jordan. I read the first book in 1993 and subsequently received the next three volumes (in hardcover!!!) from my parents on a fantastic Christmas morning. I think Mom & Dad were stunned that I asked for books, which probably explained the splurge. Ultimately I read the first eight of twelve long books. It became difficult to remember what had happened from book to book when two or three years separated them. The good news is that the final book is now being written. It will be split into three parts, part one of which was released last month.
Sadly, there was a second author's name on this new book, because Mr. Jordan died before he could finish it. Imagine that. Twenty years of slaving away on a story, eight hours a day, six or seven days a week, only to die with the end in sight. I own every volume in hardcover and paperback (they darn near started my collection all those years ago), but I hardly remember the first few I read in high school. So it's time to start again. Over 10,000 pages to read before I get to the last book, but I look forward to the fun. They are at once a reminder of my youth and a new opportunity for learning and inspiration. Consider this my salute to Mr. Jordan (aka Mr. Rigney), and to Mr. Tolkien, and to Mr. Brooks, and to Mr. Williams. I can't approach their talent, but they're wonderful teachers and motivators, and it's because of them I've always had a desire to create. If only I had their work ethic.
Which makes me wonder: To those of you who, for whatever reason, find my writing entertaining, what books inspire you? What fondly remembered novels leap to mind most frequently? To my writing friends, what stories motivate you to write? It's a fun topic.
Anyway, I'm off to now on an adventure. If you need me, I'll be in the barn channeling magic. (Really I'll be on the couch reading a book, but in many ways it's the exact same thing.)
Further out to sea the madmen cringe at the sight of blood. They sense the keel splitting. They fear the rogue, the vision, the slap of a vengeful god. They climb the masts to gaze into a distance so hazy in the fog of uncertainty their minds, weak and without hope, create a future so blotted by damnation and ridicule, so riddled with loss and misery, so lost to the realms of youthful expectation, they see only empty promises and drowning potential. For when the winds begin to blow the seasons run together, and the hatred in the world's fury claims their souls forever.
So fly now from the stern, fly now to the ocean's end and tumble off a spinning world. Where fear trembles at the onslaught of happiness, where misery melts into oblivious merriment, where bodies clutch and meld with each other, the angst of lonely nights belongs to none and the pulsing thump of ecstasy clings to the mind like wine to a vagrant tongue.
Taste the savior in sweaty lust. Lick the filth of sensuality. Hate the morning sun that brings an end to fantasy. And chase away those sailors, those naysayers, those fiends of boredom and routine. Dismiss the subtle elegance of loneliness, and touch a future so filled with unpredictability you will remake yourself to bask in the glory of its perfection.
Originally posted on MySpace - 5.1.2008