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| I am the Admirer in Pursuit of the Flame |
And I am but a watcher, and I do nothing but see, and I am but an admirer, content with the seeing.
Her wrist, a simple thing, the way it twists in the dance, in the air and in the sun – what a beautiful thing to envy, a wrist. It is not a usual enviable thing, but I cannot help myself. Hers are a creamy white, a Marilyn Monroe white, just as graceful. Does it bother me that my wrists are but a link from arms to hands, lined pink and too weak for opening jars? Yes, and so I envy hers.
I came here to dance, to listen, to observe. That’s what we all come for. To dance, the slide of the saxophone and the solid drum, it sharpens and elongates your temperate self; she is the steady one within all of us, the one to dance around, the one to make heat. She is the beauty. And the decibel pounds upon us, around us, through us, and she allows it to be heard. Hands thrown up, the constant shout – shake it up – lips close, biting, gently, a murmur of a blush.
How sweet – beside me, another admirer.
Her flame rests above her shoulders. She is aware and dances under it so, but not slowly, it is her rampant heart and she makes it known. A wild color for a wild fairy for a wild heart and a wild dance.
What is her name?
Oh, admirer, genteel, you will know nothing of her but her name, looking at her, what are we missing?
Oh, admirer, we will never know, says he.
And the dance commences with her wrist, the beginning and the end of something brave and ongoing, something to remember before you fall asleep to wish to dream upon. And so I walk away. Is it separate, then? The heat of the making and the maker with white wrists? To be close to her…to know her secrets…but no one can be. A woman like that is untouchable forever and it would be foolish to try to catch her like a firefly in a jar. Because freedom, freedom is the lonely song that all wild fairies sing. And I would never be one to sing it. She, of twisting limbs and torso and flame, she can sing.
The bathroom here is dark. The lights are running out of light. The door is shut, I realize this. The lights are running out of light. Is it true of this, then? Is my light running out of light? To pale next to hers, and then brighten when walking away, as if she takes and replenishes and returns with her wrists of naivety.
Oh, admirer, we have never known a beauty like hers. With unopposed strength and force and will, and the grace of gypsies.
Oh, admirer, I have never been stolen of breath like she does me, and I would have it to be stolen by not a single one else.
Do I care for anyone? No. I have only had passing affection, towards strangers, towards gray eyes, towards hummingbird people. And you, do you care for anyone?
I do, says he, I care for my daughter. She is a laughing kind with green eyes and humming notions. She doesn’t play well with others but she likes to roam in the forest, she wears nothing but white.
Be careful. You wish too much upon her. If she was to become like her – and I point to the crowd gypsy– she would be cursed. You must know this, if you do not want her to end up trialed and alone. They were meant to roam always, always the path of the straggler, loving each and every flower, but never does their heart rest on one solitary thing, save the moon. Be careful, young admirer, your daughter is the gypsy kind.
And it comes up again, the rage and the ashes already burned, and we all rush out from the lights running down and up again it Oh! She is there, with the sound, with the pulse, with the verse about soul things and soul people and soul feelings. And the dance begins. Is there no one in this crowd that could resist her? A circle again, a circle and a break for the sight to be seen.
It would be of my best interest to leave now, to ignore what I have thought, to forget with whom I’ve spoken, to return to middle days. But I was never the one to choose from the choices of best interest. No, I am the one who stays once the house is already burning. And the olfactory notions now, well, they enjoyed the smoking.
It was a penciled in piano piece when she lifted her left arm, she twirled with the man of tinsel and brightened his running light. It was a sketch of a harmonic hum when she lifted her flame with her wrist-branches and shook above the crowd. It was the end of the beating and breaking when she collapsed on the ground, for the air left her mouth, and her legs couldn’t stay. It was a happy emergency, to have danced oneself to sleep.
And I walk away. Was it ever true of this, then? I refuse. Here, my light was vacant from the start and could not possibly have been replenished with some other plastic one. But it was a lovely apprehension, to be afraid of her flame; to come too close would be happiness. To come close would be rare, and it would never be me to do it.
And I am but a resolver, and I am but the unsolved, and I am but a rejection, and I savor her fairy fault.
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Posted by karleyjayde on 2009-11-04 23:23:48 | Rating: | Views: 7
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