The Narrators Journey

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He is in love with one woman and lives with another . He notices too much , feels everything not knowing just how to filter it fast enough . And his ( Alec ) memories , well , they were strange and wonderful , his mind like that of a Scythian goldfish document box where the origins of a culture gave rise to the Amazon legends and where thoughts of Francis existed . He told me he wondered if he had done the best thing in telling her she could be happy with Paulo . And then , she not only really listened but stayed with the photographer one cold night just before planet Mercury started moving backwards , it’s reverse motion , an illusion . This is a story about how good we as humans are at striving to know beyond what we can see . Love , beauty ,God … a pattern of flower petals thru the winter sky .

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She stunned herself in accepting Paulos plea and upon entering up his stairway , removing her hiking boots , she walked in a tentative way and approaching the main room she paused to consider it … statutes of the Buddha , birdcage from Thailand , heavy dark framed paintings on the pine walls , antique lamps , one of jade embellished with rubies , an ornately decorated mirror , round and as large as the rising full moon , unfinished photos and books on a desk carved with elephants , gleaming glass oil lamps and a very large picture window . She paused with a slight gasp as if it were challenging her to leap across a frozen creek .   ” Love is as warm as tears “, she thought remembering what Alec had told her , thinking about him as she walked barefoot on the cool floors of thread bare carpets .  Was this what she really wanted , this man , this house , this life with someone ? Life always moves towards greater order and the vibration that is creation is always a flickering back and forth . That on and off felt surprising to Francis , like watching a man shoveling the deep snow from his front walkway , wearing only a worn cotton silk suit coat and wing tips . Life doesn’t happen to us , rather , we create it from inside out and because this is a most powerful truth , it has behind it all the creative energy in the universe . So here she found herself in Paulos rooms , unknown to her as yet the bed , a life raft into turbulent waters . She didn’t believe in magic , but lived as if she did . But beware , the phantom planet Vulcan might be found to influence Mercurys orbit … yes , Mercury where the craters are named for artists … Shakespeare , Hemingway , John Lennon , Alvin Ailey and Kahlil Gibran too .

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Well , it seems to me that the best relationships , the ones that last , are rooted in friendship . You know , one day you look at a person and you see something more than you did the night before . Like that switch has been trembling somewhere . And the one who was just a friend is suddenly the only person you can ever imagine yourself with . I hoped this for Francis … but wished she would take off that nomadic green dress she always wore with everything … green is a fugitive and unstable pigment . She could be willfull , irresistible , lovable , stubborn , extreme , quirky , obsessive and ultimately unpredictable . And Paulo , well he had many complexities in his world . He saw Francis more as a pilgrimage to experience rather than a woman , his desire to live with her , a gesture of action in a world in which he found more things artificial , wanting a sacred journey with her so that he could change his mediocrasy . She was like a heavenly horse to him , elegant in a pose of stately strength with a beautifully arched neck . If he could capture her with his camera in crisp detail with a slightly open mouth it might be the prized photo he longed for to set apart his vast portfolio . Blessed is the pure white snow for it moistens her face  … I must tell her to be careful . He saw fright on her brow that day when she entered his rooms after saying “maybe” to staying with him . He told me what he said to her , ” you don’t have to say anything and you don’t have to do anything ” and how this seemed to relax her and how he noticed in her an exquisite detachment from the surroundings as if she were floating in the waters of a lukewarm surf with 10 shades of turquoise ocean instead of the 10 degree of weather outside .

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There is a reality beyond the one we see and there seems to be a blurriness between all the qualities of Divine intention … compassion , love , innocence , humility and it is when you want nothing that everything can be yours . I hoped bliss currents would soon be moving thru my friends hearts . Already their friendships were a tremendous thing . You can’t make that up . Meanwhile , in the parallel universe where perfume sometimes turns into jewels , the scent of Francis’ vanilla hair is like smoke around Alec who sits in silence with thunder hidden inside , writing his book , sometimes glancing up and looking west around the river bend in that winter of winds where Gods eye is on every sparrow . Thinking of Alec , well , he is a gentleman , an outdoorsman , a writer , a lover of food and fine wine , of women , nature and people . He loves fresh crepes and cafe cremes in the hands of gorgeous women at sidewalk cafes , a lover of the simple richness of life . He was able to see how incredibly intricate the simplest things could be and knows that a person becomes more by experiencing something extraordinary .

Moving backwards it remains to be seen if poor Paulo is still in love with his young ex-wife or if all the light we cannot see will be able to illuminate itself in winter , this cold heaven of snow where Mercury floats above , an icon of creativity . It’s a wonderful life for sure . . .

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” And never have I felt so deeply at one and the same time so detached from myself and so present in the world “.     Albert Camus

Music score “Garden” by Sean Hayes … shared by Cyan Ryan at 21 Shades of Blue

16 thoughts on “The Narrators Journey

    1. Your perfume of words floats to me from across the sea Julie … thank you …I think your mind hears your sensitive heart dear friend , and has beautiful conversations … I always love hearing from you …xxx

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  1. Reading this, is strangely familiar, like reading about my life in a parallel universe. The woman I gave my class ring to in 2009, after it was already too late, for example. She had given me multiple many chances the first half of 2008, when we were still speaking, before my insomnia, pride, and impatience ruined everything, every time. She even gave me one last chance, after it all, and we were finally talking again, but being an ass I tried to rush things, and got blocked.

    My poor decisions and behavior towards her then and since haunt me to this day, as if I had been a better person, things might have ended up very differently. I’ve obsessed over my regrets about all that, wishing I could make it right, and found it hard to let go of trying to fix things. Since her, every woman I’ve pursued has been pursued because they reminded me of her, and been gone about in a half-assed way, as if I didn’t truly want things to work out, as if I didn’t want to be happy, unless it was with her. I’ve never been the same since. She returned my ring earlier last year finally, having been married to someone else for several years at that point. And I saw her while she was in town on November 10 of last year by chance… I walked down down by the river on the rocks, as a crowd of people walked not far behind. I sat on the rocks, and someone played guitar on the shore, and kept calling out to someone, asking them what they were doing, why they weren’t sitting with the group, but the person apparently wasn’t answering. While I sat out there, I thought about how I had written the sonnet below, about two lovers kept apart, who were reunited on a river’s edge, two days before, and thought about her, having no idea she was back in town and was sitting under a willow tree where I had climbed down to the rocks, and was watching me (by the way, “Saule” is French for “Willow tree”):

    “Francis & Jacqueline: The Red Lord & Blue Countess (Occitan Sonnet)”
    by Ry Hakari

    A glare from the Wicker Lord who once reigned on his Saule
    with a face like thunder, trust his countenance, lightning casts
    downtown dreams, remembering abdicating his German chateau,
    Compassion-stricken — his White Willow Bark Salicin extracts

    he stripped himself of his French throne, German Wald control
    swallowed by the hunger of the pines in the 1800’s hinterland,
    in his secret 1432 commitment to love in sickness, death throes
    allegiance relieving tuberculous pains of his le amant Jacqueline

    The Archer Queen bargained for her Blood Hunter King’s release
    from the Castle of Repelmonde’s tower cell at the confluence of
    Rupel and Scheld — the ransom for her heart’s captured, bowing

    and relinquishing her reign, a price she gladly sacrificed out of love,
    for her life-long melancholy had once already been cured in meeting
    Francis, the first and last to stir her passion from twilight-sleepdust

    I had paired it with this music video, which has the lyrics “I love this place, but I fear for it’s grace”, which I did in thinking about going back to that spot on the river in the next 2 days.

    When I got back to shore, I saw her, and was shocked, and realized it had been her guitar playing husband who had been calling out to her, asking what she was doing. I didn’t know what to do. She looked at me, and looked she had seen a ghost, and nervously fumbled for a cigarette. I walked away, silent and shocked.

    My eyes were watering reading your post, as I saw traces of myself in it, and reminders of what might have been. She is one of the Wildflower loves of which I write sometimes, and wrote of in regards to returning my heart long broken with my ring in the post “Wildflower Love: Ai Skylark Park”, in which I shared the Sean Hayes music video you asked to use in this post… so you using it in this post makes reading your post all the more sentimental to me.

    “After Long Silence”
    by William Butler Yeats

    Speech after long silence; it is right,
    All other lovers being estranged or dead,
    Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade,
    The curtains drawn upon unfriendly night,
    That we descant and yet again descant
    Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song:
    Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young
    We loved each other and were ignorant.

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    1. Beautiful Cyan … Your soul is tender , sensitive , abundant with love … Your expressions filled with the awe of being both human and divine … Your writing always poetic , your mind brilliant like a sage , your heart a mystics … I am so grateful to know you … You inspire the creativity of my higher self and i have learned much from you … Thank you …xxx blessings

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  2. Meg, another beautifully written story! I’m so hoping that you will accept an award now. I’ll nominate you for a Premio Dardos award that recognizes cultural, ethical, literary and personal values in creative and original writing. There are no questions to answer or ask. You’ll only pass it on to some fellow bloggers. You are so deserving of an award for your exceptional writing! I’ll write a post within a few days with you name on the nomination list. Please think about it when you read the post. Christine

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  3. Meg, you have such creativity! I think of all of the lines I read and reread in this story, this was my favorite part: “Meanwhile , in the parallel universe where perfume sometimes turns into jewels …” You blew me away with that description!

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    1. Hi Christy … You bring me a big smile with your sentiments … Thankyou so much for being on this amazing journey , I’m very grateful for our connection and synchronicity … I think your blog is a “Wow” ! ….enjoy the jeweled fragrance of Life in this new year …hugs

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  4. “Life doesn’t happen to us , rather , we create it from inside out and because this is a most powerful truth , it has behind it all the creative energy in the universe”…
    Oh well that part might well be linked to Camus’ quote somehow~
    Impressive writing. Toast to you!, Aquileana 😀

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