Friday, 16 August 2013

the story

she was standing there, naked. she wouldn't look at me, but concentrate on the flowers. she had tulips, almost dead, their petals scattered all around. she also had lilies of the valley, and we would look at them for hours (their shadows would climb on the wall, trembling delicately in that filtered light, and to us it seemed as if we could almost see and touch their souls, while they were dissipating into that late spring afternoon). 

she would keep covering herself with her arms, she would hide behind them, she would wrap them around her belly, as she was not happy and not free inside her body. yet she didn't say no to me, when i took the photos, she just stood there, in the hazy light, playing with the petals. when the curtain suddenly fluttered and one petal fell on the ground, unexpectedly, she startled - it seemed to me that i could almost touch her soul, touch what made her to be herself, that wonder, that mystery (it was, of course, an illusion, no one can touch another soul, not even when the light-filled curtains are lulling us into believing we might be exempt from this rule, we might just be allowed a moment of grace, because we are special, because no one has ever loved and desired as we have).



  1. that would actually belong to the Bridge, but because you asked... :-)

  2. This is beautiful. I have no other words.

  3. oh, but the case with specifics, once it begins, a few aspects are not enough. what about the next season when new flowers are alive? what about when she crosses the road? what about dinner? winter? you see, this is a danger, creating a story of anyone, especially someone so enrapturing. how can anyone say anything but, more?

    but i do want to say something. i want to contest the touching of the soul, or clarify what might happen. if we can not touch the soul of another in the place where we are separate, we can meet and touch souls in the place where we overlap, the place where self dissolves and all becomes fluid. i believe this is possible. i have seen it. i've been blessed to be a part of it. and once it happens, how hungry the self is to lose itself again and again.

    i read your post again. it is here, love, grace. it is no illusion what you have done.


    1. oh yes, that is the problem with stories :-)
      Valery once said that he couldn't write a novel because of the impossibility to write down a sentence like: "The marquise went out at five o'clock." it is all arbitrary: why 5 o'clock? what happens if she goes out at 5? why does she go out? why is she a marquise? each of these questions could be answered differently, and each would lead to a different story: choosing just one narrative means killing all the others, and even if one is not nostalgic about them (i am :-), it still leaves us wanting for more, all the possible details which no story can offer.

      i am still pondering the rest, i don't want to be very pessimistic here :-) but yes, i do believe that such moments of grace are possible - still, what we touch is perhaps something born through that encounter, a symbiosis of souls, which otherwise remain as impenetrable and _other_, different, as they have always been. i don't know :-)

  4. hello beautiful Roxana, this is powerful art so beautiful and tender. the delicate interlacing of the heartmind and the flowermind like a trance.

    and your beautiful words-we might be just allowed a moment of grace because we are special because no one else has ever loved and desired as we have -yes this is the sap of existence running through the fibre of life that never runs dry of the burnished exotic fruits of the soul.
    je t'embrasse chère amie.

    1. thank you Madeleine - "delicate interlacing of the heartmind and the flowermind like a trance" - how lovely are these words, how delicately they capture an atmosphere, tender like breath...

      je t'embrasse, moi-aussi...

  5. o frumusete despre care imi vine doar sa soptesc,in mierea dupa-amiezii-pentru ca,avand aceasta imagine in minte,totul pare o vesnica dupa-amiaza si niciodata un trup nu pare sa fi fost mai parguit pentru adastare. si povestea despre ea,si acele clipe de nebunie si neputinta de a nu avea decat o intindere dupa sufletul celuilalt-dar,oare,in valea cu crini si cu lalele,nu putem merge tinandu-ne de mana?nu putem vedea ca toate florile sunt poleite alchimic si ca totul este ajuns la capat,indiferent de drum,de cat de adanca este valea,de cate sute de petale ne cad peste umeri?...