by compound complex 730 Replies latest social entertainment
Anyway,I sometimes feel I am in the company of a higher class here.I am just a simple minded guy.Maybe I should not post on this thread.
Awww, Musky, please don't feel that way.
I think CoCo is one of the warmest, approachable persons on this here board.
He can no more help being scholarly than he can help being.
Sometimes I'm so awed by his gift that I feel foolish posting on his threads - but I'm drawn to them as a moth to a flame.
Please don't go.
Sylvia
Snowbird:
...
Musky:
...
CoCo:
You once were true. I was your only one.
With no more than the fierce beating of my heart as your signal, you would hasten deliciously into my presence and cherish me as none other. You were so sweet, so delectable. While others were consumed with envy and styled you a villain, the embodiment of mere carnal pleasure let flow, you delicately removed the shackles that imprisoned my heart. You, sweet savior, were a liberator whose glance, whose touch, whose kiss, sent me to Heaven. My window was ever open to you. Upon wings of desire you floated through and lit softly upon my chamber floor.
Where, now, have you and your sweet offerings of love taken up residence?
I am sick with love and can bear my aloneness no longer. Gazing mournfully out the frozen pane that divides you from me, I see you as inattentive and uncaring. For too long a time you have refrained from entering into my presence and gifted me with love's dream fulfilled.
My offerings of tears have not chastened your wandering heart nor opened its deepest chambers on my sorrowing behalf. You are well acquainted with the desire of eyes, the burning blood that courses madly through veins not meant to contain such fire. When again, if ever, will my dream of love become entwined with my corporeal self? With you?
This raging love of mine is pent-up waters behind a crumbling dam of dust and bone....
Where, my errant love, are you?
Good morning, Sylvia
I want to thank you for your encouragement. I will write even if it's for one or two people, especially two so dear as you and Musky. There are others, of course, whose kindness has spurred me on.
Since you are most likely the only one who will see and/or respond to this, I wanted to explain what seems to be increasingly the obscure meaning in what I write. What I do is largely about sublimation - keeping what is base in check by channeling it through acceptable creative endeavor. It's extremely frustrating to be hemmed in by WTB&T Societal mores and ridiculously confining rules and regulations. I continue, albeit unwillingly, in thrall to my family's faith, this for reasons understandable to faders.
The above love letter is a declaration of personal protest and of romantic suppression. I'm not in favor of promiscuous behavior but to be denied all companionship because of the dangers of ... (I'm still too prudish, as I wrote John Doe, to spell out sxx.) After 10 years of being alone in every sense of the word, I have to write such as the above ... I feel that I am an anachronism: what wells up within me is from a bygone time. As you so kindly put it, it's part of my being. It is my being. I have sincerely tried to change, however....
I realize that my writing will never be accepted at large, but it's enough that you understand. It's either this missive to you at 2 o'clock in the morning or a throwing in of the towel (which I have no intention of doing).
Love and best wishes,
CoCo
It's through a glass o nce bright, now dark,
I float inside ... n o need the door....
Through a sweep of live oak foliage she peers hungrily toward me from her lodging, distant, yet I uncomfortably within her reach. She is perched upon the ridge, grasping tenaciously with her talons the bare rock of a sinister throne. All but one pane is hidden by camouflaging grayish green, her glaring eye focusing squarely upon me, though this bad house on the hill is so great a number of leagues away.
Long before settling into the bungalow on Hernandez Terrace, my parents rented a mountain cabin in the shadow of Dark Mountain.
Even as a youngster, I was tuned in to Nature: so much in love with the sunny meadow of yellow mustard spilling cheerfully into the apple orchard that was bountiful with crunchy fruit and cidery aroma. In the protective lap of the Great One there were no worries as we kids gadded freely about. The few neighbors that were scattered here and there were a friendly and hospitable bunch, who had their own children (some, of course, grown and moved away) and weren't the least put out by our hooting and hollering and climbing their trees and playing with their mangy old dogs, or, as the case might be, new and cuddly puppies.
The dank cabin, on the other hand, willfully penetrated my little body with a chill and consequent trembling that was something other than mere shivers resulting from damp interior walls that never warmed, however earnest the robust fire chugging heartily in the little potbelly stove. My mother, who had a keen sense beyond the requisite five, knew that something was strangely amiss in this little house that refused all attempts to render her sparkling and agreeable. Though just a tot, I could feel discord and strange vibrations that simply were not usual in my family circle. Kids pick up on these things.
My parents learned, to their regret, that the probable cause of the pall hanging so heavily about us was connected to the dark spot on the old linoleum just inside the ill-hanging front door.
A View from Altamont Heights Road
CoCo,
I 've seen a couple of times that you are fluent in French, have you read Proust ? sounds sometimes like he influenced your writing. Anyway you are a real literature man, IMO.
Mon cher Aligot:
I appreciate your response to this thread.
While I know Saint-Exupery and Balzac, I've yet to spend much time with M. Proust. Thank you for the comment; seeking him out will become my next great adventure. I used to write a great deal in French but have, to some extent, lost my French (perdre mon francais, n'est-ce pas? La langue de mon pere) . My English tends to become somewhat in the French mode, though it is not my intention to transpose and employ the idiomatic differences and nuances at such cross purposes. It simply happens ... zut!
One of the wonderful things about this board is having new information brought to our attention, and for that I thank you!
Bien des choses de mon part,
CoCo aka Le Petit Prince
The cabin, whose hidden dry-rotted structure could barely holding a leaky roof over our heads, was, at the very least, keeping the worst of the fierce winter weather outside where it belonged.
The yellow shellacked knotty pine walls gave the appearance of warmth but ran with condensation, leaving wavy streaks of grime that no amount of Mother's scrubbing with White King Detergent and elbow grease could remove. I didn't know at the time of my early years there what the smell was that permeated the interior. Through a remembrance of smells past I later, as an adult, associated the peculiar but not totally disagreeable aroma with that of kerosene. It may be that there was a small kerosene heater in one of the bedrooms because the pathetically inefficient but valiant potbelly stove in the tiny front room simply couldn't cut heating muster.
I was particularly vulnerable to the clammy atmosphere and brought low by the cold and damp. Many a chilly night my chronic respiratory ailments forcibly marched my fighting and weakened body to the wooden kitchen table, my head soon draped in a threadbare terry towel as I breathed in Vicks-scented steam rising from a yellow mixing bowl filled with scalding water. That was the closest I think that I ever got to warm. Unless, of course, I was all but sitting atop the wood stove.
Years later I drove by that desolate speck of a building and saw the sides crumbling and slanting inward. The long weakened roof had finally caved in, giving all the appearance of utter defeat. Surrender to decay and neglect, perhaps?
I have since wondered if the unspeakable act committed in the entry years before had at long last been avenged by the mighty and just hand of Nature.
