Did it reach you? The mistake of a friend to open something up to the world. Something that he was very proud of, and me so very shy of even though I knew it to be good. And did it find it’s way to the right spot, to open and show the world that someone like me was there, just waiting? Take what he offered, bring it close to your lips as the kiss is aching. Would you understand the way I do these things? Would you understand me should I ask you? Would you at least call me, let me know the same can be said of you? That the same thing rolls around in your head. Or do you see the cat creeping just below and get a whiff of the irrationality which plagues my every intention?
If they told you I was eccentric you’d be good to believe them. To believe that all the thoughts and misguiding voices in my head cause me to be just slightly south of normal. Cause me to seem somewhat charming when really I am just plain sick and demented in the subtlest of ways. Demented for you, around you, to be inside you.
I am for you.
Delirium's Nocturne
Here I stand again, at the edge of the water that will draw me under, into that world beyond my control. Sometimes I think I can avoid it, simply turn the other cheek and walk away. But the waters move around in such a pleasant spinning motion, the colors feeding upon each other. The effect is quite hypnotic and it draws me closer till my footing slips and I fall over the edge; my arms grabbing at invisible branches that might save me from the fall. My grace now something I can only claim to have as I move so awkwardly.
Why I should fight it I don’t know. Maybe it is so I can convince myself that I truly can fight it should I want to. Maybe it’s merely something I must prove to my own pride. So far Pride is not convinced by my claims, which is just as well and good I guess, one should not be held by their words but should be made to prove it by their actions. Countless times I’ve said that to a lover, whose words were the sweetest poetry and yet they treated me like a worn rag doll. Something to love and cherish for it has always been there, but soon they forget it when it is not in sight. One day I will prove it though.
The waters spin and move, flowing with their own current that is not like the coming and going of the tide. It is a steady motion that never changes, not even a fraction of an inch. The steadiness of its waves are a comfort, a safe spot to hide away in. Many times I’ve found it to be the bed I favor to sleep in.
It whispers in my ear a litany of words that make no sense but seem to express the secret of life. A string of quotes from poems and novels I can recall having read at one time or another. Each sentence strung together to form a new story, more potent for its touch of delirium.
And as I think it, there she is. With the books in her hand, taking from them the things that make sense and transferring them to her page; one page in the big book of nonsense. I can hear the rustle of the butterfly wings fluttering about, still I can not see them. They hide among the twirling color’s of the water, blending into it like the most perfect of camouflage. Her pets. I would speak to her but my heart is not in it just yet. I need to feel the comfort around me like a soft quilt made by my mother’s own hands. Feel it warm me, allow me to see the bed my body still sleeps in somewhere. Only then, in the safety of that patchwork net, can I tempt myself with her words.
I once thought the things she said were the most purest of truths. Things that only the first tribes knew. Like the color of Eve’s hair, the hue of her eyes. How tall Adam stood and what the garden smelled like. She would know the true name of God and how it felt to be alone on the Earth before the cars and cities corrupted its surface skin. She would tell me all these things in the form of a lullaby that made me feel like a cloud in the sky above. Floating aimlessly yet having purpose in my direction up there. She once offered me this.
It took time to realize that there is no reason in the stories that fall from Delirium’s lips. It is only in the learning mind that tries to find something to grasp in the nonsense: The need to find secrets, greater truths masquerading behind the babble. And God sent man away and made a babble of his tongue so that no one man knew the language of everyone. From then on man would be separated by the inability to understand one another. and there she was to help the task along. Still I love to listen to her speak in her hushed childlike tones. Still I love to hear her soft whisper singing that lullaby.
Would she have me I would never leave her side. I would reside in the haze of her world forever and a day. Because there is a comfort in feeling you know all... that your dream worlds could be real and the reality of life could not affect you. You could be the butterfly on her shoulder or you could be the crushed flower beneath her foot. All in all, everything and anything so long as your mind could see it. Lock away the nightmares in that closet hidden behind childhood memories and swallow the key like a wiggling goldfish down the pallet. Wouldn’t it be so sweet, to be purple, to be the color over the surface of a tulip? Wouldn’t it be bliss to be the juice at the center of the orange, hidden within the glowing orange meat of the fruit.? To live in Technicolor.
Before I know it I am flying high above the water. I look down at her as she looks up at me. She waves up and offers her words that find my ears. It makes no sense but I can still see something hidden within. To take a word here and place it with another word there and it all becomes clear to me. In the end we all become sky, just as a character of Barker’s wished it. To become sky...
Would she have me? Would she let me touch her just once so I could feel her? The peach fuzz of skin on her arm, the stumble on one side of her head. Would she have it? Offer me a dragonfly for desert as my stomach grumbles for attention. A cloud passes to my right and she is there. She is always there, sweetly singing delirium’s nocturne.
The Dreaming.... An Artist Down the Well
How is this, that the Moon should have to temper the rage of the Sun? The goddess of the night, like a full halo that hangs above the heated Earth... she doesn't get the compliments deserving of her beauty. But then the scholars, the ones that think they know, know the truth, would place this brilliant body in the heavens as nothing more then a chunk of rock. The moon is made of cheese I think with a laugh. I would tell the ones that know, know that truth, that they should look beyond the obvious. Straight towards the moon, step to the side and peer past the glow. There you'll see the beauty wrapped in a velvet gown spun from the night's sky. And the stars? They are the milk that split from the Night's breast and dotted the heavens, at least that is what my grandmother always said. I like the idea of it though. I can always think of that poor lady Midnight as my mother, my true mother.
The Sun is holding a grudge. He thinks when he sets over the horizon, when his back is turned, that his lady steps to the advances of another celestial body. Maybe the massive man of Jupiter asks her for a dance... maybe Saturn slips a ring upon her finger before placing his lips to her palm. I can hear her soft giggle, like a winter sigh, as she enjoys the attention. After all, she only has the company of her mate, truly his attention, when the night touches the day at dusk and at dawn. The time when morning's colors of rose and yellow come bleeding through onto the deep blue velvet curtain of night. Maybe this is why that time is so odd, so foreboding. Maybe we can all feel the tension between the ancient lovers in the sky. I would tell him to step back, step away, no Sun could match the love Jupiter could offer. He would be my prince if it were my choice.
So I sit, trying to ignore the two quarreling just outside of my shades. You don't want to hear them but how can they be ignored? So I slip my fingers over the polished keys of the music box; rummaging through the little slim box covers till once temps my fancy. A pleasant face looks back at me, a red cloud about her head and no make-up shading her features. A simple beauty belonging to a voice and the words that have always caused me to think. Think very deeply upon the dreams that swirl through my mind. I put on Tori.
It is easy to reflect upon the things that she has to say. Why do we hurt ourselves when it is just a waste? Why do we impose upon ourselves the ideas and demand
s of others? Not that I do... not that I care to worry about those who do not impact my life. Such things only cause the crows feet that would make me look old, worried, haggard. I would rather have those lines map something more important in my life like the worries that come to a mother’s brow. My angels: Eva Catherine, Catherine the name of many saints - Roan Brendan, Brendan the Gaelic word for little raven or brave and bold. Those furrows around my eyes... this line was when my beautiful baby girl Eva slipped off the step and this new worry mark is where my precious boy Roan got hit with a puck in practice. Those things would mean something, those marks would remind the aged mother in me that I had love for the children I ushered into this world. Those phantom faces, those angels, are only wishes right now and I would not have some stranger's comments worry me into those lines meant for my future angels. But this is mere ramble.
The melody helps me hide from the music. I need to find something. My head turns to look at the fountain of dried flowers that sits upon my tiled floor. With a nudge and a grunt I try to draw the little man's attention. He doesn't want to hear me.
"Get to it will you. Or else I shall have to paint you some vivid and horrid color that clashes with your tranquility." I bully and threaten.
The little fellow returns a grunt but he gets up. I can hear moving behind the dried flower bush. Two small jade colored hands part through the tangled web of flowers, pushing them back so I can see his large belly peeking through. The plaster made Buddha steps through and looks up at me. "Get to it fella." I say to him, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth "Let me be away before the Night's husband as full reign."
The Buddha steps out, taking but a moment to stretch his tiny body. He looks about my floor till his eyes fall upon the thing he is looking for. A black shirt, made of a fine fabric named peach skin, lies there carelessly thrown down. Slowly he steps towards it, his eyes looking towards the two cats that lay sleeping in there patchwork quilt. The sleek black one, with the silver mane, opens one honey colored eye. Her name is Jezebella and she is the world's best mouser. Though she had never had a taste for small Buddha statues. The other furry babe, just a mere kitten though his body had already grown, was Kit Cat. A white feline, dotted with patches of gold, buff and black, his eyes soft green. Hard to believe the mistress Jezebella was his mother. He took no notice, his purrs kept him wrapped in sleep. With the felines resting, the small jade hand grabs the black shirt and pulls it to the middle of the floor.
Below his feet he places the shirt, smoothing it out with his toes till it is a misshapen circle on the floor. Simple as it is, his work was done. He slips away, moving back behind the dried flowers were he enjoyed hiding. He kneels back down, regaining his peaceful pose that so many worship far and wide.
I slip from my bed allowing my feet and hands to touch the floor. Such a primal feeling to crawl over the cool surface that is mostly only known to my feet. Slipping around, I come to sit on my rear. I let a toe slip into the black hole in my floor to swirl the water around; the dream seems a bit heated tonight. Maybe a lover's touch awaits me, the kiss of a phantom, the taunting of a ghost? Maybe an evil awaited me down there. The face of the haggard wench that once lived in my Aunt's closet. She would have her scissors in one hand and her green and white striped socks pulled up and over her knees. Or maybe, to my disappointment, simple meaninglessness waited me down there like so many random dreams offered.
With one flowing movement I let myself slip into the hole of sleep's waters and wade into the dream.
In a girlish fashion I plug my nose as those warped waters close over my head. Beneath me the strong undertow nips at my toes trying to get a purchase on my foot. When it finally did secure its hold it quickly tugged me one way before whipping me the other. Spinning me and shoving me as it had a destination in mind. Off to my left a ribbon of light cuts through the murk. The riff of brilliant colors swirls upon itself like some dizzy acrobat. Undertow or not, I force myself towards the riff.
Beyond the colorful tear in the waters is a landscape not so odd for the dream. A green field that seemed endless, dropping off in the far horizon. Every now and then a weeping willow broke up the endless green. A voice was huffing and fussing behind me. Looking over my shoulder I see the well dressed rabbit standing there, eyeing his watch, worrying over the time. "I am late!" he says through worried pants. The scene is not intriguing though, so I look away. From behind the rabbit continues to plead his case. "But I am late!" Once more I glance over my shoulder to give him the advice he seems to want from me. "Late is late. Why bother going at all?" And I turn away.
There is nothing here but there had to be something here. My foot went out before me expecting to find the green field below, instead there was nothing but the open space above the well. My balance slips and I fall down the hole, like Alice moving through her looking glass. With a thump the ground below quickly stops the fall. The world below here is still enjoying the night with the moon high above. This wasn't my lady though, the one I knew in my world. I didn't trust this celestial body so I looked away.
"Now where did you come from my lady?"
I knew that voice even though I did not know that person. I saw him every evening as I watched my entertainment. I can look at him but I cannot find it in myself to utter his name. Like the idea of god in his heavens... Did you know the myth says God created three woman in all for Adam? The first woman Adam fell sick at the sight for he saw the matter below the skin forming as God raised her from dust and rib. Eve was the third and one we all call mother and temptress. Lilith was the second woman God created in the garden to be kept for a mate to the man. Born equal and separate of him. She spoke aloud the name of her creator and she disappeared from the garden but not from history. Eventually she would find herself as the demon of night for one old religion. What of this man? No god, to be sure, but quite heavenly in my mind. What might happen to Bethalynne in the garden if she spoke his name? Best to still the tongue.
I turn to look at him. He smiles that smile that is a touch of humor and a bit of a smirk. A man's face is meant to be described as handsome, but the only word that comes to mind is beautiful. This man was so much more beautiful than I would ever be.
"Something troubles you?" he asks.
My response is to shake my head slowly and sigh "I never have the time to tell you the things I want to say. The words I would say to impress you, the things I would point out to show you how much alike we are."
The moonlight catches his eyes making them twinkle. Such is my reaction that I know, were I to write this down, my words would turn into romance novel drivel. Ah hell... those authors are the millionaires.
"If you had the time you needed, what would you say?" he asks.
Ah! The right question for an absurd answer. "If I had the time then my mouth would fail me. My tongue would become twisted or my mind would go blank. You can't know, because you are a figment of my mind that begins at this spot each night that I sleep, but this dream runs the same course. It's the irony of my situation. The one place where anything my mind wants to happen can. A shame I cannot control what my mind will have me see."
This man steps forward placing his palm to my cheek and whispers.
"You have all the time in the world, so say it." So I do say it. "I need you... if only there were something between us." At the same time, as always, there is the noise of a group of chattering people coming towards us. A massive table is there though I hadn't noticed it before. A crimson colored cloth covers it and the table top is covered with the pieces of our tea party. The pastel colored cakes, the bowl of dates, the tea cups and small plates. The man's attention is briefly stolen by all the commotion, he doesn't hear me. I cannot bring myself to say it again. There seemed to be something shameful about needing someone you didn't know. Before he can speak to me I just step away, looking towards the crowd.
"My sister, my sister!" A deep female voice calls out. It is Lianessa looking towards me. The character I gave life to but the person
Brittany breathed a spirit into. Lianessa was the essence of that woman I knew in the waking world. A truer version of that woman than herself. Her Lianessa had no hang ups of the body or the family tugging on her heart strings. Lianessa was a vamp with evil in her heart but enough compassion within her to keep her from being cruel. Chaotic good. I loved Lianessa as much as her counter part in life.
Lianessa stepped out from her crowd of admirers. Her torso was bound by a tight vinyl corset, the front of it giving no outlet for her breasts. Her anatomy was forced to conform to the tight fit. The affect was her breasts pressed so closely to her chest that they formed two perfect circles peeking out of the corset top. Acres of plum velvet spilled down from her equally tight cinched waist. Her hand reached up to push away the blonde ringlets that fell across her eyes. I knew the man at my side never saw those blue eyes of hers for his own eyes could not rise above the corset top. I had to laugh softly to myself. It seemed even in dreams some males could be so predictable or susceptible to the predictions I make for them. But I would not blame him. Some beauties were dangerous, that was my Lianessa. How could he not stare?
When Jupiter Sighs Page 6
