The Museum Girl

The hour grew late, and by the notes of a fantastic melody I strummed my steps up the marble staircase. I was behind her, I am always behind her. She made a subtle trail of coiled scent anywhere she went...it was so easy to follow, and a temptation to great to oppose. She cut the very fabric of air as she waltzed to and fro the great chamber, her steps too light and elastic to bother the floor, yet her shape was earthly enough to catch the light in such a way that it did justice to her fair, smooth skin. Her dress was in sympathy with her gentle body, tracing the shape as if it were aware of its beauty...From the slope of her neck, to the contour of her breasts, to the lines of her waist, it went in a melodious lay down her form, composing a veil sensitive to grace. No agency of time was empowered to set lines upon her brow, yet her eyes were of melancholic luster. Her voice was of some distant, sweet, reverberation as only found in deep woodland areas...near gentle streams. The gestures of her hands were intuned to some greater knowledge of form.

At the far side of the chamber was I, in quiet contemplation of the artwork that hung solemnly on the high walls. Great paintings of master craftsmen that survived ages, and yet no Renoir or Delacroix could catch my eye for more than a few waning moments. The tints on noble faces of time long passed were left livid in comparison to the verve of life that was issuing out from every rustle of a flowered dress that played this young things body. Even the flurry of colour of Signac could not overshadow the brilliancy of her hair or cheeks. No greater combination of chromatic thought had there ever been invented that matched the fine pigment of her skin, making ones mind race in all possible shades. I was bare before this display of subtle alliteration in spectral terms yet in living form. If only I had more than mere language to truly grasp the entire spectacle into one solid shape...no linguistic cage could ever set bars of letters round such grace.

The Flowered Floor

I never saw her before. A fragile frame animated by a pulsating vibration, a graceful silhouette with an elastic footfall, a twirling blur of entwined movement.
I had then no companion but folly, and in his council I let my ear indulge. Too great was my wonder and as I grew more intense in my observation of the rhetoric of movement I let slip the chains and bounds of my soliloquy.
In the midst of the symphonic chatter that now held sway over any musical sensibility, I considered the girl.
Her limbs were thin, long and branchlike, her body frail, and her cloths were mere impediments of expression. Her hair was brittle, like thin glass...it had no colour, but it was vivid. Her stare was blank, filmy blue eyes induced the illusion of sight. But this was only a cheap trick, for I could see beyond their translucent gaze, their self-induced watchfulness. Her feet were tiny, yet somehow proportion made its clandestine presence felt. Her shoes were light.
Her dance was of a mesmeric quality. The circles that were erected by her hands to the rhythm of some unheard logic, the pattern of her waltzing shape cutting pure geometry into the very fabric of accentuated time, this was pure motion animating motion. The action that in turn generates its own roots. By itself separated....

( Photo: Blinded-by-the-light / Deviant Art )

The Derelict

Dear reader,
I should make this an opening post, one in which I welcome you in a kind of warm hospitality, to better suit your mood; and to state that I am here to please your eye with some flight of fancy.This is not the case, though...Here in this little wretched corner, that I affectionately dubbed "The Cat and Fiddle" you will not find solace, and I do not intend to write in a form of mock poesy* to amuse you.But still there is hope for your satisfaction with the "unique"...I am sure that among my downward spirals of thought you shall find an odd fascination with the very things that make my heart resonate in a myriad of tones, that are crafted in such an architecture it will either leave you enchanted or in little awe.So, with these trifles out of the way we may begin to further follow...

It was past five o'clock...I was the only one in a party of eight that still complained about the fact that i did not have my tea ( and that was of meager importance, because I was the only one to keep to such a custom ).We were on the outskirts of this lovely city of ours, in a middle of a grassy field.A great mass of clouds were towering their frames to stifle the dusky sky.And in this tightening of nonexistent tendons the feeble red glare of the sun managed to find it's way through rough openings.We were dragging our feet through the fine mud that was just beneath the tall grass...There was a lot of cursing, even from the ladies in our lot.The wind didn't help our state, but only amplified our inert anxieties.On its gentle Eastern breeze it brought the stench of decay.Waste and animal death...for you see, we were near a great rubbish pit ( one of the largest of our city, I believe ).
Here ought to be the part where I reveal the purpose of our being there, why such a large party? and other information leading towards some paroxistical chain of events.But that is all of too little bother...For right in front of me, stifling my eyes, erecting itself over my sight was the shape of a derelict abbey.Its form was all that was left of it...great "murs" of geometrical beauty heaved themselves up into the air.A delicate balancing act of weather worn arcades and columns, and the spectacle of the sheer mass of bricks was enough to stamp the feel of tininess unto anyone who dared to openly view this as such.
It was empty...only its walls remained. Large holes punctured them, once stain glass adorned their insides, now only voided sockets and lidless windows staring inside and out of wilderness.A great, cracked dome broke itself over our heads.The shattered beauty of skilled masons now the perch of crows and ravens.Dozens upon dozens lined the jagged teeth of red brick which made out from the base of the dome.Malevolent, black, staring us down with an evil eye, croaking seldom, startled upon our intrusion into their solitary den. Flapping ill wings, harvesters of decay the birds that are the crow and raven, the watchers of the derelict.
Three large gateless entrances made light in the western wall...The sun was tumbling down in a yellow glow.It was not cheerful, not even melancholic, but diseased.The sky was putting out its daytime light in sickness, a pestilence of the clouds, of the whole clime, which blew on us with a wind of plague, a stench of unbirth.

This was all played out in front of me last summer, and my dearest reader due note that even in the most abandoned corners you might stumble upon, chance and happening are subjects to be ruled out.As I found out later on, this brought on great joy to me, a gift maybe...for I do believe in the stuff that memories are gained and lost upon, in such stuff that, even if impenetrable, is still mirrored back in fancy, and fancy turned, by nothing less than subtle alchemy, into living flesh.

Yours A. Aron