Saturday, June 12, 2010

walking along the shore

There is a certain charm in walking along the shore on a warm balmy afternoon, you said, after you have spent an agonisingly cold winter in the city, cramped between the images of the days and the attire of nights you added, there is a charm in expecting how this afternoon will culminate in vermilion fires across the sky, you said as we walked along the shore of what you described as a simple seaside charming town, bereft, you added from the images of cold days of academia and the incessant slaughter of nights across the city. One must know how to walk along the shores of such seas you pointed out, out must get into the most appropriate cadence and tune in to the most reflective fall and march of feet, while our eyes must never betray the ephemeral life of such moments, our eyes must never tell the tale of our death, you said while we walked at a certain pace along the shore, the afternoon warm and balmy, your eyes hidden by shades and my face reflected in your shades, I thought as I smoked silently, wetting my lips from time to time, looking at you. Philosophy is very boring you said, especially if you are a professional philosopher, you added but most people do not understand that you almost shouted, as children and men and women swarmed along the beach. philosophy is desperate business you added, for those who know, you said but the sky and earth never meet, you added and you looked at me I thought, as I nodded in silence. I do not like the listening type as much as I do the talking type of person you declared, as we watched a bus load of elderly tourists disembark near the beginning of the pier. One must know which beach to walk along, you sounded, as we reached the end of where we could possibly walk, one must walk desolate beaches alone you added as we started to turn back and as i began to light another cigarette, I looked at you and you were looking straight ahead, thinking of something, I thought.we must walk a bit slowly now, you said, the afternoon is still young, and the evening is yet to begin, you said. the sky and earth never meet you said again, I thought and we walked quite slowly back to where we had begun from, but there was something you said and something I didn't say, I thought.


Lupe said...

Little is left to tell.

In a last attempt to obtain relief he moved from where they had been so long together to a single room on a far bank. From its single window he could see the down-stream extremity of the Isle of Swans.

Relief he had hoped would flow from unfamiliarity. Unfamiliar room. Unfamiliar scene. Out to where nothing ever shared. Back to where nothing ever shared. From this he had once half hoped some measure of relief might flow.

Day after day he could be seen slowly packing the islet. Hour after hour. In his long black coat no matter what the weather and old world Latin Quarter hat. At the tip he would always pause to dwell on the receding stream. How in joyous eddies its two arms conflowed and flowed united on. Then turn and his slow steps retrace.

In his dreams he had been warned against this change.
Seen the dear face and heard the unspoken words, Stay where we were so long alone together, my shade will comfort you.

Could he not now turn back? Acknowledge his error and return to where they were once so long alone together. Alone together so much shared. No. What he had done alone could not be undone. Nothing he had ever done alone could ever be undone. By him alone.

In this extremity his old terror of night laid hold on him again. After so long a lapse that as if never been.

Moonlight said...

I have enjoyed some of your posts, and oddly have a friend named Xanadu. I would invite you to visit the site where she writes. You might dig it. Best, M

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