There is a star in the night sky and it seems very small, insignificant compared to the blaring lights of the electronic billboards and city towers around me. It seems far away.
When I am by the ocean in the morning, it smells very subtle, really, just a faint hint of salt and sand; it is fresh and as I head into the city and away from the shore, the scent of it fades from my mind.
It rains sometimes at dawn, over the ocean, and the sky is very gray; it sucks the light away from the sun and everything seems the color of steel.
If all of these things around me are small, insignificant, faint, easily forgotten, gray and lightless, then what are my feelings for you? Are they the same? Insignificant compared to the loud claps and horns and shouting laughter and boasts around us?
Small? That star is actually majestic and gigantic in size, too large and too hot and too bright for us, down here so far away, to even contemplate.
Subtle? That ocean is heavy with salt and wind and water and life, its fragrance is that of life and the place where life begins. It is the earth's perfume.
Gray? Beyond that brief shroud of morning fog and rain is a sky exploding with light and color, the colors of the burning sun as it asserts itself on the side of the earth that has been sleeping. It is red, pink, orange, yellow, pure light and heat.
What, then, are my feelings for you?
These, then, are my feelings for you.
Friday, February 12, 2010
"La Mariée de Guerre"
La mère coud la robe du sa fille,
La mousseline blanche contre sa peau blanche.
Avec soin, elle coud les coutures.
La fille est couchée dans son lit.
La mère mord le fil et regard fixament son ouvrage.
Elle soupire et elle s’arrête.
La souaire est complète.
La mousseline blanche contre sa peau blanche.
Avec soin, elle coud les coutures.
La fille est couchée dans son lit.
La mère mord le fil et regard fixament son ouvrage.
Elle soupire et elle s’arrête.
La souaire est complète.
"One, Or Two"
It is several hours past midnight. I stare through the windshield of my car but can barely see the road in front of me. I watch the beams of light coming from my headlamps cut through the night and then fade into the fog.
The mist or fog or whatever it is seems to wrap around my car and makes the night almost entirely silent. I don’t hear a thing around me, just the hum of my motor and the rhythmic turning of my tires on the road.
I can hear my breath too. If I concentrate, I can hear my soft, slow heartbeat as well. Then, I think about you, and both my breath and my heartbeat get a bit faster. I turn on the radio so I can’t hear them anymore.
I left you perhaps thirty minutes ago. You were sleeping. I slipped out of the bed and dressed as silent as possible downstairs, and then I grabbed by keys and my bag and my shoes and walked out of the house, turning the doorknob so slowly so it wouldn’t squeak and awaken you.
I couldn’t believe the fog that had settled, but I was glad for it – I felt that it wrapped me in a blanket and kept me safe. Safe from what? I don’t know.
I don’t know why I left you sleeping there. I don’t know why I left. Maybe I couldn’t sleep. Maybe I didn’t want to face being with you when we were both awake.
I recall a thousand different details of what happened before I left the house, before I left the bed, before you fell asleep next to me while I pretended to sleep but did not.
I remember the way you kissed me, not soft with your lips moving in circles around my mouth, but somewhat hard and fast and thrusting, as if you were hungry after not having eaten for a while.
I remember the way the skin of your bare chest felt against my palm, strange in some ways as I had not touched it before, but familiar too, as it was as I had imagined it to feel. Only not; there was less hair than I thought there would be. It was smooth.
I remember the way your palm felt against my skin, moving rhythmically up and down my back – or was it on my hip? My arm? Now I am doubting my own memories.
But I do recall, with perfect clarity, how, when I lie next to you, both on our backs with our legs outstretched but perfectly side by side, our shoulders and forearms and hips and thighs touching, you moved your hand.
My hand was pressed against the sheet.
You cupped your hand on top of mine.
You pressed your hand into mine.
I, after a second, or two, lifted my fingers up.
You opened your fingers to take in mine.
Our hands locked together, for one minute, or two.
We didn’t turn to look at each other or kiss or talk. It was just my hand, the back of my hand, cupped inside the palm of your hand, and our fingers intertwined.
For a minute, or two.
I don’t know why I left.
The mist or fog or whatever it is seems to wrap around my car and makes the night almost entirely silent. I don’t hear a thing around me, just the hum of my motor and the rhythmic turning of my tires on the road.
I can hear my breath too. If I concentrate, I can hear my soft, slow heartbeat as well. Then, I think about you, and both my breath and my heartbeat get a bit faster. I turn on the radio so I can’t hear them anymore.
I left you perhaps thirty minutes ago. You were sleeping. I slipped out of the bed and dressed as silent as possible downstairs, and then I grabbed by keys and my bag and my shoes and walked out of the house, turning the doorknob so slowly so it wouldn’t squeak and awaken you.
I couldn’t believe the fog that had settled, but I was glad for it – I felt that it wrapped me in a blanket and kept me safe. Safe from what? I don’t know.
I don’t know why I left you sleeping there. I don’t know why I left. Maybe I couldn’t sleep. Maybe I didn’t want to face being with you when we were both awake.
I recall a thousand different details of what happened before I left the house, before I left the bed, before you fell asleep next to me while I pretended to sleep but did not.
I remember the way you kissed me, not soft with your lips moving in circles around my mouth, but somewhat hard and fast and thrusting, as if you were hungry after not having eaten for a while.
I remember the way the skin of your bare chest felt against my palm, strange in some ways as I had not touched it before, but familiar too, as it was as I had imagined it to feel. Only not; there was less hair than I thought there would be. It was smooth.
I remember the way your palm felt against my skin, moving rhythmically up and down my back – or was it on my hip? My arm? Now I am doubting my own memories.
But I do recall, with perfect clarity, how, when I lie next to you, both on our backs with our legs outstretched but perfectly side by side, our shoulders and forearms and hips and thighs touching, you moved your hand.
My hand was pressed against the sheet.
You cupped your hand on top of mine.
You pressed your hand into mine.
I, after a second, or two, lifted my fingers up.
You opened your fingers to take in mine.
Our hands locked together, for one minute, or two.
We didn’t turn to look at each other or kiss or talk. It was just my hand, the back of my hand, cupped inside the palm of your hand, and our fingers intertwined.
For a minute, or two.
I don’t know why I left.
"The Scent of Orange Trees"
It is winter, and the gray sky holds no light even in midday, so I find myself imagining us walking together, far away from this place of dank air and garish artificial lights, in a place burned by the sun but also blessed with shaded, cool places where the air is very soft.
We walk together beneath the candy-striped arches of the Grand Mosque, deep inside its labyrinthine heart, beyond the whitewashed, winding narrows of old Cordoba, where Maimonides once lived, thought, wrote, prayed, perhaps loved. He was exiled from this place, but his presence is felt still.
We walk together, and do not speak aloud, and the sound of our footsteps echo harmlessly through this place, this sanctuary, where we are unnoticed by the others who walk around us, and glide through the walkways which never seem to end.
An old, Gothic cathedral sits inside the mosque, as if dropped inside it from overhead by a giant hand, and we linger a moment or two inside the choir. We overhear a guide speak of Visigoths, Moors, Reconquista. She speaks also of a courtyard, where she says there are orange trees.
We wind our way through the red and white stripes, the endless tunnels, until we find the mihrab, its walls richly decorated, and then into the courtyard, where we shield our eyes from the sudden light of the blazing Cordoba sun.
There are indeed orange trees. They have a delicate scent and glossy green leaves, rustling only slightly as there is a mild wind. You move next to a tree, and pull me close to you so we are both touched by the leaves. I breathe deeply to take in the scent of the trees, the water of the fountain, the warm summer air, and then you stop me with a kiss.
We go to the edge of the fountain, and I say we should make a wish by throwing in a coin, although nobody seems to be doing this. You fumble in your pockets and pull out a golden ten Eurocent coin, and we deem it lowly enough to part with. I close my eyes, to make a wish, and I feel your hand grasp mine, and you press your face into my hair, and we toss it in together.
I hear the coin rend the water in the fountain. I do not speak my wish aloud. You do not ask me what I have wished for. There are many people standing around the fountain, and I sense them watching us, even though they are not. We leave the mosque.
We walk through the streets of Cordoba, narrow, old streets with whitewashed walls, more like alleys than streets. Little archways reveal shops and restaurants and apartments beyond the walls. We glance inside the openings as we walk by. We see the entrance of a courtyard with a tiled fountain, and we pause. I say that I would like to live here, but you just laugh and we move on.
After walking for a while, hand in hand, past the statue of Maimonides, we come to a crowded tavern, where people are eating, drinking, talking, and laughing. We find an empty table toward the back of the tavern, and sit, and I look at you across the table. You don’t speak. There is a small window next to our table, and through it, a courtyard.
Somehow, it is the same courtyard I saw earlier, although it seems impossible. Have we walked in circles? There are pale yellow tiles lining the small fountain, which holds a still pool of water, and birds strut on the fountain’s edges, picking at seeds and leaves with their beaks.
Light trickles into the courtyard, dappling the tiles and the face of the water and the wings of the birds. Afternoon is waning, and the light will soon be too low to enter the courtyard. The tavern is noisy, but the courtyard is still, except for the sound of the birds’ feet on the tiles. Our wine arrives.
The waiter has black bristles on his angular, lined face. His whiskers remind me of yours when you don’t shave for a few days. He pours the wine; it is the color of the sun streaming through the orange trees at the mosque. We look into each other’s eyes, smile, touch our glasses together softly, and drink. We will not leave Cordoba.
-- Susan Bernstein
We walk together beneath the candy-striped arches of the Grand Mosque, deep inside its labyrinthine heart, beyond the whitewashed, winding narrows of old Cordoba, where Maimonides once lived, thought, wrote, prayed, perhaps loved. He was exiled from this place, but his presence is felt still.
We walk together, and do not speak aloud, and the sound of our footsteps echo harmlessly through this place, this sanctuary, where we are unnoticed by the others who walk around us, and glide through the walkways which never seem to end.
An old, Gothic cathedral sits inside the mosque, as if dropped inside it from overhead by a giant hand, and we linger a moment or two inside the choir. We overhear a guide speak of Visigoths, Moors, Reconquista. She speaks also of a courtyard, where she says there are orange trees.
We wind our way through the red and white stripes, the endless tunnels, until we find the mihrab, its walls richly decorated, and then into the courtyard, where we shield our eyes from the sudden light of the blazing Cordoba sun.
There are indeed orange trees. They have a delicate scent and glossy green leaves, rustling only slightly as there is a mild wind. You move next to a tree, and pull me close to you so we are both touched by the leaves. I breathe deeply to take in the scent of the trees, the water of the fountain, the warm summer air, and then you stop me with a kiss.
We go to the edge of the fountain, and I say we should make a wish by throwing in a coin, although nobody seems to be doing this. You fumble in your pockets and pull out a golden ten Eurocent coin, and we deem it lowly enough to part with. I close my eyes, to make a wish, and I feel your hand grasp mine, and you press your face into my hair, and we toss it in together.
I hear the coin rend the water in the fountain. I do not speak my wish aloud. You do not ask me what I have wished for. There are many people standing around the fountain, and I sense them watching us, even though they are not. We leave the mosque.
We walk through the streets of Cordoba, narrow, old streets with whitewashed walls, more like alleys than streets. Little archways reveal shops and restaurants and apartments beyond the walls. We glance inside the openings as we walk by. We see the entrance of a courtyard with a tiled fountain, and we pause. I say that I would like to live here, but you just laugh and we move on.
After walking for a while, hand in hand, past the statue of Maimonides, we come to a crowded tavern, where people are eating, drinking, talking, and laughing. We find an empty table toward the back of the tavern, and sit, and I look at you across the table. You don’t speak. There is a small window next to our table, and through it, a courtyard.
Somehow, it is the same courtyard I saw earlier, although it seems impossible. Have we walked in circles? There are pale yellow tiles lining the small fountain, which holds a still pool of water, and birds strut on the fountain’s edges, picking at seeds and leaves with their beaks.
Light trickles into the courtyard, dappling the tiles and the face of the water and the wings of the birds. Afternoon is waning, and the light will soon be too low to enter the courtyard. The tavern is noisy, but the courtyard is still, except for the sound of the birds’ feet on the tiles. Our wine arrives.
The waiter has black bristles on his angular, lined face. His whiskers remind me of yours when you don’t shave for a few days. He pours the wine; it is the color of the sun streaming through the orange trees at the mosque. We look into each other’s eyes, smile, touch our glasses together softly, and drink. We will not leave Cordoba.
-- Susan Bernstein
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