Stewart
Active Member
I just wanted to post this disjointed piece of writing to see what others think of it. It's incomplete, and jumps about - I just don't know whether it's worth continuing.
It was meant to be the opener of a bookend story that was to enclose a collection of short stories using love as the theme. I understand that some of the sections end before the end of their initial draft.
The eleventh hour of fever, as strong as I suffered, took my mind to love. Not just the agapan proclivities put in posterity by Plato but the grander scale: the crests and troughs that branch out in search of the willing souls, who are themselves, in search of its teachings. With uncomfortable clarity I was gifted the sight of love – not as some solid example but a revelation in the guise of simple metaphor. Think, please, of a crossroads. It doesn’t have to be a grandiose image – no need for a landscape to contain the meeting of paths, a world to contain the landscape. It shouldn’t matter if the paths are sun-dried backtracks or carefully lain concrete slabs, or whether they meander through the depths of treacherous jungle or lead high through rough mountain passes. These paths could even be off the land, navigable by boat, or some such vessel, through channels, estuaries and the colossal arms of any ocean. And that’s my point: it just doesn’t matter. Provided you can envisage a crossroads – just a place where routes are stretched out by centrifugal force. The number of paths is, also, irrelevant. Every time you picture this junction there will inevitably be another track reaching out somewhere. Where? Well, it’s different for everyone.
In my vision I took refuge at the pivotal point, not daring to walk, fly, sail, whatever! along the roads because I knew each of them – each process and finale – as every destination was actually the genesis of my journey to the heart of the intersection. And looking back along each path I saw the many facets of my life and the way that love had embraced me, shaping me to these breathing seconds. And with each breath I took maybe another journey would have opened up to look back upon, helping to understand myself better.
One route showed my life from the womb, smothered in maternal efficiency while another showed the first stirrings of fondness for the opposite gender and every stirring thereof. The woe of lost love tracked forward and back, revelatory in one direction; realised in the other, like Janus recounting one year elapsed whilst gazing readily upon a year sprung afresh. I saw destruction, improvement, and a tender longing; passed my eyes over the very declaration of the heart. Every part of this love, and it was a modest slice, was part of me.
The crossroads was a river, purely metaphysical, and it carried me upstream, trapping me in numerous whorls and eddies to once again live moments of love. It carried me downstream to new experiences, gnawing at the banks of the future, and depositing the silt of the present on the banks of the past which, when dragged against the current, I would sift through again until, in this vision of love, I would eventually drown midstream, between the heart and the soul, between the infinite extremities of love, my last breach of the surface giving a more distilled vision of love as I stared at the sky which was love, at the sun which was love, at the moon which was, admittedly, an altogether darker love, and at the stars winking and dying as I found new loves to balance those I’d lost. I saw beyond this love as God Himself looked down on me with His love and with each splutter of breath that rattled from my throat I felt the love permeate my body, its devastating stranglehold squeezing the life out until I, beyond the mortal coil, could stand in the presence of God and gods, and be all love.
Of course, outwith my fever, the crossroads has been at many times a more literal predicament. Not just for me, but for others. A place where travellers once explored new lands, and merchants would succeed them in their steps, a place where lovers from warring cities would meet in limbo, and where many more lovers severed their respect and belief in each other and returned home to misery, broken-hearted, but optimistic in the tenet that hope springs eternal would also be translated to the rules of love.
This couple, approaching from either end of the shadowed glade, are lovers. She is the daughter of a highly decorated general although you could probably have told that as her appearance is that of the nobility, the way she dresses in cloth woven from the finest loom, cut and sewn by reputed dress-makers, and in the way she glides across the wrinkled trail with her head held high. Made by her mother’s love and her father’s capital, she makes her way to the crossroads, ducking down and cautiously scanning round lest anyone should see her, jumping in fear when the calls of beasts who shun diurnal lives make clear their presence, and with only the thoughts of love pulsing in her heart and head.
And the man? I’m sure you can tell that he is the black to her white as he stumbles along the path, hands in pockets and dirty cap placed cantankerously upon his head so that his eyes are hidden to all but his feet. He is the son of a poor merchant from the south. Little aspirations drum around his head, the thought of living another day is of paramount importance; the only beat giving rhythm to his life being that of his heart.
They meet at the crossroads and embrace each other, the marriage of their lips testament to their adoration for each other. Eyes closed, bodies surging with sensation, they whisper their worship for one another.
“I’ve missed you, Hesentia,” the man might say.
And in their infatuation she may reply with a similar statement.
So they hug again, over and over, happy to be united again.
The girl, Hesentia, has gone against the command of the general, meeting with the common boy. He has noticed the affection growing between the pair when Raymond’s father, accompanied by his son, had been selling his stock in the village. Raymond had taken an interest then with the girl who had, with her friends, been wandering playfully around the village looking at the pitiful wares the traders were attempting to peddle. From nowhere Raymond had come, chatting to the girls, especially the beautiful one, telling them his repertoire of jokes and stories, flashing his accomplished smile. The girls had seen him as entertainment, as a way of having their games and laughs, but the one whom he’d been putting the most effort into making laugh found herself interested in the merchant boy. An interest that was disallowed by the spying father; an interest which flowered to a secret relationship.
So, in their fondness for each other, they would take quiet walks through the forest tracks, holding hands and talking of their latest news, and, more often than not, stopping to seal themselves in love again.
Raymond beds Hesentia in the forest, an experience that neither will forget. Not because it is a fitting milestone to their surreptitious relationship, nor because it is the best sex they’ve had in their young lives, but rather because it is the only sex they’ve had and the greenness of their carnality shows despite attempts to keep their poor abilities secret from each other. Her pain, his enthusiasm, and the sticky climax that remains inside – none of this matters, this is love. Their love.
After their poor experiment with passion they reassemble their clothing to more customary positions and walk hand in hand again along the forest paths, laughing and joking about the sex, keeping the humour tender.
However, unbeknownst to both, their relationship, despite being all hush-hush, hasn’t been the best kept of secrets. Hesentia’s father has known all along about the young couple’s meetings and at times has followed her from the home to the crossroads. This night is to be no exception. He knows that the longer the pair last together the more harder it will be to keep his daughter from rebellion.
Raymond takes Hesentia in his arms at the crossroads at the end of their secret evening. Between giggles and eulogies of love for each other they kiss, hug, and part company arranging to meet in the near future.
Raymond stands at the crossroads watching his dear Hesentia disappear into the dusk, looking back every few seconds to make sure he is still watching, enjoying her attention. Eventually they are out of sight of each other.
Three men step out of the hood of the forest, making clear of their presence with the fervourous crunch of branches underfoot.
“You, boy,” one of the men might shout, his voice carrying weight in the night air. Raymond, in the realisation of fear, takes a step back. Two of the men carry knives, the man with the barking voice stands in the middle unarmed.
It was meant to be the opener of a bookend story that was to enclose a collection of short stories using love as the theme. I understand that some of the sections end before the end of their initial draft.
Worship and the Flesh
I
The Crossroads
The eleventh hour of fever, as strong as I suffered, took my mind to love. Not just the agapan proclivities put in posterity by Plato but the grander scale: the crests and troughs that branch out in search of the willing souls, who are themselves, in search of its teachings. With uncomfortable clarity I was gifted the sight of love – not as some solid example but a revelation in the guise of simple metaphor. Think, please, of a crossroads. It doesn’t have to be a grandiose image – no need for a landscape to contain the meeting of paths, a world to contain the landscape. It shouldn’t matter if the paths are sun-dried backtracks or carefully lain concrete slabs, or whether they meander through the depths of treacherous jungle or lead high through rough mountain passes. These paths could even be off the land, navigable by boat, or some such vessel, through channels, estuaries and the colossal arms of any ocean. And that’s my point: it just doesn’t matter. Provided you can envisage a crossroads – just a place where routes are stretched out by centrifugal force. The number of paths is, also, irrelevant. Every time you picture this junction there will inevitably be another track reaching out somewhere. Where? Well, it’s different for everyone.
In my vision I took refuge at the pivotal point, not daring to walk, fly, sail, whatever! along the roads because I knew each of them – each process and finale – as every destination was actually the genesis of my journey to the heart of the intersection. And looking back along each path I saw the many facets of my life and the way that love had embraced me, shaping me to these breathing seconds. And with each breath I took maybe another journey would have opened up to look back upon, helping to understand myself better.
One route showed my life from the womb, smothered in maternal efficiency while another showed the first stirrings of fondness for the opposite gender and every stirring thereof. The woe of lost love tracked forward and back, revelatory in one direction; realised in the other, like Janus recounting one year elapsed whilst gazing readily upon a year sprung afresh. I saw destruction, improvement, and a tender longing; passed my eyes over the very declaration of the heart. Every part of this love, and it was a modest slice, was part of me.
The crossroads was a river, purely metaphysical, and it carried me upstream, trapping me in numerous whorls and eddies to once again live moments of love. It carried me downstream to new experiences, gnawing at the banks of the future, and depositing the silt of the present on the banks of the past which, when dragged against the current, I would sift through again until, in this vision of love, I would eventually drown midstream, between the heart and the soul, between the infinite extremities of love, my last breach of the surface giving a more distilled vision of love as I stared at the sky which was love, at the sun which was love, at the moon which was, admittedly, an altogether darker love, and at the stars winking and dying as I found new loves to balance those I’d lost. I saw beyond this love as God Himself looked down on me with His love and with each splutter of breath that rattled from my throat I felt the love permeate my body, its devastating stranglehold squeezing the life out until I, beyond the mortal coil, could stand in the presence of God and gods, and be all love.
II
When Raymond Met Hesentia
Of course, outwith my fever, the crossroads has been at many times a more literal predicament. Not just for me, but for others. A place where travellers once explored new lands, and merchants would succeed them in their steps, a place where lovers from warring cities would meet in limbo, and where many more lovers severed their respect and belief in each other and returned home to misery, broken-hearted, but optimistic in the tenet that hope springs eternal would also be translated to the rules of love.
This couple, approaching from either end of the shadowed glade, are lovers. She is the daughter of a highly decorated general although you could probably have told that as her appearance is that of the nobility, the way she dresses in cloth woven from the finest loom, cut and sewn by reputed dress-makers, and in the way she glides across the wrinkled trail with her head held high. Made by her mother’s love and her father’s capital, she makes her way to the crossroads, ducking down and cautiously scanning round lest anyone should see her, jumping in fear when the calls of beasts who shun diurnal lives make clear their presence, and with only the thoughts of love pulsing in her heart and head.
And the man? I’m sure you can tell that he is the black to her white as he stumbles along the path, hands in pockets and dirty cap placed cantankerously upon his head so that his eyes are hidden to all but his feet. He is the son of a poor merchant from the south. Little aspirations drum around his head, the thought of living another day is of paramount importance; the only beat giving rhythm to his life being that of his heart.
They meet at the crossroads and embrace each other, the marriage of their lips testament to their adoration for each other. Eyes closed, bodies surging with sensation, they whisper their worship for one another.
“I’ve missed you, Hesentia,” the man might say.
And in their infatuation she may reply with a similar statement.
So they hug again, over and over, happy to be united again.
The girl, Hesentia, has gone against the command of the general, meeting with the common boy. He has noticed the affection growing between the pair when Raymond’s father, accompanied by his son, had been selling his stock in the village. Raymond had taken an interest then with the girl who had, with her friends, been wandering playfully around the village looking at the pitiful wares the traders were attempting to peddle. From nowhere Raymond had come, chatting to the girls, especially the beautiful one, telling them his repertoire of jokes and stories, flashing his accomplished smile. The girls had seen him as entertainment, as a way of having their games and laughs, but the one whom he’d been putting the most effort into making laugh found herself interested in the merchant boy. An interest that was disallowed by the spying father; an interest which flowered to a secret relationship.
So, in their fondness for each other, they would take quiet walks through the forest tracks, holding hands and talking of their latest news, and, more often than not, stopping to seal themselves in love again.
Raymond beds Hesentia in the forest, an experience that neither will forget. Not because it is a fitting milestone to their surreptitious relationship, nor because it is the best sex they’ve had in their young lives, but rather because it is the only sex they’ve had and the greenness of their carnality shows despite attempts to keep their poor abilities secret from each other. Her pain, his enthusiasm, and the sticky climax that remains inside – none of this matters, this is love. Their love.
After their poor experiment with passion they reassemble their clothing to more customary positions and walk hand in hand again along the forest paths, laughing and joking about the sex, keeping the humour tender.
However, unbeknownst to both, their relationship, despite being all hush-hush, hasn’t been the best kept of secrets. Hesentia’s father has known all along about the young couple’s meetings and at times has followed her from the home to the crossroads. This night is to be no exception. He knows that the longer the pair last together the more harder it will be to keep his daughter from rebellion.
Raymond takes Hesentia in his arms at the crossroads at the end of their secret evening. Between giggles and eulogies of love for each other they kiss, hug, and part company arranging to meet in the near future.
Raymond stands at the crossroads watching his dear Hesentia disappear into the dusk, looking back every few seconds to make sure he is still watching, enjoying her attention. Eventually they are out of sight of each other.
Three men step out of the hood of the forest, making clear of their presence with the fervourous crunch of branches underfoot.
“You, boy,” one of the men might shout, his voice carrying weight in the night air. Raymond, in the realisation of fear, takes a step back. Two of the men carry knives, the man with the barking voice stands in the middle unarmed.
