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He stripped me naked, emptied contents from left hand pocket:
(one silver foil containing a torn piece of mint coloured gum;
one metal bobby pin, child size)
he then crossed me, priest style, absolution of all, or any, self-
adornment, exercising out leftover conflictions.
I stood there remembering Hemingway’s poem, Montparnasse:
(a suicidal poem gone horizontal with vertical sentiment
regarding successful death; never such luck amongst friends; actually,
Hemingway doesn’t mention luck, but, between lines, his depression bleeds
blanc spaces; he knew then, I posit, that his pre-meditated, self-
inflicted death would become the greatest bounty, amongst friends).
He walked away with everything that I was; I am; that I could be;
a frozen wasteland rose around me, drowning thoughts in silence,
white landscape loud with white faces; aggressive, their passive nature;
scratching heavy black lines, bas-relief, creating a lone place, a cafe,
imagining Hemingway would meet me there ~
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Not really certain where that came from, the above, other than I was driving home from work tonight and the start of the first line stuck in my head. It happens, but usually, after a marathon of checking emails; updating social media accounts for another job; consuming food I’ve not eaten throughout the day…the thought rarely ever reappears. Tonight it did, so I rolled with it after reading the short poem by Hemingway.
Sidebar thought 1:
A beautiful bouquet of coffee; earth’s gift born of proper cultivation. Fresh cut stems, heads heavy with delicate perfumes of rouge, blanc, or verde; bare loveliness, but the scent of roasted bounty, just ground, offers solace. I’ve come to believe that coffee, and sliced apples, define pleasurable scent escape.
Sidebar thought 2:
Imagine you’ve a book to read, you take it to bed with intention to read. Alas, midnight’s song, a loon’s call across northern waters; your head tips forward, lids heavy, lashes whispering down. The book falls left; your head sinks right; sleep. Not is all loss, however, for in this dream world, the power resides in the energy of the book. The story, contents, actually play out during dreamtime. Upon waking, all aspect of said book would be remembered. If there’s an App for that…. let me know ~
Rivenrod
/ 2012/02/07Angela’s wonderful pillow book. A joy to read and weave stories for myself.
RR
libraryscenes
/ 2012/02/07Many thanks, always, RR ~
Andra Watkins
/ 2012/02/07I wish I could find an app to help me REMEMBER my dreams. Maybe that’s why my imagination is so hyperactive.
This is………eerie. It will stay with me for a while. I can see why you had to write after the first sentence appeared.
libraryscenes
/ 2012/02/07a bit odd, indeed…my writing is never predictable late at night, the mind goes Everywhere ~