Friday, April 25, 2003

Fidelity of the heart

Dogface violets, heart's ease in the lawn, small faces waiting for sunrise, turned toward the east, toward that softer danger, the sun, that eye, a merciless glare in some other desert, but in this lawn, the suburbs, stolen beauty trembles amid the green.

And the idea of home, or, being homeless, that irrational fear of losing the hearth when the heart itself is lost. Heart's ease—as if there were a remedy for that.

I cannot go back to who I was, and who I've become, is mysterious, but this stasis is no longer acceptable. Women absorbed language differently than men; men don't love as deeply as women…

Is it biochemical? Are we hard so hardwired? And no, I don't want to be self-indulgent, I don't want to indulge this pain and suffering but when a man threatens you with that final sentence...

My mind dwells on the salmon-colored steps, midafternoon, where the lemons glisten with inconstant suns, the sour aftertaste at the back of the throat, unbearable. 

And I know that I'm only barely maintaining a façade as civilization slips from my shoulders like a pashima shawl. Make that Rapunzel's hair falling down to the garden gate so the man can climb up to win her. 

It's all there, the pain and the suffering, only we don't see it because it's a fairytale where belief is suspended like the perpetually right pears or apples waiting for someone to pluck them and take a bite.

Then, the symbolism comes home. And these words are secret dewdrop after the rain. Or perhaps, unshed tears. Sooner or later everyone tells on themselves. And the cruelty of lovers towards their beloved knows no boundaries.

April showers: the old song, raindrops keep falling on my…
Gene Kelly dancing in the rain, in the flower of his career, celluloid history. And then it becomes instant replay at the movies – persistent showtunes tyrannize the mind, take no prisoners especially Babs. 

I don't care if half the drag queens want to be funny girls like Lady Chablis in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, because the rest of them all want to be Cher. The retirement show clichés keep falling from my head. 

Even the cat, hungry for lap, clichés herself to Diana's leg. Mine! Mine! That look of utter ownership. We once had a cat who, upset with the rain, went to each door and each window, hoping for a sea change. I can relate to that.

Meanwhile out in the yard, plants gathered at the rain into a pagan ritual of floribunda. Emma Thompson in Howard's End touching the blossoms, the lilac, the catulpa are magnificent candles of butterflied flowers. Lighting up the dreary day with the radiance impossible to define. Otherworldly and for an instant the catulpa was transformed into a vast candelabra glistening with April rain. 

Spring: new beginnings, death of old patterns, the letting go requires faith that spring will return. not pass me over, leaving me back in the winter, and an intermittent love is no love at all. Stormwatch: fingers of rain drumming on the untamed sea of the heart. 

A musical in C sharp.

Writers' Group

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