Loving Ghosts.

April 27, 2011 § Leave a comment

‘Prince is also a word that rhymes with Quince’

This is Penny to me earlier. So now the tree is Prince Quentin-Quinn the Quince the First.

Today I am a little sad because I have had to say no to a nice lady. We have been friends for a little while, and now she says she would like more. I thought this too, because she is very beautiful and clever, but I think she is wanting too much of me. I feel like she is a rare and delicate flower that is needing, always needing the warm rays of the sun, and I cannot shine for her all the time. She says she may be in love with me, but I can be a very selfish and cold creature at times, and this would be a bitter hard rain on her fragility, and strip the petals and break the stem of the beautiful flower, and I do not want this at all.

Love, love – what a deep and blue mystery is love! So full of golden hope and fierce sorrows! The rich, passionate wine! The garland of wild thorns!

I do not think I am made for the grand passions; I am too in love already with the world and with the art. It sounds arrogant to say that because of this I cannot be in love with a human being, but I have tried often to make love work, and I cannot. The painting and the poetry is the first love, and the reality of men and women must come second, else what is the artist but a sneak about in his own marriage? I am wed to the world and its beauty and horror, what more can a mysterious female or virile male seek to give me with hands and lips? And what do I give them? Nothing. A shell, a make-believe straw person. I cannot give myself to a lover because I dwell in another, fantastical world. They do not make love to a person, but a ghost.

But this is silly. Indie has a relationship that has lasted years, and Penny with her strong Dutch man. Perhaps Jette is more like me, but instead of shying away from the flesh and burying herself in the arms of her art, she seeks it out like a woman awakened in the night searches for the candle, to illuminate something familiar and yet made sinister by the dark. Yet, in her hasty fumblings with all these men, I do not think she is finding what she is looking for, as one by one they fade like flowers at the roadside, into the past, leaving nothing behind. She does not pick the strong boys, only the weak; like a hunting lioness she takes the feeble from the edge of the herd. As though the powerful male would escape, not wishing to be caught, or defend himself against her, and this feminine failure would be as spilled ink across her heart.


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