Gripping, hypnotic power of words
He was depressed last night. So he went out, first to a movie starring George Cllooney called "the American". It was a waste of time. The screenplay, adapted from a novel, lacked coherence. He stayed to the end in order to find out what the damned movie was all about, although he had already suspected, through the meandering narrative, that it was much ado about nothing, and he was right. There were three redeeming features about the movie: Clooney's surprisingly somewhat chiseled physique, the prostitute's body and smile, and winter landscape in Sweden. Still feeling lonely and depressed, he ambled to a nearby bar. There he sat reading a novel while nursing two beers. By the time he got home, it was past midnight. After brushing his teeth and soaking himself in the bathtub, he staggered to bed, feeling more numb than tired. He turned on his iPhone and saw the following:
"Mi querido Roberto:
Where the hell have you been? Why didn't you have your phone on? Please don't do that again. Are you in one of those black, uncommunicative moods? Or are you out roaming the streets with the slut Patricia who is trying to seduce you? Have you told her that you no longer have any money and that you are cursed with a bad case of impotence? At any rate, don't ever let the bitch perform fellatio on you, nor, heavens forbid! do you go down on her as I just read you would run a high risk of developing throat cancer if you are into that kinky practice.
I am not as verbally gifted as you are, so I have to rely on words of others to express my feelings. The following was lifted from some chick lit book about mother and daughter. The mother was a poet who murdered her lover who had dumped her after succeeding in winning her over after a long campaign. The daughter had to bounce from one foster home to another while her mother was in jail. Very melodramatic and predictable story, I could hear what you think in that weird head of yours. What saved the book was the language which was marked by a haunting, gripping, hypnotic power. The narrator was the daughter. I identify myself with the daughter.
"The hot westerly winds blew in from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. I couldn't sleep in the hot dry nights. I climbed to the roof and easily spotted her blond hair like a white flame in the light of the three-quarter moon...
When he first appeared, he was so small and pathetic. Smaller than a comma, pathetic as a dry, persistent cough in the middle of the night. But when he opened his mouth, his voice made me drunk---deep and sun-warmed, a hint of foreign accent in one of the countries of Southeast Asia, then I realized the power of that hypnotic, seductive voice...
I hate people who use words carelessly, who bleed shameless clichés, stock nouns and slack verbs, while my poor mother would agonize for hours over whether to write "corpulent" or "pudgy" or "heavy" or simply "fat"...
My mother once told me "Don't stay overnight in a man's house or let him stay the night. Dawn always has a way to cast a pall on any night magic." Later on, I experienced what she meant by the night magic: the music of the voices in the dark except for the dim glow of the incense in the corner, their soft laughter and giggling and then the sighing, the groaning, the hurried breathing, and the calling of each others' names, and the musky scent of lovemaking mingling with that of incense. I felt then on the verge of something, a mystery that surrounded me like gauge, something I was beginning to explore and unwind...
She also told me, 'Always learn some poems and some lines of Shakespeare's plays by heart. They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they'll make your soul impervious to the world's relentless decay. They'll make you strong and enduring. They'll make you unbreakable. Remember some beautiful lines in the movies also ("Love is an involuntary reflex. And I fell victim to it"). They need to stay with you, providing you the anchor, so you won't drift in the sea of life...
One night, out the window, the glow of the Hollywood sign was slightly blurred with June fog, a soft wetness on the hills raising the smell of sage and chamise, moisture wiping the glass with dreams...
"Mi querido Roberto:
Where the hell have you been? Why didn't you have your phone on? Please don't do that again. Are you in one of those black, uncommunicative moods? Or are you out roaming the streets with the slut Patricia who is trying to seduce you? Have you told her that you no longer have any money and that you are cursed with a bad case of impotence? At any rate, don't ever let the bitch perform fellatio on you, nor, heavens forbid! do you go down on her as I just read you would run a high risk of developing throat cancer if you are into that kinky practice.
I am not as verbally gifted as you are, so I have to rely on words of others to express my feelings. The following was lifted from some chick lit book about mother and daughter. The mother was a poet who murdered her lover who had dumped her after succeeding in winning her over after a long campaign. The daughter had to bounce from one foster home to another while her mother was in jail. Very melodramatic and predictable story, I could hear what you think in that weird head of yours. What saved the book was the language which was marked by a haunting, gripping, hypnotic power. The narrator was the daughter. I identify myself with the daughter.
"The hot westerly winds blew in from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. I couldn't sleep in the hot dry nights. I climbed to the roof and easily spotted her blond hair like a white flame in the light of the three-quarter moon...
When he first appeared, he was so small and pathetic. Smaller than a comma, pathetic as a dry, persistent cough in the middle of the night. But when he opened his mouth, his voice made me drunk---deep and sun-warmed, a hint of foreign accent in one of the countries of Southeast Asia, then I realized the power of that hypnotic, seductive voice...
I hate people who use words carelessly, who bleed shameless clichés, stock nouns and slack verbs, while my poor mother would agonize for hours over whether to write "corpulent" or "pudgy" or "heavy" or simply "fat"...
My mother once told me "Don't stay overnight in a man's house or let him stay the night. Dawn always has a way to cast a pall on any night magic." Later on, I experienced what she meant by the night magic: the music of the voices in the dark except for the dim glow of the incense in the corner, their soft laughter and giggling and then the sighing, the groaning, the hurried breathing, and the calling of each others' names, and the musky scent of lovemaking mingling with that of incense. I felt then on the verge of something, a mystery that surrounded me like gauge, something I was beginning to explore and unwind...
She also told me, 'Always learn some poems and some lines of Shakespeare's plays by heart. They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they'll make your soul impervious to the world's relentless decay. They'll make you strong and enduring. They'll make you unbreakable. Remember some beautiful lines in the movies also ("Love is an involuntary reflex. And I fell victim to it"). They need to stay with you, providing you the anchor, so you won't drift in the sea of life...
One night, out the window, the glow of the Hollywood sign was slightly blurred with June fog, a soft wetness on the hills raising the smell of sage and chamise, moisture wiping the glass with dreams...
Beauty was my mother's law, her creed, her religion. She said, you can do anything to your heart's desire, as long as you do them beautifully, with grace and with class. If you do not, you are nothing. You do not exist. You are insignificant, unworthy of attention and love and pity. You must execute all your decisions with Zen-like precision. No flaw. No moment's hesitation. Fearlessly and resolutely. A moment into grace. A surrender into Death, and thus a possibility for Life. Also, observe silence as much as you can. By the way, only fools and common folks make excuses for themselves. You are my daughter and you must never complain, never explain. Always carry your head high, even in defeat, even on your way to the gallows. What you really have on this Earth is dignity. What you have called life is only an illusion, a dream during the night. Only dignity is real. It would make you work hard, toil in the night; it would keep you away from petty temptations...
My mother's words created in me a brain wave beyond all betas and alphas and thetas, a brain wave that paralyzed the normal channels of thought and forced new ones grow outside them, in the untouched regions of the mind, like parallel blood vessels that form to accommodate the damaged heart...
Sadly, after she killed Barry and was taken away from me, she told me during one of my visits, "Love is temperamental. It makes demands. It uses you. It changes its mind. But hatred is a different animal. You can train it. You can use it. Sculpt. Wield. Soft or hard, however you need it. You must have patience, though. Contrary to popular misconception, love does not transcend you. It humiliates you. It makes you suffer. But hatred cradles you; it nourishes you. It gives you a sense of purpose. It forces you to wait for the right time to strike back. Hatred empowers you to kill."
My dear, dear Roberto, I cannot hate you. I love you even if I suffer in doing so. I know you think I am too young for you. But remember, I am not an ordinary 16-year-old girl. I am precocious for my age. I will start college next Spring. You think my love for you is just an ordinary crush, but you are wrong and I know you are making a terrible mistake for not taking me seriously. But I really don't blame you. After the terrible experiences you had with Laura and other bitches, you have a right to be skeptical and cynical, but why are you pushing me away from you by encouraging me to go out with boys my age? I find them immature and boring. They are not as interesting as you. Besides, you make me laugh and bring me joy. They don't. You have taught me a lot. From them I learn nothing. I know more about life than they do.
My mother's words created in me a brain wave beyond all betas and alphas and thetas, a brain wave that paralyzed the normal channels of thought and forced new ones grow outside them, in the untouched regions of the mind, like parallel blood vessels that form to accommodate the damaged heart...
Sadly, after she killed Barry and was taken away from me, she told me during one of my visits, "Love is temperamental. It makes demands. It uses you. It changes its mind. But hatred is a different animal. You can train it. You can use it. Sculpt. Wield. Soft or hard, however you need it. You must have patience, though. Contrary to popular misconception, love does not transcend you. It humiliates you. It makes you suffer. But hatred cradles you; it nourishes you. It gives you a sense of purpose. It forces you to wait for the right time to strike back. Hatred empowers you to kill."
My dear, dear Roberto, I cannot hate you. I love you even if I suffer in doing so. I know you think I am too young for you. But remember, I am not an ordinary 16-year-old girl. I am precocious for my age. I will start college next Spring. You think my love for you is just an ordinary crush, but you are wrong and I know you are making a terrible mistake for not taking me seriously. But I really don't blame you. After the terrible experiences you had with Laura and other bitches, you have a right to be skeptical and cynical, but why are you pushing me away from you by encouraging me to go out with boys my age? I find them immature and boring. They are not as interesting as you. Besides, you make me laugh and bring me joy. They don't. You have taught me a lot. From them I learn nothing. I know more about life than they do.
I don't regard you as a man in his 60s at all. To me you are merely in your 20s. You look young (you must dye your hair! How many times do I have to beg you?) and you act young. So stop talking about old age and death. You fulfill me. I need nobody else. There may be other women that have affection for you, but I am sure they do not possess the same passion that is boiling inside me. My obsession for you is a healing one and I must fight for you and for myself. You touch my inner core and reveal to me what it is for two to become one and for one to join life and the Universe. You lead me down the path of discovery of "Be still and know." I know I love you.
Te quiero mucho, Roberto.
Florencia"
Wissai
October 2, 2010
Wissai
October 2, 2010
No comments:
Post a Comment