Broken Mirror of Catharsis:

Moonlight Sonata

 

 

What paradigm has she become that there is nothing in his head but the imagery of lost and sullen thoughts, a misery both materialized and deconstructed in brief, lit moments of a somnambulistic, unconscious desires. How subtle can the taut muscles twitch in his hand, the ever vibrant and lucid movements which could not, even in the briefest of glances, hope to convey what broke course she had careened. There, that impression, that pause upon the page. Gently the pencil glides, vulgar point so brutal it tears like chisel in stone, brutally bashing its way into the bastardization of conceptualization. He pauses, inspecting the graphite’s course. Was it there that she was brightest? Was the quick bleeding in this soft blush, maybe the rose color of a subtle flesh, soft peddled flower opening in the sun? He gently rubs the rubber eraser against the paper. Gentle as it was, the pull and abrasive artifice rips at the paper. With a sigh of contempt, he leans back in the leather chair.

            What was it she had said when the door has closed? It had been marked in the wafting currents of the air, lost like the tempest torrent of snow breezing about behind the windows. The apartment, barren habitation that it was, shouldered the weather with an unapologetic determination; yet, it seemed to shudder all the same with each gust of cold air. There, on the desk, were the pencils and discarded chalk, the charcoal pencils and pastels; tools of a misbegotten artist. What vivid colors existed in this world of grays? He wondered, pondered with steady pencil in hand, grading the pencil’s barbarous point against the pulp. There were more books on the shelf, parades of novels with spines and subtle bends to each and eclectic bindings: Gold leafed with stark colors, broken split dried testaments to a duration upon the shelf.

            The pencil point dulled and a razor was sought. The wind again protested the buildings agency. A few strokes to either side and the point was again as sharp as ever. She had mentioned something or other about the layer of clouds, maybe how dense the fog has been? He again pushed difficult strokes to paper, each a slight variation of the last. This, this pedantic exploration of the curves of her features eased before themselves in the utter solitude of the wind. There were the ever vibrant movements of the sliding door beside him aching and lurching back and forth. They too, like pencil on page, urged on. Each stroke brought about a thinker layer, a further exploration of all things lost to his consciousness. Was it his eyes locked in the back of his head that revealed her face, that glint of xenia found inside his chest? There, she resides in a guest house constructed, build, and demolished with each coming and going. It would be vulgar for him to say she owned a key to his heart, those clichés necessary to convey to the open room his desires and longings. Put pencil to paper, he thought, paper to pencil. This elliptical pattern of pied marks upon a page forced each and every shadow out of his mind. She was this and that and this curved in that way. Those locked secrets inside her unblinking eyes held away all things he sought to pull from her. What words could have guided them out that he might put them again upon blank page.

            Again the pencil was sharpened and a paper flipped. He found that the didactics were crass enough for him to move along. Plush again, he thought. Was it to be her fingers this time? There again the motions of his wrist tirelessly portrayed every twitch of her fingers. Did she happen to expound upon the sentences wisped from her lips? He could remember the stance, the posture, the disposition of her entropic eyes, but what over the struggling ache within her heart, that quiver of soul turmoil invoking between the both of them something more than feral? It had been a question, he was certain. He thought maybe the sky had cracked as that moment, that the wind had ripped again, as it had do so many times recently, against the glass door. Had the pencil jar spilled? He smeared the lines with his finger, smudged them skillfully to be a blur of movement. Artistry at its finest and, in a blink of an eye, he had produced yet another sheet of paper with crude prosaic lines.

            Did she say that it was some type of emotional thing? Yes, of course she did. These politics of the hearts, he believed she had referenced, that separated the two of them. He quibbled, “but the room and space form the chair to door separates us, my dear,” oh, you joking, joking fool, he thought. The red chair was his artisan’s chair, the chariot of production and mover of worlds. It still comforted his body even as he began to draw the horns upon her head, the fires about her body. Anglo-Norman glimpses of purgatory greeted the two of them; he had her body, wrapped in the protective prayers of catholic saints guiding her into heaven. So simple he drew the lines and chorus marking hell. His hand twitched; the fires rose and rose, consuming the struggling souls arching their backs in the inferno, his arms ached to pull away those fires, to smother them in the tears of lamenting angels. What drip of water now could quench these thirsts, what exploration of refreshment could refine, rebirth the immaculate expulsion from hell?

            Quickly his hand flipped the page. His heart beat against his chest with the rapid desperation of desire for what one cannot find, the grail of notions one hides within their head to forever lose. It was like the lost piece to his soul had been safely locked with that guest house and cast into some long forgotten forge to be destroyed in that which one once created it. Somatic illness not called motivation. A pause. A beat. And he launched headlong into a furry, a rapid desire to tear pencil at page. Here, catharsis had found him. He found that pathos he had placed amongst the sweetly allured and now, without warning, he had awakened that which was purposely hidden. Large elliptical motions produce the breast, crude, jagged line the nipple. He works feverishly to materialize his elicit hatred. Brief rancor fueling impropriety, that boatmen awaiting transit, now has awaken the zeal of importance for the boy. He knows now the image which must be conveyed, the reflection of entropy not contained in her eyes, no, but locked deep in that blackness of her soul. He had torn it, eviscerated it from her stomach in once quick, rampaging snatch, dark talons tore into that earlier paradigm and, pulling, forced all the broken memories she had invoked in him. Was it the connecting line coming down, that horrible recreation of her vagina, that interested him so? He pulled his hand as a wiring musician, grooming the slowly materializing hair about her sexual organs: the pulsing, quivering desires of that which was once his excitement trans-mutated and amalgamated into the picture something other than what it was. Was it vulgar, for what was memories of such thing but brief highlights upon future promises? He glared, recognizing.

            And fleetingly, he drew a flower out of that piece of flesh so concentrated on in his youth, the hidden mystery which seem to unlock all new perspectives; new features he refused to admit motivated hi, so crass, so vulgar, so different than he thought himself. There the flower opened before the sun, each petal slowly, yet greedily, pulling at its lust for life. Chlorophyll bubbled within the veins, yearnings spread out over the miles and miles over interwoven ventricles so minuscule, the pencil point could no encompass them with more than a hairs breath of a stroke. There was a stock, he thought, just beneath the top of the flower. What is a flower without a stalk, just a flower top? He put the flower atop the stock and carefully eased it into a topsoil. Gracefully it was planted amongst the grass and, relinquishing his grip on the page, it was covered the missteps of his former picture. In its simplicity, he found solitude the most exciting. This pastoral scene, for him, contained a brief respite from the bawdy horrors in which he had recently been lost.

            The book shelf quivered as the wind blew. The snow had accumulated outside and the moon had risen. There, hidden behind the bare trees his father had planted, he saw the moon wide-eyed and watching through the walls. They exchanged glances with each other, one a celestial looking in, and one a body looking out. They nodded in what was an agreement arrangement and the moon continued its relentless course higher into the darkness, tarrying for a bit to gaze on the processing of memories.

            He turned in his chair and stopped to see if she still stood there at the door. No, she was gone, of course, but he could see the soft prints where she might have been standing. Her unclothed foot compressing the blue carpet, contrasting pale against dank and the warmth of her smooth skin and the dirt of the carpet he refused to vacuum. Above her feet were the ankles, hairless in their slim yet strong stance, one over the other in a feigned friendly manner. Slowly, the gradual climb to her calves, muscular from years of walking from building to building as her grad school continue from a few, compromised years to longer, more secure associated position. This too finally moved into her thigh, thoough these were locked behind the canvas skirt she believed made her, he thought, more important and more professional. He had drawn her midriff sometime ago, the tight, taut stomach he had rubbed against in a bulking motion, slow and tedious in what became the monotonous sinking of a ship.

            His attentions become lost at the moment with the vague facial composure he once knew for his own, the face which had encompassed the entire range of everything. Like the arching of the moon and the curved orgasm climbing her back, he felt the twitching of his heart each and everytime he thought of it. There, he thought, there was the broken mirror of catharsis that alluded to the composure which, like a sonata, repeated in cycling the breaking of his heart. And he drew in the furor, not for any compassion that he had unlocked, nor any hidden shadow upon cave wall, but happened upon some relentless push towards the dumb show of his heart, the mockery of interwoven souls. He drew her standing, not on against the wall, but in the snow behind the trees. He saw her there, in her grief as she had been, and there the epic wind pulled viciously at her hair. Nature’s snow swirled in mock compassion about her skin, crawling and pulling in some rich and vulgar despair to hold her, to pull her skin from her eyes and drink deep her warmth. She held tight the small robe, and, in an innocence, she gazed up in the sky with the look of lost about her; what world had evolved about her small, lithe frame that she should look so dreaded in her own grave compassions? Should she be locked deep in a well, the purity of her skin keep serene in its own internal divinity? In this drowning, reality could not have encompassed the grief her eyes blared, for they, like the beacons of lost ships on the horizon in view of a sinking ally, knew what it was to truly know pain. No mortal could possible have found itself so torn, so wretched and spewed from the actual veracity as to be regurgitate upon the shoreline as she had been.

            Rooted by the tree, he drew the snow packed flowers encapsulated. They waited for the warmth of sun to awaken them anew; he drew the moon high above the sky, but, to harness it, he drew the clouds before it in some usurping, a removal of agency worthy of any great painter, he thought. There, you moon will stay until released, a prison for the sorrow of her face, he thought. Like fixed stone pendulum wafting above, you will stay and encompass this mosaic, mirrored destruction at its best, he thought.  Then he drew her legs locked in the snow and her hair breathing in the wind. What force the tempest still had, but her face remained unchanged. It was forever locked in that horrible gaze of bewildered desolation, some gothic nightmare she was not even involved in other than by being imprisoned, impotent to escape. She gazed outward, onward into the reality of the drawer, a glance of artifice on artisan. He quickly shadowed in the raise of the moon over her head, the light, broken rays shattered by the over-reaching tree, brought down a rain of clumping snow upon her already tortured scalp. Heedless she gazed on, heedless she did not blink. With frozen eyes locked at the base of the trees, the quick of skin melted away in the weather and he became concerned. What had he done, he thought, with that graphite pencil and that smudging destructive finger? Quickly, he tore at the picture with the pencil, forced life into the seen, yet her face just seemed to contort beneath the weight of his efforts. Lost, it slowly began to drain away into the snow, each a graying mixture of white and black. Where graphite ended, sorrow began, and where melancholy found a hold, the smudging seemed only to emphasis the extra effort he forced into the slowly dwindling fires. The wind roared outside as the picture in his hands gave way to a blur of lost good intentions and former warmth. At last, with a great gasp of desperation, he took one long and unrelenting look into the pupilless gaze of her eyes, those white, chaste orifices that alone resisted the smudging of his fingers and the fury of his graphite. Finally, as the page was flipped, the wind gave one last long gust at the artist. He gazed up at the moon, whose pinnacle arc had carried it safely higher into the sky, and he felt forgotten by all he thought important that night. He wanted some completion to the monstrosity of his efforts. His soul lurched against his chest to flip again that paper and to revive the lost imagination locked there; but, something in his fingers knew it gone, a dead carcass at bottom of tree.

            Leaning back in the chair, he rested his weary head on the red leather of his creative chariot. No longer did he imagine her, as anything. He felt like he had done enough damage for the night and let his mind be purged by the wafting of the wind and the unconscious gyrations of his mind adrift in the boatmen’s gentle, relaxing rocks.