The Favored

The Favored

Center of attention

Knaves and would-be lovers tangle rapturously in words

That slip from her tongue in silken eloquence

A sweet cascade of wanton thought

All ears within this space entombed

Wait restlessly to hear her next remark

And breathless expectations hang in silence

All the more fulfilling for their pains

 

They wonder at this mortal who, so much unlike myself,

Can serve to them their hearts upon a tray

While yet they watch

So helplessly bemused by artful guile
 

Here I, the keeper of the peace with aching heart

Wish desperately to catch the falling crumbs

And form of them a way to learn this grace

To hold within my hands this thing elusive

This riddle that I’ve failed to understand

While all the while these words

Held captive in my mind

Begin to tremble with the need to be set free
 

“Look at me!”

“See me!”

“I’ll never hurt you, tease you, leave you, break your heart!”

“I want only to be known and to be seen for who I am -

Held separate and apart, not part of her

To have something that is ever all my own

That cannot be distracted by the banter and the guise

To see me, and me alone – be mine, all mine

To fascinate, to love, to form a thought.

Is it really all too much to ask?"
 

Laughter bleeds back into my hearing

I look around at nothing that has changed

And all that is the same
 

Center of attention

So far away from me, so unconcerned

I am companion to the favored - nothing more

As still and calm I sit

In utter silence

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If time flies, but there’s no one there to hear it, does it still make a sound?

I think it does, but it’s more like an echo. Perhaps you’ll notice a slight whistling in your ears, like the sigh of air escaping from your life. It’s a somber, melancholy sound, and it makes you stop and think. “What was that?” you may ask yourself. Or, “Is there something I’ve forgotten?” Well, yes. You’ve forgotten many things. And, sadly, you’ll never know because…you’ve forgotten them.

We sat in a dusky bar, my dear friend James and I, bemusedly conversing while sipping gin and tonics. Moments before, we’d walked the High Line above Manhattan’s enlivened West Side streets, gazing through apartment windows, inventing stories about who may live there and what we’d be like if we did. The sun slipped past and downward, following a familiar course while we ventured along this new one. Pausing to sit and watch a projector display on a blank wall, full of colors and music and light, we saw a black balloon drift by above our heads and turned to look at one another, mouths agape, eyes brightened by a touch of magic. It was the most inside of inside jokes; a little game we played from across the seas – James from his flat in London, me from wherever I was residing at the time, be it St. Augustine or Miami –  a ceremony of sorts related to our shared passion for the written word combined with music. And here it was: a section of our separate worlds entwined and brought to life. What were the chances? How could this be? Why ever now, at this time and place?

And now, having traversed the boardwalk, allowed the wood to slip unhindered beneath our soles, we lingered at the small and hazy room hidden within a restaurant we assumed to be a front for something else (or at least in our most wild imaginations), for why else would they hasten us into the bar, uprooted and dislodged from our comfortable al fresco table? We had laughed then and gone along for the ride.

“At least this will make the night more memorable,” one of us most likely quipped. Which, in turn, would have led to the conversation which I now recall. Such a slender thread of consciousness, such a delicate display; yet somehow feral in its need to be fulfilled. The transcendence, the translucency, of memory was the chosen topic, or perhaps the one which had chosen us. James related how he’d always thought of memory as being a series of blurred images, like a group of photos taken, one after the other, while the subject keeps moving forward. Motion blur, I think they call it. And isn’t that what life is all about? The always moving forward, not able to go back, while everything blurs around you, and into you, and you into it. Into everything.

When I look back on that night, I wonder if James remembers the same things that I do, if our memories are interchangeable, if they shift or overlap. I’m certain that they do, and will continue to do so, at least at certain moments. We share these themes, my British friend and I; fascinated by our minds’ ability to recall the smallest details, yet forget the bigger picture. And how, sometimes, it all can seem so real again; so vivid and alive. In just a memory.

Time has passed, of course. It’s been nearly a year since that night in Manhattan; our few days in New York. I find myself remembering so clearly what we said and what we did, how the light reflected on the windows and the streets and the lake in Central Park, the skylines, the fire escape, taking photos from the Brooklyn Bridge, the subway and the adventure of it all. Meanwhile, time moved by unmentioned (as something one would choose to look away from – avert your gaze and maybe it won’t sting). Another year to tuck beneath our belts. New friendships forged and others broken; old ties that had weathered with the years, unnoticed, untended, and eventually worn through.

 And so I’ve taken to this blog again, another thing that slipped and fell upon the wayside. I’ve been writing, I’ve been living – still existing, but so fettered by my thoughts of what I should and shouldn’t do. And why I should or shouldn’t do. I’ve missed this, the flow of writing something that isn’t a poem, not a book; no characters to follow but myself. Just me and my own thoughts. I’ve come to accept, as I think I needed to, that this is more a diary than I had allowed myself to believe. Others will read it...or they won’t. But in the end, that doesn’t matter. This is for me, so here I am again.

Listening…

 

 

Eager Young Author Seeks Others of Her Kind

I watched a movie with Da yesterday. It wasn’t the one we’d intended to watch, but my dvd remote was on the fritz (what did I honestly expect from an electronic gadget priced at under $20?), preventing me from skipping to the second title on the homemade disc. And so, we settled in for a viewing of The Prince of Players, a 1955 gem starring Richard Burton as overwhelmingly talented Shakespearean actor Edwin Booth. (Some of you may have heard of his younger brother John. If not, just Google him, along with Ford’s Theatre, Abraham Lincoln and the phrase Sic Semper Tyrannis. I’m sure you’ll come up with something informative.)

Honestly, as is often the case when I sit down to watch a Da-selected movie, I’ve already gone through several grains of salt during his lengthy description process and have a handful more squirrelled away in my pocket. “It’s a great movie,” he said. “You’ll really enjoy it if you just give it a chance.” I did, and was enthralled immediately. It didn’t hurt that I’m a rabid fan of all things related to Shakespeare, but even if I wasn’t, I’d be forced to admit it is a great movie.

But this isn’t a movie review. That little tidbit only served as some much-needed inspiration to get me blogging again following month upon month of deafening silence. Not to give away the best part of the movie (I’m about to do just that, so if you plan on watching it, you might want to avert your eyes while you read this), but there’s a lovely little scene right at the end when an angry mob of erstwhile fans have crowded into the theatre to pelt Edwin Booth with all sorts of rancid vegetable matter, understandably upset that his brother has recently murdered the president. That, in and of itself, is nothing to write home, or even blog, about. What got to me was what Edwin did in the face of that adversity. (And this is a true story, by the way. I asked Da. He was there.)

Sitting alone on the stage, abandoned by his startled fellow thespians who fled to the wings rather than face the onslaught of vegetation, and God only knows what else, Edwin Booth moved not a muscle. He simply sat there, immobile, resolute, allowing the crowd to vent its collective anger upon him, and him alone. Eventually the ammunition was used up, the hostility abated and a hush fell over the theatre. In the silence, one man called out, “You’re all right, Booth!” and began to applaud. Soon, others followed suit and before long the formerly bloodthirsty, would-be mob was cheering their hearts out for the very man they had wanted to rip to pieces only moments before.

I watched that final scene, tears in my eyes, and thought how brave he was to sit there and take, quite literally, everything they could throw at him. It reminded me how, as a writer, I must be willing to do the same thing, although (I would hope) not quite as literally as all that. I’ll admit it sometimes feels that way. There are critics hiding under every rock, waiting to hurl their opinion as soon as you walk by. It takes a brave soul to expose their beloved creations to a jaded world. I thought about a fellow author I’ve been communicating with. He wrote an incredible book, one I read and loved more than I’d expected to. I immediately wrote a review for him and was shocked to find, in reading some other reviews, that nobody else seemed to have gotten what I had out of reading it. He’s understandably shaken, and I know how he feels. It must be quite similar to how Edwin Booth felt up there on that stage, all alone.

So far in my career I’ve been lucky enough to have been ignored by a few agents and publishers who didn’t feel like taking the time to read my manuscript, let alone comment on it, constructively or otherwise, but have also thus far avoided the slings and arrows of outrageous reviewers. They pick and claw and mangle what we’ve written, turning our very words against us. And all the while we’re expected to sit there and take it, often even thank them for taking the time to review us at all. They feel they deserve our gratitude – after all, where would we be without their acknowledgement of our efforts? I sometimes think they forget we’re even human.

But human we are, and thus we shall remain, if for no other purpose than to feel all the agonies and triumphs that propel us on to better writing. And so I asked myself if I was willing to sit upon that stage, the stage of literary presentation, before a world that may not understand or welcome me, knowing full well that I may be shunned or even pelted within an inch of my life. I pondered whether or not I could truly handle everything that surely awaits me as a struggling first-time author with little to no qualifications that seem so important to the critics and the almighty publishing muckity-mucks. Can I stand there, day after day, falling back at times, but pushing ever onward to my goal of eventual success (on my own terms) in this great big sea that is the literary world?

Yes, I can. I can, and I will. And I’ll stand there all alone if I have to. But wouldn’t it be great if others joined me? There is, after all, strength in numbers. I’m dreaming of an army of unknown authors by my side, advancing our troops, going forth into the hungry masses that yearn for well-written novels, spreading our works throughout the land. In the end, we are the ones who will be left standing when this great publishing empire as we know it crumbles in upon itself. We must not fall, we must not turn tail and run, for our goal is to gain the respect we so richly deserve.

It is with high hopes that I now extend the hand of friendship and invite my fellow starving authors, poor in coin but rich in spirit, to join me in this quest to endure all for the sake of our writing. If we network enough, get a slew of like-minded people together, who knows what we can accomplish? But it’s bound to be a heck of a lot more than we can manage to do alone. My plans are sketchy, but I’ve got to do something. To quote the lyrics from Paint Your Wagon, “Where are we goin’? I don’t know. When will we be there? I ain’t certain. All I know is I am on my way.”

The journey begins today. Let me know if you’d like to come along. I’m infinitely reachable at devonpearse@aol.com. (Those not willing to be pelted with vegetables need not apply.)

Paradox

This winding road before me
The unsettled, vacant light
Relentless chains of freedom
Seldom seen through waking sight

Forgive me if I dream of you
Forget my gasping need
A love reborn, forsaken
In the urgency of greed

What to me was ours together
Was your selfish solitude
A secret, mine to cherish
Bore a mark of shame for you

Passion is my healing balm
That burns your aching skin
Begging me to leave
You lock the cell you’ve put me in

Surrender to the sweetest pain:
Your fear that you will find
The fires of Hell within your soul
And Heaven within mine

My Verse

That I am here, though leaves shall fall
For through the crack that snakes the wall
I see the end where I begin
And Fortune smiles upon her kin

That I am rich, though have I naught
For never yet have I forgot
The gold that lies up on the sea
The jewels of Earth hung on a tree

That I am glad, though tears I shed
For weeping is the cure of dread
The just release of fears withheld
So bittersweet the truth to tell

That I am strong, though I may break
For once to feel for feeling's sake
To know the blessing and the curse
Of giving all to write my verse

Devon Pearse - My Verse