The Place of Power

 

The laughing sinner

 

The obtuse, the bizarre, the perverse, the holy and the blasphemed. How I loved them all. There were many things I treasured. The acquired tastes of the universe.  I walked through life sampling them one after the other like an avaracious attendant to God’s smorgasbord

 

 

I reached for them. The faded pictures of nobles in gilded and opulent frames, withering curtains of Italian origin ripped to shreds by ware and time. Meticulously shined suits of armor flanking marble doorways. Abandoned stage sets, mountains wrapped in the darkest cloud cover, old inn signs, gothic prints, antiquated brick a brack, Latin novels, erotic novels ignorant of good storytelling. The tales of my grandmother, fairy tales, storybooks, old operas, inane refrains and artless rhythms and noiseless movement.

 

I sought to ride into battle, yet feared the violence of death. I was roused by movements, yet repulsed by their dogmas. I idealized the beauty in every individual, yet was horrified by their hypocrisy that occurred behind closed doors.

Night  would be my time to venture into this unfiltered realm, an ascent of creation void of ego or monotony.. They appeared in all directions , and teased me without cease.  The men in opulent hats and women wailing sullen ontop of stone walls in blue silk dressing gowns.

 

Still, I looked out over the curved stone walls and saw how the young and ragtag burst into song. Men thrusting forward and woman and girls making slinky movements. The monument still lay a few more paces upward. Yet it contained only a cavernous void.

 

There, the most beautiful harlequins, with their hair and faces cracked and mingling with long abandoned spider web. I thrilled at my ability to cultivate the words, yet scorned by thinning net with which to catch them. Seeing enough, I disregard all.

I kneel gently by the heaps of heather and pull out a  sprig.

 

I could have drunk it in all day.

 

 

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