Garbed in pastels and duns
I went,
though there were whims
of crimson, and blue ebullience.
And I was always
just around the corner,
safe in softness,
empty of the passings by.
On a day,
I thought to write lines
with hooks and sinkers.
A thing to underlie,
a thing to fill
this tired camouflage.
as a freshening teenage boy
just shy of sixteen years
foisted from a battle-scarred home
into this supposed school of highness
he is already in retreat
from vitriolic violence
from love that has gone
from hormonal eruptions
from the Bullies Three
the ostracization of the ostrich
he builds his defences
hands upon hands upon hands
he pushes away, and keeps all
at arm’s length.
Fifty years on,
in my sad unpacking,
this time of letting go,
I find,
pressed between panes,
a polaroid.
A face is fuzzily framed
in one angled corner, and
I think it’s you.
A blur of bouncy ponytail,
laughing eyes and bunny teeth.
Looking up,
waving goodbye
to balloons released,
bound for a section of cloud
on some other tangent.
Nothing between but blue.
Was it the day
we went downslope
into the forbidden ravine,
inventing a tent out of bedrolls and branches?
Jelly sandwiches.
Red rolls of caps for fun.
The contraband camera,
the stolen tarot deck and decoder book.
My life.
My love.
There was no other.
How will I find that cloud tangent now?
“Are you an anxious person?”, the therapist said.
Our man then recalled the thoughts and emotions that preceded his blackout at the wheel on that wintry night not so long ago. He had awakened, after what seemed only a few seconds, with his car in the ditch, a fat lip, and a bloody nose. Otherwise, physically undamaged. It had been the scare of his life, and he was still jittery and shaking. Presently, he called for a tow truck, and was glad of the delay that allowed him to collect his thoughts.
“I wouldn’t say so. At least, not until a few months ago”, he responded.
He then had to relate the unnatural attraction he had developed for a girl he had not even met, and how it had mushroomed to bring him to this state.
“Your tests, scans, etcetera, have all come back normal, and now here you are with me. Are you aware of what stress, even the emotional type, can do to a person? I believe your blackout was a “shutdown” reaction to the conflicts within your mind. You have been close to losing control. There is something called Situational Depression, and your symptoms are very close to this. I will prescribe you some medication which should help, but you need to see if you can get some closure on this. If you’re willing to risk seeing this girl just to tell her your feelings, then talk to family and friends, discreetly, if they are involved, and find out what to do.”
After some hard thought, and hearing that his nephew’s band had an upcoming date at another tavern, he contrived to be there that night, while his wife was otherwise occupied. Knowing his guilt, but acting as casually as possible, he asked if they had any memory of “that odd looking dancer” from where they had played before. His nephew grinned, and said “Oh, that’s just Sydney. She’s there almost every Saturday night. Just a fun loving kid, and doesn’t hang out with anyone in particular, I think. Dances by herself most of the time.”
In the end, when he learns that the band will be back at their old bar for an encore, he makes it a night out, knowing that family and friends will once again be there. It’s the same loud crowd, the band competing with them, and, after an hour or two, Sydney is there. His wife says “Isn’t that the same girl that was here last winter? I remember her dancing all alone. You kept watching her.” “I enjoyed her dance”, he says. “I must go and give her my compliments.”
When the song is over, he walks up to the girl. It’s the first time he has seen her eyes. He holds back the rush of emotion, says nothing about the months he has gone through. Only touches her hand, smiles, and says “how lovely you dance”. She brings her eyes to his for just a second, tilting her head strangely to the side, gives a radiant smile, and a small squeeze to his hand in return.
The next morning, he wakes up with the cure.
Previous posts on this story are:
Almost a year from the day he saw his “tiny dancer”, he still struggles to bury the image, and sees this as a strange and fascinating illness of the soul.
Am I weak? Evil? Insane, to let this affect me thus?
Has my life been so devoid of joy that I see, every day, the afterimage of this flicker of brightness?
He thinks he has been a fool, and would be justly held to ridicule if another soul ever knew of this.
And so…I need help from someone. NO. I will conclude this myself. There will be a way to find her. Ask some embarrassing questions, perhaps expose my desperation, if only it will come to the point of seeing her once more, just to tell her…..what? That I’ve been in thrall to her image for a year? It matters not. I must do it.
His resolve hardens. He gets into his car and heads out the wintry road, not knowing what he will do at his destination. Thoughts are running, running, running, as on a treadmill. This is dangerous.
Halfway now, halfway, when the thing happens to him, an electrical feeling up the back of his neck, vision going grey, then black unconsciousness.
for background on this, see http://secret-lifeof.com/2017/11/06/captivated/
and http://secret-lifeof.com/2017/11/06/from-captivated-to-captivity/
and for final story see
Aremyfeetofftheground 