When "speck" is defined as a noun, it is 'a very small mark, or amount', it is 'a bit'.
But when "Speck" is the name of a cat, it is defined as "Get out of my room":
As a future tense, it is defined as, "I don't have to tell you what will happen if you don't":
LOCATION: Lake Tahoe, California
TIME: August, 1963
SUBJECT: Mother
ACT ENGAGED BY SUBJECT: Swimming
b. Dogpaddle
IDENTIFYING MARKS: Dark Sunglasses
CURRENT CONDITION OF SUBJECT: Fabulous
The poppy is an uncomplicated creature. It has one color. It is not parasitic or solitary. It grows simply, and in groups, like schoolchildren.
But its symbolism is rich, with a magnitude that has spanned many countries, and many centuries. For such a little flower it carries meanings that are vast and weary; that are eternal and quiet in the earth.
In Greece and Rome the poppy meant sleep and death - worlds beneath the cold eyelid. Opium was extruded from its seeds and sleepy breaths colored ancient dens and palaces. Poppies decorated the tombstones of their dead, welcoming the lengthy sleep. In Persian literature, the poppy is called the eternal flower - for emotions unrelenting and without end; for loyalty without limit.
The poppy fields in The Wizard of Oz were billowing and fearsome, promising an everlasting sleep. In Egypt opium was daubed on the neck and wrists like a hypnotic perfume.
It wasn't until 1915 that the significance of the little red flower passed into Europe as well, when the ground was already red. Towards the end of the year a poem was published - a trifle sentimental, a little maudlin, as most affairs of the heart are - and its beginning is familiar:
"In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row...
The fragrant drops of blood growing amongst the white purity must have been a shocking sight to the soldier; in a poem it might be less awful but no less meaningful. The poppy had become a part of their spoiled landscape.
"That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below
1915 was a terrible year. Gallipoli - Ypres - Nueve Chapelle - Loos - The Battles of the Isonzo...the poppies must have shuddered in the stinging breeze.
"We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields
When the war was over, and the hardness and the bitternress had set in, the poppy had adopted another symbol - the four blasted years that had called the Edwardians in from their play, that had rubbed the gilt off the lily. Its brave, bloody image was burnt on the dying soldier's eyes.
On Veteran's Dan/Remembrance Day the popppy is worn, sewn into wreaths, displayed in houses (Aubrey does this): it is still held high.
"Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields"
I was walking home - desperately - from work one day, shuddering with my disinterest, when I looked up and saw a simple composition floating in the impatient sky. All of the elements were ruled by astronomy, so as each second passed, they were shifted by a celestial sleight-of-hand.
I saw a crescent moon, hanging in the sky like a slice from a ghostly fruit. A rag of cloud, the color of sweetness - apricots, irises - was pulled across the pale lunar fraction. The sky was a gentle product of the negotiation between daylight and sunset: a lavender agreement.
The sky assembles visions like this every evening. It is common drink. But I would dare anyone to take a sip from this vignette ordinaire and not return home happy and reeling.
"And behold, and lo," it was said. And thence came a creature empowered with seven horns, seven eyes and seven Spirits.
And there were seven seals.
The first seal...
was Conquest:
Boyfriend had an excellent day of surfing at Asilomar Beach. I couldn't tell: there were dozens of black wet-suited figures in the water. But all I could tell was that it was early, I was hungry and I wanted to go to the Monterey Aquarium.
The second seal...
was War:
I chased Boyfriend down on the bumper car rides at the boardwalk in Santa Cruz. Always hug the curb, friends, and then attack from the inside.
The third seal...
was Famine:
I was so hungry on Saturday. Fortunately there is a place on the Santa Cruz wharf that serves a dish that is built thusly: a slice of sourdough bread is covered with a mix of crabmeat, shrimp and mushrooms in a cream sauce and then topped with Monterey jack cheese.
The fourth seal...
was Death:
Something, that is, that I wished on Boyfriend and something I believe I narrowly escaped after he insisted I ride the Hurricane rollercoaster on the boardwalk. And yes, the website is correct: I did not notice the beautiful ocean views.
The fifth seal...
was a Vision of Martyrs:
On Halloween, Boyfriend and I saw the original 'Night of the Living Dead' on TV. I'm not sure - is the story here a little martyr-like? This was my first zombie film, so there were many things that confused me.
The sixth seal...
was Earthquake:
There was a 3.7 magnitude earthquake on the Sunday that we left for home. The earthquake was in Central California. We were in Central California. I don't think I need to explain further.
The seventh seal was the Trumpets of Angels and the end of the world:
On Sunday we went to the Monarch Butterfly Habitat. The butterflies fluttered like gilded angels. The migrations forced upon them are tremendous, and many do not survive.
Boyfriend and I have made this trip every year that we've been together: a considerable time. We stay in Pacific Grove, visit Monterey, spend the day in Santa Cruz.
We haven't encountered anything yet to make us change our plans.
A couple of years ago, in late October, I wrote a post about the many incarnations I assumed for Halloween. I have photos as proof of the kangaroo, the gladiator, the geisha and gypsy that went from house to house on October 31, many years ago.
One year, I wore a pair of scarlet japanese pajamas. It was 1958, and I was almost one and half years old. I believe I looked three. In this particular photo, I am attacking a bowl of candy with great single-mindedness and with both hands. My cheeks could be envied by either a Gerber's baby or a squirrel, but either way I am obviously fattening myself for the upcoming winter months. Here, it looks like my little rayon/taffeta top is a little tight around the middle.
But such afflicted inches go unpunished when one is young. Mother fed me prodigiously.
Now, in recent years, Mother has been in the habit of giving me things she comes across...old photos, scraps of interesting fabric I might be able to use - with sequins, metal threads, rosettes, many and sundries - catalogues, comics she'd like to share with me, comics she'd like me to explain to her.
But the other day, I received something else. A pair of tiny frogged pajamas, embroidered and apricot colored. The passage of fifty years had degraded my Halloween suit from crimson to pastel.
But not a single hand embroidered thrread was ripped - not a flower in that wearable garden had been uprooted. But my pajamas had been folded many times over the decades, so a puzzle of creases covered them: tiny fields puckered over a rayon landscape.
I couldn't believe my good luck - that my mother had seen fit to return such a dear memory to me. I'm sure I didn't wear my pretty pajamas many times after that faded Halloween, but still they have an air of weariness, of a tiny perfection, that assures me that for those few times they were worn very well, indeed.
The rain kept me awake the other night, galloping through the gray air like nervous horses. The water exploding against the ground had the sound of muscular hoofbeats and I couldn't close my eyes without seeing their wild, sparking eyes.
In the morning it was quite dry and I could see by the sky - high and bulking in varied silver metallics - that the horses had been caught. The clouds shifted restlessly, and I knew that the stormy animals were waiting to be set free once more, for another mad dash towards a sleepless earth.
I know how they used to visualize her. Weak and erotic, pliable and romantic, vaguely Eastern - she lay hidden in a locked room heavy with silks and thick perfumes.
Her arms were flung about her head, lush and weak, and her body curved like a sated serpent's. Her eyes gazed into the distance, into faraway Oriental skies the color of peacock feathers, a rinse of tinted shadows.
Although a creation of Victorian boredom and sexual whimsy, she actually did exist, and she was called an odalisque. She served the concubines of the harem, washing their feet, rinsing their hair with henna. She crushed flowers - ginger, lilies, orchids: the gifts of an Ottoman garden - to create new fragrances and brushed her mistress' wrists with the scented oils. She was a living woman, with exquisite skills.
But thousands of miles to the west she had become an art trend, and her name became a body writhing at the base of a lamp, or carvings that struggled against symmetry and the placid yoke of equilibrium. She defined the curling enamels on cigarette boxes hidden in a man's pocket.
Comfortably exotic, she was willing to share tea as well as a water pipe with the discerning Victorian gentleman. Weighed down with tassels and fabrics like a middle-class drawing room, she sighed across her couch, waiting.
She could be a child, crowned with flowers and glowing with false jewels and a brothel's promise.
She could be an exhausted icon.
To the Western mind of the 19th century, she was foreign but still accessible, genteel but still with the look of a concubine's apprentice. It was an inaccurate vision, but this manageable fantasy was the Victorian way.
But I have my own vision, too.
This woman is Josephine Baker - who danced with shameless joy and sang like a crystal bird. I look at this image, and think 'surely she is the odalisque, more so than those posed, upholstered women'.
Perhaps. Here, no bed or couch is evident - she seems to have stepped out of a bath of pure light. The length of glistening fabric she holds is the merest decoration, as are the rivulets of pearls pouring from her hands. Like Salome, she dresses in veils and jewelry and is a source of torment.
She does not look away into an imaginary horizon, steeped in pastels and mosques. Her eyes stare straight ahead, daring and demanding. Dark and feverish, cloaked in charcoal, they reflect a dangerous grace. She stands straight and sleek, with the soft indentations of bones and muscles noticeable throughout her feline body.
This is not a vision of weakness from the 19th century, but one from the 1920's, when women were learning about their own appetites, instead of satisfying the hungers of others. Still exotic, but with a bite.
Whose ideal was closest to the truth? No one will really know. The keys to those rooms, hung with tapestries both feminine and mysterious, were thrown away long ago.
The tiger was weary. All night it had been on the prowl, weaving past the wolves, dogs, bulls, lions and bears that lived in star-like reticence in the black sky. It forded rivers that spanned galaxies, startling the sleeping dragons whose scales glittered like the brilliants in heaven's parure.
It had stumbled once or twice, knocking some stars loose from the plush firmament. Some fell, causing considerable excitement on a planet many light years away. But some stuck fast in the tiger's hazy bones, a promise of the starry silhouette that was to come. The tiger tried to shake itself free of the sparkling irritants but was unable to - its cloudy body merely changed shape across the twilight sky.
But now the air was changing color. Threads of lavender, amber, sapphire and gold glimmered in the vast fabric. Running from the iridescent light, the tiger found a cloud and wrapped itself in a bed of fog and rain.
For a brief time the tiger slept soundly. Unfortunately, it snored a little, bending the air currents into angles that the smaller birds found hard to navigate. Suddently it was awake. There was a noice - incessant, droning, loud and endless. The tiger looked: beneath it, smelling of oil and dirt, was a flock of steel crosses. It raised a cumulus-swathed claw to bat away the annoyances, but stopped. On the sides of these metallic bodies were inanimate red jaws and white, arched teeth.
This was a confusing sight, yes - but familiar too. So the tiger, out of consideration for these shrill relatives, pulled back its thunderous paw.
And the tiger went back to sleep, to dream of lingering adventures in silent, peaceful skies.
It was not a true one. The blood was not thick and full of escaping life. The body did not remain on the ground, finite and still. It was not a real death. Yet it was the finest kill I have ever seen.
I saw it in a movie. Now, I don't discuss movies very oftten. But this act of destruction was so unexpected, so grand, so sweeping, so shrouded in unanticipated grace, oh and by the way, so deserving, that I applaud it ever time I see it, which I do often.
The name of the movie is 'The Brotherhood of the Wolf', ('Le Pacte des Loups'). Any attempt to describe the plot would, I fear, induce a chain of seizures in either speaker of listener, so I will refrain. Suffice it to say, it is an irresponsible combination of lust, violence, fear and elegance. It is a horrible, beautiful painting.
Now - this thrilling kill. It came at the end of the film. A woman, a howling gypsy - earthy and snarling with a feral femininity - is finally on the run, after making a complete annoyance of herself for almost two hours. And it looks like she is going to escape. What a bother!
Until she is stopped by another woman. This woman is the most exclusive, most artistic, most dramatic of ladies. She is a mystic. She is dangerous. She is also an employee of a most inspired brothel - structured like a decadent, naughty poem. She knows the landscape of darkness as well as that of light. She is not to be trifled with.
Oh, and did I mention that this all took place during the 18th century? Wow!
Anyway, both women face each other. The first pulls a dagger from her filthy corset and brandishes it, sneering like a wolf. Suddenly she staggers back, with several slim, red stripes running across her throat. The divine whore stands still, and then slowly folds the dark, lace leaves of her fan. Each rib of the fan is a black stiletto knife, delicately tipped with her opponent's blood.
And that, my friends, was the finest kill I have ever seen.
Recent Comments
-
Cryin' for the Dyin' said:
[this is good]A beautiful life....They truely are independant....They belong to no one.....We have seen kindled and adopted out many little lives in... read more
on A Speck -
-
crescent gang said:
haha -- very cute. maybe she can see you and your camera as less of an intrusion into her cozy... read more
on A Speck
Fabulous! read more
on A Speck