Symphonie Fantastique is widely regarded as one of the most important pieces of music of the 19th century. French composer Hector Berlioz wrote it in 1830 as a response to being rejected by the woman he loved, hoping to seduce her with the power of his artistry. Your assignment in the coming week, Taurus, is to emulate Berlioz: Capitalize on a refusal you've had to endure; create a masterpiece in rebellion against a repudiation you've experienced; make a thing of beauty to compensate for being shunned or ignored. (P.S. The woman in question, Harriet Smithson, eventually married Berlioz.)
In honor of that admonition, I make this offering.
The spiders do not sleep tonight. They are coming for me. Embalming me. As though some or all of me has died and cannot be saved.
The web is tangled, like all things,
cool spring nights and her body
wrapped in silk sheets.
That's what I remember,
the fragrance of her, the waking
and knowing it wasn't a dream.
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The very first night, holding her, stroking her hair so gently. I felt myself dissolve, open, transformed beyond the limits of flesh, the boundaries of mind. Pure feeling. Something so much larger than either of us. For those few hours, we were the only people on earth, a new Adam, a new Eve, drunk and happy.
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It's tangled, the memory of her
and the reality of flesh,
in miniature the scenes replay.
A swirl of love and loss, hope
and fear, rich red wine,
cool jazz we danced to.
It was all a love song.
I will always love her.
No matter how far away.
No matter what words she says.
No matter how far away.
No matter what words she says.
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And the spiders weave their webs over my eyes, refracting all light, enclosing such failed vision within its own confines. Lacking touch, the body left as dead. But the heart beats, muffled by dirt, encrusted with twigs and yarn, a nest for birds.
So little can be said that has never been said. The spiders web my mouth to silence me. To prevent me from revealing the secret all broken hearts know, but never speak.
Love is eternal.
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O Great Spirit, hear my prayer:
I offer these words and images
not in craving for my wants,
but that those who read them
may open their hearts to the love
that lives inside of each being,
that they may surrender to the heart
and live a life in your service.
I offer these words and images
not in craving for my wants,
but that those who read them
may open their hearts to the love
that lives inside of each being,
that they may surrender to the heart
and live a life in your service.
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What right have we to disregard the wisdom of the heart? What right have we to live in opposition to its knowledge and vision? We are so little without love. We are so large with love.
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Cold Night
At midnight, in a cold bed, I cannot sleep.
Incense and fire burned out, my tears turn to ice.
My shadow my only companion,
I will not turn down the light.
~ Po Chu-i
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This haunting, as if spiders were ghosts. But it's not the small creatures encasing me in silk, it's her voice, the memory of her fingers on my skin, the awareness that the moments we shared could only occur between us.
No other will do.
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These words are catharsis,
an offering to the world.
We walk our own paths,
each of us, alone.
Night comes, morning follows,
the leaden days pass one by one.
Of one thing I am sure,
the story is not finished.
A new ending can be written,
if only we can find the words.
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Credits:
1. Lovers #3
2. The Lovers
3. The Cure - Lovesong
4. Lovers 2
5. "Cold Night," translated by Sam Hamill, Midnight Flute
6. Lovers Dream
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