Thursday, 9 April 2009
the little girl.
Do you remember that little girl who sat by the window and prayed for you?
She was a stupid girl. They called her innocent, for they always do that. She was stupid. She thought that life was happiness and birdsong.
But she was named Ophelia.
And after such knowledge, what forgiveness?
She was beautiful. Therefore she was never happy. Her every thought was an epiphany, and epiphanies should be rare. That is how mortality should be. Those unaccustomed to waves of epiphanies call it madness or genius...and how many little girls have genius? Thus, it is always madness.
Then they said it was love.
It was not love, for there was no such thing as love then. There was sunlight and birdsong. There were colours. So many colours! Had noone ever seen the light before? The light?
Dreams are always in technicolour.
Only flashbacks are in black&white.
Memories are in sepia.
And so on.
There was a myth. Sometimes the myth was called the strange sad sublime story of one Orpheus. Kalidasa was sitting on a tree.Ignorant Kalidasa who was sawing off the branch he sat on. Oh when did the poetry come? The Snow Queen took Kay away and Gerda traversed light years to reach fairyland where the ice melted because of her stupidity. Only they always called it innocence.
Beautiful pastel shades and bright dazzling light. Only a tinge of red. Red as cherries, as roses, like blood, like lips, like lust, like a little flower that bloomed untended and uncared for in a corner. She put it in a little jar and her hair was orange and nobody saw her tears for she was a little girl and these were tears of stupidity... these were tears that they pay for innocence...the little Ophelia crying; for one day she would be sad...one day she would be mad.
These were tears of anticipation.
(Painting; Berthe Morisot, "female" Impressionist!Was neglected for more than a century.Now considered amongst the first rank of the painters belonging to that school.)