Chelsea Faye Leigh (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} just1rosepetal) wrote,@ 2007-03-08 02:20:00 |
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Love Letter
Champagne, wine and a delivery of Indian food later - this was regurgitated:
(Sidenote: I don't know how/when/what I will pack for leaving NYC, I just want to be left to my books and pop Henry & June in the DVD player!)
Dearest George Bernard Shaw,
Last night was spoiled of you. I lay naked in my bed watching the moon tell stories to the night. Oh, how he put the clouds to sleep and made the stars illuminate with curiosity.
You know how I am at such an hour--all my idiosyncrasies awaken when most everyone is fast asleep. I cannot discern dream from reality and myth from truth. I know I have made your mind ill, but I cannot give up on the possibility.
The fight my body struggles against, as it grows tired and lazy with sleep, is a battle we must watch with discerning eyes and hungry minds. We must starve ourselves on questions and remain healthy by proposing theories and awakening our weary judgment with Enlightenment.
I write to you in belief and disbelief, under precepts of reality and truth but with looming questions of whether time, place and occurrence are no more than a lustful and hopeful dream---a myth the night is whispering to the lucky star, Me.
When I saw this tale come to life, I may very well have fallen into a fictitious state of exaggeration, where my mind gave itself to the imagination and self-deluding fantasy of god and goddess frolicking for the soul intention of explaining a social phenomenon to the reader at hand.
Or it may have been much simpler and less poetic. It simply could have been an occurrence that existed in fact, that stamps itself in the timeline of each of our minds; an experience, a happening, a telling of our character beings and/or a factor that accounts for our romance.
I haven’t a clue because I cannot discern or discredit these presents and yet, plagues of what my mind constructs and my heart grapples with. I want this love to be easy. I want to assure you I know of its actuality, but I haven’t a clue when it feels so untouched, unknown and unbelievable (but, maybe that is what true love is and if not true love, but first love!).
Ever since last night I have felt changed and transformed. It is as if the moon stripped my naked body of its physique and left me as adjectives paired to the nouns of your soulful script.
I felt this way as I looked out on to the night, as if the vast sky was a screening of your Hollywood masterpiece. Sure locations had been edited, repositioned and relocated, but is that not what a myth is—a collection of the ponderings, the intrigue and the escapism of the mind? And so, you weren’t jamming your fingers away on a typewriter in the Hills—page after page inserted and spitted out from the roller, cigarettes burning between the peace sign of your fingers, coffee staining the back of your teeth and stale breath lingering like notes from Bach in the spotlight of a saloon.
No, you appeared to be nothing I had imagined you to be if I were to witness you in the makings of your craft. And this is where conscious rivals subconscious, where invention tries to outsmart convention and where fable tries to pass itself off as truth.
I saw you, Pygmalion, in the clamoring seaport of Amathus. The seagulls rioted from your window, as the fish were busy chasing their mate through the corals of Cyprus. And you praised the commotion—the way the breeze tangled the spirals of your hair and how your eyes matched the waves that crashed into the sand like a male perpetuating a response from his apathetic lover.
It was so unlike the aggressive and arrogant director of American cinema. Your pen did not bleed for the acceptance of the spectators. You just let your hand make life of the script—the characters dancing to the harmony of your words across the ballroom of the page.
You did not choose to have a companion calling to you from your window or a friend begging you to leave your pen to rest and submit your masculinity to the erotica of the night.
Instead, you gave yourself to the creation of your script; as if you were balancing on the borders of love and lust with the character you had fashioned when pen was put to page.
I watched you last night, as you marveled into madness, beseeching Venus to direct your hand, and from your script come the figure of a lovely character worthy of acceptance from the eyes of spectators!
As the moon became more slender in the night, illuminating the stars less and less, your imagination did just the opposite. Your script rounded itself out and became full with symbolic life. Your themes were illuminated by the context you entwined them in. And the vision you had of your female lead was more beautiful and magnetic than any actress you had envisioned casting in the past.
You could not close your eyes, in fear that you would lose her silhouette in the sketching of your dreams. You did not want to risk parting from her figure that was so chiseled in the forefront of your view. And so you cemented your eyes to the pages of your ongoing script. You could not lose her in between verb and noun or afford to leap irrationally or abruptly from one paragraph to the next in fear of losing her. You needed her. You were devoted. She would be the cause of your masterpiece. She would be the only one given credit in your speech to the Academy.
George, do you not see how you have made reality out of the fiction of your script? You have made characters dance in the dreams of your imagination, but what happens when the music stops?
You have brought one woman to life right from the pages of your script. She is a combination of noun, adjective and verb, yet all she really is is a product of your imagination. She is a protagonist for your film that will packaged, released and sold for consumerism.
Love is not that easy. It is not always told in scenes or guaranteed when a prayer is sent to Venus. When I watched from my window last night, naked of truth and unspoiled of deception, the moon illuminated the lucky star, Me. It let me see into the windows that had always been drawn closed by curtains.
In dream or reality, in myth or truth, last night I saw that under any spell an artist always fabricates his composition. And I, the protagonist of your love story, without fail will always be the creation of your product.
Always illuminating your dreams,
Your Fair Lady
Champagne, wine and a delivery of Indian food later - this was regurgitated:
(Sidenote: I don't know how/when/what I will pack for leaving NYC, I just want to be left to my books and pop Henry & June in the DVD player!)
Dearest George Bernard Shaw,
Last night was spoiled of you. I lay naked in my bed watching the moon tell stories to the night. Oh, how he put the clouds to sleep and made the stars illuminate with curiosity.
You know how I am at such an hour--all my idiosyncrasies awaken when most everyone is fast asleep. I cannot discern dream from reality and myth from truth. I know I have made your mind ill, but I cannot give up on the possibility.
The fight my body struggles against, as it grows tired and lazy with sleep, is a battle we must watch with discerning eyes and hungry minds. We must starve ourselves on questions and remain healthy by proposing theories and awakening our weary judgment with Enlightenment.
I write to you in belief and disbelief, under precepts of reality and truth but with looming questions of whether time, place and occurrence are no more than a lustful and hopeful dream---a myth the night is whispering to the lucky star, Me.
When I saw this tale come to life, I may very well have fallen into a fictitious state of exaggeration, where my mind gave itself to the imagination and self-deluding fantasy of god and goddess frolicking for the soul intention of explaining a social phenomenon to the reader at hand.
Or it may have been much simpler and less poetic. It simply could have been an occurrence that existed in fact, that stamps itself in the timeline of each of our minds; an experience, a happening, a telling of our character beings and/or a factor that accounts for our romance.
I haven’t a clue because I cannot discern or discredit these presents and yet, plagues of what my mind constructs and my heart grapples with. I want this love to be easy. I want to assure you I know of its actuality, but I haven’t a clue when it feels so untouched, unknown and unbelievable (but, maybe that is what true love is and if not true love, but first love!).
Ever since last night I have felt changed and transformed. It is as if the moon stripped my naked body of its physique and left me as adjectives paired to the nouns of your soulful script.
I felt this way as I looked out on to the night, as if the vast sky was a screening of your Hollywood masterpiece. Sure locations had been edited, repositioned and relocated, but is that not what a myth is—a collection of the ponderings, the intrigue and the escapism of the mind? And so, you weren’t jamming your fingers away on a typewriter in the Hills—page after page inserted and spitted out from the roller, cigarettes burning between the peace sign of your fingers, coffee staining the back of your teeth and stale breath lingering like notes from Bach in the spotlight of a saloon.
No, you appeared to be nothing I had imagined you to be if I were to witness you in the makings of your craft. And this is where conscious rivals subconscious, where invention tries to outsmart convention and where fable tries to pass itself off as truth.
I saw you, Pygmalion, in the clamoring seaport of Amathus. The seagulls rioted from your window, as the fish were busy chasing their mate through the corals of Cyprus. And you praised the commotion—the way the breeze tangled the spirals of your hair and how your eyes matched the waves that crashed into the sand like a male perpetuating a response from his apathetic lover.
It was so unlike the aggressive and arrogant director of American cinema. Your pen did not bleed for the acceptance of the spectators. You just let your hand make life of the script—the characters dancing to the harmony of your words across the ballroom of the page.
You did not choose to have a companion calling to you from your window or a friend begging you to leave your pen to rest and submit your masculinity to the erotica of the night.
Instead, you gave yourself to the creation of your script; as if you were balancing on the borders of love and lust with the character you had fashioned when pen was put to page.
I watched you last night, as you marveled into madness, beseeching Venus to direct your hand, and from your script come the figure of a lovely character worthy of acceptance from the eyes of spectators!
As the moon became more slender in the night, illuminating the stars less and less, your imagination did just the opposite. Your script rounded itself out and became full with symbolic life. Your themes were illuminated by the context you entwined them in. And the vision you had of your female lead was more beautiful and magnetic than any actress you had envisioned casting in the past.
You could not close your eyes, in fear that you would lose her silhouette in the sketching of your dreams. You did not want to risk parting from her figure that was so chiseled in the forefront of your view. And so you cemented your eyes to the pages of your ongoing script. You could not lose her in between verb and noun or afford to leap irrationally or abruptly from one paragraph to the next in fear of losing her. You needed her. You were devoted. She would be the cause of your masterpiece. She would be the only one given credit in your speech to the Academy.
George, do you not see how you have made reality out of the fiction of your script? You have made characters dance in the dreams of your imagination, but what happens when the music stops?
You have brought one woman to life right from the pages of your script. She is a combination of noun, adjective and verb, yet all she really is is a product of your imagination. She is a protagonist for your film that will packaged, released and sold for consumerism.
Love is not that easy. It is not always told in scenes or guaranteed when a prayer is sent to Venus. When I watched from my window last night, naked of truth and unspoiled of deception, the moon illuminated the lucky star, Me. It let me see into the windows that had always been drawn closed by curtains.
In dream or reality, in myth or truth, last night I saw that under any spell an artist always fabricates his composition. And I, the protagonist of your love story, without fail will always be the creation of your product.
Always illuminating your dreams,
Your Fair Lady
