Project Gutenberg, wonderful in so many ways, and it's a delight everytime I land on the site. I needed a poem for Veri, and Goethe came to mind. A quick swing by Wiki to make sure I was in the right time period (Eliot, sadly, is too recent for using in this story), and to remind myself what it was by Goethe that I had liked so much. (Sorrows of Young Werther. Why do I not own this book yet?? Adding to Kaboodle list now.)
Snagged a book of Goethe's poems from Gutenberg, skimmed through, and printed a handful of the early ones. (I was more interested in something visceral, melancholy, and.. well, angsty. The younger the writer, the more of that sort they write.)
And I suspect that I, like Veri, will have the line "Conceal my affliction, conceal thy delight" running through my head for quite some time. I, also like Veri, have a stronger gut intuition of the lines than actual comprehension, but that only means it can take on a thousand meanings in my thoughts.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
8 - Veri
I should be listening to her. It would pass the time, and if I could lose even a moment of my own time in hers, it would bring more peace than I have had in weeks. But still, I cannot. Her voice is no more than that of a canary, chirping lightly and incomprehensibly. A pretty enough sound, but with no substance whatever. Sighing, I shift my gaze out the window, narrowing my eyes at the rain. While I would find sunlight grating today, this endless rain only adds to my weariness, compounding the dreadful ennui of sameness that pervades my soul.
I think she has stopped speaking. Undoubtedly she is offended by my lack of attention. This is hardly of concern to me. I lift a book bound in soft olive leather from the table beside me, and extend it toward her, without turning my eyes from the window. “Read from this instead. Goethe. Perhaps I will find the words of a poet more engaging.”
I can sense the disgust in her at my complete lack of grace. What does her opinion mean to me? It is terribly presumptuous of her to expect me to care about her silly pride. What has she to be proud of? She is pretty, but not astonishingly so. Her speech only parrots the petty gossip of society, without understanding any of the subtleties inherent in it. She is already past twenty, unmarried, and has few prospects left to her. She will die a sad old maid, an unwanted burden on her family, drab and colorless as bitterness slowly takes her soul.
“I do not care which you read. Poems ought to be read in their original language, for cadence and subtleties are always lost in the translations. But German is such a harsh sound on my ears, I would rather suffer the mis-interpretation of a few words than listen to such guttural noise.”
A whisper of pages, a quiet clearing of throat. “Preservation.” That is a dreadful title, I fear this one will be tedious. But her voice is quiet and gentle, unassuming, and I am grateful that she tries for no misplaced dramatic airs.
“My maiden she proved false to me;
To hate all joys I soon began,
Then to a flowing stream I ran,---
The stream ran past me hastily.
There stood I fix'd, in mute despair;
My head swam round as in a dream;
I well-nigh fell into the stream,
And earth seem'd with me whirling there.”
...I am certain the poem will continue on with the appearance of some lovely maiden, whose beauty absolves all of the narrator's pain in a single kiss. Drivel. But in this opening image, I can lose myself for a moment, letting the girl's voice fade into the sound of a rushing brook. The water flows darkly beneath the interlaced boughs of ancient trees, in some far corner of the black German forests. Rushing over the stony ground, steps stumbling on stones and roots, lungs aching with the pleasant pain of harsh exertion, the bright stinging cut of branch and thorn on torn flesh, that strange delight in physical reflections of an emotional torment... The water hypnotic, tumbling endlessly over stones of blue and indigo and violet, the water clear and cold, churning, swirling seductively around the stones. Falling toward the bank, feet slipping on the steep angle, plunging into that icy water, the sharp cold attacking the flushed heat of tormented emotion, the cold uncaring water surrounding the tiny body of burning passions...
I lie still in cold waters, submerged in the unfeeling chill of nature, the water flowing over my motionless body. Long strands of my pale hair curl into the current, wrapping around the blue stones, moonlit gold and inky indigo. My fingers rest on the smooth bottom, digging past worn stones and burying themselves in the rich mud below. I sink slowly, slowly... my lungs no long strain, my eyes at rest, my heart settles down to sleep...
A shriek, a crow dipping down to the water's surface, grabbing at me with needle-like talons, tearing my flesh, ripping my eyes open to flood with the icy water. “Help! Oh help! Oh he's stopped breathing! Someone come quickly!”
I shove the crow away with all my strength, it caws again as it tumbles from the air, falling to the ground, it splashes into the water and flails a moment, churning up the stream, disturbing its soothing turbulent flow. I strike at the bird, and strike again, until it has stopped moving, and sinks into the water, at last silent.
A gentle knock upon a tree, and now the water is leaving my blinded eyes. “You may enter. Please remove the dead bird, I have no use for it.” The servant says not a word, but lifts the fallen body in his arms, and carries it from the room. I sit back on the divan, soaking into warm velvet, blinking my eyes slowly. The forest has fallen away, and I sigh tiredly. It was a lovely image, while it lasted... yet I fear there are still many more hours remaining to this day. To this day, and the next, and the next... However have we kept ourselves alive for so long? It hardly seems worth the effort.
I lift the book from the floor where it had fallen, and smooth the pages. My eyes drift from one page to the next, moving quickly past the juvenile praises of sweet young maidens – these idylls have their place, but they lack enough substance for my thoughts today.
“O'er my sad, fate I sorrow,
To each dewy morrow,
Veil'd here from man's sight
By the many mistaken,
Unknown and forsaken,
Here I wing my flight!
Compassionate spirit!
Let none ever hear it,---
Conceal my affliction,
Conceal thy delight!”
I let my eyes linger here, reading it over again, lingering on each line, as a lover lingers over a kiss. Conceal my affliction, conceal thy delight... I know not in what context the poet wrote the lines, nor do I feel troubled to fully comprehend his intentions in writing them. I need not bother with the specific meaning, for it is the feeling of the phrases that eases the knot within my breast. The sense of the words, far more than their definition, is what brings me... comfort, I suppose. Veil'd here from man's sight by the many mistaken, unknown and forsaken...
Though I could have any companionship I wished, I should always feel alone and disconnected. I do not know how the others can find such diversion in the games of society, in seduction of mind or body, in fleeting physical sensation. They last but a moment, and pass so soon, and the emptiness only returns the harsher for its momentary absence. It takes such effort, for so little reward, whyever do they bother with it all?
Meres. You are still capable of finding beauty in this old, old world. How is it your eyes retain the energy to see things anew? I am still angry with him, but there is time enough for that anger to fade. In his company, time does not stagnate so much as it does when I am alone. There is something of comfort, if he is only near, for I suppose I have known the closest thing to contentment while in his society. Meres... I suppose he stays away for fear of angering me further, and yet I should have thought to have a letter from him, at the least. Some small note or gift, that I might know he at least acknowledges the slights he has given me.
I rise from the divan, my limbs feeling strange and distant, as though they had remained too long in the cold stream. In one corner of the room is a small writing desk, with delicately watermarked paper laid upon the mahogany surface. I sit, and dip a pen into the ochre jade inkwell.
“Do not remain long from me. I ache for the comfort of your presence. You have wounded me, yet I fear you are my only relief.” I fold the page carefully, then fold a blank page around it. Heating some wax over a candle, I press my intricate seal onto the opening, ensuring none but the addressee shall read it.
A fresh sheet of paper, and a brief list of instructions. I reach for the bellpull hung from the wall, and wait for a servant to appear. I hand him the instructions, and the note addressed to Meres. He bows and retreats soundlessly.
I ought to have paid more heed to Azal's studies of hypnotism and the like – speaking with the servants is tedious enough, and writing is little better. If I could simply think of my desires, and they understood in an instant, without even the sight of them being necessary... but I fear such talent has been lost to us, it has gone so long unpracticed. Perhaps Luce has retained a little of it, but, what games he would drag me through before instructing me! I have no patience for him.
I walk from the empty room, and pass through empty hallways, past more empty rooms. I should have guests brought in - they might provide diversions. But it is so tedious to deal with guests, to have to pay them courtesies and ensure their needs are met. I should have to dine with them, and converse with them, and probably not ignore them as much as I would like to. There must be some solution to this... Azal seems to deal best, I think, with fleeting acquaintances. He picks up a new interest, and keeps it in possession only so long as it amuses him, then he casts it aside lightly – and yet, seems to offend few. I shall have to inquire of him.
I pass down some stairs, through more silent halls, and turn into the aviary for a few moments. The birds are vibrant in a thousand colors, and the sound is a delightfully engaging chaos. Meres brought many of them to me, and arranged their delicately wrought cages just so, for the best effects of color and sound. He brought in plants, trees and large pots of flowers that mimic the rainbow plumage of the birds, cascading in quiet radiance alongside their more vocal companions. I stroll along the path, letting my fingertips brush a feather here, a petal there, my ears relaxing into the impossible cacophony. I catch a phrase here, a cascade of melody there, and the bright flashes of sound echo in my mind as scraps of poetry, not quite comprehended but understood all the same. Then to a flowing stream I ran... my head swam round as in a dream... The birds call to each other in light gossip and dark threat, the birds call to the sky in welcome and despair, in love and desperation... Conceal my affliction, conceal thy delight...
In a half-dream filled with the thousand colors of gemstones in the sunlight, I pass through the room and continue on, the thousand melodies of the birds echoing in my mind. Here I wing my flight. A melancholy tune, mimicking the songs of Araby, sliding into strange half-tones along a rapidly undulating path, regret and loss in this place of cold rain and no sun. And then, a shaft of sunlight, as another speaks of fresh dew on a spring morning, the delight in chill rain after a humid summer day, the sparkling light of a winter moon. I follow their conversations from one image to the next, hearing their songs and the sense of the words, and I see the beauty of silent nature, as it covers the cold earth in robes of exquisite embroidery.
I cast aside my clothing, and slip into a warm bath, the steam rising to cover the tall windows, and hide away the gray of the day. A flute plays from some room beyond, and I catch phrases repeated from the aviary. Veil'd here from man's sight... to each dewy morrow... I close my eyes, and let the water pass over me, the birds carrying on their wings the visions of worlds other than my own, worlds in which I can, for a few scant moments, find escape.
I think she has stopped speaking. Undoubtedly she is offended by my lack of attention. This is hardly of concern to me. I lift a book bound in soft olive leather from the table beside me, and extend it toward her, without turning my eyes from the window. “Read from this instead. Goethe. Perhaps I will find the words of a poet more engaging.”
I can sense the disgust in her at my complete lack of grace. What does her opinion mean to me? It is terribly presumptuous of her to expect me to care about her silly pride. What has she to be proud of? She is pretty, but not astonishingly so. Her speech only parrots the petty gossip of society, without understanding any of the subtleties inherent in it. She is already past twenty, unmarried, and has few prospects left to her. She will die a sad old maid, an unwanted burden on her family, drab and colorless as bitterness slowly takes her soul.
“I do not care which you read. Poems ought to be read in their original language, for cadence and subtleties are always lost in the translations. But German is such a harsh sound on my ears, I would rather suffer the mis-interpretation of a few words than listen to such guttural noise.”
A whisper of pages, a quiet clearing of throat. “Preservation.” That is a dreadful title, I fear this one will be tedious. But her voice is quiet and gentle, unassuming, and I am grateful that she tries for no misplaced dramatic airs.
“My maiden she proved false to me;
To hate all joys I soon began,
Then to a flowing stream I ran,---
The stream ran past me hastily.
There stood I fix'd, in mute despair;
My head swam round as in a dream;
I well-nigh fell into the stream,
And earth seem'd with me whirling there.”
...I am certain the poem will continue on with the appearance of some lovely maiden, whose beauty absolves all of the narrator's pain in a single kiss. Drivel. But in this opening image, I can lose myself for a moment, letting the girl's voice fade into the sound of a rushing brook. The water flows darkly beneath the interlaced boughs of ancient trees, in some far corner of the black German forests. Rushing over the stony ground, steps stumbling on stones and roots, lungs aching with the pleasant pain of harsh exertion, the bright stinging cut of branch and thorn on torn flesh, that strange delight in physical reflections of an emotional torment... The water hypnotic, tumbling endlessly over stones of blue and indigo and violet, the water clear and cold, churning, swirling seductively around the stones. Falling toward the bank, feet slipping on the steep angle, plunging into that icy water, the sharp cold attacking the flushed heat of tormented emotion, the cold uncaring water surrounding the tiny body of burning passions...
I lie still in cold waters, submerged in the unfeeling chill of nature, the water flowing over my motionless body. Long strands of my pale hair curl into the current, wrapping around the blue stones, moonlit gold and inky indigo. My fingers rest on the smooth bottom, digging past worn stones and burying themselves in the rich mud below. I sink slowly, slowly... my lungs no long strain, my eyes at rest, my heart settles down to sleep...
A shriek, a crow dipping down to the water's surface, grabbing at me with needle-like talons, tearing my flesh, ripping my eyes open to flood with the icy water. “Help! Oh help! Oh he's stopped breathing! Someone come quickly!”
I shove the crow away with all my strength, it caws again as it tumbles from the air, falling to the ground, it splashes into the water and flails a moment, churning up the stream, disturbing its soothing turbulent flow. I strike at the bird, and strike again, until it has stopped moving, and sinks into the water, at last silent.
A gentle knock upon a tree, and now the water is leaving my blinded eyes. “You may enter. Please remove the dead bird, I have no use for it.” The servant says not a word, but lifts the fallen body in his arms, and carries it from the room. I sit back on the divan, soaking into warm velvet, blinking my eyes slowly. The forest has fallen away, and I sigh tiredly. It was a lovely image, while it lasted... yet I fear there are still many more hours remaining to this day. To this day, and the next, and the next... However have we kept ourselves alive for so long? It hardly seems worth the effort.
I lift the book from the floor where it had fallen, and smooth the pages. My eyes drift from one page to the next, moving quickly past the juvenile praises of sweet young maidens – these idylls have their place, but they lack enough substance for my thoughts today.
“O'er my sad, fate I sorrow,
To each dewy morrow,
Veil'd here from man's sight
By the many mistaken,
Unknown and forsaken,
Here I wing my flight!
Compassionate spirit!
Let none ever hear it,---
Conceal my affliction,
Conceal thy delight!”
I let my eyes linger here, reading it over again, lingering on each line, as a lover lingers over a kiss. Conceal my affliction, conceal thy delight... I know not in what context the poet wrote the lines, nor do I feel troubled to fully comprehend his intentions in writing them. I need not bother with the specific meaning, for it is the feeling of the phrases that eases the knot within my breast. The sense of the words, far more than their definition, is what brings me... comfort, I suppose. Veil'd here from man's sight by the many mistaken, unknown and forsaken...
Though I could have any companionship I wished, I should always feel alone and disconnected. I do not know how the others can find such diversion in the games of society, in seduction of mind or body, in fleeting physical sensation. They last but a moment, and pass so soon, and the emptiness only returns the harsher for its momentary absence. It takes such effort, for so little reward, whyever do they bother with it all?
Meres. You are still capable of finding beauty in this old, old world. How is it your eyes retain the energy to see things anew? I am still angry with him, but there is time enough for that anger to fade. In his company, time does not stagnate so much as it does when I am alone. There is something of comfort, if he is only near, for I suppose I have known the closest thing to contentment while in his society. Meres... I suppose he stays away for fear of angering me further, and yet I should have thought to have a letter from him, at the least. Some small note or gift, that I might know he at least acknowledges the slights he has given me.
I rise from the divan, my limbs feeling strange and distant, as though they had remained too long in the cold stream. In one corner of the room is a small writing desk, with delicately watermarked paper laid upon the mahogany surface. I sit, and dip a pen into the ochre jade inkwell.
“Do not remain long from me. I ache for the comfort of your presence. You have wounded me, yet I fear you are my only relief.” I fold the page carefully, then fold a blank page around it. Heating some wax over a candle, I press my intricate seal onto the opening, ensuring none but the addressee shall read it.
A fresh sheet of paper, and a brief list of instructions. I reach for the bellpull hung from the wall, and wait for a servant to appear. I hand him the instructions, and the note addressed to Meres. He bows and retreats soundlessly.
I ought to have paid more heed to Azal's studies of hypnotism and the like – speaking with the servants is tedious enough, and writing is little better. If I could simply think of my desires, and they understood in an instant, without even the sight of them being necessary... but I fear such talent has been lost to us, it has gone so long unpracticed. Perhaps Luce has retained a little of it, but, what games he would drag me through before instructing me! I have no patience for him.
I walk from the empty room, and pass through empty hallways, past more empty rooms. I should have guests brought in - they might provide diversions. But it is so tedious to deal with guests, to have to pay them courtesies and ensure their needs are met. I should have to dine with them, and converse with them, and probably not ignore them as much as I would like to. There must be some solution to this... Azal seems to deal best, I think, with fleeting acquaintances. He picks up a new interest, and keeps it in possession only so long as it amuses him, then he casts it aside lightly – and yet, seems to offend few. I shall have to inquire of him.
I pass down some stairs, through more silent halls, and turn into the aviary for a few moments. The birds are vibrant in a thousand colors, and the sound is a delightfully engaging chaos. Meres brought many of them to me, and arranged their delicately wrought cages just so, for the best effects of color and sound. He brought in plants, trees and large pots of flowers that mimic the rainbow plumage of the birds, cascading in quiet radiance alongside their more vocal companions. I stroll along the path, letting my fingertips brush a feather here, a petal there, my ears relaxing into the impossible cacophony. I catch a phrase here, a cascade of melody there, and the bright flashes of sound echo in my mind as scraps of poetry, not quite comprehended but understood all the same. Then to a flowing stream I ran... my head swam round as in a dream... The birds call to each other in light gossip and dark threat, the birds call to the sky in welcome and despair, in love and desperation... Conceal my affliction, conceal thy delight...
In a half-dream filled with the thousand colors of gemstones in the sunlight, I pass through the room and continue on, the thousand melodies of the birds echoing in my mind. Here I wing my flight. A melancholy tune, mimicking the songs of Araby, sliding into strange half-tones along a rapidly undulating path, regret and loss in this place of cold rain and no sun. And then, a shaft of sunlight, as another speaks of fresh dew on a spring morning, the delight in chill rain after a humid summer day, the sparkling light of a winter moon. I follow their conversations from one image to the next, hearing their songs and the sense of the words, and I see the beauty of silent nature, as it covers the cold earth in robes of exquisite embroidery.
I cast aside my clothing, and slip into a warm bath, the steam rising to cover the tall windows, and hide away the gray of the day. A flute plays from some room beyond, and I catch phrases repeated from the aviary. Veil'd here from man's sight... to each dewy morrow... I close my eyes, and let the water pass over me, the birds carrying on their wings the visions of worlds other than my own, worlds in which I can, for a few scant moments, find escape.
Notes
Back-dated the previous post - I worked a day shift, and when I got home, a fabulous dinner needed to be made. Pasta, homemade meatballs cooked in a yummy sauce, italian bread with dipping oil, some badly-smelling but yummy-tasting cheese...
After dinner, two episodes of Farscape, and some sips of a little bottle of Irish Whiskey (which was surprisingly yummy), the boy and I were too sleepy. But I needed to write. I was cranky and had no idea what to write, and we were both tired, but I wanted to get something down.
Tom was doing a bit of coding (his November project is learning to code for the Droid phone - he wants to make a Sabacc game, to be played on the R2-D2 Droid). But I interrupted his audible conversation with the computer screen to plead for an idea.
He told me I should have one person get stuck in the mud, and then two others fight over who has to stay with the whiny little bitch while the other goes for help.
While this made me laugh, it also struck a chord. That could actually work. I'd been flipping through my binder of notes, and stopped on the page listing the seven sins and their Latin names. Sloth. I could work with that.
But as I started in writing, I decided Claude would injure his hand, and be unable to paint. Meres would neglect to attend to him. And then I realized what I had written earlier - that Meres was using Claude's art as a substitution for his own. If Claude was hurt, that plan wouldn't work anymore. So, on seeing Claude hurt, Meres can just wander off to go do his own painting - and thus, not give a crap about Claude any more that day. (Not that Phistos need an excuse to be self-centered. It's basically the core of their nature.)
A few minutes later, I suddenly realized something, and actually gasped aloud and clutched at my heart, because I realized Claude's little painting should be destroyed. And it hurt me to think of doing it. My chest ached at the thought. Tom, I think, looked at me like I was crazy, but this was not something I needed his input on - if it hurt me that much, then it was a strong enough image that I had to put it in there. damnit.
I pounded through until I got to the end of the section, and though it fell short of my quota yesterday, it was something, and I hadn't the energy for more. I'm not working today, so between massive stacks of dishwashing, baking goodies for a baby shower, and going to said baby shower, I am going to get caught up.
Really.
As soon as I figure out wtfh I'm writing next.
After dinner, two episodes of Farscape, and some sips of a little bottle of Irish Whiskey (which was surprisingly yummy), the boy and I were too sleepy. But I needed to write. I was cranky and had no idea what to write, and we were both tired, but I wanted to get something down.
Tom was doing a bit of coding (his November project is learning to code for the Droid phone - he wants to make a Sabacc game, to be played on the R2-D2 Droid). But I interrupted his audible conversation with the computer screen to plead for an idea.
He told me I should have one person get stuck in the mud, and then two others fight over who has to stay with the whiny little bitch while the other goes for help.
While this made me laugh, it also struck a chord. That could actually work. I'd been flipping through my binder of notes, and stopped on the page listing the seven sins and their Latin names. Sloth. I could work with that.
But as I started in writing, I decided Claude would injure his hand, and be unable to paint. Meres would neglect to attend to him. And then I realized what I had written earlier - that Meres was using Claude's art as a substitution for his own. If Claude was hurt, that plan wouldn't work anymore. So, on seeing Claude hurt, Meres can just wander off to go do his own painting - and thus, not give a crap about Claude any more that day. (Not that Phistos need an excuse to be self-centered. It's basically the core of their nature.)
A few minutes later, I suddenly realized something, and actually gasped aloud and clutched at my heart, because I realized Claude's little painting should be destroyed. And it hurt me to think of doing it. My chest ached at the thought. Tom, I think, looked at me like I was crazy, but this was not something I needed his input on - if it hurt me that much, then it was a strong enough image that I had to put it in there. damnit.
I pounded through until I got to the end of the section, and though it fell short of my quota yesterday, it was something, and I hadn't the energy for more. I'm not working today, so between massive stacks of dishwashing, baking goodies for a baby shower, and going to said baby shower, I am going to get caught up.
Really.
As soon as I figure out wtfh I'm writing next.
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