Thinking more from the perspective of my character Crystal today. The spurned lover of main character dude Adolai Shungyosai. The regretted first lost love of the guy who becomes a cult leader. His ‘rosebud’, to take it too far. Her scorning and the aftermath make up the main conflict of the novel I’m writing, ‘The Skein’.
So I wrote some more about a scene of her on her own after the fact today.
There’s a boldness I carry around in me, like a potent silly little weapon in an unassuming handbag.
People don’t see it coming. Most of the time.
But today I’m not feeling it. Most of the time the loneliness is bearable.
Mostly, I carry it, because the causistical argument it gives at me, is _, discernable from the core.
But the time comes when one regrets one’s loneliness. Do you see?
It’s a shift in tense.
Anger, proven useless.
Vengeance, all but impossible.
My crystal palace, unmelted, when I shift this way, it is a thrust to destroy it.
Fetch the bolt cutters, Jeeves.
My cat stands on my lap, distracted. Looking out the window as I sit in my favorite chair by it. And my kitty’s weight is a soft relief. His little padded feet push into me with a reassuring kindness of reliance. Trust, his belief and comfort stepping all over me. How I love her for it.
A fly appears in the screen of the window. And the cat springs into action. Now I, distracted from my loneliness, shift to watch the cat spring and explode in wild frantic action to chase down its prey. I scrolled past a headline just the other day, how our unassuming little housepets are nature’s perfect little killing machines.
She spins and swats at the intruder, and I seem to revel in slow motion at her prowess. But it never occurs to me if the dance might end.
All too soon, the cat is back up against the screen. And the fly, unassuming in its own right, has tried to find refreshment against the familiar. Either trying to break through the mesh from which it spried, like a maggot miraculously generating from rotten meat, from nothing, as medievalist philosophers would have had biological creation of pests and small instantiations of natures perfect killers. Germs and houseflies around the bodies of the dead. The fly is headed out of the world again, as quickly as it come. For my cat has it under its paw, on the inner windowsill between the screen and where the window clamps down.
“Did you catch it? You little monster, did you really catch it?” I pipe up, amazed.
What a marvelous creature we have here.
And then the cat has it in its little paw, it must be impaled on a little claw for its too clumsy to grasp in its unassuming animal way, surely. Another miracle, going out of sight now. And the hand comes up to the cat’s mouth, and the fly is gone.
“Did you eat it? For real, you little monster? Freeak! Oh my god! That’s so disgusting! Eeeeech.”
And the cat shows no sign of satisfaction. Or accomplishment. The breeze remains in constant. The killer comes back to stand upon my chest.
I, laughing until I stop and momentary, stopping realize.
Epiphany brings that shuddering delight, of revelatory news, but a flash that one has been wrong. The author of the play I was watching had revealed in a crash that I identified with the wrong character this whole time. The only mistake the tragic victim made, the chorus whispers, was weariness, was wanting to land. This the fatal flaw. Suddenly the lightness descends upon me, and I feel unburdened. Floating, and delicate like a friendless mob.
Reeling in a graspless identity, the gargoyle on my chest showing me a dreaming gothic horror painting, an elegant frivolous lady thrown back on the feinting sofa, unconscious in a nightmare. How luscious the view.
I can’t help but…