Celebrating a new season
mardi, le 01 septembre 2009
Today is marked on the Southern hemispheric seasonal calendar as the first official day of the season that signifies a time of rebirth and renewal, a time to grow and to prosper.
Behind cottage pane windows on a once quaint street in the once bohemian suburb that I live in, lies a sophisticated lounge venue for open-minded people, rich in decadence and full of live.
Today is marked on the calendar of my life as the first official day on which I am taking the soon to be announced steps towards a life season without ownership of the keys to the doors of the sophisticated lounge venue behind which lies as much my heart, my soul, my dignity, my pride, my love, my hate, my joy, my tears, my dreams, oh and of course, the obligatory sums of money as I unreservedly gave to L’homme.
Today I sent out deliberately worded invitations to everybody who had left their names in the guest book of this establishment to join in the celebration of a new season. L’homme’s name is carved indelibly in the guest book of my life. He was not there on the night the doors were first flung open many years ago, nor was he there on the night the doors were shut firmly for the last time.
Today my need for L’homme was desperate. This significant day I most desperately needed to share it with him. I needed to hear his voice, I needed to cling to his body in desperate embrace, like the night he announced his departure. I needed to draw strength from him. Whether it be from his clumsy, incompetent ability to provide comfort or from his inimitable ability to provoke anger.
When opening night drew to a close those many years ago and I lay unseen on a couch, filled with dreams and possibilities of what was to come, I heard L’homme’s voice in the doorway. Resplendent in all his colours. I closed my eyes and drew warped comforts from his presence.
Later I discovered that while I was absorbed in my opening statement, L’homme had found his muse that not only held the promise of uncomplicated sex on a regular basis, but would also mean less time in bars for him in the hope of getting laid. The muse I was not.
When The Princess and I arrived tonight to open a symbolic night of closure, filled with the realities of what had come to pass, I thought I saw L’homme peering from behind sash windows. Resplendent in his same colours. I momentarily closed my eyes and drew warped comforts from his distance.
And I strongly sense that while I was absorbed in my closing statement, L’homme had probably found a muse again that holds the promise of uncomplicated sex on a regular basis. This time she has to be in a bar or maybe somewhere afar or distanced by the deceiving cam of the web, because I see more of his car in front of a bar. The muse I am not.
The once quaint street has fallen prey to neglect, the once bohemian suburb to gratuitous crime.
The once sophisticated lounge venue for open-minded people has fallen prey to neglect, the once decadent life to gratuitous decay.
(This photo was not taken through my artistic lens, but it none the less is a statement of light and of being light.)
Posted by Rispa Frances at 23:55