bliss in abstract ( the complete works )

I shall explain that this story will emerge from a gradual vision. For the past few months. I have slowly started discovering the whys and the wherefores. It is the vision of imminence of…of what..?
Perhaps I shall find out later!
Just as I am writing at the same time as I am being read. Only I do not start with the ending that would justify the beginning, just as death appears to comment on life.

How do I know all that is about to follow if it is unfamiliar and something I have never experienced?
I can see what the eyes can not see, I can hear what the ears can not hear, and I can feel what the heart can not feel.

I know about certain things simply by living, and I am never afraid of what I know.
I know the trick.
The trick is to stay alive as long as you live. Anyone, who is alive, knows, even without knowing that he or she knows.
So, dear readers you know more than you imagine. Image creates desire; you will what you imagine, no limits..!!
And since you know more than you think you know, however much you deny it, you are not what you think you are; but what you think, you are!

I do not intend to write anything complicated, although I am obliged to use the words that sustain you. Let no one be mistaken, I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort.
However, I do not know where to start. No, it is not easy to write. It is hard as breaking rocks; sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.
Details dancing inside my head are begging to be unleashed. But I should not worry about details now, details tend to adjust themselves to serve the circumstances if one has conviction, and I do,
Oh, I know what to do; I will pick anything and call that the begining. Once I am face to face with the beginning I will let it take me wherever it may.

So, here I go: At an orphanage, I caught a glimpse of perdition on the face of a very unusual girl…….
Pardon me! I must first tell you that this story, I have decided with an illusion of free will, shall have some thirt-three characters, and obviously, I am one of the more important.
I have no desire to be modish and invent colloquialisms under the guise of originality. So, I shall attempt, contrary to my normal method, to tell you a story with a begining, middle, and a ‘grand finale’ followed by silence, falling rain and a full stop.
However, if instead of a full-stop, the rain was followed by dotted lines that will make it remain open to every kind of speculation on your part, however morbid or pitiless.
It is true that I, too, feel no pity for my main character, the girl from the orphanage; I want my story to be cold and impartial – until the end of course! Unlike you, the reader, I reserve the right to be devastatingly cold, for this is not simply a narrative, but above all, primary life that breathes, breathes, breathes.

What I am writing is something more than mere narrative; it is my duty to relate almost everything about this girl among thousands others like her. It is my duty, however unrewarding, to confront you with her own existence.
For one has a right to shout. So, I am shouting: A simple shout that begs no charity, and what I am writing can be written by another, another writer, of course, but it will have to be a man-for a woman will weep her heart out. Well, hold on just a moment, and before you start labeling me allow me to clarify one thing: Whether women are better than men I can not say, but I can say they are certainly no worse!
Men can build castles with their words, women can not. Women have to make castles with their acts. Women give birth, they make people.

I know that there are many girls like her, abused orphans where many become creatures of the streets; girls who sell their bodies, their only real possession. Sometimes in exchange for cash, and sometimes for a warm meal. There are thousands of girls like this girl, girls who are not even aware of the fact that they are worthless and that nobody cares a damn about their existence. Few of them ever complain and as far as I know they never protest, for there is no one to listen.

But the person who I am about to describe scarcely has a body to sell; nobody desires her, she is a harmless virgin whom nobody needs. It strikes me that I do not need her either…

It is my intention, as I have suggested earlier, to write with ever-greater simplicity. I must express myself simply in order to capture her delicate and shadowy existence.
Therefore, I must confine myself to narrating the unremarkable existence of an orphan girl living in a big hostile city in less than ten pages. Moreover, I intend to do that using a very short story that will end this story; A story I read years ago and has clung like a bat in the attic of my skull.
Not to confuse you, but that second short story I read years ago, which will end this short story, has just reminded me of another story I had read when I was a child.
A story of an old man who was afraid to cross the river whereupon a young man appeared who also wishes to cross to the other side.
The old man seized the opportunity and begged him: Please take me with you, you can carry me on your back, I will even pay you for it, he said.
The young man agreed, and once they were safely across, he said to the old man: We have arrived, you can get down now.
But the old man, who was very sly and keen, replied: Oh no! It is so comfortable up here that I intend to stay put…!!!

Exactly like that, the very short story ending my story does not want to get off my back, it has been stuck to my skin like some thick glue.
That is why I can not say whether my narrative will be…will be what? I can not reveal anything for I still have not worked up enough enthusiasm to write my story. I simply do not know what awaits me, I have a restless character on my hand who escapes me at every turn and expects me to retrieve her.
I forgot to mention that the emphatic ruffle of a military drum accompanies everything I am now writing! The moment I start to tell my story, the noise of the drum will suddenly become plangent tones of a violin played by a musician on the street corner. His face is thin and colorless as if he ad just died. Perhaps he is dead.

I must make it clear that this girl does not know herself apart from the fact that she goes on living aimlessly. She is so simple minded that she often smiles at other people but no one acknowledges her smile for they do not even notice her.
It seems that I am changing my style of writing, being an amateur writer, I please myself with what I write about, and I must write about this girl otherwise I will choke. She points an accusing finger at all of us, and I can only defend my self by writing about her.
I suspect that this lengthy preamble in intended to conceal the poverty of my story, for I am apprehensive. Before this girl entered my life, I was reasonably contented. Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting.
See how apprehensive I have become since putting down few words about this girl!?
The question is: How do I write? No, it is not easy to write I must say again; It is as hard as breaking rocks, sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.

I am afraid of starting to write; I do not even know the girl’s name. It goes without saying that this story drives me to despair, it is too straightforward. Therefore, what I proposed earlier, to recall a very short story I read years ago seems not only easy and within my grasp, but also abstract.
There is little comfort now. In order to write about the girl I must not shave for days. I must acquire dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep; dozing from sheer exhaustion like a manual laborer.

I am awake. I am always awake, even when I am asleep. That is the way I try to stay a jump ahead of myself.
I am doing this to put myself on the same footing as the girl from the orphanage.
As for the girl, she exists in an impersonal limbo, she is guided entirely by her own remote control. For she has reduced herself untouched by what is worst or best.
She merely exists, inhaling and exhaling-inhaling and exhaling.
She has no idea how to cope with life, and she is only vaguely aware of her inner emptiness. If she is able to explain herself, she will well confide: The world stands outside me, and I stand outside myself.

Her eyes are enormous, round, bulging and inquisitive. She has the expression of someone with a broken wing. She had been born with a legacy of misfortune; A creature from nowhere with the expression of someone who apologizes for occupying too much space.

When she was two years old, her parents died of typhoid fever in the backwoods of Louisiana, in that region where the devil is said to have lost his boots.
Adopted later by her aunt in Florida, a self-righteous single old woman, and the girl’s only surviving relative in the whole wide world.
When she was a little girl, her aunt, in order to frighten her, insisted that vampires cast no reflections in the mirror. She reckoned that it might not be such a bad thing for the girl to be a vampire, for the blood would add a touch of pink to her sallow complexion. For she gives the impression of having no blood unless a day might come when she would have to spill it.
She has dropping shoulders like those of a darning woman, she is as light-headed as an idiot, only she is no idiot. She is not even aware that she is unhappy.
The one thing she has is faith, and to her it is not necessary to have faith in anyone or anything, it is enough to have faith.
I guess everyone must get to heaven their own way.
She dearly longed to possess a pet animal. Her aunt, however, decided that an animal in the house would simply mean one more mouth to feed.
The girl resigned herself convinced that she is only fit for breeding flees and that she does not deserve a dog’s affection.
Her aunt would often thrash the girl. Not only because she derived some sensuous pleasure from thrashing her, since she found the idea of sexual intercourse so disgusting that she had never married, but also because she considered it her duty to see that the girl did not finish up like many other girls standing on street corners with a lit cigarette waiting to pick-up a man,
The girl soon forgot the thrashing; if you wait patiently, the pain soon passes. But what pained her more was to be denied her favorite dessert: Strawberries and whipped cream, the only real passion in her life.
Her sly old aunt enjoyed punishing her in this way, and the girl did not dare ask why she was always being punished. One does not have to know everything, and not knowing is now an important factor in her life. Not knowing sounds awful, but it is not so awful for the girl knows lots of things; just as a dog knows how to wag its tail or a beggar how to feel hungry. Things happen and you suddenly know.
Her aunt constant reproaches had taught her to keep her head lowered. Her aunt’s sanctimonious ways, however, had failed to influence her. Once her aunt was dead and the girl was transferred to an orphanage in Miami, the girl never again set a foot inside a church. She has no religious feelings and the divinities made no impression.
Sometimes you have to look reality in the eye and deny it. Life is like that: you press a button and life lights up. Except that the girl does not know which button to press, she is not even aware that she lives in a high-technological society where she is a mere sprocket in the machine.
One thing however worries her: She no longer knows if she had ever had a father or a mother. She had forgotten her origins, and if she thinks hard, she will conclude that she had sprouted from the soils of Louisiana inside a mushroom that soon rotted.
She can speak, of course, but always has very little to say. The deepest feelings always show itself in silence. Not withstanding her aunt’s death, the girl is certain that for her things will be different. She will never die.
Her general appearance is grimy for she rarely washes. During the day, she wears a blouse and a skirt, at night she sleeps in her under wear. Her roommates never have the courage to tell her about her stale body odor; an odor that seems stemmed from sinister origins. And since she seems to be oblivious to the fact, her roommates are afraid of hurting her feelings.
In an effort to fall asleep, she curls up into a ball, receiving and giving out her own scant warm breath. She also sleeps with her mouth wide open since she cannot fall asleep unless she sucks on both her thumb and index fingers.
No one pays attention to her; she is as appetizing as cold coffee. She lacks that elusive quality known as charm.
I am the only one who finds her charming. As the writer, I alone love her. I suffer on her account, and I alone may say to her: What do you ask of me weeping, that I would not give you singing?
The girl does not know that she exists, just as a dog does not know it is a dog. Therefore, she is not aware of her own unhappiness, the thing she desires is to live, and she cannot explain why. Perhaps she feels there is some glory in living. She thinks that a person is obliged to be happy, so she is happy.
What a thin slice of watermelon she is.
Being very superstitious, the girl imagines that shall she ever begin to enjoy life, the spell will break, and she will cease to be a princess and become transformed into an insect. Because, however awful her situation might be, she has no wish to be deprived of herself.
She wants to be herself, and she fears that she will incur some terrible punishment and even sentenced to death if she begins to experience pleasure. So, she shields herself from death by living below par, by consuming her life sparingly so that it shall not come to an abrupt ending.
She loves sounds; sounds are life to her. The night silence makes her feel nervous, it is as if night is about to pronounce some fatal word. At night, cars seldom pass by the orphanage, and when they do, the louder they sound, the more she likes it.
As she sleeps, she often dreams about sex, she whom to all appears asexual. When she finally wakes up, she is overcome by feelings of guilt without being able to explain why. Perhaps, to her, every thing that is pleasurable should be forbidden.
Reality makes little sense to her; she feels much more at ease with the unreality of her daily life. She lives in slow motion and finds consolation in being sad, not desperate, for she is much too modest and simple to indulge in despair.
However, she indulges in certain little pleasures. On rainy nights, hiding from head to foot under a thin cotton purple sheet, she reads by candle light the advertisements that she cuts out of old newspapers and magazines lying around the orphanage. She collects advertisements, and she pastes them into an album. The advertisement she treasures the most is in color; it advertises a face cream for women with complexions so very different from her own sallow skin.
Blinking furiously, she imagines the pleasure of possessing such luxuries. The cream looks so appetizing that if she would find enough money to buy it, never mind her skin, she will eat the cream – She will, in large spoonfuls straight from the jar.
She is in desperate need to put on some flesh, for her body is drier than a sack of toasted bread crumbs. However, this girl sometimes nauseates by the thought of food. This dates from her childhood when she discovered that she had eaten a fried pigeon her aunt once cooked . The thought revolted her forever more.
She often loses her appetite and feels the great hunger thereafter. She is convinced that she had committed a crime; that she had eaten a fried angel, it wings snapping between her teeth.
She believes in angels, and because she believes in them, they exist…!

She has never eaten a meal in a restaurant. She eats her food standing in the cafeteria or at the snack bar on the street corner.
On Sundays, she always wake up early in order to be able to spend more time doing absolutely nothing. The worst moments of all are late on Sunday afternoon when she lapses into anxious meditations, the emptiness of childless and impotent Sundays.
She sighs as she recalls her childhood with nostalgia and believes that she had been happy. In truth, no matter how bad one’s childhood may have been it always sounds enchanted in recollection.
She would rather have her mind opened by wonder than being closed by belief.
The girls has never received gifts from anyone, and it does not worry her for she needs so little. There are those who have. And there those who have not. It is very simple: The girl has not.
Has not what? Simply this: She has not!
(If you get my meaning that is fine, and if you don’t, it is still fine.)
She never complains about anything, she accepts things as they are. She believes that one day she will gain a place in paradise reserved for misfits. She believes in everything that exists and everything non-existent as well. But, she does not know how to embellish reality. For her reality is enormous to grasp, besides, the world reality means nothing to her.

Again, I am afraid to start finishing this story. I ask myself how I am going to cope with so many facts without coming to grief. The figurative suddenly appeals to me; I create human action and tremble. Suddenly I crave the figurative like the painter who only uses abstract colors but wants to prove that he does so deliberately and not because he has no talent for drawing.
In order to draw the girl, I must control my emotions. In order to capture her soul, I must nourish myself frugally on bread and water, cheese and chilled coffee, because it is stifling in this cubby hole where I have locked myself away and where I feel a sudden urge to see the world.
I have also had to give up sex and workout, and tried to avoid all human contact. I should also mention that I read nothing these days for fear that I might adulterate the simplicity of my language with useless refinements.
As I write, the word is my musical instrument, and I must resemble the word. I want my tunes to sound like a charming woman that has just said yes to me, and I want my melodies to play like the sounds of pearls falling on a purple velvet.
I am more actor than writer, for with only one system of punctuation at my disposal. I juggle with intonation and force other’s breathing to accompany my text.
The question is: How do I write? I can verify that I write by eyes and ears; just as I learned English by eyes and ears. I am a man who possesses more money than those who go hungry, and this makes me in some way dishonest. I only lie at the precise hour of lying. But when I write I don’t lie.
What else? Yes, I belong to no social category, marginal as I am. The upper classes consider me a strange creature; the middle classes regard me with suspicion, afraid that I might unsettle them, while the lower classes avoid me.

No, it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel, again I must say.

I have explained those details at great length for having promised too much and offering too little. My story is almost trivial; the trick is to begin suddenly, like plunging naked into an icy ocean and bearing its intense coldness with suicidal courage.
These events belong in the present, and I must finish this awkward story because I am too exhausted to struggle and I am tormented and in state of anguish trying to put the last full stop on this savage act of despair.

I must because my home does not know me anymore; worst yet, my parrot does not know me any more.
I must because my visage is pale with anguish and my lips are blue. My eyes are distorted and squinting since I started this madness of a story.
I must because I am standing still with my mouth open and despair creeping into my soul feeling unequal to face this fear and this growing rage.
I must because the thought of her smallness and tender spirit in the hands of a writer who could bruise and mangle her pixy spirit is tormenting my soul.
I must finish this story now because my exile is more bitter than hers.

I will now begin the end, and share with you that charming and heartbreaking story I read long time ago and has clung to my skin like some thick glue. A short story that will finally end this story. But you must promise to close your eyes after every sentence and visualize this enchanting story accompanied by the plangent tones of violin played by the dying, thin-faced musician on the street corner. And then, may be then I can finally stop the onslaught of facts dancing in my head.
Then, and only then if there is something inside of you that you do not know about, such as unsuspected guts or nobility of the spirit in the face of sorrow and pain, it will come out if you are confronted by the unknown while you are alone without friends, without support, without familiar boundaries. And that’s when you will see yourself and the world for what you really are: Breathtaking Events.
If nothing comes out of you under those circumstances, it is because you have Nothing.

That story by, Lowell A. Siff, was simply titled Love:

Once upon a time…
There was a little girl,
She had parents-naturally-but
They went away when she was nine.
She was not a pretty girl,
And people never told her: Isn’t she darling!
She did not have any relatives.
So, someone from an orphan’s home took her.
There were many children at the orphanage,
And she was alone much of the time,
So, no one paid much attention to the little girl.
She played by herself,
Since the other children thought that she was quite unattractive,
And a bit strange.
She had big eyes,
And would stare at people with curious preoccupation.
She liked to walk around the grounds of the orphanage,
Stopping occasionally,
To pick up a leaf,
Or to watch a bird,
Or just to stop.
Her only friends were..
The beautiful green things,
The warm sunny days,
And her own thoughts.
At times, she did things that were not very nice;
She would spit at another girl who was not pretty either.
And she had no manners at all at the table.
After she stayed at the orphanage for a while,
Everyone disliked her very much,
The other children were making up bad stories about her.
The director of the orphanage actually believed them;
“They must be true”…He said.
Things got so bad,
That the director was trying to think of some way of sending her away,
Possibly to another orphanage.
But, some excuse was needed to do this.
One day…
An attendant found her putting a piece of paper inside an old tree that stood near the gate of the orphanage.
He took it to the director,
The director was pleased,
Since the children were forbidden to communicate with anyone on the outside.
This was the needed excuse.
The director unfolded the paper and read what was written,

…………Whoever finds this, I Love You…!

- the end -

bliss in abstract ( the complete works )


Joined March 2009

  • Artist
  • Artwork Comments 6

Artist's Description

Inspired by Lowell A. Siff’s book: Love
“…………Whoever finds this, I Love You…!”
Inspired by the Music of Dead Can Dance’s The Host of Seraphim

Artwork Comments

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