no matter how - and the whitest of orchids is ashen cloud against my glow -
no matter how warm, how bright, how pure -
i have failed. one always fails. i have asked, just once, just this time, for a different law: that i might be allowed to cross the bridge. that the radiance of what i am, the entire constellation of what is called, i suppose, "myself", could reach you at the other end, fill you like a beam of light. you, shattered with recognition, my orchid thrusting its roots into you, growing out of your mouth. the only possible path for what is, and cannot be any other way.
no. the truth of a person cannot be lifted, as one would lift a piece of luggage before a hasty departure, cannot be transferred and placed into another, to grow there, quietly, like a seed. one flower, and only one, carried within, inscribed into itself, from the beginning. the truth of the seed cannot be broken, cannot be warped into anything else. yet no matter how i hurry to reach your arms, the one who looks at me from there, invented by you, grins back, her face an ugly, pitiful mask.
there is nothing more treacherous than bridges. they give one hope, one ardently takes one step after another only to find oneself, at some point, suspended above the abyss and the other waving welcome, just one more step and i will catch you, i will hold you, beloved, unaware that the defilement is already at work, in each word, in each gesture, that the fall into time has already begun.
no matter how warm, how bright, how pure -
i have failed. one always fails. i have asked, just once, just this time, for a different law: that i might be allowed to cross the bridge. that the radiance of what i am, the entire constellation of what is called, i suppose, "myself", could reach you at the other end, fill you like a beam of light. you, shattered with recognition, my orchid thrusting its roots into you, growing out of your mouth. the only possible path for what is, and cannot be any other way.
no. the truth of a person cannot be lifted, as one would lift a piece of luggage before a hasty departure, cannot be transferred and placed into another, to grow there, quietly, like a seed. one flower, and only one, carried within, inscribed into itself, from the beginning. the truth of the seed cannot be broken, cannot be warped into anything else. yet no matter how i hurry to reach your arms, the one who looks at me from there, invented by you, grins back, her face an ugly, pitiful mask.
there is nothing more treacherous than bridges. they give one hope, one ardently takes one step after another only to find oneself, at some point, suspended above the abyss and the other waving welcome, just one more step and i will catch you, i will hold you, beloved, unaware that the defilement is already at work, in each word, in each gesture, that the fall into time has already begun.
"just one more step and i will catch you, i will hold you, beloved, unaware that the defilement is already at work, in each word, in each gesture, that the fall into time has already begun."
ReplyDeletehaunting, true
and yet i resist it,
demand it to be otherwise.
damn and damn and damn these arms.
damn and damn and damn these words.
so instead we break apart like flower petals falling.
so instead we sit at a table as ordinary as elbows - in love - and breaking apart into light.
(you are beautiful. this word is as ridiculous as it sounds:)
xo
erin
Phew, another level.
ReplyDeleteThis is hauntingly, breathtakingly beautiful, Roxana. Only at the end of the text does one catch one's breath again (and it is only *one's* breath).
ReplyDeleteoh, and the picture is stunningly beautiful as well...
ReplyDeletethere will be always bridges to cross
ReplyDeletefor this is what bridges are made for
to carry us over life’s abyss, and into
the hanging gardens of Semiramis
in a leap of fate, of course. i smile . . .
the only possible path for what is, and
cannot be any other way.
tanya
" yet no matter how i hurry to reach your arms, the one who looks at me from there, invented by you, grins back, her face an ugly, pitiful mask."
ReplyDeleteI am reminded of R.D. Laing's work, The Politics of Experience. When the two of us talk, there are four of us there...you can't really talk to another person, you can only talk to your impression of who the other is. In a while, we may meet though, if we keep trying.
I read about an orchid found in Australia that never knows the sun. It lives underground. Ants, and other burrowing insects bring pollen to this orchid from the world up above, and so it thrives and propagates in the darkness. Now, there's an idea! : )
hello my beautiful friend, this is another powerful work, yes another masterpeice- the images and the text work beautifully together.and your powerful words that depict strongly the idea of taking down the wall to the other so that the other person can feel your breath on their raw exposed nakedness and the ultimate despair and even a strong sense to control to acheive this-"my orchid thrusting its roots into you growing out of your mouth, the only possible path for what is and cannot be any other way."
ReplyDeleteI probably respond best to this post by not analysing ha ha but with a poetical line in an attempt to reach the self which may be as distant as the other-
the waning self moon that has failed to make the arrangement but basks in the influorescence of the constellations, something as perfect as an orchid on show, and the borrowed light of saturn's moon.
sending you snow white kisses that will melt too quickly.
and may you enjoy the light of the season.
Roxana:
ReplyDeleteLas fotos de "and the whitest of orchids" mataron al gato. A mí me emocionaron muchísimo. El puente es una criatura cultural y en las historias del puente siempre sucede algo que altera el orden cotidiano o esperable, y el curso de los hechos muestra con humor, con delicada belleza, hasta dónde podemos llegar sus personajes en nuestra perversión, en nuestros juegos, en nuestros deseos. A veces nos sorprende la precisión con que el autor representa estados espirituales, palabras y jergas que son también modos de sentir y pensar.
Pero la lluvia no tiene máscara.
Tus manos no tienen máscara.
Tus ojos tampoco.
"...that the fall into time has already begun." How beautifully said. And i imagine that fateful fall as the timorous trajectory of a white feather (as if color could alter a trajectory!).
ReplyDeleteThis is the abyss of Speak Memory...
yet it's all over when one reaches the end of the bridge...
ReplyDeleteto my amazement my orchids are still flowering :)
The depth of emotion, expression and imagery is so powerfully intense, almost scary, but in a good way. A thrilling, body-rush way. You are fearless! It's as if a bride, a marriage (I think of Blake's Marriage of Heaven and Hell), a bonding, a communion, a brave sacrifice. I agree with merc, another level entirely. And the camera angle of each image enhances the statement further. I love the places you take me.
ReplyDeletePS: Thank you for the tenderness of thought. Too much "reality" and not enough space in which to drift...
I'm saying, take the colours, for instance.
ReplyDeleteAn old wood-block book says something like
"Only the Right Colours, such as white & yellow, are valued,"
that becomes the golden rule,
they never get out of those categories.
Now this just won't do.
When everything else is changing.
[It] can't follow
that "White is for paper, yellow for straw"
When, Roxana, will you remember the colours again? Why is white the colour of mourning in your hands?
I take one more breath
ReplyDeleteand let your words fill my lungs.
Just stopped in to wish you a Wonderful Holiday. Though to me, you exist in a rarefied, magical realm throughout the entire year. I've learned so much from you. I've been stirred deeply, been in awe, and reveled in this sometimes fierce, sometimes subtle beauty. Oh, I do hope you get your snow! Which is only me looking forward to more winter images! Merry Christmas dear Roxana!
ReplyDeleteHalleluyah Halleluyah Halleluyah
ReplyDeletesending you the dream godess christmas coloured snow flake kisses and a Giant hug in brilliant magical christmas light for the little princess we have met on the bridge.
Merry Christmas my beautiful beautiful Roxana.
and also I think it is ludicrous to question why a master artist uses a particular colour. It is like saying why do you reach for a glass of water when you are thirsty.
ReplyDeletei thank you all.
ReplyDeletedeeply. DEEPLY.
春の夜の夢の浮き橋とだえして峰に別るる横雲の空
ReplyDelete定家
A spring night
The floating bridge of dreams
Has come to an end
And broken away from the mountain peak.
Cloud bank of the sky.
such a generic response!
ReplyDeletei feel short changed..i want my money back!
anonymous,
ReplyDeletehow do you know that? it is the poem (and the book) which gives the title to this blog. such a long time has passed since then... it feels ghostly to remember this, now...
poate ca asa este ,si bratele albe se intind in intampinarea acelor petale doar ca sa se prelungeasca;si poate sa ninga,iar podul sa fie intunecat,inconjurat,fara sfarsit in privire.si poate ca exista adevaruri atat de albe,incat sunt de ajuns.poate ca frumusetea,singura,poate purta pe brate toata aceasta intindere in gol;eu cred ca ea va rezista ,cu pieptul ei plin de flori
ReplyDeleteIt wasn't hard to know because in your art there is much of both Japan and the Tale of Genji. There is also this mysterious category "M", and I wonder if your bridge is especially precarious if you've personified your beloved, or worse if a beloved "posed" at the end of the bridge for you but then refused to be "shattered", recognized, named. Your search for "truth", or "self" or "no-self" or "enlightenment" or "ecstasy" is treacherous, indeed, if confused or entwined with a real man. I just sense this and hope it is not so for you. Or perhaps this piece represents the end of this one particular bridge, or dream -- but not the whole.
ReplyDelete