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PLEASE NOTE: The Reality TV World Message Boards are filled with desperate
attention-seekers pretending to be one big happy PG/PG13-rated family. Don't
be fooled. Trying to get everyone to agree with you is like herding cats,
but intolerance for other viewpoints is NOT welcome and respect for other
posters IS required at all times. Jump in and play, and you'll soon find out
how easy it is to fit in, but save your drama for your mama. All members are
encouraged to read the
complete guidelines.
As entertainment critic Roger
Ebert once said, "If you disagree with something I write, tell me so, argue
with me, correct me--but don't tell me to shut up. That's not the American way."
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"SSC(CW) Blue Muse"
SherpaDave 8324 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold"
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07-10-01, 11:35 AM (EST)
 
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"SSC(CW) Blue Muse" |
LAST EDITED ON 07-10-01 AT 11:49 AM (EST)I don't usually preface my entries with any remarks, but I'm going to this time, so bear with me. First of all, this is the first new piece I've written in about five years. I just penned it last night, and haven't had a chance to get enough distance from it to determine whether I really like it. I like the story that's in my head a lot; I'm just not sure it made it to the page. I'm certain, in fact, that there are some images that are still rattling around up there wanting to be let out. Secondly, this was a little different for me: usually I enter the writing activity in as close to a zen state of no-thought as possible. I rarely have a story in mind when I begin, letting whatever enters my brain make its way to the paper as unedited as possible. In this case, I had a very specific story I wanted to tell. Also, I really want to thank everyone on these boards for infecting me with the writing disease once again. Now that I've scratched the itch once, I'm sure it'll just get that much itchier. Since I'm shaking out rust, I'd love to hear even negative feedback and/or suggestions for improvement. Finally, for what it's worth, I'd like to dedicate this piece to all of you. Some of you are artists, some muses, some both. I hope all the artists find their muses, and all the muses their artists. Well, my preface is now nearly the length of the piece itself. Hope ya like it. Her spine sent jolts of electricity through his. It was never clear when he had started watching her, or when she knew he was watching, or when he cottoned to her awareness. But it was early, maybe even the first time.
Her showiness, through the window, became more and more suggestive with each passing day. He became addicted to the curve of her hip, the supple lines of her neck, the way her hair fell forward over her ears when she leaned forward. Most of all, though, it was her eyes, eyes of quiet desperation, eyes that had not loved in oh so very, very long.
Her eyes were his deepest addiction, and yet the part of her that held him most at bay. As much as she seemed to want him to exit his house, to join her in her prison, he never did. Rather, he painted. And such wonders he painted. Always, he painted her, but never her eyes. Always, in the place where her eyes should have been, the canvas remained blank, a stark, white, rough incision in the painted face. Never her eyes, for he knew it was not within him to portray the true depths of her sadness, her acceptance of the loss of hope.
And always he displayed the (un)completed paintings to her through his own prison window.
And always, upon seeing his works, the corners of her mouth turned up, allowing a wry smile, the closest to happy ever he saw her.
Until finally, one night, when displaying his latest work, the wry smile was accompanied by a single tear and his body crumpled in upon itself. Some greater force inhabited him then and his hands flew, his eyes blind to their paths. Not knowing what colors his brush chose, he rapidly filled the canvas with the presence of her, the presence of that single tear, the presence, at last, of her eyes.
Dizzy, no really seeing what he'd rendered, he pulled the painting from its easel and held it to the window.
When his eyes regained focus enough to see her clearly, she was gone. He fell back from the window and the painting fell to the floor. Still wet, its colors ran from the canvas, seeking escape from what they had briefly been.
He ran to the stairs and out his front door, gasping for air. And there she was, swallowing oxygen herself.
They came together, then. Finally, after knowing each other only from their prisons, they met.
Gently at first, but increasing in intensity, her fingers clutching then splaying, his eyes held clenched shut against her beauty.
As at last they achieved release, arcs of azure streamed from her fingertips, tears of cobalt rained from his eyes to moisten hers. The air, the earth, their world was painted blue, and he knew his art had left him.
And yet, he saw, underneath his tears, that her eyes now showed a spark of life. 
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aymelek 1220 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Politically Incorrect Guest"
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07-10-01, 01:30 PM (EST)
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1. "RE: SSC(CW) Blue Muse" |
>Most of all, though, it was her eyes, eyes of quiet >desperation, eyes that had not loved in oh so very, very
>long. Slurpee, I can't even begin to tell you how much it meant for me to read this. This kind of hit a nerve for me, as this is how I feel most of the time. *blinks back tears* -Aymelek
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VampKira 4433 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Jerry Springer Show Guest"
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07-11-01, 00:34 AM (EST)
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4. "RE: SSC(CW) Blue Muse" |
This was....gut wrenching Dave. It felt as if you peeked inside of me at times. I don't know what else to say. *hug*
---------------------------------
"Let's spend the night together,
You'll wake up and live forever."
-Jamiroquai
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Du ar min hjälte, Supermänniska 
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