For Ginger...

Friday, October 27, 2006

"Happiness is always a by-product. It is probably a matter of temperament, and for anything I know it may be glandular. But it is not something that can be demanded from life, and if you are not happy you had better stop worrying about it and see what treasures you can pluck from your own brand of unhappiness."
- Robertson Davies

Even now I can see her. Faint smile playing across her lips, sunlight shining in her eyes, her form standing against the scenery like the subject of a Rembrandt. I can hear her breath, hear her laugh, her the fabric of her dress as she moves across the room, leaving behind the smell of lilac and jasmine in the air as she passes without notice of the effect she has. it's intoxicating. I can imagine the softness of her hair, of her skin, of her voice.

she reminds me of Chopin, of some forgotten nocturne playing slowly and rhythmically through my psyche. she's my Ginger Rogers, moving slowly, yet deliberately to the music that only I can hear, waltzing with a deftness and finesse that comes from a lifetime practice. every step seemingly choreographed to make it appear effortless, like a ballerina in one of Tchaikovsky's great compositions. and she's totally unaware.

she's my Billie Holiday, with a lyrical quality in the spoken word of her voice that makes verse out each sentence. those notes winding their way around her head like morning glory vines blossoming in April, carrying her words through the air like a swan song across a lake, lighting the drabness of everyone around, and the value of it is completely lost on her.

she's my Valkyrie, carrying me across worlds from the torrid battlefields to the paradise of Valhalla, with the commanding strength and presence of Joan of Arc, unflinchingly storming the walls of Orleans from the within the same room we stand in. the strength to hold herself upright with all the virtue and poise of a goddess and maintain the humanity of Florence Nightingale. she bends me with the slightest touch of her hand, and is oblivious.

which is sadder, to live your life in darkness, without the knowledge of what you want or who you want, or to have seen the promised land only to be turned back at the river Jordan, never having tasted it's milk and honey? is there anything so tragic as unrequited love, as unreciprocated affection, to see what you want and know it can never be attained?

through all this, she is unaware, and while, in my minds eye i see her, she has never seen me. all one can do is wait until those paths we walk, now parrallel, one day intersect.

i don't know her name, have never heard the voice that so inspires me, never seen the face that so entrances me, but she still calls me like a syrene on the shore, and, one day, i will come to her.

have a nice day.