Love
Letter from a Romantic Decadent
["Love Letter from
a Romantic Decadent" was published in Fait Accomplit. Fait Accomplit
is a literary journal published by the University of Alberta Comparative
Literature Association. They publish stories, poems, essays, plays,
photos, and other printable creative works, while leaving the
copyright with the author.]
Hmmm, what to talk
about. [looks about room] Art! Yes, art. Such a topic offers unlimited
conversational possibilities. Even when the conversation is one-sided.
[Aside] Such conversations are often the best! [Returns] I really
do feel strongly about your painting and drawing. Art is a beautiful,
beautiful thing. You see, it represents you. It describes you.
When I look at your work, my main feeling is "Here is something
that came from you. From your mind and hands, from your eyes and
fingers." I do not think, "Hmm, mediocre choice of palette,
inadequate depth, stiff strokes, crass contours, and distasteful
subject matter." I do not think, "This is but an obvious
attempt to mimic the fluidity of Monet, the vitality of Renoir,
and the intoxicating richness of Cézanne, yet it remains
a mere toss-off with the life and passion of Degas' inflexible,
uninteresting geometry, Gauguin's crude and disgusting dark women,
and Van Gogh's silly, nauseating forms."
[Stops. Picks out pretty, youngish girl from front row and addresses
her specifically, conspiratorially,almost whispering.]
Yes, that is me showing off. Do not be impressed. That is about
as much use as I will get out of my art history schooling--No,
check that, I did help a woman to look for an impressionist painting
once at my part time employment in a bookseller's. Anyway, that
is truly how I feel about those six painters. The popularity of
Degas and Van Gogh shall always baffle me. Degas is so, so stiff.
I, personally, want to wait till I am dead to have the pleasure
of rigor mortis, thank you very much. And Van Gogh. . .ugh! [Starts
to meander mentally, gradually forgets he has engaged the girl,
raises voice] The shapes he creates resemble their models only
enough to force upon the viewer the recognition of the model,
and thus the obligation to see how it has been perverted! Spirals,
circles, lines, lines, lines! Too many lines! I am spinning, spinning,
yet I cannot escape those infernal binding lines! But Cézanne,
ah, Cézanne. Blessed painter, what muse nests in your mind
to enable you to compose such rich hues and gentle forms. Lovingly
dancing with each other, beckoning to each other, heartening the
viewer, your objects are delightful creatures peacefully caressing
each other, singing a palpable, sedate love. [Remembers the girl]
Ahem. Forgive me! I shall be forever prey to pontification upon
the more refined creations of humankind.
Still, my love, I am very much intoxicated
with you, and the knowledge that you have something of colour
and shape, of line and tone, to offer the world, that you CREATE,
does nothing to sober me. In fact, I cannot recall anything you
have done to have had a sobering effect on me. [Pauses] Ah yes.
I remember being envious of that one fellow. Lucky chap, that
one. Still, I certainly pulled ahead of him this age-old race,
haven't I? [Gazes upward.] Still, no hard feelings, chap, right?
No, no of course not! May the best man win at the game at which
he is best! Ho ho, cheerio! [Catches himself] Right... right.
Well, in any case, said example is yet inaccurate, for it hardly
cooled my ardour. No, no, it rather spurred me, prodded me into
invitations at which my now inaudible rational mind rolled its
proverbial eyes. Proposals of wetting the tongue at local pubs
and such. Well... there you are. It is quite obvious you are powerless
to temper my addiction. Still you are quite skilled at the art
of calming. Like a dulcimer-bearing soprano with a restless beast,
you are. Not to say that I am like a restless beast. No, no, ha
ha ha! Such a compliment does not become me, evidently. [Crosses
to stage left.]
No, I fall one degree short of clothing
my piano legs. Yes indeed. Unfortunate, really. Still, any and
all beastly echoes lodged in the detritus of my soul are stirred
by your presence. Ironic really, even the presence of thoughts
of you stirs my tongue to such erudite ramblings as my pen has
never scrawled! "What is this?" shrieks said quill,
"Such flourish! Such flare! Such flippant flamboyance! Stop,
oh stop! It is too much! Woe! Woe!" Ha ha ha! [Pauses. Looks
down at floor. Absently twirls beard. Crosses to stage right again.
Starts. Looks up.]
Right. Where was I? Ah, no where important
I'm sure. To go back... you really must paint more. Draw more.
Show off more. And pride more. As flattered as I am that, in your
timidity, you still deemed me safe enough to reveal your hidden
talent, I strongly believe that you should be proud of your creations,
as I am proud of my stringing conventional fingering together
with simplistic melodies in my guitar. Surely anyone could duplicate
my work. But it is MY work. The work of the Man in Black, Johnny
Cash, is also quite simplistic. But it is wonderful. Hoh! Listen
to me compare myself to the Man in Black! What marvelous wonder
of a nincompoop would wander into such a musing! Ha ha! [Pauses,
turns back to audience, walks to sofa chair, turns around again,
sits.]
Speaking of music, I sincerely feel that
silently being with someone of whom one is very fond, and, say,
keeping them warm, while listening to certain musics is a truly
and terribly sublime experience. Poke out my eyes, for I need
them not to swim in the waters of Danna, to bask in the warmth
of Enya, or to soar amongst the stars of Laika! All the while
cloaking another swimmer in radiant feeling, never getting close
enough. Majestic is such a pleasure. Noble and divine, reserved
for the truly blessed. I have approached such levels of euphoria,
but local radio-broadcast providers of music are not able to soar
to the skies of I. No, they soar different skies. Certainly other
blessed individuals soak in the luxurious depths of languor of
which I speak, owing gratitude to the music providers of which
I have spoken. But such waters are indifferent to me. Failing
to work their magic on me, they still lift the corners of my lips
by warming the hearts of those who warm my own heart.
Nevertheless, I invite you to swim my seas,
which bear a striking resemblance to the ideal bath, for you build
the tub in your mind, you set the temperature of the water, and
you invite what spiritual inhabitants you wish, feeling only what
limbs I extend to you as constant reminders of who is sharing
the warmth of the waters you swim. [Looks up. Smiles.] Of the
same family of pleasures is that of viewing films. In the company
of only that one soul who makes you smile incessantly, watchinga
film in near darkness is very, very rich indeed. Of course, the
film plays a secondary role, often but a catalyst. I invite you
to join me in drinking of this wine. Still, alone or not, film
or not, without a thought I would spend any time with you I could.
[Pretends to stretch arms downwards, looks
at watch in unsuccessful attempt to be discreet about checking
the time. Pauses.] One of the many, many, many, myriad things
I thank you for is reminding me how much I love to write. Once
again I have composed something on a level which I have never
trodden previous. Thank you. Thank you. [Gets up, walks to wings
upstage right.] I am but filling dead air until I see you next.
[Exeunt.] |
