I've heard from Sasha. My paltry attempts to mythologize cannot withstand life's temporal mutations. There is only time, the constant, uneven flow, the shallows and pools, the lazy floating and the roar of rapids. Here is a photo of Sasha and Kate taken by a friend, Egor. It speaks of what is, what is yet to come. The recognition, the denial, the unhappy acceptance, the stoic gaze, the gently grasping hand. Katerina's sad, soft eyes dead center, Sasha's figure forced to the margin. There is the blurred gray of the background, the distant, fading light. One lingering moment, captured, rich with meaning and emotion, bracketed, framed, gone. From Sasha:
"I give for her freedom because I love her...
She need a freedom... She must to think...
Ballad of Kate and Sasha never end...
I know she loves me, but she need a time..."
It is what we all need--Love, Freedom, Time.
We look for the warm yellow light of morning, the deep blue that surrounds us at dusk. But the gray light falls, those tinny, hollow days of nothingness. Still, we hold on and on and on, waiting heroically for skies to clear, for the sweet sound of songbirds, the call of the hoot owl, the nightingale's cry. What book, what drink, what art can replace love?
I'll wait for the reprise, the good news, the healing, the scar. What love without scars?
What you've written here is so sensitively captured that it made my eyes smart. I can't say any more than that; for some reason my tongue's tied in knots today.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful post.
You are a poet, damn you.
ReplyDeleteSo is Sasha.
So is Kate.
All poetry is a scar.
Love is the knife and the cauterizing iron.
I'm going to go write a grocery list now and abstain from any other writing as a penance.
I think I hate you.
Damn poet.
It is easy to write about others when you are writing about yourself.
ReplyDelete