http://andrushenko.blogspot.com/2007/01/bella-my-bella-oh-bella.html
=D> =D> =D> =D>
I second the applause. Just lovely. =D>
Thanks for the applause, but sigh⌠if only such ecstacy was not so short lived.
That piece came out of me as an explosion of sentiment. I meant and felt every word (I even went to New Jersey and am able now to cook a cajun red snapper). However, of course, there is a however, my bella has denied me. And, it turns out, given a more detached, distant and objective, look, some of the lines âI wrote,â came straight out of Pablo Neruda.
Perhaps, it being the red time of year that it is, where so many of us are sleep-walking dreams of denial, furiously trying to flee from our needs, desires, wants, to find love, some of you too, then, may identify with the following immortal words of Federico GarcĂÂa Lorca. For I donât know of a better poet, or poem, which captures this wild white horse named love than, âYour Childhood in Mention.â
Your Childhood in Mention
by Federico GarcĂÂa Lorca
Yes, your childhood now a legend of fountains.
The train, and the woman who fills the sky.
Your evasive solitude in hotels
and your pure mask of another sign.
It is the seaâs childhood and the silence
where wisdomâs glasses all are shattered.
It is your inert ignorance of where
my torso lay, bound by fire.
Man of Apollo, I gave you loveâs pattern,
the frenzied nightingaleâs lament.
But, pasture of ruins, you kept lean
for brief and indecisive dreams.
Thought of what was confronted, yesterdayâs light,
tokens and traces of chance.
Your restless waist of sand
favors only tracks that donât ascend.
But I must search all corners
for your tepid soul without you which doesnât understand you
with my thwarted Apollonian sorrow
that broke through the mask you wear.
There, lion, there, heavenly fury,
Iâll let you graze on my cheeks;
there, blue horse of my madness.
Pulse of nebula and minute hand,
Iâll search the stones for scorpians
and your childlike motherâs clothes,
midnight lament and ragged cloth
that tore the moon out of the dead manâs brow.
Yes, your childhood now a legend of fountains.
Soul a stranger to my veinsâ emptiness,
Iâll search for you rootless and small.
Eternal love, love, love that never was!
Oh, yes! I love. Love, love! Leave me.
Donât let them gag me, they who seek
the wheat of Saturn through the snow,
who castrate creatures in the sky,
clinic and wilderness of anatomy.
Love, love, love. Childhood of the sea.
Your tepid soul without you which doesnât understand you.
Love, love, a flight of deer
through the endless heart of whiteness.
And your childhood, love, your childhood.
The train, and the woman who fills the sky.
Not you or I, not the wind or the leaves.
Yes, your childhood now a legend of fountains.
a little endnote.
Long have I heard the words, âIt is better to have loved and lost, then to never have loved at all.â Long have I hated those words. Long have I denied those words. No, my friends, I understand those words now with such clarity, with such pure, kindred understanding, that I would be willing to die in defense of them. Even unrequited love, when true, is worth the later years of agony the loss creates.
The odd thing is, love travels at the speed of light, if not faster. And my love was not even unrequited, simply, denied. Too intense.
I wonder why is it that our own happiness terrifies us so much? Is it the consequential fear of losing happiness once attained? So much there is to learn here; so much to discover. Paradoxical creatures are what we are. Is there a greater paradox than love? How we flee from it, when it is right before us, and how we long for it, when it is out of sight. How we deny and affirm, this perpetual state of madness.
Love, love, love. Love is strength. A white armor branded upon the body, whose essence, is courage. Courage, is the strength love grants.
I was thinking of creating a short story of an experience I had just had, (and I might still), but here, I think, is as good a place as any to share.
I went to see Panâs Labyrinth in the Lewis cinema complex, in Times Square, Manhatten, by myself yesterday afternoon, a Wednesday. The theater was almost completly empty, and I sat in the middle of one of the front rows. A girl, around the same age as myself, Iâd estimate between the age of eighteen and twenty-two, sat in the same isle as me, also by herself.
It was as if we were in an unannounced, unexpected, unplanned, secret rendevous, or date. Two random strangers, in the middle of New York City, deciding to see the same film, at the same time, in the same theater, in the same row. It was the kind of romantic stuff you find in novels â Joe falling out of a Cherry tree into Violetâs lap in Toni Morrisonâs Jazz â that kind of fluff. And the film, well, the film, was intense! â for once, I did not know what to make of what I was seeing.
Panâs Labrynith, set in 1944 Spain, is a film that explores binary oppositions between the real and the surreal, the way in which children view the world and the way in which adults view the world, classic vs. romantic conceptions, and much more. A real heavy hitter, full of violence, emotional disturbances, and paradoxical movement of my own personal sentiments. The ending, for instance, left me enraged and at the same time, hopeful â a catharsis, and a revulsion at having that very catharsis. My Reason at odds with my emotions; my own inner childâs view and sentiments, at odds with the adult I was begining to believe I had become.
The film, revolving around a twelve year old girlâs odessy into the adult world, in my opinion, really challenges its viewers to re-examine their own inner dualities between the fantastic and the real, control and faith, fighting for the innocent or succumbing to the selvesâ temptations. This is no coming of age story. Set amdist Francoâs repressive facist regime, the film centers upon innocence in a brutal, violent, and exceedingly cruel world. It raises questions of order, parochial and patriarchal order, and the challenging of it. Moral order, and the challenging of it. Questions regarding time: Manâs attempt to control time, destiny, verses, perhaps the best way to put it is, accepting the natural order of things (ah, nature).
These, however, are too broad and general of a way to attempt to understand the film, not doing it the justice it deserves. But hopefully, they, at the very least, set things into context. For Pan Labyrinth raises many classical philosophical questions; such as: Would you spill the blood of the innocent for a greater âgoodâ? Or personal gain? Would you do right, if no one was watching? Would you challenge order, if it meant your life? and quite a number of other tough questions that Iâm sure Iâve missed in only one viewing.
Films, for me, if I may digress, on the big screen, are still able to induce a childlike purity.
The world outside dissipates into a black fog, and once again, if the film is good enough, there is a chance to dissolve into it. Even at nearly twenty-two years of age, I am still able to suspend disbelief, and allow the film to cast its spell. I guess, for those of you that have seen The Dreamers, I have something akin to them; I too, am still a dreamer. This is a problem, undoubtedly, as films are the greatest lies ever told. And therein lies great danger (for there are so few dreamers left). Perhaps you are one of them? Then you know what I mean.
This film, I believe, made us both believe, the girl in my row, and myself. But only for a few grains of sand.
The Lewis theater complex is located on the sith or seventh floor, overlooking Times Square. When the film was over, the girl, who sat at the edge of the row, the nearest seat to the exit, left as fast an atom splitting. So quick, in fact, that I at once made up my mind as to what I felt about the film, hello time! Goodbye fauns, ferries, princes and princesses. So, slowly and carefully, I put on my hat, put on my coat, wrapped my scarf around my neck with the sophistication of a true New Yorker, tossed my Fossil shoulder-pack over my head, took a look back at the five or six old and middle-aged couples sitting in their seats (still digesting the film), and walked out with the enormous pride that the long strides my legs were pronouncing. Why, on reflection, I walked out of that theater in the same manner, with the same amount of pride, that the filmâs villian, the facsist general, walked with. Then I stumbled over a footstep at the end of the row.
I stood before the giant glass window overlooking the new Windows Vista ads, exclaiming what a âwowâ the software is. But I wasnât looking at the ads, I was searching for the girl. She was nowhere in sight. But Iâve been around long enough to know, that what I was really doing, was providing an unconscious mating call. And I felt her looking, and so I stood in the light, giving her time to decide if she was still attracted to me. I knew all this was occuring, though I did not see her anywhere around.
Now, to get back down to earth, back into the labyrinth of New York city, one has to take four long, single file escalators, down. I had already taken one, and I admit, that I was feeling quite resigned by the whole ordeal. But just as I was about to take the second escalator down, a girl cut me off. And as you might imagine, though I was not entirely astonished, it was her. Now, it was my turn to look.
She was wearing black leather shoes with a small fat heel, almost the kind that you would find on a 1950âs doll. Tight blue jeans wrapped around her slim figure, with embroidered orange waves on her back pockets â as is the current fashion. She wore a green synthetic jacket, and had straight, jet black hair, which was, in all honesty, the blackest hair I have ever seen; although it was not gelled, it shined or glimmered with such radiance for black hair, that I was a bit frightened by its beauty. And then, suddenly, as you might imagine, she suavely turned her head to her right â offering her profile for me to examine. Can you imagine? Well, I must say, she was terrifying. Absolutly terrifying. Her face, was as perfectly structured a face as one can imagine. I even began looking for a flaw, any flaw, just to give me some hope, and there were none. Zero. Her beauty was unquestionable, undeniable, absolutly frightening.
This was the type of girl, who carries around that quiet attraction, that intimidating, arrogant beauty that keeps boys away. I couldnât bare to look anymore. So I looked down, and there it was. The signal. The ultimate ball is now in your court move. The paragon of Sartrean choosing not to choose. The paramount courtship invitation. The cigarette.
Still two stories up, the girl lets hang a white Malborough light from between her right handâs index and middle finger. My brand. The choice, now mine. I had two floors to decide. No more than a minute.
Outside. She went to light her cigarette. I hesitated, stopping in front of the movie theater. I hesitated. She was on my right, with a cynical expression on her face. I glanced at her, then looked to my left for a moment. I hesitated. I looked back, and she was gone. Quickly, I began walking to the right, she couldnât have gone far, I thought. But the crowd was too immense. Just like that, she vanished.
I walked into the Times Square subway station, and stood by an old musician blowing into a silver trumpet, with which I felt my soul cry as I watched the forlorn faces of the New York crowds board and exit the trains for what seemed like an eternity. Twenty minutes. I rode the Seven train back to Queens, wondering why I had made the choice I made. Wondering what it was that made me hesitate. I realized, my heart was too broken to be ready to offer itself up so quickly. I needed time. And in short, I was afraid.
Wow.
Wonderful, TUM. Thanks for sharing all of this with us.
This is beautiful and, I think, accurate:
You are wise beyond your years, my friend, and an absolute pleasure to read.
Hang on to this:
No, donââŹâ˘t give this up. Twenty-two? I recently turned 46. The film still casts its spell. It always will. It must.
Again, thanks for sharing all of this.
Sorry about Bella. But you have learned the truth of ââŹĹIt is better to have loved and lost, then to never have loved at all.ââŹÂ This is no small thing.
And, if nothing else, I would say that learning to cook a cajun red snapper is not at all a bad thing to learn. 
J.
Jerry,
Good to see you around. I was beginning to wonder where you had disappeared to. Iâm eagerly anticipating your next poem, perhaps, even, maybe - common now - short story? I know you have it in you.
Forty-six, that is quite amazing. Your ability to write, and dive deep into the reservoirs of the heart impresses me a great deal more than my own meanderings; for I am young, and still quite willing to embarrass myself. (And poetry, is it not, embarrassing?) I forget which poet said it, but he or she said something that I think is very accurate - at least for me - âA man always stands naked in a poem.â
It is interesting, if I may remark, how in that beautiful week of white madness, where I transcended to a state I thought I had long lost, that place where the world is shimmering like a blue lake on a hot summer day, where songs are pouring through the veins like just-made red wine, where snow slowly floats in the wonderfully chilly air - and you think itâs just for you - and you wonder if at that very moment your beloved is also out for a walk, thinking of you too; that place where you wouldnât dare step on an ant, where every bite of a red snapper you just cooked with your best friend and his beautiful little sister to the sounds of Frank Sinatra and the Beatles ignites the palette with reckless, unyielding passion, and the white, strawberry scented wine, refreshes those taste buds to ignite again and again, well, one would assume that what follows would be a terrible fall back down to the dark valleys of despair, cynicism, and longing, right?
Wrong! Such is not the case at all. âWhen a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.â Well the bellangel has sung, and Iâve refused to dive down! What song has been blasting on my Monsoon speakers this past week? None other than Dionâs âLovers Who Wander.â
Take care, be strong,
all of you,
AndrĂŠ
p.s.
Hereâs a little shot of Bukowski.
itâs all right
small cheap rooms where you walk
down the hall to the
bathroom can seem romantic to
a young writer.
even the rejection slips are
amusing because you are sure that
you are
one of the best.
but while sitting there
looking across the room
at the portable typer
waiting for you on the table
you are really
in a sense
insane
as you wait for
one more night to arrive to sit and
type Immortal Words- but now you
just sit and think about it
on your first afternoon in a strange city.
looking over at the door you
almost
expect a beutiful woman to walk in.
being young
helps get you through
many senseless and terrible
days.
being old
does
too.