gabriele > Recent Status Updates

it was a gorgeous fecund thing, mechanical but carnal, veined like a beast' heart

dear god, how i love you in darkness, you small pulsing creature.

mon dieu, comme je t'aime dans le noir, toi ma petite créature qui palpite.

when loneliness shines through your bones like a bare bulb

quand la solitude brille à travers tes os comme une ampoule nue.

little psyche bringing missives from the murmuring dark.

through the wing gauze of jeth

coupée, recousue, défaite

i knew the time had come to yield like a meadow so i did, and you moved through me like the May breeze and i was blessed.

the sea is the perfect dining table
i'm the same as you, i just like the taste

sometimes the kids draws blood and i push through surprised at just how much i am able

a boy looks at me like he has seen land.
i go in for a kiss and tear out his throat.

soon all the water inside me will breach my skin

These things were permanent, they could not be dissolved. They were memories that cannot hurt.

The house was a sepulchre, our fear and suffering lay buried in the ruins. There would be no ressurection. When I thought of Manderley in my waking hours I would not be bitter. I should think of it as it might have been, could I have lived there without fear. I should remember the rose-garden in the summer, and the murmur of the sea coming up to us from the lawns below.

I walked enchanted, and nothing held me back.

There was Manderley, our Manderley, secretive and silent as it had always been, the grey stone shining in the moonlight of my dream, the mullioned windows reflecting the green lawns and the terrace. Time could not wreck the perfect symmetry of those walls, nor the site itself.

A jewel in the hollow of a hand.

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.

cassandra; psychologically complex and dangerously driven

i remembered her, the wide-apart eyes, the straight shoulders, the absolute refusal to bend.

hecuba, who’d been huddled in a corner out of the way, was transformed into a mad dog with slavering jaws and red-rimmed eyes.

i was reminded of Achilles, who’d sacrifies twelve trojan youths, the pride and hope of their families, on Patroclus’ funeral pyre. they were alike in their insatiable desire for revenge.

it wasn’t enough for Cassandra that her father’s body had been cremated with all the honour due to a great king. she’d have thrown pyrrhus on to the fire if she could, used his body to feed the flames.

greek fighters were – are– immensely proud of their long, flowing hair. it’s almost as if they think their strenght resides in it. a man will throw a lot of hair on to his father’s or his brother’s funeral pyre, but it’s rare to cut off the entire lenght. Achilles did it for Patroclus– I can’t, for the moment, think of anybody else.

then rising high above the clash of swords on shields, the pipes began to play Achilles’ lament, the music that had haunted me – driven me to the verge of insanity, almost – in the weeks after his death.

by now hecuba had seen the funeral pyre and was holding her lips together in the way she sometimes did when grief and anger threatened to overwhelm her. i wanted to reach out and touch her, but held back. there was an isolation about her now that no amount of love could breach.

cassandra sat down, tucking her legs underneath her as neatly as a cat.

not nasty, not threatening –or not yet.

when great Achilles was alive, he defied even the gods.

she was incapable of appreciating the full extend of Hecuba’s power. Calchas saw it. There was something in his voice whenever he mentioned Hecuba, a softness that certainly wasn’t there the rest of the time.

i’d never met anybody like Cassandra, that curious mixture of the childlike and chilling.

she fixed her startling yellow eyes on me.