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What if . . .? That question lies at the heart of my writing and my life. Things are not always as they seem, and there is so much we don't yet know. ​I write to explore possibilities and to invite you between the worlds, beyond the bounds of time . . . ​ In both my fiction and non fiction writing, I explore possibility. Whether creating alternative worlds or exploring creative alternatives for this world in which we live, I am inspired by magic, mystery, and the spirit that is indwelling in all things. My website: http://kaalii.wix.com/soulstory

Monday 17 June 2013

Hibiscus and other ephemera . . .


The woman moved, slow and languid like a python in the sun. Warm air whispered against her back, a lover’s breath  reminding her of long, lapis-lazuli nights of delight, pleasures given and received.

She sighed, her own breath moving in time with her heartbeat, the steady rhythm measuring her moments in time. Her eyes moved with a seagull soaring on an updraft. I have been like that, she thought; carried in the belly of the wind to seek life, to find love . . .  

"Where is love now?" she whispered.

Does it live in the heart? Red centre of life, beating its own incessant tattoo. Incessant, that is, until it stops, she reminded herself. Dear heart, pumping ruby-red blood to all the cells of the body, and the spaces between the cells. So many spaces . . .
                                                                              . . .the space between the first hello and the last goodbye. The space between midnight and dawn in a night filled with pain. Or pleasure. The space between Earth and the blue, blue sky above. The space between sunrise and sunset on a long, turquoise day of leisure.

How many heartbeats are there in a lifetime? Someone had probably worked it out, but she had no real desire to know. Some things, she believed, should stay a mystery. 

"Where is love?" she asked again.

Does it live in the belly? Round, soft place, rising and falling with the breath. Full, rich place, etched with life-lines and the signs of long, larghetto lunches.

"Where is love?"

Does it live lower still, in the soft folds of mysterious sex, the exquisite places of pleasure? Petals of flesh, flower of a thousand names, ripe with colour and fragrance, nectar and ambrosia. Lips above, lips below; perfect harmony in the shape of a woman,

"Where is love?" the woman asked one last time.

Does it live out there in the space between I and thou? Third body of infinite possibility, forming even as we meet, even as we speak . . .even as we touch; a living thing, sending up shoots like an exotic plant in the hothouse of our exchanges.

The woman stretched, one hand coming to rest in the sand below her sun-lounge. Her fingers lightly rolled the beads of grit left in swirls by tiny crabs delving in the under-world. Tracks in the huge expanse of life, like the paintings of the Dreamtime, drawn in dots and circles.

She stretched again, rolling onto her back, long hair spilling over the edge, brown arm reaching for the shade of an old, straw hat. The movement attracted the wandering beach-traders, like fish swimming to investigate a ripple . . .

"Sarong? You need sarong?" chirped the first voice.

A sleepy shake of her head.

"Massage? You want massage? I give good massage."

Another shake of her head, smiling now at the abundance on offer. So much attention just for reaching for a hat!

"What do you seek?" asked another voice, deep and soft.

The woman peered into the golden light to find the velvet voice. Standing perfectly still, a man smiled down at her like a statue of Shiva, sunlight blurring the edges of his lean body.

"Love," she said. "Peace. Tranqulity."

He smiled and sat, folding gracefully to sit cross-legged in the sand. 
"How much for tranquility?" she asked mischievously.

"Ah, very cheap today," he said, eyes sparkling. "Special price for you."

"How much?" she asked, engaging the process that would end in a purchase.

"All your thoughts, dark and light," he answered, pointing to the black and white fabric tied around the shrine at the edge of the sand, reminder of good and evil.

"Mmmmm." She liked her thoughts, the rippling, air-born arrivals of words and images, stories full of tarradiddle and history. Could she pay the price?

"And all your feelings, happy and sad," he added, watching her.

"Mmmmm." Feelings, those clotted strands of anguish and delight that flavoured the blandest days and nights. Would her life lose all taste without them?

"And all your opinions of yourself. Big and small," he said. "And all the opinion others have of you."

She sighed. How would it be to fly free of the judgements and sentiments, letting them fall away like the grains of sand she was dusting from her fingers?

"It's a deal."  

"Come," he said. "The ocean will wash it all away."

The woman sat up slowly and followed him to the sea, their reflections shimmering in the sheen left by the ebb-tide.She laughed as the first waves broke around her legs, water bubbling up to her thighs. They walked further, waves breaking around her hips, splashing up to her chin. She stopped, spinning in circles, hands flat against the water, a Dervish, whirling and whirling to find the point of stillness.

She walked deeper, the tide tugging at her legs, as if someone called from the depths. Her guide’s hand held her steady as the waves surged in, breaking with bubbling foam and gentle thunder.

When the water reached her breasts, he moved behind and stood close. Hands on her hips, he turned her back to face the sand. They stood, looking back the way they had come, the breakers rolling past, iced with white froth.Suddenly he lifted her and, with a thrust, sent her gliding to shore on the crest of the next swell. She flew, riding the peak, thoughts, feelings, and opinions streaming behind . . .

Washed clean, she coasted to the shallows.  Sliding gently to rest, she lay on her back, arms and legs spread, letting the current bounce her back and forth. The sky looked very big.

He waited, standing in the surf, until she sat up. When she looked for him, he walked in and offered her his hand. She stood, body tingling, and together they walked back up the beach.

They sat for some time, her on her lounge, him behind, cross-legged in the sand, as the setting sun made shadow puppets of the children playing in the shallows. She turned to thank him, but he had gone, leaving as silently as he had come.

There, where he had been sitting, was a ruby-red hibiscus, petals dancing flamenco in the breeze. She picked up the flower, so light in her hands. Hibiscus. Flowering for a day, then dropping, raining all the colours of the sunset down to Earth.

Is that where love lives? Is that life? A brilliant flower, blossoming for a moment in time and falling when the time is done . . .

She smiled tranquilly, aglow with the last light of the sun.    

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