WhenSheWas
When she was a child, she was once gifted an ensemble of lusty imitation emerald and ruby finger-rings, ten in sum, one for each inchy finger, by a patron-relative she held in high esteem. Each false stone larger than the knuckle lent a certain je nous sais quoi to the overall effect of hand operation, and she used these while playing "Madame Octavia", a game that considerably more thought went into than action accrued from.
"Madame Octavia" play consisted of pulling over her head her mother's hooded shawl and sitting indian style on the floor, with the new jewels displayed as she inexpertly shuffled a deck of household Bee brand playing cards. While doing this, she would mumble a set of enchanted words, their many syllables composed almost entirely of vowels, with the barest scantest most sparing use of consonant contributions. These words often, but not always, rhymed, which, I suppose, enhanced their magic.
A set of sample miniature bottled perfumes were also ingredients in the game, as potions one supposes, but never opened since they had converged in smelly accident one afternoon past. That didn't lessen the effect, since it was not the content of the bottles but their sheer number (30 or more) that lent the game its power. It was about possessing the magic, not sniffing it.
Occasionally, introduction was made to the imaginary purchaser of Madame Octavia's (formidable) products and services. "Gooood Eevening, Meester. I'm Madame Occctaaaavia," made to last as long as possible through the quality of the vampiric accent she employed. But mostly the bottles were, at least it would seem to the hypothetical onlooker, merely arranged and rearranged. It resembled an improvised game of chess against onself, an amateur game, with lots of redos and retractions. Finally, the spell would be broken, her concentration suddenly lost, and the game would be abandoned without preserving the ritual's sanctity by marking the crossroads or any other measure of warding off. Just left spread out for anyone to gaze upon, until cleaned up or made to be cleaned and then seemingly, the game would be forgotten. Until some unknown synapse fired and the "Madame Octavia" game resumed for another session.
There were other games of course. There was a game of light and shadows, a game of being seen and hiding, of chair and carpet, of enslavement and freedom, of pauperism and riches, of betrayal and tragic death, of making snowflakes and eating off the floor as the dog eats. There were her pockets, for one thing, there was evidence there more than anywhere else, hers were stuffed with playing accoutrements and aides. These, when found by either of her parents, could baffle, disturb, or endear depending less on content than origin.
It was autumn (the season of schools) when the Octavia game was tucked into the corner of her history, along with many of the other solitary amusements, for good. Along with the pleasures of her own voice and pleasures of script and pleasures of reading and of hiding and the hoarding of pleasures. Along with many of the beloved things that were so much more than things, that signified whole other worlds of meaning dear to her. Along with much of the experiential pleasure in the mixing of things, especially liquid things, and of jumping on things, and of riding bicycles, and of dirt and becoming dirty and being looked at as a dirty thing, and the demands to be made on others in the interest of securing for herself her own happiness.
That autumn the bejewelled and fearless madame relinquished much of her youthful hermitage, her short private life!
Later, when she looked back at that time, she would think herself so small and ridiculous, later when she had become disturbed at the sound of her own speech and quick to find fault with her own script, later when she lived in the world full of Others. But occasionally, in jest, she would still deploy those gaudy fake rings to adorn her toes.
Once in a while, she would take out and examine, meditate on The List. She had composed it at the end of her childhood, when she had noticed that she was starting to lose her capacity to access her imagination. It seemed, she had noticed its dissipation and had taken steps to guard against growth of this kind, by trying to cheat it. Battle-weary, no doubt, she had begun a list, a writing down of all the imaginary games and scenarios that fueled play-pretend. However, in her haste? or out of fear of exposure and ridicule?, she had neglected to describe them, so that they remained coded. The formulas were simply missing, and though she tried, she could not decipher the mind behind the savage hand that penned them. The titles were perplexing, ranging from the succinct "Fish Swim" to the bold "The Portraits Come Alive!". "Madame Octavia" was among the few she recognized, that provoked flickers of recognition, private angst and secret thrill, and the useless grasping. The old country, fogotten tongue, scraps left by the ape. And it was not so much later, when the list was found, that she would have her own children to consult. The rings were relics and The Listing sat, in lieu of being framed, in an accordion folder, among postcards and birthday cards, and more current to-do lists on the floor of her bedroom closet.
"Madame Octavia" play consisted of pulling over her head her mother's hooded shawl and sitting indian style on the floor, with the new jewels displayed as she inexpertly shuffled a deck of household Bee brand playing cards. While doing this, she would mumble a set of enchanted words, their many syllables composed almost entirely of vowels, with the barest scantest most sparing use of consonant contributions. These words often, but not always, rhymed, which, I suppose, enhanced their magic.
A set of sample miniature bottled perfumes were also ingredients in the game, as potions one supposes, but never opened since they had converged in smelly accident one afternoon past. That didn't lessen the effect, since it was not the content of the bottles but their sheer number (30 or more) that lent the game its power. It was about possessing the magic, not sniffing it.
Occasionally, introduction was made to the imaginary purchaser of Madame Octavia's (formidable) products and services. "Gooood Eevening, Meester. I'm Madame Occctaaaavia," made to last as long as possible through the quality of the vampiric accent she employed. But mostly the bottles were, at least it would seem to the hypothetical onlooker, merely arranged and rearranged. It resembled an improvised game of chess against onself, an amateur game, with lots of redos and retractions. Finally, the spell would be broken, her concentration suddenly lost, and the game would be abandoned without preserving the ritual's sanctity by marking the crossroads or any other measure of warding off. Just left spread out for anyone to gaze upon, until cleaned up or made to be cleaned and then seemingly, the game would be forgotten. Until some unknown synapse fired and the "Madame Octavia" game resumed for another session.
There were other games of course. There was a game of light and shadows, a game of being seen and hiding, of chair and carpet, of enslavement and freedom, of pauperism and riches, of betrayal and tragic death, of making snowflakes and eating off the floor as the dog eats. There were her pockets, for one thing, there was evidence there more than anywhere else, hers were stuffed with playing accoutrements and aides. These, when found by either of her parents, could baffle, disturb, or endear depending less on content than origin.
It was autumn (the season of schools) when the Octavia game was tucked into the corner of her history, along with many of the other solitary amusements, for good. Along with the pleasures of her own voice and pleasures of script and pleasures of reading and of hiding and the hoarding of pleasures. Along with many of the beloved things that were so much more than things, that signified whole other worlds of meaning dear to her. Along with much of the experiential pleasure in the mixing of things, especially liquid things, and of jumping on things, and of riding bicycles, and of dirt and becoming dirty and being looked at as a dirty thing, and the demands to be made on others in the interest of securing for herself her own happiness.
That autumn the bejewelled and fearless madame relinquished much of her youthful hermitage, her short private life!
Later, when she looked back at that time, she would think herself so small and ridiculous, later when she had become disturbed at the sound of her own speech and quick to find fault with her own script, later when she lived in the world full of Others. But occasionally, in jest, she would still deploy those gaudy fake rings to adorn her toes.
Once in a while, she would take out and examine, meditate on The List. She had composed it at the end of her childhood, when she had noticed that she was starting to lose her capacity to access her imagination. It seemed, she had noticed its dissipation and had taken steps to guard against growth of this kind, by trying to cheat it. Battle-weary, no doubt, she had begun a list, a writing down of all the imaginary games and scenarios that fueled play-pretend. However, in her haste? or out of fear of exposure and ridicule?, she had neglected to describe them, so that they remained coded. The formulas were simply missing, and though she tried, she could not decipher the mind behind the savage hand that penned them. The titles were perplexing, ranging from the succinct "Fish Swim" to the bold "The Portraits Come Alive!". "Madame Octavia" was among the few she recognized, that provoked flickers of recognition, private angst and secret thrill, and the useless grasping. The old country, fogotten tongue, scraps left by the ape. And it was not so much later, when the list was found, that she would have her own children to consult. The rings were relics and The Listing sat, in lieu of being framed, in an accordion folder, among postcards and birthday cards, and more current to-do lists on the floor of her bedroom closet.
posted by Arcade Coalminerson at 1:34 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home