Revisited

Chapter 8: "Re-membering is Shakespearian", from Jocey's work in progress and other Notes 

The easy chair holds Ava's white laced body figure like a feather. 

"....well, actually, the Eurydice bit is sandwiched captured between Orpheus' settlement among the savage Cicones of Thrace and subsequently Dionysius' invasion of Thrace, along with his elegant demise by dismemberment occasional murder and singing into the afterworld blissfully" Adam sits down and concludes what was meant to be a toast. 

I find the latter passage and I indulge the toast bit to make it seem that Adam may have been on the verge of losing it, but of course, as with  the piecing together of family biographies  is always  going to be  somewhat...dismembered. I cannot be sure of anything except the feeling of the passage which is dangerous but also an invitation to create. A gap, a space for the descendant to pronounce upon the dead with the fibre and curiosity of the living. A space that demands the bold imprint of the present and the future to push through ancient sadness, or perhaps it was never sadness that I am replacing or rewriting or re-membering here.

J, you really did study literature. Please stop being so morbid. The fact that you are piecing through so many mythological allusions is enough to make the modern reader scoff and sneeze and hurt his knee on the fireplace upon surprised repulsion. Can we please keep this somewhat cerebral? 

As Adam excuses himself, Ava quickly follows. There is an argument of sorts on the terrace, on which Ada looks on with impoverished nonchalance. She will be moved to distraction but not by this and not even by her twin sister's fits. Max comes through from the forest with the gear ready for riding and drops down by the bar with a drink in hand. 

"It is so cold out there, it gets into your bones. Where's your sister?" He moves towards Ada with entitlement. 

These are the early days when the two couples were keeping it together for the family. No children yet on either side but such promise. Maximilian, a proud man of about thirty-five now, taking the world in stride. Taking the world one day at a time. 

Who's your inspiration for this guy? Are you sticking to the diaries or just making it up on the fly? Sorry, it's the journalist in me but really, can we have some basis in fact here? I haven't seen any annotated formulations nor have I seen proof in handwriting of strength of character. Rule 1-12323: Please abstain from dilly-dallying in prose. Just stop. Remember the terrace scene that you wrote over and over from NYC? 

"Max, let's go outside. The party will start soon" Ada holds her hand out. 

**

"Paul, let's go outside. The party will start soon" I hold my hand out to you so you can hurry up. The party has begun and I realize how little time we have left. All of a sudden, on this New York blurry street, we are running out of time. All of a sudden. 

**

Oxfordshire, present day

"Paul, let's go outside. Your party will start soon." 

By party I mean wedding. 

cheeky. 

I hold an imaginary camera up because you are very handsome. 

Paul with his sad blue eyes; and his sad blue hands; their sad blue veins intersecting like complex streets in the 1er Arrondissement. I pretend Paul can read my mind, that he can enjoy my joke, but he can't. Paul barely reads my manuscript let alone my mind. 

"Joce, I have to say I'm absolutely terrified" 

You should be, I say in silence. 

How can I even keep up with that? 

"Well come on P, you need to start this day up before you can really finish it which I know you're looking forward to do because, as usual, you're quite sleepy" I stomp around the rosebushes with my high heels getting stuck in the English lawn, cursing the gods, cursing the sea. 

The scene is stunning. Dusk. 

Imagine dusk. Imagine red through the skies, the obscenity of delicate roses arranged with care. The whole thing reeks of attention to detail. 

Repulsed, I take a drag and stare at Paul transfixed in this moment. 

The wedding takes place at Worcester College, gleaming in the English sun. I have not even met the bride yet. She sparkles in the distant right corner of the lawn - her eyes fixed on Paul and holding a glass of champagne. 

Paul looks as if he will vomit at any moment. The ceremony happens quickly and, unexpectedly, I laugh and cry pursuant to the Original Wedding Screenplay. I guess I'm getting older. 

"Well, P. You're bloody married." Paul grins and, well, what else is there? 

"Joce.." 

The rest of this dialogue has been redacted in white on white. No record exists. The speakers themselves have forgotten, if they ever even contemplated it in the memory of their minds. Nothing remains. 

I walk back to my own cottage nearing three in the morning. The stars sparkle with such small grace so far away. Oxford is the heart of England for many reasons. It is actually nestled quite deep inland and nowhere near can you hear or feel the sea. 

**

"Ada, let's go outside. The party will start soon." Adam holds out his hand to Ada in the garden. 

                  A tea party. 

Waves of warmth for the reader.

**

I wake at first light and watch the dark fade into day. It is neither beautiful nor moving. It is simply empirical evidence. With hollowed out stomach, I put on my post Paul's wedding daytime attire: some black slacks and a tweed peplum Chanel top. No lipstick. Just vaseline. Blackberry eyeliner. One gold bangle. Two pearl earrings. Freshwater. 

Waves waves waves waves of seawater crashing against the boat that would carry HER, capital H her here. Her her her her her her. You know who I'm talking about. The one about whom the whole story revolves. The one and only. The longing the wanting, the rage, the beauty.

I leave the wedding gift on the vanity in my guest bedroom with a note tucked underneath it: "find me by the horses" 

I cross Trafalgar Square and have a cigarette. It is a typical cloudy day. I get goosebumps thinking of how much I like to indulge in this type of prose in this weather. 

My booties catch the London dirt and I don't wipe at the entrance of the gallery. Why should I? I've been a taxpayer for the better part of two years. I look longingly at this beautiful young woman on the arm of a gentleman. Straight blonde hair pulled back. Silk shirt tucked into a houndstooth pencil skirt. High black suede boots. High heels. He pulls her close and she closes both eyes against his kisses. Glitter on cheekbones. I don't sigh but I want to. 

I make my way across the gallery and settle down on the bench beside the large painting. I bite my inner cheek. I try and sketch the blonde. I hear the click clack click clack of high heels booming their echoes closer and closer to me. Surprised, I see Paul's bride sit across from me on the bench with her back to the horse painting. Fitting, I scoff. She's always wiped her feet on good art. The snob. I hate her passionately in this instant. 

"I saw the note you left him underneath our gift", she says with a triumphant yet not arrogant smile. Her beautiful face, her long torso, her laughing eyes, the thick chestnut of her hair. She reminds me of someone. Mon semblable, mon frere.

"Oh yeah? And? How did you know?"

"Well, your handwriting. It is basically like my grandma Ada's"

The End of the first book. Publication and edits pending.