SALUT D’AMOUR

Ovid, the controversial poet of Augustus Caesar’s period is one person April would like to meet. Given that it is now well over two thousand years since his passing away, it is most distressing. April got to know of that poet’s existence from an Anne Rice novel. She was taken aback by those verses of Ovid with almost the same feelings she was confronted with when skimming through D.H. Lawrence’s ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’. And what with a little Augustan girl of five years reciting such steamy lines with such precise fluidity, albeit being fictional!

Then again, it was only owing to April’s naïve nature that she was taken aback. Not just at the aforementioned juncture, but also when digested some works of Hilary Mantel, Sidney Sheldon, Anne Rice and also the author of ‘Pendragon Island’, of whose name she knows not of—including D.H. Lawrence, of course. The list includes online 

fanfiction authors, too.

The explicit depiction of what goes on between people to the most intimate degree being published so boldly in enticing, big black letters, with that glamorous promise of art rendered on its cover, that homey scent of the thick-spined book has never really sat well with April. She was around Grade 5 or 6, she remembers, that she had never encountered such a book. Though there flashed neon signs in her senses bright enough to relay the message that there was something ‘bad’ and ‘forbidden’ to it, she couldn’t get a clear picture of what she had just digested. Why would she with being nothing but a naïve child?

While writing this, April felt many of those ‘bumps-in-the-road’ as to whether she should continue writing this; she didn’t want her memories of such a genre to be so carelessly splashed across a spare piece of paper. It’s almost similar to writing an autobiography—one that might revolt most people who might possess that slight ounce of logic to understand this just enough: like that of a night prowler? Revolting, yes—such a phrase. But please, try to excuse April. She is a mere human: no matter how pathetic of an excuse it seems to be. A teenager at it, too.

With a progress so painfully slow, April did come to know of just about all those ‘out-of-the-world’ carnal pleasures: none through practical means though. The world of penned fiction is that which has made and shaped her as the person she is to this second, enabling her to even have been influenced to a very great extent. It is without question that April was completely revolted of it all at the start. “Curiosity killed the cat”. And April was that little kitty. She was drawn towards it all just as how the moths are towards the light, like how a century old cognac of luxurious aroma tempts an alcoholic. Of course the comparisons are grandeur—April assures that her curiosity was not of that scale however.

Tripping across a word or two was not infrequent. Not without the time that indeed come to make April see some sense of it. Many instances, where the loop of going through the material, were without question present. Having multiple mis-interpretations of the real meaning, which would in some cases actually sink in the sea of confusion, and in debates of ‘scholars’ is how April thinks of Shakespeare’s works and literature and well, art in general. And she would like you to please understand that her story of finally getting to interpret everything she had come across of the genre she’s writing about was almost of the similar manner.

That which goes on between people; the ‘dance that is as old as time’ as how some writers put it, is indeed an art. But art needs getting used to—as in like anything new that one comes across. April vividly recounts her memory of the fictional Lydia from Anne Rice’s writing whenever she comes across any reference to that dance. And then, sinks in the sea of mesmerization, awe, wonder, curiosity, eagerness—with revolt and disgust almost always being present in traces. You can’t expect every batch of pastry to come out right.

April is ashamed of denying her knowledge of that dance when in a deep conversation about it to her friend. Being experienced with how to control her actions around people, feigning innocence was never a scruple for her. And that is just what she got to test and prove again; she lied. April stopped writing for a solid amount after the previous paragraph she writ, unsure of how to continue which included a considerably long dinner.

That friend confessed—well, that is definitely not the apt word—her account of having gotten to know about the dance  April was all that charm which an ‘innocent’ kid who promises Santa Claus that she was good all through the year, waiting for the promised delivery of Christmas presents possesses with hot guilt eating through her all the while.

April has always been open-faceted to that friend, save for the knowledge of that dance. #Confession: April was afraid of being judged for knowing about the dance. It is indeed a very pathetic excuse, but she regrets that—is sorry for lying in a blatant manner. She is now bound to a promise to herself that she will never lie to that person anymore no matter what the situation or how desperate the circumstance.

Back to what April’s trying to form into a plot of: subtlety of the art of making love has always earned April’s appreciation and admiration.

Writing about that dance in a dangerously innocent way, with the precarious edges of the excitement, passion, the thrill of the hot-blooded desire and the climax forked out into sudden cliff-hangers, twists and endless surprises—sometimes as sweet as the best choco-chip cupcake and as that bad bitter example of a lemon-pie gone to waste at other times—touching the point right on the nail, yet just skimming through it at the same time—just enough to give the reader a small jolt of lightning through his spine; subtlety is a wonderful thing of joy. Or so what April thinks. Like Bella’s and Edward’s first time in ‘Breaking Dawn’, and the way those online fanfiction authors stage their plots. And April is quite happy that she is slowly trying her best to somehow master writing in that genre with subtlety.

Off-track, yes. But its amazing when there are so many people out there in this blue marble who trust the person they’re bonded to and partake in the dance with nothing but the utmost form of love coursing through their veins. April wonders if she’d ever get to feel that way. And with that person mirroring those wonderings of hers. April does not believe in miracles in life. But she would not say no to something along those lines happening to her.

This, what April Twelving has written is all over the place: with no fixed plot whatsoever and leaving the reader with multiple question marks springing up at almost at the end of every other sentences. April believes that her writing skills—if there were even any in her to begin with—has further plunged down. She apologizes to you whose time was just wasted in reading this which she considers as trash. #Author’s note only.

April Twelving salutes those people who finds a true muse in their true love—which is not limited to anything.

Music that inspired April for the current work: Salut D’Amour.

Date: 2012.12.01

Day: Saturday

Ceasing to write at: 22:31 (time)

~April Twelving