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
