Oh, love; without the work required, would make it mere dust.
Beauty is the flesh, the molded clay, and the truth that is
continually spun into a different shape. Whoever is the political leader of the
day, becomes society’s sculptor, and the sculptor of every piece of flesh.
A neck must turn a head upwards.
A face must see a God, when looking upwards in that direction
towards a light.
Oh, science; it holds fields, and only fields, of such named studies,
where the researchers will only face their eyes upon the ground. When one peers
ahead, one sees the future. When one peers at their feet, they do feel
miserable by seeing the past. History is not merely recorded, but also dug up,
explored and discovered.
Love has two hands, and they both tremble in the fear and worries
of a past.
A man now explores a woman, in what we see before us. A man of ragged
appearance, with death on the edges to his fingertips; he explores with a
shovel; no, not a shovel, but a dagger that is shaped smallest it could ever be,
in possibility. No one had shaped its smallness but the frail mind of this
withered man. He is a rapist. His mind is terrible, while his instincts are
ever-so worse the cause for destruction. Death is his music; and where he makes
marks, they are not stayed with the feet upon a woman’s ground.
He moves as the boat that rocks atop the waves.
He runs his face over her fearful eyes and runs his mouth over her
He moves his hands at her hips, to turn such round curves into
jagged edges, so they no longer appear as the Earth with its same curvature.
Love; and why do we speak of love, through such a scene?
It is due to one detail.
A woman raped, is the woman removed of her modesty, of her warmth,
and one can guess she’d feel the same “loss” as when she is removed of love. A
lover, that is, to be removed from her life, makes the woman unprotected.
And what had been her protector, this woman named Lucia who now
lays on her back in some dusty back-alley, besides what is now that same word?
Fragments. Torn flesh, is the ragged flesh, is the bleeding wound, the same
wound from everything lost. Of flesh, of virginity, of any mark that touches something
made to be warm, from protection. Clothing would protect from the cold. An
embrace would protect from the coldness of loneliness.
She has encumbered her mind with the sadness of regret. What of her memory? It is drowned in a scathing of her liquid mind; a woman of vanity that conflicts with a desire for a future. Her independence is doomed to meet the past; what of her memory? The memory she possesses, Valarie, as is her name, sees shadows.
Shadows that creep and shadows that are so much the silhouette. She desires to see the future, away from a husband, though is seeing the past. She pulls humanity backwards. Disparity is her surname. Valerie Disparity. Beautiful woman, is she, and a woman of the north. She has accumulated nothing upon the south. Her loin is still but matted with the flesh of the hymen. Domination has not been upon her. It is this way, while seduction still drools from herself.
Many men turn their eyes, distracted by something so natural for a man to be a distraction. Away from the sufferings of poverty, a man throws his glance in Valerie’s direction. He will grope, as the pauper, to reach for an apple or a peach, because morality is not of him.
Valerie’s face, so brimming with red, welled up upon cheeks that run the red to her collarbones. The red ceases upon that spot, and we notice her lips, as well with crimson from an applied cosmetic. Her face, and then her eyes are too, noticed, with blue irises, creating a scenery of one sky above and two places to look. Withdraw from it, and you will lean towards Hell, towards the poverty where a life crawls on knees and only the knees.
Her future, dreamed to be a paradise of an envisioned eternity of escapism. There is nothing that Valerie delights more in, besides the urge to be away. From what, does one ask? What to escape from, and to what future of what paradise of escapism? A future so uncertain is there for her, and seemingly throws light upon her face, and such hued cheeks turn gray as dust. She feels fear.
A future full of her independence, and yet, the dumbest of men could comprehend that a woman’s focus is her past, her memories; and all of her mind entwined as a reminder to what was good. What was once good, that is, is her prime focus. The first kiss. The first dance. The first romance. And then, the first bedding, with a man of her choosing.
The dumb man cannot ever see the past of a woman, unless he ask for its reminiscent words departed from her parted mouth.
The reminder in what a woman says is her correction to a past, is the past as tainted, and she throws the past forward; and in doing this, the past is recreated in men. A man’s mistakes is recreated; and of curiosity directed solely as a woman’s instinct, there is life continually either preserved or destroyed. What has it for a woman to destroy life, to act as men, to be as brutal and stupid, as men? Carefulness would be of a woman’s regime, were curiosity not to be among her instincts.
Curiosity creates envy. Envy creates lust. Lust creates pride, even should an accomplishment not be made. Pride soon becomes as loose as happiness, as contentment, until no accomplishment is made; and then, among bloodied, brutal people that we are, we find comfort only in blood, in conflict, in life.
Oh, Valerie; with crimson upon shades of crimson. There is lightness in your breath, and speechlessness in your gaze. There is quality in your bosom, and life in your stillness when one marvels upon you even dancing. Love, we will do; though, the only gift we will have is humble gratitude.
Empathy is the emotion of the personal. The snow and its cold are where people are buried. Beneath its flakes, there is the death of where people sleep. We have noticed of the towns and cities that are spread across the earth, that sympathy is now the emotion used for when one deserves to be equal. In death, we are equal. In love, we are equal.
Like a flower that
failed to bloom, and remained as a bud, there is a certain woman with the name,
Katharina, only about as beautiful as the black orchid, grown in Asia. She
prowls these streets in France, in the city of Reims, cradling a child of no
In love, we are
equal. For God, we are equal. A scientist will dig for truth, because a
scientist has no choice but to see their own feet. They refuse to be blinded by
God. It is because they believe God holds no truth.
The lack of a
reality makes either denial or yearning.
Truth is the flesh, separated from God, or love, so that what is noticed is only the body. As Adam and Eve, who were once nude, before betraying God, their bodies were risen from the soil, and from death, or the soil, came the life that we behold for beauty. Beauty, which is the truth or the flesh, made shocking, when exposed. Katharina is a woman of no love.
“Little to no love…”
Without love, she
cares little for what occurs about her. That which surrounds her holds no
interest to her wandering stare. She is in love with no purpose for love,
besides the cradled infant in her arms. An infant of no name, and certainly no
There are flakes
that descend and fall to land upon her nose and cheeks. They lay there against
the warm skin, to then melt and blend themselves in with the blackened tears
that wash from Katharina’s eyes.
She is surrounded
by the stares of the people of Reims.
She is surrounded
by their eyes.
Glares that have
witnessed her deformed appearance. An appearance that is stricken by grief. A
loss to which has touched her heart and has tainted the ruby orb into black
coal. Metaphorically, this would mean that there is something she flees from;
and as a woman will leap from one thing to the next, she will soon return to
Outside of a
woman’s home, there is the world. It is because a woman’s emotions, as
important as they are to her, branch throughout the world as temptation.
Femininity and temptation make business thrive. Temptation creates the fuel of
lust to make beauty an alterable thing. A changeable thing, because love cannot
ever be used. The limitations in love become an awareness to any human, when it
is simply stripped away.
The home of a
woman is the heart, itself. The love; and the streets away from it, are the
veins. Are we as one body? As a species, we are as one body, and the roads that
led out of Eden, were endless.
God has no wife,
because He has no home, besides Heaven. For a man will make his home, a woman’s
heart. God would have to make his home, as everyone’s heart.
Temptation is for
flesh. Love raises flesh. After love is abandoned, there is flesh exposed to
the cold. Warmth no longer makes flesh warm. A shelter, a home, a shield, or an
encasement, makes the flesh warm, through love. Modesty is the love. Beauty is
the flesh. When love is gone, there is flesh exposed; when flesh is torn
through, the human has died.
is the cold stone withdrawn from the evermore cold river and held close to her
face so that she may examine its appearance. If winds run against it, it would
not become colder.
Love is the
emotion of modesty.
Love does not show
itself, so therefore, God would not show Himself.
To the woman, and
her cravings or yearnings, would a man show himself, as God is asked to show
Himself? A craving, a saving, and a woman who pleas to the Lord above. In
turning away, woman is betrayed by God, or a man, and beauty is revealed.
A woman’s pride,
or even the downfall of any love that centered herself, comes by way of
following those veins throughout a city.
She walks, Katharina, down an endless road, because she has nowhere to turn, and no time to cease her pacing.
“A vein is as any other…”
Her face holds the
appearance of possession.
Possessed by the
limitations in love. She has exposed her warm flesh, no longer warm to the
shelter of a home, and open before the descending flakes of snow. Like a canvas
drawn with a nude for reveal, shock and controversy are there for viewers.
She walks with the
infant enclosed in her cradling arms.
Her only love is
The roads are
She follows them
like the veins from her heart. When a woman moves her arm, she moves a vein.
When a woman moves her leg, she moves a vein. When a woman desires freedom, she
doesn’t desire love.
encases, and imprisons a woman in a home. For a man, love traps him to the
study and examination of a woman. She may see what she sees, but he cannot see
anything. To pierce his eyes, would be simple. To pierce her eyes, would take
What is Katharina?
She is a woman who
wanders. The road she wanders is as any other vein, as the sympathy to which is
offered upon a passerby. A road and its paupers are met by the sympathetic
Katharina offers a
degree of sympathy to a pauper who passes her. Though, as he passes on the
endless road, the sympathy acts as the road. No intimacy is shared between
them. The road is as any other vein. The sympathy for the pauper treats the
pauper as any other pauper.
What would hurt
And the pain would
oftentimes be mistaken for pleasure.
“The Devorah of Reims” is a novel about “split-division”. That is, it is about a young girl, named Devorah, whose life consists of everything being only “half-way” achieved. Everything is “half-way” for her, as her life continues to be a game of “Tug-a-war” between two men who are her lovers, two parents with one a Jewish woman and the other a German man, and two cities, of Reims and Paris.
It is a story about origin, prejudice, and disposition. Devorah is victim to both her ignorance and the knowledge of her identity, as a girl to a targeted German father. It is so, since this tale takes place during antisemitic France.