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Modern Romanticism

The aspect of romance, divided between the heartening and the thoughtful.

Novel – Chapter V – “To Pull Close a Corpse” – Romance – Excerpt from “Signs of a Man in Love” – 10/9/2019

October 9, 2019
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He steps around his guilt, like iron coats the soles of his feet, and motions to a place before his departed beauty. A step more and he nestles a kiss upon her brow, swearing to himself that he could still hear her words. They were, before she hung herself, perhaps the words of an apology. Words unheard, meant to be heard by Joseph, this man who once loved the purest form of beauty. That was when he allowed himself to launch directly into her, to pull free the chains that seemed to shackle what was once not allowed to move.

For a woman’s memories are as dear to her, as they are sometimes tragic and sometimes comedic. Why is a man attracted to her smile? That is because the smile is there in the realm of deception. He sees what challenges him, being the uncertainties that have created every mistake attuned with his past. Those challenges spark him to lead a woman into the future, with only ever the confidence necessary to see that forwardness, logic, and directness. And, when he looks over his own shoulder, he should see only one thing: herself, the beauty that he won’t ever forget.

A deception challenges a man, because he cannot look forward and backwards at the same time. A kiss was all Joseph needed, pressed against her brow, to believe in her mind, her thoughts, her own concealments, and whatever else she had not ever allowed to open from herself. Does a man desire discovery, as a philosopher, or does a man discover desire, as a man?

He says to a closed and limp form, “There was never anything else for my past, besides you, since you have died, and I still live. What is my beating heart, if it simply beats without love? What is next in line for my future, if I am someone who sees such a heartbeat, as unnecessary to beat? Each heartbeat is like a step taken, and I am not ever in the present. I am trapped somewhere on a border, on the line itself, and closed in a grand world of fear.”

A kiss to the brow had made him form a tear. Tears are infinite when the eyes have seen something dreaded, because when the eyes have noticed, neither the memories nor the tears, ever cease.

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Prose – “Nine Months to Live” – First Chapter – “A Conception in Duress” – 8/1/2019

August 1, 2019
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Lust!

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 quivering lips.

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.

Fragments.

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.

And now, there are fragments.

Brainstorm #1 – “A Lady’s Isolation among Virginity and Awareness” – 7/25/2019

July 25, 2019
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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.

Volume One/Chapter I – “The Devorah of Reims” – “A Limited Love” – 6/25/2019

June 25, 2019
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“Her yearnings are infinite…”

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 name.

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 surname.

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 the center.

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.

Katharina’s heart 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 world.

The roads are endless.

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.

Love freezes, 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 raw masculinity.

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 Saint.

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 through empathy?

Everything would hurt.

And the pain would oftentimes be mistaken for pleasure.

Teaser into the Novel – “The Devorah of Reims” – Information about the Book

May 30, 2019
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“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.

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