Oh! She said, and the floodgates erupted. Everything goes, at basement prices. Like the Black Friday draws the crowds by an irresistible fetish, they like in the day of the locust overwhelmed by the fountain of desire.
In that famous scene they are still talking about where Anita Ecberg wades into the Trevi Fountain.
Her skirt bellowing and bubbles coming through her
shapely legs. It is the breaking point, it bursts, Anais Nin called it a petite mort, a little death, whereby liberation of a little time is afforded to the victim. Just
a little peaceful scene, with the sunshine finally
breaking through after a long absence of indulgence, a mortification of the spirit.
Her problems mounted, her bills piled, and the more she denied their existence, the more she lost at the casino.
It was a viscious cycle, and he was not so much of a help. It started with a diamond as big as a city block,
and it ended with this. A constant craving, with her
straddling his hips and with a final push inward let it break. She was older, significantly, and her tastes have changed. She was loosing everything, might as
well, and he was leaving as well, he told her as much
they had breakfast up on the hill, the hill they thought for ever would rebound their promise. And when it last, the taste of that rushing current at last,
reminded her of the disappointing temporality of it
all, almost becoming tasteless, almost merely a metaphor of a reminder for something nearly sacred, she decided the guru’s advice to gradually
deconstruct the ideal topic, the topicality of
possession, into the genius of creation. But slow, ever so slow now that this near tasteless prologue of coming attractions earn some credit.
Where was her portfolio? It never really happened, he tried to assemble it for her, holding back the tears
which such depravation of the prize could afford, but failed
miserably, over no over, and when the last abstract lines were confined into the colors, then the gates broke, and all the brokenness of the anathema of
reality came crashing down, confirming Ned Rorem’s idea that any one who can, can-can, and achieve the sublime, yet unsublimaged heights available readily the mechanics of love.
For it is the mechanics, the motions f it, if successfully achieved ,that stare indifferently to the resulting few drops, of gods’ elixir , and to be perfectly blunt, it is the intention, not the effect which counts in paradise.
She lost it, the whole nine yards gone, and soon he will be like everybody else to her, and he to him, their commitment as tasteless and of lackluster constituency as anyone they had come across before.
They saw the film Jules et Jim that time hoping to drain the last ounce out of each other, for they were vampires living on each others’ strength, but it was late, and she brought up the bills, hoping like before he could take care of them, but not this time. He lost badly that night, the casino just a dim hogpodge of noise and tasteless greedy idle chatter, the faces around the table mixing as they revolved around the common denominator of futility.
He loved her, and he knew he can’t loose her, and if he were, he could never reassemble that was for him was severely cut up, deconstructed. He became a fetish of forlorn desire to possess now, a spiritual totem pole, which could attain the very sharp tip, if only he could hold unto it.
This Christmas I can not buy him a Tiffany gold trinket, but he is Mexican, so I’ll buy him a a silver chain, anyway, it is more prized down there, referring to their Puerto Vallarta visit last summer. Maybe he will understand.