The spectator of Love
" The Apple Orchard
Come let us watch the sun go down and walk in twilight through the orchard's green.
Does it not seem as if we had for long collected, saved and harbored within us old memories?
To find releases and seek new hopes, remembering half-forgotten joys, mingled with darkness coming from within, as we randomly voice our thoughts aloud wandering
Beneath these harvest-laden trees reminiscent of Durer woodcuts, branches which, bent under the fully ripened
fruit, wait patiently, trying to outlast, to serve another season's hundred days of toil, straining, uncomplaining, by
not breaking but succeeding, even though the burden should at times seem almost past endurance.
Not to falter! Not to be found wanting!
Thus must it be, when willingly you strive throughout a long and uncomplaining life, committed to one goal: to give yourself! And silently to grow and to bear fruit"
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
Love is everywhere ,near and far away from you, can't you see it? The most beautiful thing is to see these young and old ones together- tears dried from heartaches, enjoying themselves in a gigantic rainbow carved in the sky as a promise of true happiness finally found.Boys with girls, boys with boys , girls with girls.One sees them and thinks, "life is lovingly easy".Well, one tends to forget that for most of them, it had not been easy! I am the spectator of love, I passed away a long time ago, however my ghostly soul remained to display the dreams and endless fights of these brave young and less youngish hearts.
Part I: Wayne and James and their tinged Brooklyn
Wayne McAllister, a tall man in his thirties was walking in Brooklyn Botanic Garden,the air was so fresh and pleasant and he could feel the gentle breeze on his face, this breeze spinning through hundreds of bloomed cherry trees . Wayne looked at the trees in such a puzzled manner as if their coloured leaves were endowed with all the complexity of the world. This day of spring, he was wearing his usual greenish Tweed coat, slightly worn out and a pair of blue jeans.McAllister had ebony hair, always untidy, and fascinated big blue eyes , sensitive,showing the fragile glimpse of his soul.The young man taught literature and philosophy at St. Francis College and in his spare time; he would paint.
He sat on a stone, opened a big black pencil bag with a few pencil brushes and laid his sketches. The light, the trees, everything was perfect.Branches would accrobatically swirl, they were so free! The sky, this is what our bodies and souls should reach! Boundless sense of oneself, he would think.
James Benyamin Cohen was a dancer.As all dancers, his biggest dream was to enter the Brooklyn Academy of Music.
Most of Cohen's family members were not into perfomative arts, except one. James had been raised by his aunt in Sheepshead Bay for he never knew his parents.She herself used to be an excellent dancer and would take him everywhere in the city to see perfomances, he was not even ten when he saw his first show . James or Jammie as he was nicknamed was thin, his hair was always combed for it was fair, and he did not like it.His face, full of freckles and dimples would made him look much younger than he actually was, in his mid thirties . Jammie knew how to dance, and as everyone, he knew how to breathe but for him, breath led the dance and dancing was his deepest breath, two beats , one heart, like Wayne, like himself, always.
These two young men lived together in Flatbush avenue. Late afternoon arrived, Wayne climbed up the stairs of their little apartement, entering the living room:
-Eureka!
Jammie looked at him, smiling:
- You have found the title of your new collection?
Wayne replied happily:
- Yes, these paintings show something.Gender is dead.
Jammie smiled again and said:
- I am happy to see you like this again, cheered up, enthusiastic, my Berkeley boy is back on track!
- Californian days are still on my mind. Wayne replied nostagically.
Part II : Muhammad Hassan, Jeanne Klée or the scents of lemons
Paris is dull in autumn and especially parisian subburbs in late September . This is what eighteen years-old Muhammad Hassan was thinking on his way home "Bastards, they won't do me in anyway" The Police had fined him 11 € because he overstayed his time in a parking spot. It seemed to him that it was hard for the Police to understand that he was not a ruffian, just a young man , unfortunately he was asthmatic and had to stay in the car to calm himself down.
"No I do not have any criminal record,no it is not me you're talking about, yes here is my identity card, yes here is my driving license." These few words had become Muhammad's litany.The young man was tired of preconcieved ideas. He did not even know who he was mistaken for at least twice a year. He was Arab, so Arab that he could speak it perfectly and write it with virtually no mistakes. He could potentially teach it as well as he could teach French or even English. As a child he had been diagnosed with high intellectual abilities or intellectual giftedness as some call it, Muhammad did not believe a single word of it. What actually mattered was this, everyday he would turn to the windshield of his car and see this beautiful postcard his dad had gave him a long time ago "Keep this, can you see the letters on it? This is Phoenician alphabet." This was the last remembrance he had of his father, a long time ago and far away, so far away from here.
Hassan had made most of his friends where he grew up: in La Courneuve.Among them was twenty one years-old Jeanne Klée, a university student.She was in the educational field, they would meet somewhere, in a parc and talk about nearly everything. Muhammad told her that sooner or later he would kick all lépénists out and change the world. "They won't do me in"
Jeanne Klée was tall and skinny, a a ponytail was hastily tied at the back of her head, she had expressive green eyes , a synaesthetic mind and always wore her washed -out jeans ensemble.
"Mo, I am strange , am I?" she would worringly ask.
" No, why would you be strange?" he replied
" Dunno" she sometimes replied.
One day they were talking, like always, a usual Saturday at noon and the sun was high in the sky.
"How do you see 16?" Muhamamad asked.
"Red" Jeanne replied
"How 17 appears to your mind ? He would ask again.
"Green" she said
How's... well, 18? "he hesitanly asked.
"Yellow, yellow like lemons, happy birthday." puzzled by his own feelings, he gave her a stolen kiss and ran away.
Part III-There was no forbidden fruit in their garden
"There is a strange light in this bedroom, don't you think the light is unusual Nat?" asked madame Hayes the first time she saw her daughter's new bedroom.
"No , nothing unusual mum I have chosen this place, this house and especially this room because the light is amazing" said Nat The light was effectively amazing in this house and the walls were so clear that each single ray of light played brightly .The doors and window frames were beige and slightly dusty.
"Not only the light, mum, look!" Nat opened the garden door , the house was surrounded by a huge orchard with so many trees and so many fruit , it was impossible to count them all. Nat was a twenty three years- old young woman, she had short and light brown hair which framed her tanned complexion and hazel eyes.She was of a cheerful nature, however she had not revealed to anyone she knew that she had been feeling like a weakened bag of bones lately, she ate so little, what was the purpose of eating when appetite had gone anyway? At night, she could see a nearby stream from her window and often asked herself if a fish could drown because she felt like a fish. She would walk through her huge garden every day and sometimes she heard spirits of the orchard whispering words through the air. One day she heard a voice which mumbled" She recovered completely" and Nat's phone rung all in a sudden:
- You're alive, I can't believe it, you're alive! She burst into tears of joy and release .
Nat would run back home and immediatly phoned her mother :
-Yes you remember my friend Helen who had lost consciousness, yes, I thought she would never heal, bruised, yeah he's a motherfuck.. Yeah war is declared for sure, he will be brought to trial.
Beautiful Helen was back for a couple of weeks in Nat's house and sovereignty returned in girls' hands for the dragon John Paris had momentarily been tamed he had been caught by the cops and accused of grievous bodily harm.
The orchard took its original breath for it shelterd naiads and for them, there was no forbidden fruit in their garden.
Part IV : What dreams mean , Yulia?
"Roads in the open sky are so vast and one's grip could be lost so easly"She thought . What she did not understand was that the open sky was not hers only, it was the world's open sky, the world was loosing its grip. No freedom, no talks , no talks at all! These roads are running free though, they are running free ! Look: vast, empty and wild ! Trees can reach the sky , eagles can fly, snow can swirl and plains can laid.And us? Why can't we? Why can't we be free? These were Yulia's last thoughts before her temporary young death, before blood, noise and bullets. Dull was this year , dull was 2099.The recreated plains were still beautiful fortunately, artificial snow had never been so bright this year! What a good investment the gouvernment had made with these enviromental-friendly measures, a long time after the First Environnemental War which had mutilated the soil with carbon dioxide weapons.
As every morning, Eugene was going to The Office to work in No Bother and co society, a particulaly flourishing buisness
"Hello Eugene" his boss had greeted him
"Hello Doctor." he replied
"Yes about, Yulia..."
"Numbers dear fellow, numbers this is the rule here you know. Number 98129 9899 9877 has been subtracted?"
"Yes Doctor. "
"What about the DNA supplies for the Back to Life operation?"
"Here Doctor. As well as neurobiological chips for the best anesthesia of the subject's dreams, of course "
Aurelie Asseo 2011-2020
