Some days are like this, what else can I say? My friend’s funeral taking place today on the other side of the country. The housemate ill and running a high temperature, sleeping away the sad day.
A crazy house sparrow that keeps pecking at the study window because he or she adores an elusive reflection of him- or herself. The old classical Greek legend of the boy Narcissus who fell in love with an image of himself in a still pool. In the background stands Echo, pining in hopeless infatuation with Narcissus for whom his wavering fluid image on the surface of a still pool is the only self-object he can love. He can love only an insubstantial reflection of himself; she can only echo the words of love he utters to himself.
And I have creamy white and pale yellow narcissi blooming in the garden, ruffled petals tossing in the breeze, a thin sweet fragrance. Lovely innocent innocuous flowers and carrying their dark associations down through history, misplaced desire, longing, fixation,all that is not love and leads to death.
How the ancient myths still resonate.
Encircled by her arms as by a shell, she hears her being murmur, while forever he endures the outrage of his too pure image... Wistfully following their example, nature re-enters herself; contemplating its own sap, the flower becomes too soft, and the boulder hardens... It's the return of all desire that enters toward all life embracing itself from afar... Where does it fall? Under the dwindling surface, does it hope to renew a center? Translated by A. Poulin