The Phantom Of Her Blog
Her blog appeared with the ping of my phone, I transpierced, mesmerized, engulfed, navigating my way round the phantom, lifted, carried deep into the well, emerging, prancing over catwalks, springing toward the decaying spiral of dripping eloquence, up, up to the dome overlooking all that can be seen; an ancient river of wisdom.
You may visit Her Blog at: http://salmonsaladandmozart.com/?p=3133
Cloaked in a pall of heavy dark velvet I whisperingly stride one step at a time, retiring to a deep seclusion – pestilence raging most furiously abroad. A lighted candelabrum braced in my right hand and a brace of an august cask of ruby red wine under my left arm, and the stems of two globular glasses locked between the ring, middle and pointer fingers of the left hand, upward on the spiral staircase, short of the catwalks and turrets pausing on the castellated central middle floors of an imperial suite, a long and straight vista without colourful tapestries or golden ornaments, conceivably to find my phantasm therein; with neither desire of ingress or egress and without the folly of grief I pour the wine at a gray weathered farm table illuminated humbly by the candlelight. Somewhere without, a pendulum swings, it’s monotonous clang nearly muffled by the verdant canopy surrounding the stronghold. Tall in habiliments darker and more dense than mine own the phantom of the castle of my mind enters and silently we salute each other with a clink of the fine hand blown glass and then a long draft of the rich spicy shiraz, and with the music unhushed, toast again, paying tribute to dissolution at bay.
Dearest friend, dear Old Light,
From an open window, wide, of the tallest turret, in the northwest quadrant of the palace in my mind, as dusk settles, a pall shaken and spread over the landscape, I, standing at the round dark oak table with a myriad and multitude of uncommon literate minds, a herd not unfamiliar to you, gazing northward toward your Paris-like lighted studio and conscientious cupola, as the church bells toll, we, each, raise an orb of hand blown glass, damming a perfect pour of a blend of fine red wine, with layers of dark red fruit complimented by hints of vanilla and mocha, to salute you, your low talker, the folly, your steep spiral staircase and your celestial catwalk to the moon.
With some success, trying to get there, early,
“Truth is the bottom of a bottomless well.”
– Sebastian Venable
“Truth is the one thing I have never resisted.”
– Catherine Holly