Draft 3.7 In the works
N’deen Tarwater did not want to quibble with intrigues, seemingly again struck at a revolving glass threshold, that sealed the in from the out.
An ever rotating bridge of sighs that sprang before her, a revolving door both effuse and capricious, a door that sang with death, with confiscation and disintegration – both lethal and glorious.
N’deen tried to see its unimaginable terror and heartbreak as something more than just her own, as something of a shared right night flight quite etc. Whose sums of nature she could not mysteriously deign to disown.
A bee showed up in her apartment hallway, the bee was hovering up and down and back and forth, over the near century old speckled linoleum. As if nosing about airy slants and knolls for something not yet found.
Suddenly it seemed to take notice of her height and took to the wing and began to circle up around her —
The elevator opened, N’deen ran in. And pressed the button and backed into the corner and whispered please god, don’t come in.
It was a beautiful thing. Had a long thinly bent fuzzy striped tail and flew as if heavy with the weight of itself, had amber tinted translucent wings. A Queen? in November, huh?
N’deen had a thing about bees. As they carried with them in their hearts and treads both a readiness to swarm and buzzing heads.
It ticked her off and then it all came flooding back – fiery, ferocious, cloy and excessively dear.
That thing. That dirty rotten indigenous thing. That blew open in the flesh of her brain, every time she thought of him, went near him, every moment became suddenly open to possibility of sign.
Its contamination so vital, so loose caboose, so vital, its onset – left her at gasp with horror and fascination, and animal eariness.
When love is something more than itself, when it encompasses so much more than just itself.
But wagers after breadth, visits with a startling explosion of vision, from deep within a prison of empathy and reticence.
And all ploys, all plots seemingly undo themselves like Gordian knots amid a mysterious onset of crown gall – something at wounds in roots stimulating preposterous growths, suddenly alls in, after overtaking limits – especially what are impossible limits, that shake a soul to its planetary core.
Machinations defiantly bordering on a dawning disbelief, opposites contracting, a vibratory estrangement defiant of being contained by any particularity of faith.
Voices pressing in, ruthless, demanding , visions falling in on each other. And N’deen unable to abstain.
Mischief broke loose – transgressing moderation, breaking with modesty or prudence, impulsive, running afoul –
N’deen was an innocent, with respect to the infiltration of such bold currency. Faith was unquestioned where she came from.
So she questioned it mercilessly. And an increasingly wicked innocence grew everyday more and more wildly astonished, its dissilience inseverable, suspiciously insistent, questionable, dumbfounding.
And yet, so very sweet, revelatory, unruly, defiant.