The Western Gate

Lucid dreaming, one character I meet is oriental in appearance and says his name is Rumi, now I’m fully aware of the spiritual Islamic poet by that name, more this character says, like Rumi, we share the same birthday. However he looks as I say very oriental? I meet him in the garden of the secluded fenced off gardens that litter the posh parts of Kensington. When I awake I scribble down the notes of the discourse and more often than not weeks later when I return to gorge myself on the feasts of the past forget what the dream story was, even though I stare at the sentences I’d written and haven’t a clue now what the story was. One such note simply says, ‘haha, that funny man story set in the corner of a watering hole’… wtf… no idea….Luckily amongst the dozens of discarded notes I do remember many, this such one;-

Beauty and the Boast

The Rhetoric and confusion subsides and I am amongst a secluded and gated garden, the sort of garden in West London, padlocked and accessed only by the tenants of the five storey high maisonettes that surround the cropped and manicured oasis for them, and only them, to enjoy. But I am a rebel and a heathen and a cowan and a trespasser, and I’m here, and over there sat upon a bench overlooking some shrubs blooming with fragrant blossom an oriental looking man sits. I know him. We share the same birthday and he said his name was Rumi. He would tell me short stories, sometimes long if I could keep my attention fixed on the imagery arising from his tales.

“Over there,” he said pointing to the opposite bench, “used to sit a beautiful young lady, she had curves that aroused the tides of the moon and hair that billowed at the softest breeze. Her eyes would draw you into her, almost ensnaring and yet you would be in a place of comfort and stillness.”

Rumi squinted in the midday sun and pointed now to the fence behind the large shrub of Belladonna , “there,” said Rumi, ” is a bend and a twist in the barrier between the outside world, and this sacred space. And there would stand a young man who would gaze at the woman, at first with lust and then with what he could only describe as unflinching and obsessive love. One day, one brave day he made the assay into this world by breaching the barrier, and came upon the woman, who at first ignored him as she buried her head in a book that was bound as beautifully as she was dressed. He asked her what she was reading amongst the small talk of how wonderful the garden was and the weather and the flowers and other such trivia that really did no more than fill the time between an awkward silence and his nervous fumbling approach. 
She explained briefly the course of her book, a book on herbs and their properties and medicinal worth, or poison of course.
The luckless wayfarer remarked what fascinating subject it was, and that he, he lied, was also interested in suchlike, indeed, he lied, was why he so frequented this area, to look upon nature and her medicine and the chattering of birds.
The beautiful woman allowed him to continue and gave him little or no doubt that this interested her, and our tiptoeing wanderer upon the path saw at once the flesh of the fish hooked upon his snare. More he teased information from her and more he fed how much, too ! he likewise enjoyed such things, why what a coincidence to meet a likeminded… soul, ah yes, such things exist in harmony.

And so it was, day by day each breadcrumb laid by our hunter to that which he saw was delightful, that which he saw was innocent, that which in all his wonderings and dreams he wished to own, have and corrupt.

She sat there, her poise and grace, her scent, her perfect teeth and full bodied hair, her curves that danced the seven veils but for  the small walk up that path. Perfect in every way, manner or subjective art that anyone has ever created. She was beauty incarnate.

Now, our hunter, each day, little by little would enter via the broken threshold having spent all night enquiring into whatever she had told him interested her and would, that following day relay, as if the knowledge to him was always known, everything that he had researched. he were in fact the model to which, if she would, craft and create her perfect partner. If she adored the sound of a dog barking, yes, then maybe he would yelp whatever breed she so loved.

Without doubt, as things go, this means ought, they should be wed. For she, in his eyes was everything that he could imagine a princess and a queen to be. And he, by virtue of his industry and application, came across as the sort of man that reflected all her interests.

Married, so under the sun they were. And to the bridal suite the grand reveal. As he lay there upon the bed, his heart a racing, and she standing before, ready to stand before him, shed of all her finery, and her jewels, and her make up, and her eyeliner, and next off came the wig to reveal a scarse gnarled scalp, and then her teeth thrown out which now smiled a broken chain of rotted stumps, and so her dress and corset discarded, the tight waist ballooned in thick folds of freedom and surrender, her breasts sagged and collapsed and swang a rejoice of liberty from vanity, and now she spoke her same whispered tones but ne’er as submissive and fragile as she were, “‘We are alike, we cheat and lie, I am the mirage of what you say is beauty, and you dealt the hand that showed the fool who mimicked wisdom yet only for a fools sake”

I looked over to the wending bending broken fence. Was beauty ever the temptation, upon the belladonna, that bright berry, delicious, tempting.

Picture : Hecates Bouquet ~ Wenborn