- Books, Literature, and Writing
Chasing My Lovely Phantom Lover Ends
Almost six years ago, I joined HubPages. I cannot remember my first hub. I do hope to remember this one. In my six years time there is one thing that I have learned: there is an exact science in the designing and creating of a hub. The piece must be able to stand tested against guidelines, silent criticism and muffled praise it creates. That is a science that I understand. And yet, I know that it is what lies beneath Literary Science or any type of science that is the "foe" I've fought, chased, and grieved over since 1967. I did find out that my trek to seek her presence had bloodshed, gore and guts in the foggy, deceptive fairy tale stairway that leads down a sugary incline that without warning will turn to darkness wet, damp and seething with evil hands, eyes, icy breath from the abode from which I have either hid from or been chasing "her" shadow and that defined means, "the" girl I would have met, loved, adored, worshiped and possibly died for. Once in the summer of 1967, I saw "her" shadow as plain as the green grass in my yard. I knew it was "her" by her smile and how she didn't allow me to touch her or speak. Her appearing and vanishing, if measured, were faster than the twinkling of an eye.
"The" one, the only girl, purest of femininity in phantom form seemingly became my challenge. She was always in and out of sight like quicksilver, quick, shrewd and all the time smiling that Gypsy smile letting her full lips beckon me to just crawl into her presence liken to that of a starving lizard in the sweltry summer in Spain. Then in the twinkle of a moment "she" would leave for an uncertain measure of time. I would feel her touching my mortal heart causing the rhythm itself to slow, then surge. It wasn't until I came face-to-face with her again in 1971 that I saw more of the frozen gown she wore on her body that defined the word, "perfection." She stood gazing, silently smiling at me as I tried in vain to hide my trembling heart. Then she vanished either into or behind my dearest female friend who is still around.
After my dearest female friend and I graduated, I lost "her" trail, as it were, as if she were able to walk on clouds. It wasn't for Fate to move her into my view until a day or so ago when I was playing a dusty recording: "Deep Purple," by 60's brother and sister duo, the lovely April Stevens and Nino Tempo, I saw "her" again in the eyes of April Stevens. Yes, I saw my Phantom Lover-to-be in a slowed glimpse. I know that you, the reader, are drawing the possibly-true conclusion that I am bordering on insanity, but so what if I am? Some of this cold world's most creative people were walking around insane dressed in a beggar's cape or a monk's robe. This, my friend, I can prove.
Laugh if you like. Only God in His infinite existence can allow such a spirit as "her," the phantom lover to hurt me over and over at will. When I do reach the end of this hub, I will either drift downward into "her" hiding place well protected in a volcano wall somewhere in Malaysia. Or I will sit with apathy coursing through my veins and wait for "her" to end her trek of eluding and being an illusion to me.
So my sweet, Phantom Lover always within reach and always hiding underneath my next horizon, I surrender to you unconditionally. I am tired of watching my life drain down the sides of an Oak barrel that sits in the drip of an old house. Oh, my life's blood is what medical science (what a joke) call it, but with my cloak of peace, "apathy," I can enjoy what few moments I have saved for myself as I watch myself, now a ghostly image staring at and speaking in muted tones at me and I feel pity at how "she" has all but destroyed me.
I dare myself to stand on a brittle marble ledge while viewing minstrels, damsels in perfect dance, and platoons of faceless warriors with death in one hand and vengeance in the other all marching in perfection to my laughing eyes. Why can't this brittle ledge just collapse and allow my soul to be loose to fly to its blurry destination?
Let me talk for a moment while I wait for "her" to show up to see the final stand I am now making and to preserve what? To let what continue onward? Do you know? I don't. I ceased knowing years ago in a dusty promise with emptied glass smashed harshly upon a forgotten cowpoke's drinking table. But now I wonder if "she"is just counting the jealous moments, the free moments, until "she" appears in stolen light wearing a martyred whore's silky saloon dress to further show me pictures in her brown eyes of how much joy I have never touched much less found.
I should have grasped what "she" was scheming when I first read the lyrics to "Deep Purple," and "she" had taken up residence in those summertime supposedly first-time lover's lyrics. How greedy could this beauty be? But yet, to be fair, how smooth and soft to the touch could her shoulders be? Now I can only rest on a guess and an empty assumption at both.
My how she could tease with purple lightning bolts dancing inside her endless Gypsy brown eyes. "She" came slowly crawling onto my bed when I was in innocence as my mother's child. Like a non-poisonous serpent, friend to the farmer, "she" had the trolls fooled. "She" had my family (then) fooled also as she let her razors sink into my back in a painless motion. And my back had yet to have strength to bear the burdens that life was to cast at my feet. But did "she" whisper once, "sweetie, I will be your lover?" I despise the answer.
Now it's really a tough burden to describe. It's like "her" mimicking April Stevens' every word knowing that "it" was "the" illusive feeling that I not only needed, but sought like a fool riding a sword into a storm.
Phantom Lover-That-Was, I can go no further. I lay here in calm remission. Do what you will for it will not hurt me anymore. My dear dressed in fadeless brunette, there are literally no places inside me left to hurt. The easel is covered. Yes, covered although tattered.
That, my sweet lover now gone, will stand.
Listen to the lyrics
© 2016 Kenneth Avery