Francine - harvest
I Blame the Dutch mpoetess
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Human Condition - Outtake
The pretty, pretty curve of his hip, when he draws up his knees. No, not to his chest - by the time they're that high, I'm too close, drawn in to stroke the tightened muscles, bend down to touch and lick at the sweet dark places they reveal. But when he's just sitting up, naked, knees half bent as he leans his arms on them and watches tv from the bed, then.

Then, as I stand across the room and look at him. The curve of his hip. Lightly tan, with a line, off center, where the inside shadow falls. Dark echo. Twin curves, really, even though I'm only seeing one side. They're shaped like the belly of a lute.

Like a lute? How old d'you think you are, Spike? Just a century older than him, not three.

But see, my grandmother had a lute. Didn't play it; wasn't exactly a proper occupation for a girl of her class, anymore --- but it was perfectly all right to *have* it, displayed on a little gold stand in the company sitting room. I used to trace the edge of it in the air, when we were visiting, and they left me to wander round by myself, while mum talked to her about money things I wasn't supposed to understand.

I was barely tall enough to reach the surface of the fussy old display table the thing rested on, and wouldn't have touched anyway; had my fingers slapped too many times early on, for touching. But I *wanted* to. Wanted to run my hand over the smooth curve of the luteback and see if that fragile wood felt as warm in my hand as it looked, glowing in the curtain-filtered English sun. Wanted to know what it sounded like, believing with the knowledge of the childish and the truly stupid, that if I could just touch it, beautiful music would pour out of the strings, even though I hadn't a clue how to play.

I don't care if it's too poetic. I came into this deal that way, remember? I just didn't know how to put the words together, back then.

I could say, his thighs are curved like the base of a pear. That's solid and twenty-first century for you, as much as anything. Fruit's timeless. But sometime when I wasn't looking, pear-shaped turned into a bad thing, so you'll be thinking he's fat, some black-furred grizzly bear, if I mention pears. Nah. He's big, but it's muscle beneath a layer of softness, and there's nothing on his body I'd ever want him to lose, not counting clothes. But you hear pear-shaped, and you think about some woman whining that they don't make dresses for people who look like her.

So no pears, even though for me, they mean market Sundays. Biting into tart golden skin, always expecting more sharpness inside, only to find the juice so shockingly sweet that it rolls down my chin as I suck at it, desperate for more.

Yes, I recognise the irony, thank you.

So... my lover has lute-shaped hips, when he bends them up to sit. That same golden curve, that same almost fragile look, for all the muscle, because bones beneath the skin break so easily, especially in Sunnydale. That same feeling that if I just place my hands there, feel the weight of that warm curve in my palm, the music will come.

Only now, I can. And it does.

zortified

2002-01-09 06:22 am (UTC) (Link)

Awwww. That's sweet. Like lute-juice.

mpoetess

2002-01-09 07:34 am (UTC) (Link)

Mmm. Lute-juice.


Peter Beagle has a bit in "The Folk of the Air" (his hero is a modern lute-player who gets drawn into the local version of the SCA) that I love:

"The lute grew warm in the sun, and smelled like lemons."

folk of the air

Anonymous

2002-01-09 11:41 am (UTC) (Link)

(I'm not sure from looking around if it's polite to post on a journal to which you haven't been invited, so forgive me if I'm committing a faux pas)

One of my favorite lines in that book is

"Let me remember this, please, when everything else goes let me remember a goddess laughing after love"

Which actually kind of reminds me of CG Spike. Of course, given how often CG Spike quotes Peter Beagle, it makes perfect sense that a Peter Beagle line should sound like Spike to me.

-deborah

Re: folk of the air

mpoetess

2002-01-09 12:12 pm (UTC) (Link)

Oh, post away!

My copy of FOTA is so well-loved, the last page is actually missing. I have to just *remember* that he decides to follow Briseis' nose, to pick a direction to go.

Just for sheer beauty of language, for phrases that stick and twist and turn in the mind, I have to say Beagle is my favourite author, closely followed by Charles deLint. Beagle is more whimsical, and I remember his words more. DeLint has a similar gift with poetic prose, but I don't come away remembering anything specific that was *said*. Just that while I was there, he held me pretty damn tightly.

Aiffe: "Maybe you're not a goddess after all. Maybe you're yust really, really old."

And Sia dances her into a circle, and has mercy.

cicirossi

2002-01-09 07:02 am (UTC) (Link)

Oh hon, that's lovely.

mpoetess

2002-01-09 07:51 am (UTC) (Link)

Thank ye.

The image actually came from looking at this, linked from Jane St. Clair's LJ.

squashed

2002-01-09 07:15 am (UTC) (Link)

Beautiful. Very vivid images.

mpoetess

2002-01-09 07:53 am (UTC) (Link)

Thank you.

I like fruit and musical instruments. (See quote above)
Fruit, because, well, it's fruit. It's plant sex. And instruments because I can't play anything aside from my throat, but I find them all so complex and pretty, almost alive.

wolfling

2002-01-09 07:39 am (UTC) (Link)

Absolutely gorgeous.

And I love the fact that Spike's finally found the words to express his poetry. :)

mpoetess

2002-01-09 07:57 am (UTC) (Link)

He just needed to figure out that he wasn't born under a rhyming planet.

I wasn't at all suprised that William was a poet. Spike's always wanted to make beautiful things. It's just that demon-Spike saw destruction as beautiful, and human Spike has a wider, if more confused, viewpoint.

/me has ideas about what he's been doing for a living, but I sorta need to write the intervening chapters.

Anonymous

2002-01-09 09:59 am (UTC) (Link)

Oh! Mmmm! Pictures! The Xanderbutt... and the pear, and the music, and the softness, there was this gorgeous five-sense symphony going on here. Well, four senses, but who's counting? Er, apart from me. Mmmmmm. Yummy. Thanks.
--benaresq

mpoetess

2002-01-09 01:39 pm (UTC) (Link)

;-)

Any time.

mabiana

2002-01-09 02:07 pm (UTC) (Link)

Beautiful!

ephemera

2002-01-09 02:53 pm (UTC) (Link)

*beautiful* - forbidden fruit and heart's desire, and so *rich*