A Crossroad South of Utopia
To listen to while reading the story:
Track 1: What Chopin Told Me
Track 2: A Crossroad South of Utopia (Main Theme)
No matter the passage of time, some conversations remain exactly where you left them – suspended in dusty sunbeams above a side alley bistro. A wall of climbing roses, witness to this intimate lovers’ world where everything changes with the seasons – except hearts that speak in the language of summer.
Unfortunately, those kinds of dialogue are not the ones we have…not in recent years anyway.
Ours tend to be confined to a low-lit room at 3am, a waning moon filling up what remains of a paltry and hollow existence. Our conscience plays out a long and arduous script, while our alter ego sits on the far side of the bed, inebriated and bitter over all the love one has been forsaken since childhood.
In short, it’s a dark and intricate scene, much like life itself – a stream of consciousness if you wish, worthy of being captured dramatically on film or perhaps by the eye of a poet – those rare souls hidden from society who understand the circadian rhythms of raw desire contained within four walls. I swear this room has a pulse of its own…even my shadows become more complicated trying to find their way back to the sun. Sometimes, they even strangle each other with vexing questions that bear no answers. Many call this state, “entrapment”. I call it choice – a mind that falls asleep each night on a stack of existential poetry after sharing a bottle of Cabernet with Sartre. Yes, I’m serious. We talk, he and I, about everything from the Law of Attraction to the Fifth Dimension, and although theories will always be theories, I still hope he is right about one, that “life begins on the other side of despair.”
For years, I’ve been trying to simplify this existence to black and white – pure vintage, softened by yesterday’s light, drifting between piano keys and the salvation of ink on a plain page… I’m listening to Chopin again, and scratched 80s vinyl – (still boxed with those keepsake mementos of a life lived in the name of romance) – a little recklessness stitched together in pretty words, and in the background, my own tiny voice faintly heard via the archaic sound of a typewriter…which isn’t so bad. If by fate, these robes of solitude should meet your own, somewhere out there, I am no writer, but I have been buried in a tomb of manuscripts for more years than I care to recall. Literally, I’ve died the most glorious metaphorical death known to humankind.
But today seems like a good day for coming back to life. The gardens are in full bloom and I’m finally stepping outside those Victorian stucco walls. My skin takes well to the humidity, and so far, I’m surviving the solar glare and white noise that permeates my desultory state of being. My hands still tremble, yet mood-wise, I am anesthetized by that mindspace of ambedo above a somewhat fancy side alley bistro. You needn’t know how I got here … the fact I am breathing in a guilt-free zone, al fresco, is in itself, a rare milestone. I watch sunlight curve around an emerald Pellegrino bottle – the look of lucid memories in the making.
A stranger’s cigarette smoke marries my somewhat vivid imagination and suddenly – the world is turning in slow motion – an interrupting breeze redirecting every thought towards you. I coin this place a seventh heaven, where coffee vapours meet a disturbance of dove wings, above. I mean to some – those could well be the wings of an angel – a rare blessing of “inspiration” in an age when feelings and creativity are sadly suppressed. I swear I hear a familiar ballad playing on an analogue radio, which in my mind still works like it did back in those sun-filled days when everyone was high on a four-letter-word; the one which the “Beatles” song claimed was all you needed.
The July heat is ousting shorter hemlines too, and with this, the city’s true character reveals itself. The air is thick with a unique aphrodisiac– musky cologne of males mixing with the heady perfume of females. One would recognize its pungency as it encroaches upon one’s introverted efforts to remain in wordless isolation. From Portobello to the neon lanes of Soho, the city is humming with a brutal kind of sexuality: neither subtle, nor inviting, to those who pass life as voyeurs behind steamy cafe windows.
Through rose tinted glasses, it is arguably a city of stylized dreams. Every West End precinct decorated with ladies sporting perfect chignons, their flawless berry lips submerged in affogatos, in-between bouts of upper echelon dialogue – and here I am, a disheveled mess of a creature, writing in a smoke-filled daze, while watching the world vicariously through your eyes. Forgive me, for I am no writer, but to not write only aggravates my “condition”. Naturally, my leather journal keeps me company like that best friend I never had – absorbing without choice – whatever this desultory mind dictates. And in my defense, a restless mind is a dangerous thing. We often write unaware, choking on the fog of oblivion and age-old dreams. But it’s never purely about the words – just some beautiful distraction to survive another day alone in a dying world, while pondering your life purpose.
And by life, I mean the longer narrative – where you delve heart-first into a person’s psyche. Not this meek smile you see when I introduce myself, but the real flawed creature behind the facade. The one who sleepwalks those vast fields of dead wildflowers where the storms of discontent had lashed out unexpectedly when your back was turned. And if you care to explore further, behind that field, the cemetery where love was last seen posing as a ghost at midnight… Then, there’s the infamous river and its cold black waters, which even the living daylights dare not enter. Those depths of terror that drown even the strongest person. Eerie depths which many acclaimed artists have tasted – but never lived to tell the tale. Their iconic tragedies glorified posthumously, and it makes you wonder – whether death is what it takes to be heard.
I’m not romanticizing the truth. We all know the sky is falling and sanity seeks another place to drown out the news. Every station is a deluge of deceit, that funnels the future into a tiny well-oiled vessel for an elite few. Whatever pulp fiction dominates the airwaves, the signal of morality is slowly losing strength, to the scathing hum of propaganda.
People like us have nothing to lose. We just want to smash that vessel, witness the joy of real healing and justice, as it floods like a bloody sunset across every mile of regret. The rebirth of crimson passion for all the wandering souls – even if for just one breathless moment. And I’m here because I see that fire in every dusk from my corner of this bistro. The paisley walls become alive with silhouettes of diners – voices murmured like a 1950’s new-wave movie. For a heartbeat or three I become part of the scene: couples swooning over candlelight. Like a wallflower, I play along silently to their sensual dialogue.
You can envision half of Paris in their eyes – art galleries, lavish matinees and a wealth of literature housed in gothic architectured libraries: enough magic to send a lady to the moon and back. By night, this city is vintage theatre thriving in a postmodern era…Everyone’s pride comes suitably dressed for the occasion. Those girls in flowing dresses, hell – they dance with real intention. I’m not here for conversation, just a slow night of whiskey and sentiments. One more drink, and I’ll leave in-love, again.
And what is not to love when summer has arranged everything in favour of falling. Nights, already warmed by the fragrant fire of eventide. A fortune made simply by showing up with a willingness to walk barefoot in jasmine, wearing nothing but the decadent glitter of fireflies and an air of entitlement, listening to charming personas recount the greatest romance of our time. As if it were that simple.
I confess. I am not a writer, but I wrote an excerpt of a feeling. If you dare to read the longer narrative, maybe you’ll see what I see. I would hope it feels a little uncomfortable (like any good story should). You read the title and it catches your eye – a little provocative maybe, then comes the prologue which is essentially just foreplay…a seductive kiss planted in the hollow of her neck…teasing the curve of her collarbone before those bedroom eyes undress every secret you’ve ever kept.
They say, it’s all in the choice of words…a soft-spoken touch in a vulnerable area, the enticement of imagery, metaphorical lingerie…visual stimuli… If it arouses, you’re there, on a bed of fantasy, as words become an almost sinful pleasure, begging you to keep reading.
And isn’t that what we all desire? An intense euphoria shared with another who in turn feels the blood-rush of falling? If the story truly compels, maybe you’ll fall deeply…knowing as I do, one may never recover from this wild exotic state. It infects you like a fever that doesn’t break. And if you’re lucky, you find that antidote that stops you from dying. And this is why I always write the ending first:
That someday, when hearts stray for better or worse
only time can tell the fate of a flower
in a world infected by summer fever
how contagious the beauty of a soul lost to another
sometimes, there is no antidote
one simply waits for the end to come
…every breath drawn between now and then
a beautiful curse called poetry.
After all, crying needs no rehearsal…tears are poised to fall anytime into that poignant and surreal final scene – one that Jean-Luc Godard would have been proud of, perfect in all its abstractions… an alternate reality. Even God might smile if he were watching. I catch my image in the glass screens wasted as the hours that have passed. I never missed a thing, nor will I ever. It could be a decade from now, and this mise en scène, this film, will never expire. I’ll wait for you through endless summers, just like this one, until I languish, my hands left holding ash of autumn pyres.
I am not a writer, but I wrote something. I wish you were here to listen…or maybe you are…amongst all these lonely people, foolishly dressed up for some grand non-event. I’ll just make pretend and read it anyway:
The scene fades to black
like any other day in this life
and I lie here replaying last lines
defying sleep
yet wanting to rest
if only it be a place of dreams
eyes close behind city lights
but so many words linger
somewhere, faint music is already ushering in tomorrow.
And I lie in stillness
embalmed in jasmine and solitude
and though I myself
have not the words in my hands
they do…
the poets of the world
beyond my window
bringing starlight to every room
painting love as it is
I listen as they whisper
all those exquisite things I long to tell you.
The problem is, I’ve never been good with words. Not when it really mattered anyway. Maybe by some great miracle, I’ll wake one fine day and you’ll call me by my pen name, this story of my life, published. I’ll settle down, out there, on that rustic porch swing, admiring the stars over the barley fields and all this will be a testament to every beautiful and ephemeral thing I’ve encountered.
But tonight, I’ll just blame the wine as I close my eyes and imagine your scent embedded in next season’s blossoms. I’ll just light up, inhale, and feel…feel the emptiness ensue, as suits and gowns leave this mad excuse of a party. They say exit stage left, but some of us will always stay put in full costume, holding onto a character more glamorous than ourselves, waiting for those “mid-air conversations” to be continued. Some wait a lifetime in limbo… just like the waning moon suspended above this empty Pellegrino bottle. A faraway source of light filling up a common emptiness. Ironic, isn’t it? How the most beautiful things in seemingly high-up places are also the loneliest.
Well, it’s too late for anything now – people have all gone and everything is closing – except this journal. There’s nothing profound left to write, just a balcony overlooking the vacant streets of imagination…and that is fine with me. Maybe this fever will eventually break. Until then, I’ll wait it out and say goodnight. Sleep if you must…but forget-not foolish acts of beauty. Forget-not that one dream that keeps you living….ladies and gentleman, people…dear hidden souls of society. Whoever you are – I wish you happiness…and I wish you love.
~ END ~
Vikki C. reads: A Crossroad South of Utopia:
Vikki C., is a British-born writer, poet and musician from London whose literary works are inspired by science, ecology, existentialism and the human condition.
She is the author of The Art of Glass Houses (Alien Buddha Press, 2022) – a chapbook of prose poems exploring the liminal landscapes of memory, heritage, art and the metaphysical.
Vikki’s poetry and stories are widely published, both in print and online journals and anthologies. Her recent work appears or is forthcoming in EcoTheo Review, Nightingale & Sparrow, Black Bough Poetry, Acropolis Journal, Fevers Of The Mind Poetry & Art, Ice Floe Press, Ellipsis Zine, DarkWinter Literary Magazine, Across The Margin, The Write-In (National Flash Fiction Day), Literary Revelations, Loft Books, Lazuli Literary Group, Origami Poems, Noctivagant Press and other venues.
As a musician and spoken-word artist, Vikki’s writing, spoken poetry and compositions have contributed to various audio collaborations. In 2022, her voice and poetry were featured on Iambic Beats’ ‘NeurOnFire’ album – a collaborative spoken-word/music project aimed at raising awareness of mental health among young adults.
Vikki has also lived and worked in Asia and attributes her diverse artistic perspectives to these cross-cultural influences.
Find her on Twitter at @VWC_Writes and listen to her music at Vikki C. Music: https://on.soundcloud.com/EiVjm
Art and layout design by robert frede kenter (c) 2023.
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