”So what are we up to today Stella?”
Stella looked over at the dark cloud at her side choosing to ignore that she’d never given her her name. How many ways were there to find out who a person was these days? For all she knew this gothic queen could have been some freak from an online chat room, an obsessive dyke who’d gotten a crush on her and decided to seek her out. If that were the case she'd be disappointed.
"Well, today I'm going to go tend to my garden. I may not get a chance to again."
The other woman tugged at the bag she carried. "And this is what you use to tend it? It's heavy but it doesn't feel like tools."
Stella allowed herself a small, private smile. "There are ways to tend a garden that are much more fitting than gorging at it with a bunch of blunt tools. I prefer a more creative method."
The other woman shrugged her shoulders as if to say "whatever" and they continued up the hill in silence.
Though the woman was a stranger, her company was surprisingly comforting. For the first time in awhile Stella felt as though she were hanging out with a friend. Friends were a luxury that belonged to her at some time in her life. A time that seemed very ancient and almost surreal these days. Her friends hadn't left her though, or been cruel and turned from her when her problems surfaced. No, it was nothing so after-school-specialish. She had shut them all out till none were left. She'd done very much the same thing to her family. Better to let go of them so she would not fear missing them when she left.
The other woman's perky voice cut into her thinking. "So where are you going?"
Stella looked up, confused for a moment "What? What do you mean?”
The other woman's smile deepened. "You said you wouldn't be able to tend to your garden. I was wondering where you're going? If you don't mind me asking?"
Stella shrugged. "Just going away. I'm not sure where. I'm not sure anyone knows where exactly till they get there. I mean, I don't have any guides to help me out and the people who are already there aren't telling anyone what it's like. They're kind of selfish that way." she paused, then pointed. "My garden is just past that weeping willow tree there."
The last part of the hill was quite steep. It had both young women tugging at the long weeds growing out of the ground to help pull their way to the top. With bit of effort on both their parts, they got to there. What lie beyond was like another world.
Stella's garden was a small square of land circled by a string of weeping willow trees. The long drooping branches of the trees seemed to guard it and hide it from the world beyond. It gave it a sense of being quite private. The garden itself was what caught the eye: A spiraling array of flowers, in every color and breed under the sun. They were not planted with any regard to that color or their breed of flower. They grew wild even though many of these flowers were far from wild anymore.
Stella beamed. "Quite a sight eh? I get a five finger discount at the local plant shop. No one says anything about it. I mean who's going to chase a girl stealing seeds when you've got some guy selling crack in front of your store? The only problem is I can't really pick and choose what I get." She looked around at the riotous array of colors. "I used to try and plant things with some sort of organization but finally I just gave up."
Stella reached into a bag she had been carrying, withdrawing a slim paper package. She used her teeth to tear the top of the package open and then flung the contents over the flowers and grass of the garden.
"Let nature do with them what it wants right? That's how it was meant to work.”
The other woman laughed softly. It sounded more like a sigh, sweet and slow passing through her lips.
"You remind me of someone I know, though your feet are better planted on the ground." she said. "Still, I almost expect to see a butterfly on your shoulder." she paused, looking sad for but a moment.
The look of sadness made Stella feel all the more somber. "What is it?" Stella asked.
The other woman knelt down, gently pulling a blush colored bloom to her nose. She was careful not to pick the flower. "How long have you been dying Stella?"
Stella did not answer. Instead she quietly moved to take the old army bag from the other woman's hands. She pulled the zipper down and rummaged around inside it for a moment. Finally she withdrew a plum colored velvet coat, which she pulled over her torso. She also withdrew a hat that looked like a top hat but was somewhat shorter. On one side two scarlet colored silk roses were sewn. On the other side a massive black feather sat. She sat the hat atop of her head and gave the top a tap. Lastly she withdrew a book.
"What do you think friend? Do you like Shakespeare? How about a Midsummer Night's Dream? Something comical... if we can get such humor today."
The other woman sat down, folding her legs Indian style. She nodded her head "Sure. I've always been quite fond of Shakespeare. Is this how you tend your garden then?"
Stella nodded. "Yes. I think my voice has more effect on them than any of the chemical based flower foods. And as a colorful blooming plant I feel my style helps me blend in among them. You know? I am but a tall moving flower among the short and still ones."
Stella began to read from he book. Loudly at first, but slowly her voice started to soften till she was simply silent. She looked looked over at the other woman with eyes very serious and sad.
"I found out I had cancer two years ago. They said all treatments would help but most likely not cure. Half of the treatments seemed worse than the disease. At first I was willing to do anything, I mean I wanted to live. But after awhile I realized I wasn't living, not truly living when I threw up after they pumped all those chemicals into my body or living when I sat in my bathroom crying because my hair was falling out in clumps..." absently she ran her hand through the shortcut crop of amber hair on her head. "So I decided to stop treatment... it's my life or lack of one, I had that right. My parents argued against it but the doctors had made it clear that nothing was going to save me in the end. They were just attempting to prolong the inevitable. My doctor said I'd have maybe half of a year, at the most a full year. And it was an alright year... until I started hurting. It's like I can feel the cancer in me. It's like corruption..." her voice trailed off.
Stella moved through the flowers and sat down next to the other woman. The stranger took her hand, offering a smile that held no sympathy, just understanding. Stella tried to continue.
"I decided I just couldn't live with it anymore. I've been thinking of ways to take my life, but I know I won't. I was raised to believe that suicide would send your soul to hell with no reprieve. It's not even that really. Life is sacred and I should appreciate every moment. I feel like I'd be thumbing my nose at the graces that gave me this life; as little of it though I've had. So I just spend my time praying that death will find me before I get so sick that I end up in the hospital. If that happens I could end up on machines. I can't bare the idea of that. I'd rather take a rest among my flowers here and never wake up. I'd be happy becoming apart of my secret garden."
The other woman's pale hand let go of Stella and moved to touch the young woman's cheek. Her cheeks were hot and flushed, being fueled by all the things that were scaring her. She wasn't afraid of dying, she was terrified of having to live this way. So sad that there were things that could do this to a beautiful creature, but that was nature. As Stella had said, nature, do as it will.
The stranger's hand moved to the back of Stella's neck, gently pulling the girl's head towards lap. Stella adjusted herself so that she laid against the ground, her head cradled against the black velvet clad lap of this odd woman. Stella relaxed, comforted.
"When I was little I was terrified of death, mostly because I thought death would be painful. If death should come to me in my sleep then it might not be so bad. That comforted me for a little while. But then one of my cousins once told me that if I died in my sleep the sandman would get my soul. That terrified me even more. I mean, the idea of the sandman, a creature that pours sand into your eyes to make you sleep! W
ho thinks things like that are cute fairy tales for children?"
Stella couldn't see it, but this question made the other woman smile.
"Anyway, I got over all that, lost my fear of dying. The only thing that really mattered was that I get to live my life some what before death found me. I'd like to have lived more... I'd like to have a lot of things different, but I've got no time for regrets... not now. And honestly? I don't regret one single moment. They're my moments and even when they were bad I'm glad they were mine."
Stella looked up at the stranger who was looking intently at the flowers around her as she held the other woman in her lap. There was something so sweet about her, something that made Stella quite happy to relax there, with her head on her knee as she tried to ignore the pain that was slowly coming back to her.
Stella's hand moved to touch her stomach. It had gotten to feeling sour all of a sudden. She sighed and tried to keep relaxed, but the more she tried, the tighter the knot in her stomach became. On top of that she felt very sleepy, like a nap was going to catch her before she could stop it. Her lids began to droop, and there was a buzzing in her ears. Beyond the buzzing was that soft laugh that sounded more like a sigh. It was the other woman's voice cutting through the buzzing sounds.
"Let yourself sleep Stella. I promise the sandman will leave you alone."
There was only a moment of panic as Stella tried to decide if what she felt was her agitated body finally giving into sleep. One moment she was all tensed muscles and an ever growing buzz in her ears, the next moment there was silence and her body felt light. There was no more pain. There was no more worry. Her eyes came open and she looked into a body engulfing brightness all around her. It felt more peaceful than falling comfortably asleep in her own bed.
"Now that didn't hurt so much did it? You snoozed through most of it."
Stella looked towards the voice. The strange woman made of thunderclouds and sweet smiles was looking down at her. She was the only thing keeping her company in that comforting brightness. She then realized her strange companion made the concept of death more of a noun and not a verb.
"I'm dead?" she whispered. She sat up and looked at the stranger. "You finally answered my prayers..."
The strange woman shrugged her shoulders. "Yes, you're dead, but I didn't answer your prayers. You've been close all day. I just came to find you, that's what I do. I decided that I wanted to get a chance to visit your garden first. I don't do that with everyone."
Stella smiled, even found it in her to laugh a little. The stranger extended her hand towards the amber haired girl, all smiled. "Stella, take my hand."
* * *
Tell me the content of your heart. Say it in short phrases, in rhyme or in reason, sing it to me as a melody. Offer to me all those things hidden away from private consumption. Give to me the color of your character, the secret name of your demons, what you think of when it rains. Give yourself over to me. Offer me a place to rest my head against your chest, let me feel your arms around me. Take me. Take me over completely.
Baptista
The day is a Sunday. The placement of the day where things are slowly slipping into night mode. When the sky appears to bleed a little bit like a woman in cycle. You should know I compare most things to a woman, it’s just my way. I could say it’s because of the way my mother spoke as she raised me, though I think it’s just one of my many habits. And I am a woman of many habits. Like smoking, like finding myself getting vulgar when I talk around men, like the way I sometimes forget myself to a situation while I never forget my manners. I know I’m influenced greatly by my Russian birth and heritage, but I can’t discount my life of travel from place to place, even as a child. As for introductions, Baptista is the name given to myself, not the name given to me. It is the only name you will ever really need know me by. This is a random start to a random moment in my life.
It's evening now, in some hotel where the snow outside is keeping us in, and keeping those already inside from going out. As a result, my room is still being cleaned from the previous occupant who only ten minutes ago finally decided to brave the weather. As I wait, one of my prized possessions sits next to me, breathing heavy enough I might accuse her of snoring. My frostrós doesn't snore though.
Her name is Yukiko, though I'm not sure if the name was properly used in a traditional fashion by her parents. However, she's always been my Minka. We are all about names her and I, and there are a dozen names between us. A woman should have a special name for each person special to her and she them. Just as I am my lover Sill's Devotchka, and I am my father's Greta, to Minka I will always be Dimitra, the name my mother gave me but which I never let her call me. Only Minka whispers this name, only when we're alone and close to one another.
I met Minka when I first came to the West from Canada. I was trying to adjust to the warmth of the weather after having been in the cold of a deep frost. I was pale, paler still because I had dyed my naturally red hair the very whitest of blondes. My goal had been to look as though I bathed in bleach. I wore glosses instead of true colors, and dabbed glitter at the corners of my pale eyebrows. The only true color I wore was a berry shade which looked like a wine stain on my eyelids and the middle of my bottom lip. Minka thought I looked like a snow imp, but it took a long detailed conversation from her to come to this one little statement. A history of dead Nordic ideology and masochistic literature all to simply say you look like a snow imp and I like that. I fell in love with her immediately. My new friend then, friend forever.
I would run into her often when I was down by the library. Most of my things at that time were scattered in lock boxes in places of public transit. I had no place for myself, however, so I stuck near the library. There were always students about, people to eavesdrop on, so I could sort of learn my way around the city as I tried to get myself settled. It was also close to the peepshow I worked at four nights out of the week.
I remember when I told Minka this the first time. She had asked how I was making my money. I told her I put on some barbie doll make-up, used a wig, and made pouty faces in a room with four other women as these little windows would open and close. No contact and in most cases you couldn't even see the person's face. It was like making an erotic show for your bedroom mirror, something I was practiced at by the age of thirteen.
She wasn't shocked, just fascinated in her odd little way. She asked if I liked it and all I could tell her was it was like a cake job at a store. It wasn't a lot of effort, it gave me a nice check, but I didn't exactly enjoy going to work and often I was bored. The other women made it entertaining. I liked watching the other women dance and Minka liked that answer. It led into one of our many conversations about how women are natural around one another in every way; how no type of affection really seems out of the ordinary. After that conversation, she offered me a night in a warm bed. If anyone else had offered me such, I would have thought it a hand out, or suddenly been struck by how pathetic my situation was. I mean, I was homeless, the ultimate sign of poverty in America, right? But I felt neither pathetic or impoverished. I always likened it to simply being a gypsy. I made do with what I had, I moved as I wished. Leases and man-made structures gave me no sense of security. Only the knowledge that I could go where I pleased, when I pleased, gave me comfort. This too she understood, even though she didn’t practice such ideas.
This was ten years ago I think. In that time I have never known a more unique woman than my Minka. Sometimes she's like my personal geisha, sometimes a porcelain doll crafted by an eccentric's hands. She's worldly and blessed with her own erratic way of thinking. And sometimes she's just a flustered young woman happily at odds with the world she resides in.
I once had a dream where Minka, who looks faintly Asian from her father, was pale like the color of buttermilk. At her eyes, her lips, her cheeks was the most delicate of ice blue coloring, like an ice artist set to her make-up. Her black hair was woven with silk strands the shades of winter. And she wore this beautifully ela
borate prom dress, or wedding dress, also made of winter hues. Atop it all she wore a small tierra of ice as she was the princess of snow.
In this dream she was walking across a river made of snow and her crystal slippers made no mark no matter how hard she stepped. She was walking towards a field where cold, large, war weary deities were clunking one another over the head again and again. There were no ice giants, they were long dead. The Valkyries above the battle were nothing more than harpies with wings, so they couldn't even sway Minka's attention. She passed through the dropping hammers and battle cries, leaving them all behind because the world was white in front of her. A white palate painted with all those subtle winter shades She kept walking till her whole form simply became one with the ice. Somewhere on the other side of this ice a child found a doll in the frost. A little Yukiko made of porcelain and silks, a small hint of a smile playing at the edges of her painted lips.
When Jupiter Sighs Page 8