SOLAR FLARE
With thanks to Jordan and Kelly. The lyricists of "Turandot" were Giuseppe Adami
and Renato Simoni; the English translation is by Martha Gerhart.
*****
It's the dead of summer and I have a fire going in my fireplace.
If the neighbors have a problem with that, they can go to hell.
Puccini is on my radio tonight. Turandot. A woman enslaved by love taunts a
princess who fears it:
"Tu, che di gel sei cinta..." "You, girded by ice..."
I've been surrounded by ice, constricted by ice, for so, so long. Whatever goop
was passing for alien amniotic fluid. Snow. The helicopter that took us to New
Zealand. The hospital. The airport. Skinner's cool, concerned touch as he
divested me of my meager baggage. Mom's air-conditioned fingers cradling my
cracked face. Ice.
Before that, I knew the frigid aura of impending death and the clammy chill of a
child's life expiring in my arms.
The arctic blast of despair.
I cling to Mulder these days, the only warmth in my life coming from him.
Affection is wonderful kindling, and guilt the perfect accellerant. And I'm so
very cold.
Orange flames lick at the walls of the fireplace and at the journals which I've
placed in a tidy row under the logs. Neat, even in destruction, that's how I am.
My former life in tidy rows, consumed by fire. At least some part of me will be
warm.
My teenaged years disappear in bright red sparkles; medical school in a darker
red, the color of blood. No longer a part of me, they sizzle with the warmth I
am denied. Pop, pop, pop, like fireworks on New Year's Eve as I lay my past to
rest, signaling a renaissance. Or the sound of gunfire. The cracking of a sheet
of ice.
No matter how close I get to the fire in my apartment, my marrow is still cold.
I rub my hands together, Lady Macbeth needing not to remove blood but to make it
course warmly, comfortingly. Physical fire is not enough. I need Mulder. He is
Fire.
"...da tanta fiamma vinta..." "...conquered by so much burning passion..."
I am in love with Fire.
Sometimes luminous, sometimes searing, his blaze can be as all-consuming as the
sun or as quietly intense as a single candle in the darkness.
He illuminates my path; he blinds me.
He is as near as my own heart, this flickering flare. The fiery tendrils of his
soul call out to me, beckon me, entice me. "He will warm you," they whisper
above the crackling of their tempting gestures. "You will know no cold, no
darkness, only love."
The voice on the radio: "...l'amerai anche tu!" "...you will love him - you
too!"
But he is fire, and his love is immolation.
The radio is off before I realize that I've touched it, and I find myself
pulling a sweater over my shoulders. I look up at the moon. In pale contrast to
the vivid flames, cool blue light washes over me.
I think the moon loves me. The moon follows my path, cares for me, sacrifices
for me as it loves me from afar.
The moon is just like Skinner.
I know the moon is there by night; its silver light touches me like phantom
hands. I know the moon is there by day as well, invisible in the brightness of
that Other Fire. He is cool and distant as the moon, and as far beyond my mortal
reach.
I can hold the fire, love the fire, even though it will mean my extinction. It
is here and present.
But the moon is so far away...no matter how hard it tries, it cannot hold me,
cannot warm me. It can only watch as I love the fire and draw closer and closer
to it.
I think it is a sad thing, the moon. I wish I could slake its sadness with
kisses.
But it is so, so cold. I don't love it the way I love fire.
Puccini died before "Turandot" was completed. Others finished his story for him.
How poignant. How chilling. But I will finish my own story and turn away from
the cold.
I need fire.
Stockinged feet drag along the carpet, friction warming my toes until they're
close enough to the not-Mulder-flame. I pick up my tea from the mantel and sip
at it. Liquid warmth follows a course downward, downward, touching the inside of
my body with much-needed heat. Everything is warm but my heart.
I hear the knock on my door, but I cannot bear to leave the shimmering warmth,
even for an instant. After a moment I hear a key in the lock and hear a familiar
voice call my name.
Only now can I step away from the flames and, moth-like, open my wings and fly
into the inferno.
*****
Feedback is always welcome at marguerite@swbell.net
With thanks to Jordan and Kelly. The lyricists of "Turandot" were Giuseppe Adami
and Renato Simoni; the English translation is by Martha Gerhart.
*****
It's the dead of summer and I have a fire going in my fireplace.
If the neighbors have a problem with that, they can go to hell.
Puccini is on my radio tonight. Turandot. A woman enslaved by love taunts a
princess who fears it:
"Tu, che di gel sei cinta..." "You, girded by ice..."
I've been surrounded by ice, constricted by ice, for so, so long. Whatever goop
was passing for alien amniotic fluid. Snow. The helicopter that took us to New
Zealand. The hospital. The airport. Skinner's cool, concerned touch as he
divested me of my meager baggage. Mom's air-conditioned fingers cradling my
cracked face. Ice.
Before that, I knew the frigid aura of impending death and the clammy chill of a
child's life expiring in my arms.
The arctic blast of despair.
I cling to Mulder these days, the only warmth in my life coming from him.
Affection is wonderful kindling, and guilt the perfect accellerant. And I'm so
very cold.
Orange flames lick at the walls of the fireplace and at the journals which I've
placed in a tidy row under the logs. Neat, even in destruction, that's how I am.
My former life in tidy rows, consumed by fire. At least some part of me will be
warm.
My teenaged years disappear in bright red sparkles; medical school in a darker
red, the color of blood. No longer a part of me, they sizzle with the warmth I
am denied. Pop, pop, pop, like fireworks on New Year's Eve as I lay my past to
rest, signaling a renaissance. Or the sound of gunfire. The cracking of a sheet
of ice.
No matter how close I get to the fire in my apartment, my marrow is still cold.
I rub my hands together, Lady Macbeth needing not to remove blood but to make it
course warmly, comfortingly. Physical fire is not enough. I need Mulder. He is
Fire.
"...da tanta fiamma vinta..." "...conquered by so much burning passion..."
I am in love with Fire.
Sometimes luminous, sometimes searing, his blaze can be as all-consuming as the
sun or as quietly intense as a single candle in the darkness.
He illuminates my path; he blinds me.
He is as near as my own heart, this flickering flare. The fiery tendrils of his
soul call out to me, beckon me, entice me. "He will warm you," they whisper
above the crackling of their tempting gestures. "You will know no cold, no
darkness, only love."
The voice on the radio: "...l'amerai anche tu!" "...you will love him - you
too!"
But he is fire, and his love is immolation.
The radio is off before I realize that I've touched it, and I find myself
pulling a sweater over my shoulders. I look up at the moon. In pale contrast to
the vivid flames, cool blue light washes over me.
I think the moon loves me. The moon follows my path, cares for me, sacrifices
for me as it loves me from afar.
The moon is just like Skinner.
I know the moon is there by night; its silver light touches me like phantom
hands. I know the moon is there by day as well, invisible in the brightness of
that Other Fire. He is cool and distant as the moon, and as far beyond my mortal
reach.
I can hold the fire, love the fire, even though it will mean my extinction. It
is here and present.
But the moon is so far away...no matter how hard it tries, it cannot hold me,
cannot warm me. It can only watch as I love the fire and draw closer and closer
to it.
I think it is a sad thing, the moon. I wish I could slake its sadness with
kisses.
But it is so, so cold. I don't love it the way I love fire.
Puccini died before "Turandot" was completed. Others finished his story for him.
How poignant. How chilling. But I will finish my own story and turn away from
the cold.
I need fire.
Stockinged feet drag along the carpet, friction warming my toes until they're
close enough to the not-Mulder-flame. I pick up my tea from the mantel and sip
at it. Liquid warmth follows a course downward, downward, touching the inside of
my body with much-needed heat. Everything is warm but my heart.
I hear the knock on my door, but I cannot bear to leave the shimmering warmth,
even for an instant. After a moment I hear a key in the lock and hear a familiar
voice call my name.
Only now can I step away from the flames and, moth-like, open my wings and fly
into the inferno.
*****
Feedback is always welcome at marguerite@swbell.net