And so he stood. One man, against the ocean. And why not?
He -had- stood. One man, against all of Troy. What was the ocean, to the walled city?
What was the ocean, to Odysseus?
King-soldier, with his future laid out before him, a tangled net filled with bones; thick, with glory. Odysseus faced the sea.
But then the water is not just, the water.
The world around him is an arc. A spray. It begins in the waves, mirroring form without meaning, slashing upwards. Green that is dark against the pale earth moves onwards to its own heartbeat, slamming shore with vital rhythm. Earth is caught in the motion, rock become cliff-face, pattern holding, chalk bluff rising, Odysseus standing. Alone.
The crest of the horizon holds him, and in an instant, perception changes, and he stands Upon. No longer held. Not supported, but conquering. Not aided, but submitted to. King-soldier, in the arc of the world.
He has fought battles to the pulse of these waves, he has leveled cities. But it has never sung in him as it sings to itself. He has never cast aside brother-ally and stood alone to watch it race (in circles). He does now.
No other stands with him. It is a distinction of more than space. More than poise. He is the immortal cast of his features, spattered out, like paint on an undying canvas, he is perpetually over described. And beautiful.
He does not speak, for a time. He does not think. Odysseus does nothing at all. Men mourn around him, Achilles dead, so many dead, but no tear does Odysseus give way to, no smile and no shout. He is anchored, without meaning to be, he is beyond compassion or concern. He is become the blank slate of so many tired metaphors, he is waiting as only things that are empty are able.
He does not wait for long.
She. He. A Thing. Is, Ea, Id. Books with blank pages do one thing only, they want. Author, substance, passion and meaning. They want. They Desire. And Desire hears them.
This one of the Endless, this miraculous creature moves like a shark in an ocean of glass. Too easy a comparison to be spoken aloud, the thought runs along the ground before Desire, and no one says a thing.
Not even Odysseus, still standing in silence. Still waiting and wanting for Her. Him. It.
Desire curls slow about him, completing the arc of the world. Desire's fingers move through him, and suddenly he has words on his face, his skin, inked as surely as a scribe's life work, Desire fills him to the brim with what he must do. Untangling the net of his future, old man on the docks, old temptress.
Odysseus sees, of course, what is happening. He knows. How could he not? What are gods, to Odysseus, if not known? He is cynical in the divine, too much done and given and taken away. He knows.
But for an instant. For a moment, he does not care. Mindless, in a second. Planless, just briefly. Wits bent for wit's potential, he lets a thing happen to gift him with story. He lets pale fingers rework his weave.
He lets the fingers spill out of his mouth, the bent wrists clouding up from within him, speaking words that were whispers a moment ago.
"I. Have done this."
And in a sentence, Odysseus has doomed a journey.
The water, is not just the water. The water has faces it hides. Poseidon never sleeps, he crashes, he breathes, he exhales deeply on the beach, but he does not Not listen. Not hear.
He listened when the prophet warned Greek's enemy, and he choked the future from the sage.
Now this. This! Poseidon spits his reply to all that is unsaid in Odysseus diatribe (unspoken).
A god's reply is not said in words, it is not made in the mind or throat. It sinks in like rain in a drought. It is that which mortal man fears will flood given the chance.
It sobs out of Odysseus in tears for the deaths of men that he has spoken for.
King-soldier and standing.
Alone.
He -had- stood. One man, against all of Troy. What was the ocean, to the walled city?
What was the ocean, to Odysseus?
King-soldier, with his future laid out before him, a tangled net filled with bones; thick, with glory. Odysseus faced the sea.
But then the water is not just, the water.
The world around him is an arc. A spray. It begins in the waves, mirroring form without meaning, slashing upwards. Green that is dark against the pale earth moves onwards to its own heartbeat, slamming shore with vital rhythm. Earth is caught in the motion, rock become cliff-face, pattern holding, chalk bluff rising, Odysseus standing. Alone.
The crest of the horizon holds him, and in an instant, perception changes, and he stands Upon. No longer held. Not supported, but conquering. Not aided, but submitted to. King-soldier, in the arc of the world.
He has fought battles to the pulse of these waves, he has leveled cities. But it has never sung in him as it sings to itself. He has never cast aside brother-ally and stood alone to watch it race (in circles). He does now.
No other stands with him. It is a distinction of more than space. More than poise. He is the immortal cast of his features, spattered out, like paint on an undying canvas, he is perpetually over described. And beautiful.
He does not speak, for a time. He does not think. Odysseus does nothing at all. Men mourn around him, Achilles dead, so many dead, but no tear does Odysseus give way to, no smile and no shout. He is anchored, without meaning to be, he is beyond compassion or concern. He is become the blank slate of so many tired metaphors, he is waiting as only things that are empty are able.
He does not wait for long.
She. He. A Thing. Is, Ea, Id. Books with blank pages do one thing only, they want. Author, substance, passion and meaning. They want. They Desire. And Desire hears them.
This one of the Endless, this miraculous creature moves like a shark in an ocean of glass. Too easy a comparison to be spoken aloud, the thought runs along the ground before Desire, and no one says a thing.
Not even Odysseus, still standing in silence. Still waiting and wanting for Her. Him. It.
Desire curls slow about him, completing the arc of the world. Desire's fingers move through him, and suddenly he has words on his face, his skin, inked as surely as a scribe's life work, Desire fills him to the brim with what he must do. Untangling the net of his future, old man on the docks, old temptress.
Odysseus sees, of course, what is happening. He knows. How could he not? What are gods, to Odysseus, if not known? He is cynical in the divine, too much done and given and taken away. He knows.
But for an instant. For a moment, he does not care. Mindless, in a second. Planless, just briefly. Wits bent for wit's potential, he lets a thing happen to gift him with story. He lets pale fingers rework his weave.
He lets the fingers spill out of his mouth, the bent wrists clouding up from within him, speaking words that were whispers a moment ago.
"I. Have done this."
And in a sentence, Odysseus has doomed a journey.
The water, is not just the water. The water has faces it hides. Poseidon never sleeps, he crashes, he breathes, he exhales deeply on the beach, but he does not Not listen. Not hear.
He listened when the prophet warned Greek's enemy, and he choked the future from the sage.
Now this. This! Poseidon spits his reply to all that is unsaid in Odysseus diatribe (unspoken).
A god's reply is not said in words, it is not made in the mind or throat. It sinks in like rain in a drought. It is that which mortal man fears will flood given the chance.
It sobs out of Odysseus in tears for the deaths of men that he has spoken for.
King-soldier and standing.
Alone.