Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Cross-stitches that make flowers.


She was a good, Catholic girl from a good, Catholic family and that’s where a good writer would lose all interest. But then she was suddenly nineteen and beautiful and she posed for a Japanese man who brought his ink to Parisian painting and convinced a girl to marry him thirteen days after meeting her by making her a blue corsage overnight. The good, Catholic girl, Jeanne Hébuterne was an artist, but found her fame as Modigliani’s final subject, who painted her with the same wild passion with which he fought with her and consumed her with the same rigour as he did hashish and absinthe. While he led the countdown to his death to tubercular meningitis, she sketched visions of her own death. A gold chain tied their wrists together on the bed he died on. They said that even for a difficult man, he was exceptionally challenging, that she was the chord that bound his passion, understood it and embraced it. She killed herself and her unborn child the day after he died, a poor man, a tortured artist destined for glory.


I want to know the joy of how you whisper, more. I want you to kiss me one day, and not leave after. I have never been this scared before.

You haven’t.

I say to you what Dickens said. "You know what I am going to say. I love you. What other men may mean when they use that expression, I cannot tell; what I mean is, that I am under the influence of some tremendous attraction which I have resisted in vain, and which overmasters me. You could draw me to fire, you could draw me to water, you could draw me to the gallows, you could draw me to any death, you could draw me to anything I have most avoided, you could draw me to any exposure and disgrace. This and the confusion of my thoughts, so that I am fit for nothing, is what I mean by your being the ruin of me." Say you won't leave me ever.

Say you won’t give me a reason to.


Source 1: “A muse is someone who has such an influence on another that he or she becomes the focus and inspiration for that person's creative work. The term has historically been used by men to describe the women that they have been in love with and made the subject of their work.”

Source 2: “A muse's job is to penetrate the male artist and bring forth a work from the womb of his mind. Painters don't claim muses until painting begins to take itself as seriously as poetry. Physical congress with one's muse is hardly possible, because her role is to penetrate the mind rather than to have her body penetrated.”


Sometimes, a fragment of his conversation shrivelled up in my mind before it dissipated, leaving me lost for context and breath.

I want you, but I can’t let myself have you.


  1. You wrote. Again. The way you always do. Inked with grief, written with love. My world is beautiful again....Thank you

  2. Your blog is the only blog i consistently read. Funny how Excited I get to see a new post after checking the link everyday... and then after finishing reading it .... I usually end up not knowing how to comment on them....

  3. great read. i dont think words will do justice