Gwatwareg, a fable

o5.27.o5  8 Eagle tzol 255  2:o1:55 am  thurfri

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    Falling heels over head for Gwatwareg was dumb and dangerous. Like taking a shine to plutonium. Too hot and pitilessly radiant for the soul to survive. I knew that doom with a Damascus-keen clarity. A knowledge which slowed my plummet not one whit. The splat was going to be inevitable and gut-strewn; one could only hope to prolong the oh-I-understand-why-Leda-submitted freefall.

    By the way, the legendary Damascus steel alloy contained glass and other now-mystery elements, and it is said that a true <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Damascus sword edge can cut a waft of silk cloth in half before it falls to the ground.

    In the worlds of dark matter, my lucifer, Gwatwareg has invented, displays, inhabits a force after-magnetism, an exotic, erotic field within which I was transfixed. If holomusic were a fountain upon which one magic-carpetily floated, it felt like that – symphonically buoyant.

   It’s like in the ocean, all waves are attached to the whole sea, the mighty wave at Mavericks and the ripple in a fjord near the Artic Circle. His humor was an ocean like that with many moods and many beaches all at once. Perhaps I didn’t submit so much as I was immersed? Does a fish submit to the sea?

   All the flame in a forest fire, if you were within it, not the pain but the vermilion motion: In a vast forest of maples in the Spring, before the white man poisonously came, the sweet rising of all that sap: Gwatwareg was irresistible. It was more like photosynthesis than like magnetism, his alchemy: there was an exchange of sunlight for apples or buttered corn. He was a devil, the devil, and I denied him nothing. My soul was the least of it; the origami of my soul was the least of it.

   When the most ancient amoeba in an unbroken chain through all those aeons of midnights became me, I gave him all that evolution; that resolution; that luck.

   Under the ocean, in the rivers too there are at least three million, seven hundred & forty-three thousand pearls gleaming snugly in the odd gluck of oysters and all that pearl light is what illuminated the first night we made love after all the centuries of implacable rutting. He wanted a kind of terrible truth from you before you caught a unicorn-glimpse of his actual strange honor.

   He seemed made of darkness, of night, but then he moved and you saw he was a panther. He was feline. The droit de seigneur. The languor, the outright imperial laziness. His humor never missed the perfect quick attack. Falling heels over head for Gwatwareg was dumb and dangerous, but I never had a choice.



copyright flan 2005

o5.27.o5  8 Eagle tzol 255  2:o1:55 am  thurfri


gwatwareg means irony in Welsh;


Leda was a maiden in Greek story who was ravished by Zeus in the guise of a great swan most memorably immortalized in one of Yeats’ most famous poems, Leda & the Swan:  


A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
                                        Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

William Butler Yeats


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