Consolation of a Black Swan

[clonky 1976]

CONSOLATION OF A BLACK SWAN

 

 

A depiction of Maude glaring into a mirror, simply at her own reflection. 

 

THE GRASS'S EXTENT
 

You see beyond the Plain.

Where the flower grows and the oustretch streches,
With an endless mind we think,
Steep in our own vanity.

I see her in you.
I see her in myself.
Beyond the Plain and to the trees peak,
She's still there, yet it remains the same.

He visions her.
Feel in his mind's Plain,
Where his Meadow crosses
And where his field ends,
Into expanse

All of Grass. 

 

---

 

"Why did you write this poem, Maude?" 
The words rang in her head, over and over. The voice of her brother Anthony, or it be her dearest friend Juliya Basrid. Did Maude have an answer for her companions, the ones she held close? No. The answer was hidden, a deep secret indulged in her mind. Maude was haunted with this looming feeling. Ever since her youth she was struck with vanity. It wasn't her doing to be so vain. Then whose was it? 

It was her father's. The only parental figure upon her innocence. 
"Know your place, Maude, you are far greater than what they tell you."

It was a replay, a constant melody. Yet the notes were not joyous. With each chord on this piano, this orchestra that sang in her mind it was much like a funeral march. Even though her father repeatedly told her who she was, she still was lost in confusion. 

"Is it because I look like her?" 
Maude could not forget what she told Lady Mary. An altercation occurred with Anthony. Upon her arrival did she see his change in mood - his tone so mundane and the light of innocence had vanished. She wondered if this is what adulthood was like, yet her mother was nothing like this boresome reality. She thought her brother would know, would realize that he mustn't fall into the trap - the stigma given to men of the household. Maude could only let her mind run free, and it came back to the same place it was before. 

I look like her. 
This was no sudden realization. It haunted Maude since her childhood. The one person that nurtured her deeply, the one being apart from her brother that she held dear. It was her mother. Maude wished she were a painting, so she could scrape away at the threads of a canvas, morphing her face to look like another. Yet every time she came across the mirror, she was smitten with herself. It was because the depiction of the youth was that of her mother - The coiled dirty flaxen locks with the tinge of red. She couldn't get the only depictions of her mother from her head. The visions of her in her dreams, and once her eyes fell unto her own visage, all she could see was her. 

"You are a talented seamstress! We should be business partners!"
Maude was a mere child - at six was she still somewhat unaware of her looks. Though Maude had an unknown intrusive feeling. When Simon Carrington asked to join in business ventures with her, she kindly accepted. The Carringtons were always kind to Maude and her pursuits, and dress-making or sewing was one of them. But it was a distraction. Maude knew what extended its hand to her - it was an opportunity. 
If people were to look at my dresses, they were stray away from my face.

Maude wondered, a constant shifting wonder from one person to the next, if they saw her as her mother. She had no identity, no path to pursue. It was her looks who held her back - a constant reminder that her mother was deceased and she had to be the walking image of her caregiver; the adventurous woman who'd tuck in Anthony at night, in which Anthony would do the same to little Maude. The youth now stretched to be sixteen and the overwhelming pain of being a replica of her mother now followed in elongated pursuits, as if taunting her. She could run, yet she felt herself trip and stumble as the looming shadow of her 'Ma' was hung over her. 

They hate me.
Maude was determined this was the truth. Yet the girl felt so much affection from her brother, his changed atmosphere, his more matured nature made her convey. A contemplation struck her like lightning, and the lightning wouldn't stop. An overflow of thoughts as if the wall she built for years from her childhood now fell to a surge of water. She began to feel overwhelmed. Her innocence was never with her, it was gone from the start. Even as a child she questioned Anthony - Why do I have to look like her? You must hate me. Even with his consolation after, she never seemed to be at ease. Although Anthony's features were soft and usually reassuring, all she could now vision was his countenance contorted into something of hatred and disdain. 

But even with Maude looking like her mother, she didn't change. The only changes she pursued were of different hairstyles, yet her face was a reminder. Even in some of her encounters with herself in the mirror were treacherous and shameful, she also saw the light her mother radiated. Her mother held the kindness of a swan, and without her mother to console her in the dearest times, she felt a piece of her caregiver was still between her. Maude was her own caregiver now, with the spirit and hope and vision her mother had. She was what her father lost, and what her eldest brother missed. Even with these lingering thoughts of disheveling her face to become Maude Fitzpeter, a part of her wanted to remain her mother. 

And so she remained, engulfed, even enraptured by the consolation of a black swan, who happened to be her mother that possessed her, teased her in her pursuits. It was her curse, yet her solace. 
 

Spoiler

Just a flavorful post for Maude. The only thing PUBLIC in this post is the poem. All the rest of the post is private information to my character only. 

 

[Mannyy 982]

"This is a lovely poem.. Seems Maude has become quite the writer."  Wilhelm remarked, falling oblivious to any actual deeper meaning in the poetry!

[zuziee 4004]

Thick woolen shades had been drawn open slowly over the Sunholdt apartments. A thin figure pulling down harshly at a cord which push and prodded the black curtains out of the way. With a cough, Maisie d'Arkent, paced to the other side of the cold room. Her body coiling down to procure a small stack of papers which were tied together neatly in twine. 

 

The woman's tired eyes used the cascading sunlight to glance over the more boring news reports, letters, and invitations. Eventually, only holding Maude's poem. With a finger, she'd glide it across the seal and pluck the paper from its hiding place. A palm, positioned across her chest as she'd read.

 

It reminded her of her own poetry, how she pursed solace in glamorous words with hidden meanings. Another harsh cough shaking her body - yet even in pain, the beauty of Maude's words could not shake the ever growing smile across her face. Then, finally concluding;

 

"I need to get back to writing."