Entry 44
I was without this journal for a few days, as I did not want to risk it while wading through a wide stream — a wise choice, it turned out, as I unexpectedly went in over my head twice. The crackers did not survive.
I have five blisters to show for it, including one the size of a baby’s hand, but I am back from an eventful exploration of this spectacular wilderness. I have paid a price, though, as my former shirt is now officially a rag, my shoes are rotting and I am having some trouble walking. My feet are a mess, but I have had worse. They will be better in a few more days.
I reread what I just wrote. This place just seems to impart a sense of adventurous optimism, to coin a phrase. Here I am: walking is excruciating, my dreams have been weird distillations of color and sexual imagery (which is very unusual for me), I have encountered animals here that clearly could have killed me if they so chose, and I am in real danger of losing my shoes to mildew and wear. The beauty of this land seems to overpower most other emotions. I get the feeling that I should be more concerned than I am.
The storm on the horizon I had written about in the previous entry was slow to arrive, but amazing in its dark violence. It reminded me uncomfortably of the creature in the Church, without the agility. There was little rain, but fantastic bolts of sheer force struck seemingly within a hundred yards of the Temple, where I had chosen to cower. No, that’s not fair. The storm could easily have fried me until very crisp. I am still guilty about my reaction to the black creature.
The statue here might help explain the sexual dreams. Made from a gorgeous green marble (the same material as the Temple), there are two figures instead of one. A man and a woman, they are naked and locked in an exceedingly carnal embrace. He is standing holding her, while she has wrapped her legs tightly around his hips. It is dynamic, visceral and definitely not something one would find in a public park. It is also profoundly disturbing, although that fact did not register until I had returned from my hike. I have found myself staring at it; becoming more and more creeped out, as my daughter would say, the longer I study it.
I am looking at it now.
Her face is the first sign that something is amiss. Slightly Asian in cast, her expression is intense. I have seen reflections of that countenance in women a half-second away from climax, so that is what I assumed the artist had intended. But studying it closely, I see that more is going on, much more. She is in deep mental anguish. Not merely frightened, she is experiencing horror, or terrible despair. I imagine she is within a moment of orgasm, after having learned an hour before of her husband’s death sentence (cancer?) — or, having poisoned her beloved without his knowledge? The last sex before a suicide pact?
Christ, so much for “adventurous optimism.” The longer I am near the statue, though, the more it raises my hackles.
Part of it is that HIS face is entirely covered by her long hair. Entirely. No features whatsoever. His identity is a complete blank of marble strands. He’s tallish, with a lean, muscular swimmer’s body. His rear is clenched in sexual tension. His arms are holding her as closely as possible, his legs are in a wide stance.
It’s hard to believe that any sculptor would deliberately create such a life-sized study in
Oh, Lord, I think I see the connection. I need to test something.
