Danserskan
Ögat valfrändskapar.
Idag på väg ut i skogen ser jag plötsligt texten på en skylt jag passerat massvis med gånger, men aldrig läst. Idag läste jag: "White Rose Massage"
Och då tänker jag på de enkla armrörelserna som jag precis innan lagt till i min cirkeldans koreografi till Loreena McKennits underbara sång Dante's Prayer; armar som tecknar enskilda rosblad, som i den cirklande dansen smälter samman till en ros. Hur armarnas rörelser runt kroppen rent faktiskt hade känts som en mjuk massage.
Och då tänker jag på min stygnling Danserskan som kanske håller en skål av sammanpressade vita rosblad över sitt huvud.
Och så tänker jag igen på Jeanette Winterson hennes berusande, berosade textling, Art & Lies och som måste citeras på orginalspråk:
To carry white roses never red.
White rose o purity white rose of desire. Purity of desire long past coalhot, not the blushing body, bur the flush-white bone.
The bone flushed white through longing, The longing made pale by love. Love of flesh and love of the spirit in perilous communion at the altar-rail, the alter-rail, where all is changed and the bloody thorns become the platinum crown.
Crown me. You do. You weave the budding stems, incoherent, exuberant, into a circle of love. I am hooped with love. Love at my neck, love at my heels, love in a cool white band around my head. The bloody beads are pearls.
This love is neither wild nor free. You have trained it where it grows and shaped me to it. I am the rose pinned to the rock, the white rose against the rock, I am the petals double-borne, white points of love. I am the closed white hand that opens under the sun of you, that is fragrant in the scent of you, that bows beneath the knife and falls in summer drifts as you pass.
Cut me. You do. You cut me down in heavy trusses, profusion, exhaustion, and soak me in a stream of love. Love runs over me. Love at my breasts, love at my belly, my belly heaped with petals, a white hive of love. White honey at your hand.
Who calls whom? Do I call you my rose? Do you call it me? Do we call it the love that grafts us twice on one shoot? Muser and Muse. Out of those two, the mysterious third, two spirits, one word... (tertium non datum). The Word not given but made. Born of a woman, Sappho 600 BC. The Rose-bearer and the Rose.
