Aurore/ George

As stories go, this one landed itself forthrightly into those blackened, gloated newspapers, known not so well for stationing themselves inconveniently on a terraced area before a ground of communal interest. Though not as embedded in print, I was as comparatively at ease like the newspapers on that stand. Whimpering at large when life did not fit with my imagination, I progressed to make a statement, wildly, guarding against those precious audiences all over, left, right and centre in this very large world.
Usually I would haranguer over tension- gripping notes that left medleys sounding sublime, before firstly divesting much deliberation that the mind went through once in a while. It was once when travelling amongst a tree- lined avenue and embankment that I was to befall some mysteriously inflated figure; huffing and puffing in challenging the wind that day, his ruddy complexion rose to protesting the antiquated state of a shop left vastly occupied with turn of the century pieces, glistening gold and vermilion blue.
I came to stand beside a glass canopy, crafted for such ostentatious means to immerse the being, principally sent for a man setting out to preponderate with the smaller weakness of the shopkeeper.
I drafted him distinguished from the monocle in my right eye chimerically altered, I have question to think from my present position, and he then beckoned with a wispier finger then mine to aid him. He then humbly pronounced his name thereafter. Nicolas.
After our relocation to a southern strait of the building, with much more of a charismatic standing then that big library we strode through not long before, my eventual turn came, to grandstand. Oh how joyous the moment, I came to remember it as the time after the annunciation, as was so the only visible light to I, dynamically thrust beside my figure to outperform the angels twanging their harps. As a daring artist dreams to paint reality, I dreamt to play with the lustrously dark- haired spirits reigning over Paradise. Oft later papers would come to think off me as a legendary artist, the famous pianist Frederic Chopin, enhanced by frail health, sic. I had Tuberculosis, unfortunately, a vulgar side to my secret life; it fumigated my now plum- sized alveoli, streaking them acidic. Nevertheless I was attractive- looking, a sensitive player not robbed off a courteous manner and the piquancy attaching to self- exile. Not for any instance had I looked to this sort of end, my life had ranged in deriving minerals gratingly from a source because it had such a hard time knitting together the meaningful ends to a pleasanter, healthier life.
And as a journeyman to his quarters as the evening light approaches, I began a career lighting the murky depths of a salon, smoke clashed in discord with my jacketed being, to then appear strangled beside itself when rising again to fulfil its pastime elsewhere. The premise occupied with complicated characters, obstructed a view past the wartime décor, to buckle and be satiable when involved in talk of a new bride to be. I had not yet learned of what such a public place can do to your health, although, as I can remember it did not waste any time at all. Out of the blue, this figure of a woman, seemingly with a flourishing vanity that snuffed out odourless smoke, her name Aurore Dudevont, a novelist from Paris, was there to spread her wings.
I later found to little disapproval that this waxen offspring of Aphrodite, was subject to such shadowy glares in bustling Paris, she, the one so prone to giving good conversation, deflated silly; to those gossiping, wondering recent graduates of some other very ugly, conformist view.
Disparage the ideas, that it was not her being to do with it what she willed, dressed in a sailor’s frock, or smoothing those insidious curls from her comely origin. Aurore, the French romanticist would once more with a ‘tour de force’ make this scene punchier still for her own sake and for mine.
I pitched a problem to her, every night, as sickly as the stoat that’s eaten something maggoty, seizing ultimately the sense of glory in interaction, with this bright, doe- eyed being. As it’s not so often entertainment comes to one place, the pancrock rings and a good dish is set before common guests. Drifting from outdated pieces of information, I made at talking huge of the world, which does not do much for me, in the way of crowds, and clouded geniuses. She told of few Barons and Burghers of the North building their dark and grisly castles of oak and sandstone, Oh but how she diverted back to pristine words when she spoke of the Merchants of Venice covering their palaces with gold and porphyry. Her mighty painters had done for her that which I hadn’t; they had created for her a colour.
I then moved from the high seas of the Adriatic, to make this beautiful city sing.
Landed there, the barge crankily, hindered its movements to sway by the wharf side there to disturb those quavering bundles on the iron masts.
And so for the whole journey, had I sat with most enchanting, godliest power yearning for this city to adore me, naïve I would be, to think I knew that this city held no oblique, misinterpreted objection to my being here, as a later scenario would serve best to my service.
It was there I chanced to meet my romantic another time; she would move me all over again much to my interest of later meditation. She seemed shaken to greatest proximity under those walled, hood- eyed enclosures, sonorously defunct, and starved of good insight, but her behaviour burgeoned me slight, and gazing over too brightly I caught sight of a distant piano stool in the furthest corner, I sat and had such sensation course through my veins that I played thoughtlessly for inaction for the next movement, not to cease from teasing greens and purples from those conservative notes. I then found those wisest eyes wide with such engrossment; I lost my way and found to my bewildered state that such interest involved the entire public scene. I guarded against no complimentary praise, I was born to perform to my heart’s content in this city that pleases a king frequently.
1

Author notes

On the Virtuoso Pianist Federic Chopin

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Comments

  • DarkAvaris
    June 17, 2006
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    Could have developed it a bit more!