Adonis Diaries

“Louise Amour” by Christian Bobin

Posted on: July 14, 2009

Louise Amour by Christian Bobin, (July 13, 2009)

Louise concocts perfume and merchandize them in the latest marketing techniques.  I read books on mystics and saints and rephrase their wise pronouncements; as a baby of seven I used to write words with my fingers on mother’s cheeks and she would guess them all.  Louise liked the sentence “Perfume of rose garnishes the roots of life” and wanted it to describe her new release of rose perfume “Madonna”; the bottle is in the form of the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus. Louise said “I wanted to recreate this genre of perfume that grandmothers carried in their youth.  I want everyone to dream that the sky is close at hand”. I paid a visit to Louise intending to tell her that I refuse the blasphemous idea of borrowing my sentences.

Louise enters all smiles diffusing in golden concentric circles; the first wave spluttered and refreshed my face; the second wave asserted that Louise was here solely for me; this second wave of smiles announced the visit of the conqueror and opened the barriers.  Louise brown eyes were flames emanating of an oval pale face; a slight dimple over of left lips was her signature. Louise had long black hair gave the urge of contemplating her nudity framed by her soft hair. She was flowing with kindness and I felt as noble as an angel standing by God. Louise was the worst pain that could have affected me and the sole remedy. She was the only person that existed for me in this world.  I was going to re-learn writing and starts living.

Louise voice rushed like a golden bee in the alveolus of my crane; the slow buzzing saturated my thoughts and erased the vulgar impatience in this world.  I was no longer a theologian; I was no longer seeking God; no longer the retarded son of his parents; I was the servitor of Louise and the adulating listener.

I was once in total focus on the beauty of a wild field of flowers; Louise noticed that I had forgotten her for a couple of minutes and she expressed her wrath for not being the center of my attention.

I visited with Louise a rose garden.  The caretaker of the garden was an old women; she told me: “Theology is useless. Each rose is a holy book. You are here in the most beautiful library in the world. A rose never open her heart except before dying. I would have been more beautiful if I had a daughter to comb her hair.  Perfume is the soul stolen from flowers.  We should be using perfume for the terminally ill and the jobless.”

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July 2009

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