Passing Beauty
Banishing Ugliness
August 21, 2012
My Dearest Darling,
I sit at Café Mocha watching Beauty pass by.
Some of Beauty’s children are old. Some young. Some tall. Some short. Some fat, others thin.
The flesh of Beauty’s generations varies from the alabaster of classic Greek sculpture to the ebony of a dense, moonless, starless night. And then there are degrees of external Beauty: shades, tones and textures of Beauty’s physical palette reminding all that the brush of Beauty is dipped into a rainbow’s well and splashed against the canvass of life, allowing each recipient a degree here and a degree there of physical separation.
In a way, my Darling, we are all pigments from the same Beauty Palette, distinctly mixed by the Master Artist’s gracious hand to reflect us into shimmering images of what we are versus what we think we are or are not.
I have known very Beautiful people claiming Ugliness
.
How sad to think the Master Artist produced in all a fatal flaw, a blemish on our true perfection. Yet these misguided souls labor before the mirror, shoulders slouched, bags of gravity pulling at their eyes, believing the magic of their Beauty is a Beast, a curse, a scar surrendering them less worthy or less noble than those who strut with shoulders back and head held high, proud of their being, rejoicing that what exists inside rather than outside is the core of their True Beauty.
As I gaze upon you, my Love, I perceive only your Core of Beauty, only the Magic of your Mystery as a woman whose treasures, yet to be found, are so well hidden that I am enticed to spend eternity in search of them.
Isn’t this the truth of Love, my Darling?
That it exists as the key to unlocking the mysteries of another?
Were you to sit next to me at my café table, I would launch an endless fleet of questions about who you are, and what you dream, and where you dream it. And if you answered me with honesty and openness, I would consider each answer but a new limb on a magnificent tree, and seek to explore every leaf and sprig of life comprising it.
Love is, as we all know, the sharing of the soul. It would be my quest to unearth the treasures of your secret self, to illuminate each chapter within my mind. I would feast upon each morsel of your dreams and hopes and wishes and capture them with pen and ink, immortalizing such dreams and hopes as a jeweler might a trove of fine gems used to fashion a great queen’s coronation crown.
Is not the Beauty of the Self’s shared secrets the true essence of Love?
To whom do you tell your most coveted thought? In whose ear do you vest the most trust of all? Would it not be ultimately your deepest Love? The one who guards your Sensual Soul with the ferocity of a Knight?
Of course there is a seduction of the skin, the flesh, the flash of appearance of temporary Love, spurred by the intoxicant of perfume, the fluttering of fine silk, the butterfly beat of eye brows, the fine lace of a Alencon handkerchief, the slight suggestive exposure of cleavage.
But such tertiary allures are only intoxicants, vapors of Beauty that dissipate with the first whiff of a grumpy wind, or when, in the aftermath of lovemaking, there is no faux love perfume left and the deadfall of empty silence weighs like a cannonball on the chests of strangers lying naked in nothingness.
Forgive me, my Darling. I mean these tourists of Love, these blind seekers of Love’s Truth, no disparage. I know deep down that they all want Love, True Love. Most, however, do not realize that Beauty lies within, beneath the skin, under the façade of allure, and to unearth such Beauty one must treasure the secrets of sensuous soul in another, must be willing to learn their most earnest dream, sentinel their deepest buried wish, and cherish as their own, their most hidden hopes.
In my quest for you, my Darling, I find myself digging deep into my soul to find you, and there are times when at fork in the road where you could be either east or west, north or south, or any combination thereof, I stumble. I often fear I will never find you, and if I do, will you find me “ugly” and laugh at me for having wasted my life in search of you?
At these times I am forced to see—to really see—Love’s Beauty. To look past the self-imposed ugliness I paint upon my fears, and believe that one day we will meet and run naked in a field of fresh spring flowers like innocent children, and roll and laugh and share our dreams that cows can jump over moons and forks really do run away with spoons.
This is the Beauty of Love. Not its ugliness.
It is the Beauty of Love’s dream that must be unlocked between Lovers before True Love can be found. And once it is, Ugliness is banished forever from the kingdom.
So, my Love, I continue my search for all the Beauties of your Sensual Soul. And, I do my earnest to banish all the demons of Ugliness that stand ready to divert my quest to find you.
Forever Yours,
Cyrano!
Anderson-McKenzie
As The Thorn Guards The Rose, My Pen Protects Our Love...
© 2012, Cyrano! Anderson-McKenzie, C.A. McKenzie. All Cyrano! writings are original and created daily by the author. Any one wishing to contribute funds to the maintenance and support of the Cyrano! blog should send their contributions to C.A. McKenzie, 53 East 7th St. #9, NY, NY 10003
