The imperial march

vogue nippon cathedral veil blackLately darling, I have been spending my mornings with the skeletal maestro at the Cathedral, listening to him play the organ.

Taking off my shoes before I go inside the Cathedral, to feel the cold of the tombs lying under the marbled floor, I pass the wooden benches and the gold encrusted altar; I pass under chandeliers and climb stairs to arrive at the small door of the organ room.

The maestro spends his free time playing the instrument. He is always there before me, his thin frame taking up a mere quarter of the stool and his bony hands resting on the keys as he warms up the instrument.

He never looks up at me when I arrive; he never says good morning and he never smiles but his playing becomes stronger as I sit on the other end of the stool, looking down over the balcony at the aisle, at the wooden benches and the velvet damask.

I wore a black gown yesterday, together with a black lace veil around my face because I knew the Queen who had mourned her love for almost forty years would be marching down the aisle of the Cathedral — the woman who had worn black for the rest of her days after the one she fell in love with died.

The maestro played the first notes of the Imperial March, at which the Queen herself, worn down by age and loss, and adorned in black lace, appeared at the door of the Cathedral. Oh darling, I wish I could have a drop of her confidence and grandeur as she stood there all alone, waiting for those decisive notes that would initiate her march.

When the marbled walls of the cathedral and the frescoes drawn on the cupola reverberated with the strong sound of the organ, the Queen started her march, slowly, followed by her black cathedral veil, while her black lace dress skimmed the marbled floor carved with Latin prayers.

I wanted it to be a long march and an even longer melody. The maestro played and the queen marched for an immeasurable time while I sat there, heeding to nothing else except to the woman and to this melody…

Story credits: Image via Vogue Nippon.

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Daydreaming about…

Black & white movies and Blacks & white ensembles…

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21

Skirts, and other thoughts…

Skirts Rochas read to wearSkirts Rochas read to wear Skirts Rochas read to wear Skirts Rochas read to wear

What is it about skirts darling that allude to tree climbing and naughty boys?

These days, the fashion in the village has taken a turn to the glamorous 1950s. Women have started to don skirts and wear gloves to take off slowly whenever they are out walking in the rain. Their heels are bold, the coats hide the curves of their bodies and the persistent element of velvet found in the village is found on each one of them.

I have been donning a range of skirts as well darling, pairing them with jeweled strap pumps and gloves that have the look of a glacial downpour; adding thick lashes and nude lips. There is something about the clothes of this era that would make anyone want to break into song in the middle of a conversation; they make you want to look in the eyes of Cary Grant or Humphrey Bogart while the latter drive without looking at the road, just as they do in those old black and white movies.

Story credits: Images via Rochas.

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The collector

old letter and post cards with feather quillHave I ever told you a story about the collector darling?

He lives in my village, except you will never see him roaming around the cobble stone streets as he has confined himself to his cabin — a one room space where the walls are covered with postcards worn down with illegible writing.

I always find the collector sitting on his wooden chair, crouched down on his wooden desk that is brimming with piles of postcards, as he writes with his black ink pen, while his long beard brushes the edge of the paper. His writing manner is meticulous ­— he takes the time with each one as if it is the first time he is writing on a postcard even though he has written so many.

You see darling, the man is writing everything that has happened to him here in the village and the other places he has visited through the life of the mind. The first time I visited him I asked him why he had to confine himself to write.

“Everything I see, smell, touch, leads me to another story I will have to write on these postcards. There isn’t enough time to write them all down Madeliene. Even here in this space, a pause leads to another story.”

“What about the other pile? Have you written about the stories of the world that moves to the time on the clock?

“Yes Madeliene, I am done with those. They are in a pile in a small box under my desk.”

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