The Madeliene Rose Stories
There was Emma, la familia and gypsies, summer woes, an ode to youth and Sisyphus, the fog, the apartment and the blue eyed boy. She said goodnight, had a mad tea party and gave an ode to wrinkles; she saw colours in the cave and she met Rhett Butler, went for a 100 year siesta, got lost in a forest and found herself in the parable of the sheep. She told the stories of the runaway bride, of Henry James’ governess and the forgotten. She longed with Beckett and feared with the gardener; she told the stories of the mean teacher and of the time she woke Borges up too early. She had tea under the Mulberry tree, met Dorian at the museum and marched with the shimmering knights. She saw young love end and saw the mundane of a marriage; she spoke to the cat lady and Jane Eyre, prayed amid bones and ate the gingerbreads of the baker. She proposed in a hospital, recalled her time with the bunkmate and dined al fresco with Proust. She met Umberto Eco at the newsstand and visited the flower hoarder; she sailed with pirates and described her shimmery shabby village where so many of her stories happen. She recalled an inevitable death and convinced the salesman to go home; she ignored Ishmael and she dared not look Faulkner in the eyes. She explained her obsession with slippers, watched Raskolnikov have nightmares and she recounted Eduardo del Mar’s visit to the village; she met the one haunted by Rebecca, she dined surrounded by the awe inspiring and she spied on Heathcliff and Catherine. She unnerved Scarlett O’Hara, she left a story half told and she recounted how the villagers came after her with pitchforks and fire torches. She visited the girl who watched Birds, she lied on the carpet with the flower hoarder and she watched the men build the Tower of Babel. She mused about the rain, she fell in love and H.G. Wells taught her how to ride a bike. She talked about the fashion in the village and was consumed by a terrible sadness; she visited the iron(ing) man and she dreamed of running away with the milk man. She had an accident and hailed the first day of summer, watched the stars with Galilei, met the huntsman, rode horses in haute couture and had tea with James and his Isabel. She climbed trees and daydreamed about cotton candy hues; she spoke about her bad habit and met the skeletal maestro. She visited Algis in London and had breakfast al fresco; she told Eduardo del Mar about the minions and she talked about the essentials. She hailed the beginning of August, she visited a church that was too quiet; she floated amid water lilies and she told the story of the woman who wears veils. She hailed the new Haute Couture collections, she daydreamed about Georges Seurat’s work & the new bags for fall and was in awe of the forthcoming meteor showers. She talked about skirts and other histories, she daydreamed about lying on a chase with Capote, and she recounted the story of her cliff diving moment; she tried to ease the blues and the reds, she daydreamed of Ted Baker’s fall dream, and she watched The Quiet Parade with the one and only Gabriel Garcia Marquez. She talked about the heavy necklace, she daydreamed about Ryan Muirhead’s images, she told the stories of the time she danced under frescoes and the one where she went to a summer feast. She talked about some women and the men on the benches; she explained the Woolfian way of living life and told the story of the wait. She walked in a field of fennel, talked about going nude and recalled the flower hoarder. She recounted the story of The Stars/The one, she was adamant in sending hand written letters to everyone and she daydreamed about fall coats. She gave an ode to the dress, she spoke about her life back then, and she daydreamed about boots and more rain. She told the story of the collector, she mused about skirts and she daydreamed about black and white movies. She watched The Imperial march unfold, she spoke to Edgar Allen Poe about the backless dress, and she daydreamed about capes. She showed me how she and the rest of the villagers celebrated John Keats’s birthday, she welcomed November, and she spoke about October’s obsessions. She daydreamed about camel coats and the Arabian Nights stories, she spoke about the lake and Virginia Woolf and she recounted the stories of the old lady and the the painter. She talked about perception and Circles; she spoke about the coat, she daydreamed about snoods and scarves, she spoke about crows and she told the story of the one who looks like Venice. She confessed how unsettled she felt, she daydreamed about the coming festive gatherings and she spoke about the alluring edge. She spoke about the healing element of walking on the beach in winter, she daydreamed about so much sparkle and hailed the weird and the wonderful. She spoke about the unaffected life, some jewellery; about the storyteller and she daydreamed about boots and brogues. She spoke about the sweetness of daydreams, she talked about the worrier, and she longed with Samuel Beckett once again. She spent some time on the windowsill, she roamed around the trees, and she visited the circus when it came to the village. She went home for Christmas, ran in a hall filled with chandeliers, she had one dreamy New Year’s eve dinner, and a peaceful morning after. She showed how to start a New Year, she counted every petal in sight, she spoke about the years/the hay, and somewhere, there was an endgame. She grew fierce talking about horror and beauty, and pondered about Monday mornings; she finally spoke to the violinist, she told the stories of dramatic personae and that of Muccaccina. She recounted the stories of the time she chased frogs and the one when the whole village headed down to ride the carousel. …and there are more of Madeliene Rose’s stories to come!