Songs of Ariel

Hush, Pit-a-Pat
  • Published: May 2005
  • Format: Perfect Bound Softcover(B/W)
  • Pages: 218
  • Size: 5.5x8.5
  • ISBN: 9781412053716


My writing of the book
seems that of memory.
But my writing of the book
is LOVE—;

Love dwells in Memory Lestat.

And because Love dwells in Memory,
my writing of the book
is the same as “I LOVE YOU.”

So I Love You.

With Love, and thereof Memory,
With Memory, and thereof Love,

Red-breasted Tongueless Bird
Tearing the Sky throatily,
Ariel Wolfe

* * * * *

There has been a lot about Love. And this book may tell 'about' the same.

However, it is different because it was originally written for the sake of a melancholy Genius who constantly is to be replenished with a nightly dose of novel passion, and because it is written by a passionate Asian woman whose mind is always seething with fleeting thoughts and imagination and whose heart is full of passion, pity and love.

Apparently it is a love story in a form of verse extracted from over 1,200 letters between an Asian poetess and an American musician (or a Vampire and a Vampire-Lover; or simply two Pain-kissers) that have never met in person but through music and internet, and pain - And both egos are alike in that they hated the world from the bottom of the guts, although they emulated each other in demonstrating how much they loved the world - yet at once they always wanted to create something more than the world.

It is not about pinky rosy weakling Love. It is much of blood from naked soul. It is a voice unique, something else than human that has been sleeping in the human. And it is not for people. Pain is how these two souls were connected at first and Passion comes in place. To quote her:

"Without pain, neither pleasure nor happiness can be. Even beauty, without suffering, cannot be true beauty enduring. Sheer happiness, with passion castrated, is simply incomplete. Therefore, it is about pleasure, happiness, beauty and passion embracing pain within."

-Editor M. Channdler-

* * * * *


October 3, 2004,
I release the heavy fardel long-loaded upon my soul
into the lighted world, from my own secret terrain,
that darkly shadowed nook of my heart,
encysting a seed of ever-implacable fire,
hotly transfused into the pith of my bone,
marked by a rebellious sensation of constant burning.

Amongst all those humanities, ghosts and specters,
aged and ageless, formed and formless,
somewhere distant by a half round of the planet,
there existed an eclipsed ego of a Genius, J. Lestat S.,
a soul kindred to mine who managed,
Oh blind God, to crash into my soul this life again —
on that narrow path of fate, with all the labyrinthine,
slow snaky trails that seem interminable,
heavily packed with the despairingly huge,
pitiably blind multitude of crowd aimlessly revolving among.

Oh, blind God,… You there over stared at us,
that, Ah, look of fate,
of permanent pity and apathy,
of indelible mark of lugubrious memory,
and of implacable hunger and of unspeakable grief
ever unfathomed so far and forever.

Amidst an irreparable fever,
Besieged by a thickened air of exile,
And in the spinning axis of time,

Ariel Wolfe
from the counterpoint shore-end of the Haven of origin

* * * * *

To the Reader: With Tears, Liquors & Roses

Ah, Lord, I cannot speak, for I am a child. [Jeremiah 1:6]

We were two isolated continents parted by the gaping gulf of grieved water whose rumpled page margins were not to be met together, nor whose benign surface to cut short to bump together, or whose hospitable current to dwindle to one slim graceful confluence to crash together. Such is the same as the world of our past— squared and rigid, tragically unmet with parallels unbent— where there were two hearts that pounded the same rhythm together, and ended up cuddled in one self-same coil together, that single coil, but of the same rupture irreversible.

We were painters by day and diggers by night. We poured all and mixed all— All our longings and burnings vainly into the rusted pail with no bottom, and into the voracious thick red paint, and therewith we walled it, railed it, roofed it, doored it, and balconied it. And we shamed our naked bodies glorified in ruby-red and, dyed our beautiful sheen of hair locks like a mad brush of Michelangelo’s at Sistina, and sprayed our hallow lungs intoxicated like those of serious Marxist pneumonia, and therewith we sailed deep into the night. And amidst the lurid twilight we digged. And we digged madly until ourselves got like a drained-dog to the last finest fabric, unfelt to bodies’ own fatigue, and thence we down sunk into dreams… The spades slowed lethargically but pleasantly while the pit deepened. And deepened enough. So in dreams we met. There alone in dreams, we fatted our two gaunt bodies to our dreadful hunger’s content: with honeys sacred by sultry kisses and milk stolen from heavenly bodies; with saps and juices, and luxuries and dainties doubled by miracle; with a curious jet stream of virile fluid of tedious texture like an unnamable nectar in heretic myths; with sanguinary blood, charged with vigor and childhood ardor; and then we in hand in hand ran evermore— It was so warm. It was so cool. And then we smiled. And then we woke. And we wept. In our own two cold beds, we wept.

So we loved. We loved much more than the name Love means. We created something new, much more wonderful and greater than Love, much more terrible than Love— How dark, how deep and how beautiful we were! And how tragical we were!

Let liquor distill my pen stained in tears while the memory let loose how terribly he came to me. On my allowing the door open to him, came he and rushed he down into my arms but in a guise of a young hawk, nightly escaped for refuge, from a cruel trainer of the world, with the scar still opened, with blood still wet, at which my soul, grief-stricken immensely, was shattered irredeemably in the manner myself had never experienced before. The first moment’s, tactfully wrapped-up guise of an ordinary young man— well-bred, well-mannered, even diplomatic— was totally divested and no more. I hugged his hurt so deeply and my breath saturated into wound so heavily that my breast got dyed all and stained all in the same blood red. By the depth of the gash opened, and by the amount of hemorrhage incessant, to me, this long-standing lethal wound seemed incurable. Hardly had I cried “Oh, who has done this to you?” when an answer came from under my vessel. That was the only way he managed to survive all his time, and that was how the blunt world unwittingly sinned against the soul like him— And mine.

So we embraced. Only by heaving all our inner brine drowned in sorrow, thereby gulping all the enormity of the ocean between us, we embraced. Our likeness was nowhere. No other two souls can do as we do— in this brave world where all those humanities are seething together, fed up ravenous together on the same grandmother Earth, commingled in unison at peace at surface as if objectionlessly. They manufactured, consumed, produced, reproduced, recycled, distributed, circulated, affiliated, and subsidized but none of them did as what we did. They congregated, voted, campaigned, sloganized, retaliated, protested, counteracted, sabotaged, sued, spied, plotted, lobbied, conspired, parleyed, and negotiated, but none of them did as what we did. They did all and everything but none of such things as we did. And all we did was none they did. That is what this book is about: We who are not as the others.

* * * * *

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