HOHOHO. Suspended classes have a big advantage. Salamat sa pagbisita ni Santi, bagong update.
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3: Story in the Urn
I took a deep breath as that Andrew-ass walked away. He did smell irresistibly good, sort of minty. Well, most men smell like that because of colognes and perfumes they drown themselves on. Andrew’s smell was something I never passed before.
Dumbfounded, I walked upstairs with my body bag. I dragged my body up, trying to lessen the sound made by my sneaks. I passed Pop’s room and proceeded to the next and last one.
When I opened the door, my feet led me to the familiar bed. Yes, familiar. The last time I’ve been here was when I was around 8, and now I’m 16. 8 years of not visiting did not make me forget about this room because it’s striking and elegant. Walls of ivory white housed a twin-sized bed, study table, an Apple laptop sent by my parents before I arrived, a small double-door closet, a bean bag, a small rack for shoes, and a shelf with some of my books back from home. Wow, my mom knows how to sneak inside my room and get my things. I settled my bag on the bean bag and let my body fall to the soft comforter.
“You might want to check the books and the clothes your mom sent. She thought that what you’ve brought are your oversized tees and big pants.” My eyes opened in alert as footsteps rang in my ears. I opened my eyes and saw Pop opening the closet. Inside were designer clothes I used to wear. My mom picked well. It’s really tempting to try on them. I rose from the bed and stood beside Pop.
“Good clothes you have here. You have to wear them. You won’t stick out like a sore thumb. I’ll introduce you to some of the kids around here tonight. Did you bring any dress?” Pop started searching in my closet. I never thought he’d be some kind of fashion designer.
“Dress? Why do I have to wear a dress?” I opened my luggage. I haven’t brought any dress with me. Ugh, wrong timing. Even a pair of stilettos or even a wedge I don’t have. Only sneaks and flipflops. Note to myself: Bring good clothes even though you’re on a strike.
“Oh. Forgot to inform you that we’re attending a gala tonight. Reason why Andrew’s wearing a tux. Young man looks dashing, right?” He looked at me with his twinkling eyes and mischievous grin. Gala, eh? Dashing Andrew? Are you kidding me? I can’t deny the fact that he’s gorgeous and dashing. Fine, dashing. If he’s not arrogant and is some prince charming, I would certainly act better around him.
“Oh. That maniac slash arrogant guy who almost kissed me? Wow, he really is dashing.” I said with sarcasm dripping all over. I forgot that I am talking to Pop, who I should respect. Dang, how come could this guy make me forget about good manners? I blushed furiously. Suddenly, a hearty laugh escaped from Pop.
“Sorry.” I mumbled, covering my face with my hair. Pop patted my head.
“Kid’s just friendly. Too friendly, especially with girls. Here, search for the dresses at the attic.” He tossed to me a key before walking out again. I just noticed that Pop is wearing a tux too. I ran quickly to the stairs, nearly tripping at the landing. Careful this time, I quickly walked ‘til I reached the attic door. I used the key to enter inside.
Dust motes and cobweb were out of the picture, evidence that the place is maintained. From what I could remember, Pop was a collector of numerous pieces – painting, vases, coins, clothing, books, shoes, mugs, dolls, and a lot more. He could use those to make a museum. I have no idea where he gets that old stuff.
Instead of looking for dresses, I walked to the place where the urns are placed. I don’t know what made me go there, but there’s this gut-feeling that pushes me to that location. So I went there. Urns were lined up in a straight line, but the one I’m most attracted at was the last urn. There was a piece of parchment paper sticking out, so I took it and read what’s inside. I also took the urn – it’s heavy, for your information. Maybe the letter could help me interpret the illustration.
Thou still unravished bride of quietness!
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time
A flow'ry tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal -yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
For ever panting and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayst,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," -that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know
I was silent then, as if held by time. The poem was not just familiar in a sense that we’ve studied it at school, but as if it’s being narrated to me. I closed my eyes and tried to remember every line, every word in the poem. Surprisingly, I do. I remember it, but not with me saying it, but with someone else. The voice, deep and masculine, sounded gently in my ears. The voice of.. Andrew.
As the voice continued to whisper the lines, time transported me somewhere else. My vision was filled with drapes of cloth, a man swaying as he plucked the harp, and a couple of women sashaying around the halls. At the far side of the hall, a young man and woman were locked in a stare. Their faces were too close, about to prepare for a kiss. Suddenly, the vision was warped and I was transported again.
Now, I am that girl. The one being held firmly in the waist, my face about an inch away from the man in front of me. A sense of de ja vu settled in, and I remembered what almost happened earlier this morning.
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," The man spoke and leaned closer and closer. I blinked and all was gone.
I was back to reality. Nothing really changed. Same place, same attic, same position I am before that flashback, same urn and paper I’m holding. I noticed that the poem in the paper I am holding was handwritten – it’s of cursive writing with every stroke elegantly made. Is that an original? I put the urn to where it was before and read the title of the poem.
Ode on a Grecian Urn. Interesting. I placed it back before proceeding to the dress section.
I scanned the clothes inside. A variety of dressed were present, but I have what I want in my mind. There, between a 70’s paisley smock dress and a 50’s ruffle dress, was the dress of my dreams. Latest dream, to be exact. A Greek-inspired drape dress. Below it was a gladiator wedge.
Perfect idea. Perfect dress and shoes. Perfect size, probably. Perfect concept. Now, where’s the perfect Adonis?
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DONE.
COMMENT.
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