Rimbaud II

On this ingenious tribal drum, with its seat connected to the base by a criss-cross of chromed-steel rods, Gudrun holds my gaze as she sways. She’s very schoolgirl in her black-and-white skirt, red shirt and black tights; she’s such a girl angling her legs like that.

̶  So, why do you say I’m not obvious?
̶  Well, when you’re riding your… machine like that, maybe you are a little obvious.
̶  It’s not a machine, it’s a rocking stool, and it’s me that’s working it.
̶  Yes, I can see that. Well, if you are obvious, keep on rocking like that till you disorder your senses. Then you’ll become a seer. Like Rimbaud. And you won’t be obvious anymore.
̶  Who’s Rimbaud? And what’s a seer?
̶  A seer is someone who can see into the unknown. Rimbaud was a poet, a boy like you.
̶  I’m not a boy.
̶  How do you know?

She stops rocking and pulls up her shirt to reveal her breasts in her bra. She starts rocking again.

̶  He was French, I suppose, this boy Rimbaud?
̶  Yes. Do you speak French?
̶  I do: grand plié, relevé, tendu derrière.
̶  You speak ballet. Why not learn French?
̶  Why should I?
̶  So you can read Rimbaud.
̶  All right. If you want me to, I will.
̶  Good. I’ll send you some books and CDs. Now stop rocking! You’re making me dizzy.
̶  Didn’t you say I had to do it till I lose my senses?
̶  I did, yes. Disorder your senses. Consume the poisons in you and keep only their quintessence.
̶  What’s ‘quintessence’?
̶  It’s what’s left when you burn away everything in you that doesn’t correspond to your own desire.
̶  Then I’ll be able to see into the unknown?
̶  Yes.

̶  I’ll tell you a secret, Sprague. Since we got this rocking stool last year, I’ve already become a seer. Three times.
̶  Only by rocking?
̶  Yes.
̶  That’s wonderful, Gudrun. It proves you’ve already been burning your poisons. Now listen, I’m going to recite you a poem by Rimbaud. It’s called Sensation.
̶  In French?
̶  Yes.
̶  Recite it, then, while I try to become a seer again.

Squeezing her thighs together, she further angles out her legs, squirming as she rotates on the rocking stool. I recite the poem:

Par les soirs bleus d’été, j’irai dans les sentiers,
Picoté par les blés, fouler l’herbe menue:
Rêveur, j’en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.
Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.

Je ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien:
Mais l’amour infini me montera dans l’âme,
Et j’irai loin, bien loin, comme un bohémien,
Par la Nature, heureux comme avec une femme

The rocking comes to a standstill as Gudrun squeezes her thighs tighter; her head thrown back, through blind eyes she sees into the unknown.

̶  What’s the poem about, Sprague?
̶  It’s about a blue summer night, a night like this, when you set out along the byways in search of tenderness, a tenderness you never had. Rimbaud’s mother was very severe.
̶  Was he very young when he wrote it?
̶  He was exactly your age. Fifteen and a half.
̶  Really?
̶  Uh-hm.
̶  And does he find the tenderness he’s searching for?
̶  He does. He experiences the sensations of tingling skin as he walks through wheat, the dreamy coolness of grass under his feet, the wind blowing through his hair.
̶  But only in his imagination?
̶  Yes. Though he would go on to walk for miles and miles and miles. He’s given up trying to find tenderness in a woman, so he looks for it in Nature instead.
̶  Nature is feminine. But is it enough?
̶  No. Rimbaud died very lonely and bitter.

̶  So why do you want me to read him?
̶  It’s just a hunch I have, an intuition. I think you’d get along very well together.
̶  On a blue summer night?
̶  On a night like this.
̶  You could be right. I did see into the unknown as you recited his poem. Even if I didn’t understand anything.
̶  The music of his words was enough.
̶  The sound of your voice, more like. And the look in your eyes.
̶  The look in my eyes?
̶  Yes. I don’t know how to describe it. I just feel you admire me. And I like how that feels.
̶  Like Rimbaud, walking in the wind?
̶  Yes. But I’m not a vagabond looking for love!
̶  And I hope you never will be.

She stands up and picks up the rocking stool.

̶̶  Look, it’s got a convex base. That’s why it rocks.
̶  Very clever.
̶  I’ve got a bit of homework to do, Sprague.
̶  Go and do it, then.