Post by goldenmyst on Aug 19, 2021 0:50:05 GMT -6
Magdalene is a dark-haired bride of the carpenter, Jesus, who gazes upon the wailing wall with wonder in her maiden heart.
A gray-bearded man hawks his wares for the worshippers. The smoke from his pipe smells sweet to her in her morning innocence. He sells Jewish Shekel coins from before copper bore Caesar’s image. Jesus is fascinated by them but she needs to taste tamarind and feel its juice drip down her chin. She strolls through the open-air Jerusalem market taking in the scent of fresh oranges.
Farmers rub the sleep out of their eyes from their vigil slumber in the produce stalls. They keep close watch over their produce lest some thief in the night steals their treasure.
She encounters the wooden casks where fish swim till the seller scoops one up in a net for a hungry buyer. She feels a breeze and wonders how shopping here feels more natural than growing their own vegetables for harvest. She feels the sun on her face and relishes the sensation.
Jesus is a carpenter who builds the furniture for their modest house. She sits at home and watches a man being dragged through the streets for stealing an orchard pear.
Yet the wonder of this ancient land seeps into her. Every turn of an alley brings exotic scenes and scents. They travel the back roads into ancient cities lost in the timeless aura of shepherds who follow the worn trails.
Her love for him fills her lonely hours while she cooks at home on a wood oven. They walk the same streets sharing a mission to love and be loved. Memories take root in their innocent lives. The taste of cardamom-spiced coffee stirs deep in their hearts.
One winter night she and Jesus head for the Garden of Gethsemane to spend a romantic evening under the stars. It is cold but with him, by her side, she feels warm.
Purple ribbons stream through the sky glistening with the bloody sun. Twilight eases slowly into the darkness with birds fluttering through olive tree boughs. Ripened figs hang pendulous from shadowy limbs. The plum red sun sinks silently. Hushed whispers between woman and man as evening weaves seductive magic of Whippoorwill serenading nocturnal delights. The delicate dance of fingertips on silky skin as lovers breath trembles exuding bliss The starlit sonata is a rhapsody in pink. The lovers frolic like nuptial butterflies lost in the labyrinth of night.
But their garden holds in store a fate that love cannot overcome. And so the forces that know not what they do but are all too human gather around Jesus like tigers on the prowl.
The case holds her precious Jesus clothes. The Roman soldiers had seen Magdalene’s tears and out of pity given them to her to keep. In the silence, she is entranced by his robe. It is a relic of love laying like a shroud enshrined by her passion. The cotton Kaftan is in a luminescent aura whose seams her fingers trace luxuriating through cotton on a sensory memory journey as her tingling vision unfolds with his form alive beneath her fingertips hallucinating love in dark caverns of solitude. The tomb chamber echoes her voice while her magic theater of mind resurrects affection from gentle reminders of Elysian days.
She pays a visit to the temple to give her respects to the God that had brought her Jesus into this world. But as she kneels on the prayer rug she remembers Jesus’ mother, Mary’s, eyes so sad with her only son dead.
Magdalene is alone in the world now that her husband, Jesus, has gone back home leaving her empty. She knows he is in a better place and he isn't suffering anymore. But this doesn’t make up for anything. He doesn’t warm her heart with whispered love when evening falls so hard. Saturday nights are the hardest, not that they all aren’t.
The birds singing in the morning only magnify her sorrow. Magdalene looks up at an altar where the Torah resides. But the memories of her Jesus nailed to the cross with his bloodstains marking the brown wood, His face was drawn in pain, and the thorny crown upon his head make even silent prayer impossible. Magdalene wonders how God could let his only son suffer that much and leave her heartbroken in a million pieces never to be put back together. Now she is a widow with the son and daughter of Jesus and Magdalene had fatherless. What a cruel God!
Jesus sacrificed and is humanity any better off? Are they any kinder and gentler to each other? How dare some old men tell us that through the martyrdom of her beautiful young man our sins are forgiven and we find salvation? Don’t women have a say in this?
Magdalene raises her fist in anger at the invisible male force that has ruled her life till now. Tears flow like blood down her cheeks. She tastes the salty wetness of her body and she feels the breath deep in her chest like a divine emanation.
She thinks of Jesus; his soft touch upon her shoulder; his warm body pressed against her; the taste of his mouth; the smell of his musk; his soft brown eyes sparkling in the lamplight; as he sat on the divan when she knew the prophecies and pleaded with him to serve his God as a father instead of a lamb.
The Ark of the Covenant loomed on the altar. She would even make a deal with the Devil to make love to Jesus one more time. She rises to her feet in defiance of the ancient patriarch who is a stranger to her now. She screams, “F-You!!!,” into the cavernous building hearing it reverberate through the room as though the walls might fall if she yelled loud enough.
She rises like a fury. The swish of her dress and the slamming of the door punctuate this dream as she starts a new chapter in her own book of life; sans the heavenly phallic dictator; sans shame and penance; out of the open wound of pain in her chest; a beautiful flower blooms resplendent with her own truth sans regret.
One night she is carrying water from the well. A piece of papyrus is attached to the well. In the moonlight she can read the script, “If you want to buy Arab jewelry meet us at the western wall.” Magdalene thinks this must be black market since the Romans control the exchange of foreign goods to tax them.
But she thinks to herself, “I must go! I don’t want to leave this life empty-handed. It sounds dangerous. But there is that element which excites me.”
Her heart beats with exhilarated fear. Yet, the prospect of the smuggler’s den and the risk gives her such a rush she feels like screaming for the pure pleasure of it.
She arrives. She enters the room redolent with the scent of tobacco like a player in a high-stakes backgammon game.
The seller calls, “Chi. Chi.”
A young boy brings in a platter of teacups for the customers. As soon as the tea is taken and the plate empty he vanishes awaiting the man’s summons for more tea.
The Arab merchant hawks jewelry. He holds a Harem ring. She says, “Oh I want the ring! Please hand it to me.”
The merchant says, “Milady what interests you about such a thing?”
She says, “Harems fascinate me; to be one among many.”
The merchant says, “My name is Yousef but you know me as Jesus. You are my one and only wife.”
She says, “But the ring represents a group of women.”
Jesus says, “No my love, the gemstones are our previous lifetimes together. We have known each other long before my crucifixion that shocked you.”
She holds the ring up in the light. “Look at the gemstones. Each one is a different color. The stones are unique like the people we were. But they are joined by the gold band of our soul’s essence. You love my eyes don’t you?”
“Oh yes. Your eyes interest me more than any costume jewelry.”
“Well, then I shall wear the ring even more proudly since It represents me as your one and only instead of one among many!”
“You’re in a cheeky mood” Jesus banters.
“Oh blame it on the cardamom tea. The aroma has me positively blitzed.”
“Well, the tea does have a zing to it.”
“Let’s raise a toast, to marriage!”
“Would you like me to turn your tea into wine?”
“Of course. Wine has a much prettier bouquet than tea.”
A gray-bearded man hawks his wares for the worshippers. The smoke from his pipe smells sweet to her in her morning innocence. He sells Jewish Shekel coins from before copper bore Caesar’s image. Jesus is fascinated by them but she needs to taste tamarind and feel its juice drip down her chin. She strolls through the open-air Jerusalem market taking in the scent of fresh oranges.
Farmers rub the sleep out of their eyes from their vigil slumber in the produce stalls. They keep close watch over their produce lest some thief in the night steals their treasure.
She encounters the wooden casks where fish swim till the seller scoops one up in a net for a hungry buyer. She feels a breeze and wonders how shopping here feels more natural than growing their own vegetables for harvest. She feels the sun on her face and relishes the sensation.
Jesus is a carpenter who builds the furniture for their modest house. She sits at home and watches a man being dragged through the streets for stealing an orchard pear.
Yet the wonder of this ancient land seeps into her. Every turn of an alley brings exotic scenes and scents. They travel the back roads into ancient cities lost in the timeless aura of shepherds who follow the worn trails.
Her love for him fills her lonely hours while she cooks at home on a wood oven. They walk the same streets sharing a mission to love and be loved. Memories take root in their innocent lives. The taste of cardamom-spiced coffee stirs deep in their hearts.
One winter night she and Jesus head for the Garden of Gethsemane to spend a romantic evening under the stars. It is cold but with him, by her side, she feels warm.
Purple ribbons stream through the sky glistening with the bloody sun. Twilight eases slowly into the darkness with birds fluttering through olive tree boughs. Ripened figs hang pendulous from shadowy limbs. The plum red sun sinks silently. Hushed whispers between woman and man as evening weaves seductive magic of Whippoorwill serenading nocturnal delights. The delicate dance of fingertips on silky skin as lovers breath trembles exuding bliss The starlit sonata is a rhapsody in pink. The lovers frolic like nuptial butterflies lost in the labyrinth of night.
But their garden holds in store a fate that love cannot overcome. And so the forces that know not what they do but are all too human gather around Jesus like tigers on the prowl.
The case holds her precious Jesus clothes. The Roman soldiers had seen Magdalene’s tears and out of pity given them to her to keep. In the silence, she is entranced by his robe. It is a relic of love laying like a shroud enshrined by her passion. The cotton Kaftan is in a luminescent aura whose seams her fingers trace luxuriating through cotton on a sensory memory journey as her tingling vision unfolds with his form alive beneath her fingertips hallucinating love in dark caverns of solitude. The tomb chamber echoes her voice while her magic theater of mind resurrects affection from gentle reminders of Elysian days.
She pays a visit to the temple to give her respects to the God that had brought her Jesus into this world. But as she kneels on the prayer rug she remembers Jesus’ mother, Mary’s, eyes so sad with her only son dead.
Magdalene is alone in the world now that her husband, Jesus, has gone back home leaving her empty. She knows he is in a better place and he isn't suffering anymore. But this doesn’t make up for anything. He doesn’t warm her heart with whispered love when evening falls so hard. Saturday nights are the hardest, not that they all aren’t.
The birds singing in the morning only magnify her sorrow. Magdalene looks up at an altar where the Torah resides. But the memories of her Jesus nailed to the cross with his bloodstains marking the brown wood, His face was drawn in pain, and the thorny crown upon his head make even silent prayer impossible. Magdalene wonders how God could let his only son suffer that much and leave her heartbroken in a million pieces never to be put back together. Now she is a widow with the son and daughter of Jesus and Magdalene had fatherless. What a cruel God!
Jesus sacrificed and is humanity any better off? Are they any kinder and gentler to each other? How dare some old men tell us that through the martyrdom of her beautiful young man our sins are forgiven and we find salvation? Don’t women have a say in this?
Magdalene raises her fist in anger at the invisible male force that has ruled her life till now. Tears flow like blood down her cheeks. She tastes the salty wetness of her body and she feels the breath deep in her chest like a divine emanation.
She thinks of Jesus; his soft touch upon her shoulder; his warm body pressed against her; the taste of his mouth; the smell of his musk; his soft brown eyes sparkling in the lamplight; as he sat on the divan when she knew the prophecies and pleaded with him to serve his God as a father instead of a lamb.
The Ark of the Covenant loomed on the altar. She would even make a deal with the Devil to make love to Jesus one more time. She rises to her feet in defiance of the ancient patriarch who is a stranger to her now. She screams, “F-You!!!,” into the cavernous building hearing it reverberate through the room as though the walls might fall if she yelled loud enough.
She rises like a fury. The swish of her dress and the slamming of the door punctuate this dream as she starts a new chapter in her own book of life; sans the heavenly phallic dictator; sans shame and penance; out of the open wound of pain in her chest; a beautiful flower blooms resplendent with her own truth sans regret.
One night she is carrying water from the well. A piece of papyrus is attached to the well. In the moonlight she can read the script, “If you want to buy Arab jewelry meet us at the western wall.” Magdalene thinks this must be black market since the Romans control the exchange of foreign goods to tax them.
But she thinks to herself, “I must go! I don’t want to leave this life empty-handed. It sounds dangerous. But there is that element which excites me.”
Her heart beats with exhilarated fear. Yet, the prospect of the smuggler’s den and the risk gives her such a rush she feels like screaming for the pure pleasure of it.
She arrives. She enters the room redolent with the scent of tobacco like a player in a high-stakes backgammon game.
The seller calls, “Chi. Chi.”
A young boy brings in a platter of teacups for the customers. As soon as the tea is taken and the plate empty he vanishes awaiting the man’s summons for more tea.
The Arab merchant hawks jewelry. He holds a Harem ring. She says, “Oh I want the ring! Please hand it to me.”
The merchant says, “Milady what interests you about such a thing?”
She says, “Harems fascinate me; to be one among many.”
The merchant says, “My name is Yousef but you know me as Jesus. You are my one and only wife.”
She says, “But the ring represents a group of women.”
Jesus says, “No my love, the gemstones are our previous lifetimes together. We have known each other long before my crucifixion that shocked you.”
She holds the ring up in the light. “Look at the gemstones. Each one is a different color. The stones are unique like the people we were. But they are joined by the gold band of our soul’s essence. You love my eyes don’t you?”
“Oh yes. Your eyes interest me more than any costume jewelry.”
“Well, then I shall wear the ring even more proudly since It represents me as your one and only instead of one among many!”
“You’re in a cheeky mood” Jesus banters.
“Oh blame it on the cardamom tea. The aroma has me positively blitzed.”
“Well, the tea does have a zing to it.”
“Let’s raise a toast, to marriage!”
“Would you like me to turn your tea into wine?”
“Of course. Wine has a much prettier bouquet than tea.”
Everyone have a great weekend!!!!