direct link: danser la lune
This little clip was, oh, enticing. It was among other footage I shot of the August full moon, and I couldn't resist a little video.
The story is mine, from a novella I wrote in 2008 (my only hot novella -everyone should write one). The characters in this scene are Moedello and Orsola.
Music by Arnold Wohler, 'Larghetto espressivo' from his album, "Quintett für Flöte, Geige, Gitarre, Klavier und Cello in 5 Sätzen."
The Rumi lines shown at the beginning are from his poem, The Privileged Lovers (source? whose translation? unable to find, you know the NET).
I recorded this quite a few times over an evening and the next morning, and edited the passage a little in that process. I ended up going with the very first reading, wouldn't you know, how it is sometimes, so I don't have the exact version I read.
from my novella, Moedello:
She seemed not to particularly notice him. She smiled brightly when he passed by and said, "How're you today, my good man?" The pleasantries she offered were the same she offered to everyone she encountered on her jaunts through the city where she stopped at many houses to help with chores, or simply visit.
That she did not appear to hold him in a special place in her heart tore at him in his secret hours.
He felt awkward near her youthful beauty. She was like Graeco-Roman statuary, her proportions perfect, her beauty gracious and uplifting.
She shone.
She has charisma, he thought. I'm simply one of the smitten.
When she walked through the city, her hips swayed from side to side like a temptress. Her movement had rhythm, a natural grace. She was intoxicating to watch. When she spoke her voice was like sunbeams, or wind chimes dancing, the tenor and tone rich and seductive.
He could not get her off his mind. He was obsessed with her, and thought of her every spare moment. At night he imagined lying with her whispering intimacies to each other and making love until dawn. Every night he fell asleep dreaming of being entwined in union. In these visions he was the happiest man on the earth with the sexy saint, Orsola.
...
As he grew increasingly lovesick, an illness crept over him. A high fever developed; he became delirious. When his dinner was delivered to him, the woman who brought it saw Mœdello, who lay silently in his bed, was ill. Teas of various steeped herbs were prepared for him and brought to his bedside. Cloths dipped in cool water were laid over his heated brow.
Those caring for him in rotation through the day and evening were tired and Orsola was asked to watch over him for the rest of the night.
While he lay in a stupor dreaming of her, Orsola sat beside him in the dark room.
In the small room, the chair on which she sat jutted against the bed so her knees touched him as he dipped in and out of feverish delirium.
He called, 'Orsola...' in his fever not knowing he spoke her name out loud. And as in his dreams, she answered, 'I'm here, it's alright, I'll look after you through the night. Your fever will break soon, I know it will.'
He thought he was dreaming, truly. He reached out to where the voice, her voice, was and finding her knees, startled, he opened his eyes and tried to see in the dark.
She put her hand lightly on his on her knees, and said, 'Mœdello, rest, I'm watching over you...'
Mœdello lay still for what seemed forever and then he slowly began to move his hand between her legs, his heart beating with his boldness. He groaned slightly and she moved to lay a cool cloth on his brow and he kept slowly sliding his hand under her skirt, up her soft inner thighs.
Orsola did not stop him. Nor did she acknowledge that his fingers were slowly moving towards her most intimate grotto.
_
