To the best of her knowledge Maurelle was French. At least in this dreary realm that was her chosen persona. The bilingual from birth or those unveiled for the sake of reasoning are more often than not puzzled, unsure of their pedigree. Besides, French after all is the language of love and that of those not sharing common tongue.
Seeing nothing extraordinary on the far side of blue skies and starry nights she had never been moved by the idea of kneeling. As such Maurelle found Sunday mornings to be mind-numbingly uninspiring. Wicked over pious by volition any day of any week suited her. Not so much a choice, more an elementary state of being.
In the company of the barking mad, looking up toward the barren heavens solved nothing. It never had. The impotence and self-indulgence of prayer airmailed to the nothingness irked her even more than bells and clappers on the stigmatized voiceless.
As a ‘lamp-less’ treasure hunting ‘objet de l’art’, she would bandage damaged sensibility, kiss better those parts of the belfry that circumstance had seen fit to leave unattended. Sometimes, just sometimes serendipity had the graciousness to put in an appearance and stand at her side. As ever, twists of fate favoured persistence over conviction.
Some of those who she had nourished thought her an angel. They told her as much. Such niceties, albethey accepted with due grace, ‘heavenly being’ would be her metaphor of first choice when all was said and done. Maurelle was a superlatively, ‘heavenly being’ in and out of costume.
In her own time, she favoured epaulettes over bare shoulders; faux camouflage over low cut glamour; delinquent combat boots over explicit stiletto heels. Clichéd fetish she found to be a most dismal thing. Rarely did she smile. The Maurelle’s of this world and those like her, the priceless one’s who the mirror on the ceiling cannot fail to worship, frown upon inane flattery, hardly ever smile. Why would they?
For the record, Maurelle, within her close circle of chosen ones and the occasional deserved saviour let it be known that her bed was a place for fathoming crossword puzzles, dozing and, as the fancy took, rental.
We lost her the night she ventured through the façade of reason into the arena of impulsivity seeking sensation without repercussion or consequence. There she would promenade unlit back alleyways, share darkest chocolate bars with omnipotent feathered tribesmen, hand fiery yet dim dragon’s flammable replicas of St George and mollycoddle flamboyant eccentric redeemers.
As day turned to dusk and dusk to darkness, a dressed to perhaps kill, perhaps not, Maurelle took to her bed, begged of impossible gremlins they allow her to rest in the arms of picture book Morpheus for eternity.
Leonard Cohen – Seems So Long Ago, Nancy