sandandwater

Lady Nuala,

It was certainly a pleasant surprise to find your letter waiting amongst my more pedestrian mail. I must apologize for the lack of communication on my part; I too have been rather preoccupied with my own pursuits to the exclusion of all else. Tunnel vision, an artist’s drive, a relentless muse—whatever you wish to call it, I’ve fallen victim to the pull. Your missive has been a gentle reminder that a world does exist outside of my glassmaker’s studio. Thank you.

How is it that women, the so-called weaker sex, seem to be the planners and maintainers and the men find themselves in a position to indulge in other means of occupying their hands if not their minds? They might not all take to being the warriors you know but I’ve yet to meet a man who doesn’t, in some way or another, have interests outside of maintaining the status quo. It’s almost as if many of them think tasks will keep after themselves.

If I sound cynical it’s likely due to the fact that I, too, am surrounded mostly by men. Being a gaffer has long been the province of those more masculine, which makes my activity here in Venice all the more trying. Now, of course, they have taken to treating me like ‘one of the boys’ and there are days when I am not sure if that’s the better alternative. On the other hand, my glasswork is coming along nicely. I think I have sufficiently impressed the inspiration for one of my pieces.

As you can see, I am quite willing (eager even!) to write to you. I’ll be even more glad to see you in person once time permits. Until then, I hope that all remains well with you.

Yours, in the name of feminine confidentiality,

Pippa Kerr

She doesn’t relax anymore. Hasn’t in nearly a year. She can’t relax and let down her guard without becoming vulnerable. Nor can she keep up the break-neck drive of creative frenzy to take in the calm of the day surrounding her. If that happens, she starts to think. To feel. Remember.

Pippa’d much rather forget the pain and the fear, the insecurity and the suffocating feel of her life closing in on her.

So when the evening comes and she returns home, she fills a glass with dark red wine then drinks from the bottle. She doesn’t relax. She drowns.

Summer 2009

She didn’t scream this time. The tightness squeezing her chest made it impossible to draw the breath needed and the swollen lump of her heart was lodged (or so it felt) so far into her throat that she wouldn’t be able to cry out in any case. She didn’t cry either. Her eyes were wide with shock and fear, but dry as she shifted her panicked gaze from one focal point to another.

Meaningful movement of limbs tangled in sweat-soaked sheets took a bit longer. By the time she was able to untangle herself from the damp cotton and sit up, Pippa had found the ability to breathe again. Breathe and shake, trembling as she recalled the too-vivid, too-real sights and sounds of the nightmare.

The nightmare. It was always the same. Never ending, never changing, always filled with the same terror and helplessness and always, always his voice. A sick, twisted narration for her suffering punctuated by the laughter of a monster. She’d been trapped, strapped to the table in his dirty, dank, filth-filled apartment. Tied down and screaming, begging for no more. An end, only he never listened. No, he continued on with his little project. His stack of presents for an Irish singer: first it was her hair and that was humiliating but painless, then her finger and oh, how she screamed. It never stopped there, the events of reality and sick fantasy twisting until Larch had managed to use those rusted-dull garden sheers to cut away every last digit, right hand and left.

On the good nights, that was when she’d wake up.

Tonight hadn’t been a good night. Pippa retched and gagged as she shut her eyes against another onslaught of images she’d woken up from. Things worse than being slowly dismembered, Larch hadn’t managed to do what he wanted to the redhead, no, but he made sure to share with her the grizzly fate of all the women before her. In sleep, her tortured thoughts turned on themselves and rewrote his narrative, applied it to her and let her feel what her fate could have been. Should have been, but wasn’t.

Because of Rory. She was alive because of the relentless way he’d refused to accept her disappearance. Because he’d urged his brother to search for her by means inhuman and incomprehensible to her. Because he and his brothers…she was sitting in her moonlit room in Venice because three very brave, bold and self-sacrificing men came to her rescue. Men she repaid by rejecting, avoiding and leaving. That realization was even more painful to bear than anything the madman had inflicted.

The dry heaving stopped and the tears began, hot and silent they coursed down her face, wetting her cheeks and chin, newly dampening her nightgown. She pushed them away; all of them, anyone who wanted to help her. Rory, most of all, most importantly of all. The only one who could help at times like these. Comfort and reassure her. Make her feel safe and whole. She ran away from him, from that, because she was scared. She was still scared and now, here, without anyone to protect her.

When she moved next, it was almost instinctive. Her hand reached for the phone on the bedside table, pressed the buttons in the dark. She didn’t need to see in order to call up something so deeply ingrained in memory. If she’d been awake and calm, she likely would have ignored the impulse to call him, or would have at least hung up before the call had connected. But tonight, tonight she sniffed back fresh tears and as soon as she heard the line pick up, be it voicemail or Rory himself, she let out the heartfelt truth:

“Oh, Ro…I wish you were here.”

Pippa Kerr//Last Call//630 words

How did we get here?
Well, I used to know you so well, yeah.
But how did we get here?
Well, I think I know
[‘Decode’ – Paramore]

She wasn’t the same woman who left Venice at twenty-two. There were similarities, certainly and familiarities—the things that Alessandro recognized as Phillipa Kerr despite this new broken aura that surrounded the gaffer. But this wasn’t his brilliant star, this wasn’t the woman he had loved so fiercely and given so much of himself to; she was a pale imitation. A ghost. A shadow. It broke his heart.

He accepted that she hadn’t wanted to marry him and that she had wanted to return to New York. Love was that way at times, burned fast and bright and then was over. The memories would last and there would still be a student for him to mentor. There was no regret or animosity there; he only wanted her to be happy—happy and fulfilled. It was painfully clear to him that Pippa was neither of these things.

Pippa spent her days working like a thing possessed, not an artist enjoying her craft but a soul tortured and engulfed in a painful penance for sins imagined and transgressions he couldn’t begin to fathom. They had argued about this, the way she worked. He wanted her to slow down, rest more. Drink. Eat. Live and not merely exist. She steadfastly refused and on the days that he would voice his concerns, Pippa would only work harder and longer. At what, he didn’t know. She would not discuss it after his one derisive comment regarding molds and forms. This had been his error and her silence the price he would pay.

Alessandro accepted that as well. He insulted her unwittingly and the red-haired beauty would hold a grudge. Recognizably Pippa, such behavior was. It would have made him smile if the sheer stubbornness hadn’t turned into something far more disconcerting of late. The anger, he could deal with it was the sadness in her voice and the hollow look in her eyes that he didn’t like. Something was missing, a vital part of the young woman. Determination wasn’t security, working to near exhaustion wasn’t confidence and aloofness didn’t disguise fear. Whatever happened to change his former lover had been profound.

The maestro had the disheartening suspicion that that something had a name and that name was Rory Stone.

February 15, 2009

Rory,

I know that your album is set for release this month and I’m sure you’re caught up in a frenzy of activity and celebration because of this. I’m writing because I wanted to tell you that despite everything else, above all else, I am so very proud of you. The rest of the band as well, but mostly you. I always knew you had it within you to do this, Ro. Always.

I once told Mike not to count on Breaker Street being a regular act at Last Call for long because unlike so many other bands that came through those doors you six had “it”. You had the drive, the talent, the raw want and need. Anyone that’s ever heard you perform as a group could see that. And when Robbie Fellowes agreed to come listen to you—on what I thought was an indulgent whim because of my nattering—I knew you wouldn’t be walking away from that meeting without everything you’ve always deserved.

Of course, I didn’t know then that I’d have to nudge and convince, poke and prod you into accepting that offer or into believing in yourself as much as I did. Still do. I always will. You’re so very talented, gifted and gracious about it. I hope you never lose sight of that, of who you are. Don’t let fame change you, don’t let the publicists force you to be someone you aren’t, make it about the music. Isn’t that what you always told me? It was about the music and the audience, making that connection. Baby, you’re going to be so connected you won’t know what’s hit you and neither will they.

I debated for a while whether or not I should write this let alone send it but I finally decided that the things I wanted to say, needed to tell you, were worth putting into print and worth sharing with you. You deserve to know that I wish you well, that I think the world of you and want nothing but the best for all of you. Give Junie, Nil, Sascha, Dave and Kreske my regards.

Mi manchi*,

Pippa

P.S. I’ve held on to this bracelet for the better part of a year, I bought it intending to give it to you as a gift at your first wrap party. I hope you’ll still accept it in the spirit in which I give it. No strings attached, no promises made. It’s just me wanting you to remember that your Believer Girl does.



ooc: * I miss you

I keep meaning to post these, most of them taken by Marcello, a few of the decidedly amateur shots are my own handiwork, of course. I'm not sure how much most of you know about The City of Water, but it's made up of many islands and I don't live on Venice itself, but the isle of Murano instead. Murano is where the furnaces for glass making have been for centuries. All of them exiled there, to one location in case of fires. Reasonable and cheerful, no? Si.

Anyhow, this is where I am most days:

( Venga con me! (Follow me) )

I quit. I give up. I surrender.

The universe hates me. I get that now, I truly do.

If it's not something soul-crushingly painful and horrific, it's a million little inconsequential things that add up. I cannot catch a single, simple break. Ever. Everything I touch...I think I ruin everyone's lives. Always have, only I'm just now realizing this.

Mike called and left me a voice mail.

He can't keep Mr. Beaker for me any longer. The one thing I thought I wouldn't need to worry about was my puppy. I thought he was well-cared for and loved. I thought he had a new home with someone who would take the best care of him. My poor puppy. Mr. Beaker won't eat. He's destructive. Mike said he's lethargic and whines all the time. Sits by the front door and won't move.

That was the final straw, I think. I listened to his message and could hear Mr. Beaker whining in the background and my heart just broke. Shattered. Completely. It's enough to make me want to get on a plane and go get him. Of course Alessandro told me I was ridiculous.

And we fought. I hate it when we fight. When he yells at me like that. When he won't yell anymore and looks at me with those dark eyes and speaks so softly I can barely hear him over the sound of my own breathing. I hate it when he ignores me. I hate it when I let him down. Disappoint him. When he doesn't love me.

I don't know what to do any more. I've been in my room the last two days and I have cried until I can't cry any more. Been ill so often that there's nothing left inside to get rid of and my muscles ache from trying anyway. I can't stand being in my own skin anymore. I can't stand being me. I hate this. I hate it. It's just...it's hard. It's lonely. Empty.

It's worse than being trapped in that apartment with him. I feel just as tied. Just as helpless. Just as scared. The only difference is this time...this time I know no one cares. No one is looking for me or wondering where I am. There isn't anyone who will come save me and make it better.

This time, I did it to myself.

Posted some three or four months into Pippa's return to Venice.

[Filtered to Rory, Cait, Tadhg, Zippy, Aryn, Smecker, Bobby Barnes]

My friend Marcello, he’s someone I’ve known for a long while and we lost touch when I left Venice the first time. We’ve since reconnected and it’s as if we picked up right where we left off. Old jokes are still funny; we enjoy each other’s company as much now as we did back then…we’re slowly catching up on the details of each other’s lives. It’s…nice, actually.

He’s a photographer. A very gifted photographer. He sees the world through a camera lens, sees light and color, contrast and depth…thinks in macro and micro. He always amazes me with the way he can turn the ordinary into something extraordinary. I’ve been letting him photograph me lately. In the evenings when natural light is horrible and I’m dead tired from working with Alessandro all day, after I’ve had one glass of wine too many in an attempt to relax and unwind. After we’ve laughed too much, cried too little and probably not eaten enough to call it dinner.

Marcello is great at getting me to step outside my comfort zone. Convincing me that I want to do things I would never consider acceptable. He has a knack for getting me to trust him, his vision, the art. He’s also very, very skilled at reassuring me, giving me back the confidence I’d lost. He has a way of knowing what I need to hear, how I need to feel. He can make me feel beautiful.

My scars aren’t things to be covered up. My hand isn’t something to hide. Stretch marks, burns, freckles, moles…my big, ugly feet—he loves them all. Proof of life, that’s what he called them the other day. Points of interest uniquely my own. I didn’t really believe him at the time and I think it shows in some of the shots, the look on my face at times—I’m only humoring him. But others…if I step outside myself and look at them objectively, as pieces of art, the way he intends them to be seen and not as if I am looking at myself in the mirror—I can almost see what he means. I understand what he wants from me. And I can see that I’ve given it to him.

I can be beautiful. I don’t have to hide. I don’t need to be ashamed.

There is truth in nakedness, an honesty there. Vulnerability. Strength.


( Photographs, not dial-up friendly and by American standards one is likely deemed not safe for work )



You might think I’m being disingenuous here, keeping this filtered to the handful of people I am sharing these with, but I’m not. I trust you. I know you. I’m comfortable enough with you seeing these images and knowing you aren’t going to look at them as anything other than what they are. One man’s art.

Besides, can any of you just imagine if James Potter saw a semi-nude portrait of me? I’m sure no one wants to listen to that little beast share his thoughts and perversions on the fact that Pippa Kerr has breasts.

takes place well into the second week of January

She needed a break from the oppressive heat in Alessandro's glassworks studio, needed a drink of water and to wipe the sweat from her brow. She also wiped at the back of her neck and the small of her back. Moisture gathered everywhere it could pool as she worked and it didn't bother her until she stopped long enough to break her concentration. Now it positively itched.

Carrying her towel and a bottle of water outside with her, Pippa sat on a low stone bench and leaned against the building's exterior. Several days ago she'd had a conversation with one of her friends over the internet and since then she'd been having an internal debate over one sticking point: should she call Rory?

Today it seemed as if Pippa had had enough of her internal debate. She was going to call Rory. Just once. And if she got his voicemail, she'd leave him a message.

Her new phone, already filled with numbers and contact information, was missing an entry for the Irishman--not that it mattered. Pippa knew his numbers, his address, his email by heart. Without much thought, her fingers danced over the keypad, entering the digits for his cell phone.

As it rang in her ear, Pippa nodded at a passerby and offered a soft greeting in Italian. Hello, good afternoon.