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The Via Crucis of
Camille - Crux 1 - Page 10
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Camille hanged there, trembling for me, suffering
for me as if I was her lord, her king, her master.
But it was not an act of submission, it was a gift of love,
even if that love was now in danger of ending.
But love should never end even if the relationship does.
Of course there would be anger at the loss of the loved
one. I was now sentenced to see her walk out of my life
and there was little I could do to appeal this sentence.
The higher court was in her heart and her heart had spoken.
She spoke of freedom, of growth, of meeting others, of changing
her life.
"You are great for me." She said on the walk
we had under the sweltering sky on the jungle path from
the cabin we loved so much to the far away town where we
bought our food and candles.
"I need to experience more like you did... I'm young".
She was right, she has a full life ahead while I had lived
a lot and it would be unfair for me to keep her away from
her life. |
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Camille swayed, her body pulling her down, her strength
abandoning her, her shackles keeping her hanging from the
post.
It was a gentle sway from one
extreme to the other, her eyes closed, her feet struggling
to stay on the support.
I knew she must've been hurting, her body showed the duress
of her situation. It was beautiful to see her like that.
It was moving beyond words. How could this get better? I
asked myself. I was only disturbed by the surroundings,
if they could only disappear. We were in the bedroom, my
bedroom and even when hidden the bookcase and the wall clock
and the ancient, inca tapestry on the wall were out of place.
There was a simple beauty in her suffering, one
that should not be hindered by objects that had no relation
to this moment.
I was watching her and slowly all the objects
disappeared from my subjective view and all I saw was Camille
in all her glorious ordeal. |
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Still, as I worshiped her beauty and drank of her
suffering I had the same doubts that were plaguing me for
a while. What if...
What if this beautiful image transcended our four
walls, what if the video I was shooting ended up in other
hands.
Would they see the beauty?, would they see the love and
the passion? Or would they only see the ugliness
of a woman under degrading and humiliating circumstances.
Would they see poetry or would they see porn?
I was writing a living poem. I was painting
with red strokes of the whip. I was expressing that
which was within and I wanted it to express the overwhelming
romance of which it was made.
I was expressing the accumulation of all my religious
experiences. |
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Camille began to react slowly, She was returning
to have more control over her body. Perhaps she had
had enough of the pain of hanging. I knew it was painful,
I knew that it was hard. I tested the post before,
knowing that if the post resisted my weight that was easily
twice as much as hers, it would comfortably hold her weight
as she hanged from it. I could hardly
resist more than a few good, solid seconds. The pull
of my body on my wrists was too much to bear. The
support I had under my feet was almost cutting into the
soles of my feet.
When I tried the cross, my arms outstretched,
the pain on my arms and shoulders was as unbearable as it
could get without having to suffer the pain of the binds
on my wrists or the nails through my hands.
So I knew well how hard it was and how painful
it was for my Camille.
She was becoming more heroic to me than she ever
was and the feeling of loss was beginning to take over my
mind and my soul. That was more painful than anything. |
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I swallowed my anger when I grabbed her top to rip
it even more. I wanted to see more of her. I
wanted my imaginary crowds to gasp at the sight of her beautiful
body exposed even more. I wanted my imaginary victim
to suffer more of her humiliation.
Leticia was suffering the exposure
of her body to the whip, to the elements and to the eyes
of the voyeur crowd that was milling around to see how this
passion play would end.
Her servant, hanging a few meters
away and out of her view was also recoiling in pain as the
soldiers were testing if she was still alive with burning
swords.
The woman reacted to the inserting
of the tip of the blade under her breast. She opened her
eyes and saw beyond her pain. She saw her lady under the
lash and the soldier beating her crying as he did.
She opened her mouth, she was
dry and beyond the pain there was the thirst, the undying
thirst.
"Water" she begged. |
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