Thanks to Luis Royo and other artists who inspire and awe me with their talent.  
And thanks to my friend Auld Broad who dares me to walk the edge.

 

 

The House of Fire and Ice, Boudicca's journal, 3 November, 2005

There is a side of me that I hide from everyone, including myself.  Every so often, though, it tries to fight its way to the surface to unleash hell upon the rigid self-control that I endeavor to practice in keeping with the philosophies of those who have guided me through life.  But then my destiny was set before ever I was born, with little regard to the strength of my free will and refusal to be ruled by convention.  Thus I was not raised to consider that I might want something for myself as a woman that I do not have to answer for to any save myself.  

At times I wonder if it is simply this more permissive age with all the opportunity and expedience that my own did not afford.  Perhaps it is the influence of my new woman friends as they share with me the mysteries of womanhood that transcend simple functionality.  Or it could be that I am getting older and realizing that life is passing by faster with every winter that turns and that there are things I want to at least try one time before my body begins its descent into frailty.  Whatever the case, I am more aware every day that the chrysalis of the old Boudicca is slowly metamorphosing inside her cocoon.  If a butterfly emerges has yet to be seen.  What is becoming clearer however, each time she steps back into her origins, is that her own world is no longer suited to her, or rather she to it. 

I suppose, though I fight them every step of the way and I do not always understand why at the moment, the gods do have reasons for the direction my life has taken.  As my visits in this world stretch over longer periods of time, I discover in flashes of thought and experience what those deities have in mind.  By and large, that unfinished business that Terry hinted at seems to be their primary task for me to care for, but other lessons are in store as well if I know anything about their whims.   Maybe the struggle makes me appreciate the rewards I glean more soundly than if they were simply handed to me.   Not that I do not appreciate the counsel of others who have been there before me.   I must though, confess to the pride of independence and desire to know for myself the dynamics of a thing to understand it more fully. 

Do not misunderstand me, however.  There are times when the impact of a beautiful moment leaves behind such a sweet memory, that its lecture is just as deeply sounded into my brain as that which comes from pain.  It never happens but when I least expect it.  And it always comes from the corner I would never think immediately to search for it in.  They do like to keep me guessing, those gods. 

 

 

The Come On Inn, Arthur's office, afternoon, 10 November, 2004

A home.  Life starting over.  Education.  These things cost a great deal of money, leaving little to exist on after.  My nest egg, the private account into which Terry had stored my earnings from a few jobs I did for him for safekeeping, was depleted after Arthur showed me the results of the tally he had taken of all my expenses. 

"You're not quite in the red, but it isn't good," he warned me before handing me the crisp sheet of computerized figures. 

"I'll have to consider employment, then."  Calmly I took the paper from him and pored over the itemized list and the numbers aligned precisely to the right of each.  It was not as though I had not kept my own record in my head, but the physical representation of my bid to settle into a different world and find a place among my friends again was a bit disheartening.  Following on the heels of Cort's abrupt removal of himself from our relationship, it was a blow that brought home that I had miscalculated again my ability to pull myself from the mire and walk on the water of optimism. 

"You have to keep up your studies.   That's important."  

"Then I'll find a job that works with my school schedule."  

"I hate to be the one to suggest it, but maybe you should sell your house instead.   It's going to be a monstrosity to heat in the winter, and keeping it cool in summer..."

"Will not be an issue.  I live on the sea.  And I am careful with my electricity and water usage."

"But now you're growing plants for your medicine," he tapped the notation of receipts for my seedlings, "and keeping the greenhouse at a constant temperature when the weather changes is going be rough on your pocketbook.  Talk to Uma about one of the rooms and taking up some space in the roof garden." 

"I need my own world away from people.  That is why I bought the house to begin with.  I'll get work first.  The house is paid for; it's just overhead from there."  

"I thought you bought it to be close to us?"

"I did." 

"Then...oh, never mind.  I don't have time for riddles today."  I smiled softly at the boy-man before me, marveling at the maturity that had snuck up on him since I saw him last.  Some of it was responsibility and ethics, some of it age, most of it his love with Angharad, As he shuffled papers about on his immaculate desk and placed a copy of my particulars in a folder, I suppressed the urge to smooth back the lock of hair that insisted on leaving its proper place.  In a way, I guess we all wish time would never move forward and that we could live the happy moments forever.  A part of me wanted to keep Arthur young for all eternity, frozen in his youth and hapless attempts at being a grown up before his time.  Like he had been when I was first introduced to him and the kinship of ancestry bonded us as fast friends. 

"What?"  His query broke my reverie.  

"You're growing up," I replied, allowing myself the maternal notion to lift his chin in my fingers and study him.  

"Yes, well, I understand that happens.  And you're...um...you are..."

"Ancient," I finished for him with a giggle.  

"Still impossibly ignorant of record-keeping, I was thinking."  He stood and held a hand out to help me up while shoving a newspaper into the other.  "Look in the classified ads," he advised.  "And if you need help with any of your paperwork, please come find me?" 

"You know I will."  

 

 

The Come On Inn, the study table of Boudicca and Stephen, evening, 10 November, 2004

Over a bottle of Stephen's favorite Rioja and a stack of texts both modern and ancient, I presented my friend our first true obstacle.  Twenty years of my life I had given to studying the laws of my own people until I could recite every word of them from memory.  The same goes for every stitch of medical knowledge in the files of my brain, though the study of medicine, for the physician, is lifelong and arduous, if one cares but a smidgeon for the art.  In this electronic age, where everything is written and stored for the sake of reference and readily available, two afternoons spent in the library will yield a rich bounty of legal information to guide a dream.  Or hinder it, if a body chooses to ignore rule and regulation.  There are so many now.   It would appear that twenty years might not be enough time to memorize them all. 

"It's going to mean more courses than we anticipated, I'm afraid," I lamented, ticking off the number of certificates and special training sessions we would need just to be up to standard with various medical and health codes.  "The licensing examinations were only a part of it."

 Stephen, I am coming to learn, has infinite patience and energy and barely blinked.  "It's not altogether an insurmountable task though, is it?  We are destined to spend the greater portion of our lives in study regardless." 

"No, of course not.  I suppose I just was eager to get started right away and am simply disappointed by the setback, that's all." 

"Better to have discovered it beforehand than to have it sneak up on us in the middle."

"Yes.  However, it is going to run us into more financial need.  And I am reluctant to approach Terry for additional funds.  He has been generous enough.  Therefore, I am going to have to split my time between your company and an occupation."  Already my pen was scribbling over the paper Arthur had given me.  Grinning half-humouredly, I called out a couple of prospects- a delivery person (not feasible, since I have no automobile) or telemarketing (Stephen pointed out that as I am a hard sell myself, my conscience would not allow me to induce another to listen to a sales pitch). 

"Perhaps if you hadn't insisted on putting both of us through our schooling, madam, you might not have the worry to shoulder alone," he mused over his glass, looking over the paper that I had turned for him to see.  "I would be willing enough to take up my share of the responsibility." 

"Don't be silly.  I will be relying on you a good deal for your greater knowledge.  It's the least I can do to pay for it.  Here it is.  The perfect job."  I pointed to the advertisement, striking a comical pose in my seat.

 

 

Stephen instead gazed at me pensively before answering, his azure eyes flickering from one point to another over my form and finally resting on my face.  I was still while he made his examination, knowing before he ever said it what he was going to tell me.  "You have the stature for it, if I understand the sort of bearing required from a woman in that line of work.  Your features are arresting.  I should think you might find a raw talent for it.  And it can never hurt to be the subject of the artist's brush or his camera lens.  It might replace some of the confidence in yourself that has gone amiss." 

"I was rather hoping you would advise me differently."

"That is precisely the reason I did not, my dear."  

 

 

Apple of the Eye Photography, Steve's studio, 13 November, 2004

 

 

 

 

Fate is a strange thing.  If one thinks on it long enough, they can go mad trying to unravel the intricate web of a single moment to decipher how it came about and for what reasons.  (Yes, I do this often, which is why I am of the disposition of the insane.)   

No matter how many of the men of this circle I meet, regardless of how many separate personalities lie behind them, all of them have the same blue-green eyes of their creator.  How many years have I gazed into one pair or another, assessing each one's soul and transferring my own truths into them when words fail to express the yearnings of my heart?  Every fleck of brown and gold around the center of the pupil and the aqua outline of the iris is as familiar to me as my own.   The eyes that greeted me at the door of Apple of the Eye Photography that afternoon in November automatically gave my trust in this venture a foothold.

Recognition flared in my brain like the first light to a candle wick, shedding illumination on a notion that plagues me even as I write this.  Alex Ross had found his way to us scant two months previous.  SID had insinuated himself on us at Halloween.  And here was yet another missing piece of the puzzle that is our world.  Steve.  Using their natural gifts or occupations, the lost children of the pub were finding their way home- Alex on the trail of a story and a place to go had stopped into the pub for a drink.  SID via Ann's computer.  Steve had placed an ad for a model for his camera that I answered.   And at the vortex of the web of fate was the core design for the gathering of us all. 

"Seen a ghost?" he prodded gently when I hesitated between reflection and purpose in the entrance to the studio.  

"You might say that," I grinned self-consciously.  He was not yet familiar with my habit of suddenly disappearing inside my own mind in the middle of a conversation. 

"If you say I look like Russell Crowe, I'm not hiring you."  I liked his lack of formality straight away.   

"All right.  But obviously you have been told so before." 

"By nearly everyone who's ever seen his movies, yeah."

"Have you seen them?" Why not draw him out a little?  See what he knew about his origins and where he had been since the finish of his own film?  

"What?  Russell's movies? A few.  Kind of busy with my life and keeping in work, though."  He led me to a worn, heavy oak desk piled with folders and packets of still photographs.  "Let's talk business.  Did you bring a portfolio?"

"I have no prior experience in this, so no."

"Everyone's got prior experience.  Their parents start them young for the relatives' sake." 

"Mine didn't." 

"You're a pretty girl.  Surely someone somewhere snapped a picture or two.  How about school pictures?"

"None.  Just a passport and my identification cards."  

"Are cameras against your religion?" he laughed in disbelief.

"No, I just grew up where there were none."  

"You're British or Scottish, though."

"British by birth.  Most of my life was spent in very remote locations where a minimal amount of possessions was all that we could take with us."  Thank the gods for Terry Thorne and the vague history he had given me to evade any questions about my life before.

"Tell me about your name, then.  Is it your given name or a professional name?  You into all that Celtic revival crap?"  He noted it on a folder and I suppressed a sardonic smirk.  Celtic revival does not begin to cover it.

"Somewhat.  Are you familiar with the culture?"  

"Yeah, a little.  It comes up in art classes sometimes.  A few history classes.  Are you a re-enactor?"

"Not quite."

"What's 'not quite' mean?"

"It's complicated, but no, I don't do exhibitions.  I do tend to practice a few of the beliefs and daily routines of the ancient Celts, however."  His pen scratched another couple lines.

"Why did you answer the ad?"

"I need extra money to cover my school and living expenses."

"Oh man.  I remember that shi...excuse me, stuff." 

"It's all right."

"Not very professional.  Stand up, then, and let me look at you."

For this interview I had worn a simple shift that displayed most of my markings without showing off much else, and he looked over each one that he could see while I watched his eyes.   He took mental notes of angles and lighting that would minimize them.  No hint of being put off by them, though.  A good sign and he made me feel comfortable in his presence, keeping up the steady stream of banter, getting to know me and answering my questions in turn.

"Why this?" I asked, gesturing around at the fruit that lined the walls- vibrant, glossy, magnified versions of his work that reminded my restless stomach that it had not eaten since the previous day when Stephen finally insisted on taking me to breakfast, concerned that I was starving myself intentionally. 

"The fruit?  It started with the magazine that hired me out of school.  A cooking rag that all the ladies buy."  

"You make it look so delicious, like a person could reach out and pluck it from the picture and bite into it."

"Trust me, you don't want to."

"Why not?"

"Because I spray it with a glaze that keeps it looking fresh under the lights but isn't edible."  I made a sour face at the walls.

"And now people?"

"That's just an occasional thing.  Mostly for the friend I'm shooting you for.  I don't like working with people too much.  Bananas don't whine about the lighting making them look fat or washed out."

"So you're hiring me?  Just like that?"  

"Nobody else showed.  Lucky you."  He grinned and fingered one of my tattoos thoughtfully.  

The gods must have a sense of humor.  In a city full of women, many who could use this sort of opportunity to begin a career in modeling or acting, none had answered the summons to do so.  Or were the gods at work in that?

"You might be better served by an experienced model, or one who is eager for this sort of thing."

"I shoot fruit, not fruits, and most of those girls are neurotic in that sense.  You'll be easier to train, because you don't have the attitude problem."

"Does your wife know you take pictures of women who might be naked?"

"Never been married."  

"Not ever?"  

"Almost made it to the altar once, but I uh...I screwed up."  He had no recollection of the end of his film or meeting Monica one more time as they discussed their families.  He had been pulled out after the final breakup with Monica, then.   What had he been doing all this time?  Or had he just stumbled through that invisible barrier between realities?

"No one else since?"

"None that lasted.  How about you?"  He had moved from the tattoos to my scars, frowning at the ugliest of them.  "What happened here?"

"It's a long story.  War wound.  I might tell you about it sometime."

"Boudicca," he started.

"'Bou,' if it's easier."

"Bou, then.  You're a strange one.  No pictures, no resume, weird name and a soldier?  What's your story?"

"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."  

"Hey, I'm from New York.  I meet and work with a lot of unbelievable people.  See them on the street everyday.  If you told me you are really a transplanted Celt, I'd probably accept it.  A guy I know said he dated a vampire for two years.  Judging from his neck, she at least had a mean bite.   Go for it."

Something about Steve lends itself to trust, which I don't give easily until I have spent many months learning a person inside and out.  Perhaps it was simply the safety of an exchange of business.  I think though, it was much more. 

It was.  The gods may be crazy, but they have their reasons.  

Not inundating him with details proved to be a difficult task.  But like water, details can drown the tender shoot of curiosity and wonder before it has a chance to grow into understanding.  Whether he really listened to me, I do not know.  Nor did I tell him all then. 

 

 

Apple of the Eye Photography, Steve's studio, 15 November, 2004

"So, Bou, how come we haven't met yet?" he asked as he set the tripod and camera.  "You seem to know almost everyone else, but I've never had the pleasure."

"Are you so sure it's a pleasure?" I grinned, testing him a little, gauging his sense of humor.  

"You said you're sort of a tight-knit bunch, so yeah, I am guessing it might actually be nice to know everyone."  

"Well, I suppose the chance just never really afforded itself, or the timing was wrong for you.  I wish I had the answer."

"It's cool.  So what happens?  You just walk on in and say, 'Hi! Here I am!'?"

"For some, that's all it is.  I went looking for them, so I imagine for me it was a memory or a trick of the heart.  I think that those who aren't searching for it can't find it."

"I don't remember actively looking for any magical world lately."

"No, but you put that ad in the paper and I answered it.  That has to mean something."

"I'm not a big believer in fate, baby."

"How about circumstances that can't be explained pragmatically?" 

"Don't know.  Never thought about it much."  And it was clear then that he had no desire to do so at the time.  But as we have grown to know each other, I do know it weighs on his mind at times, particularly when he feels alone.  "Here."  He handed me two items, a very skimpy bathing suit and a smallish thin blanket.

"What's this?"

"Your warrior suit and tartan."  

"What?"  I stared at them both, incredulous.  "And they will cover what, exactly?"

"Not a damn thing.  That's the point.  This is how it's done, Bou.  You know the pictures I showed you?"  He had laid out a few representations of Bell and Vallejo's work to me.  I admire their images of beautiful, strong women and warriors in battle against the backdrop of fantastical worlds.  But I am a bit ambivalent regarding the amount of clothing artists depict them as wearing.  It is all fantasy art, rather than the reality of the warrior world in which I grew up.  "The artists get people to pose for photos, then paint them as wearing something else.  Wait until you see the props," he grinned and turned, dragging my 'throne', a small arm chair with a few blankets tossed over it, to a spot between the lights.  I exchanged my safe jeans and sweater for the bikini behind a screen decorated with embroidered fruit.

I came out and watched him move around the studio, adjusting spotlights, changing the look of certain items and smiled.  It is not as strong as some attractions I hold for these men, but I will admit that when I saw his film I had a bit of a pull for Steve.  I do not think he actually means to be a jerk.  I do think he is a bit of a commitment-phobe and does not think before he speaks at times.  The first thing in his head is often the first thing out of his mouth (a bit of Russell there, methinks).  It is an impression I carry from our conversations as well.  But I think his heart is in the right place; he just needs a chance to let it show.  Physically, well.  He was made by the same man that brought them all to life and one more representative of their creator as just a man- modern with no extraordinary traits that make him seem larger than life, simply a man with a dream of being a great photographer and finding a good woman that he can settle with.  And there is nothing wrong with that.  Simplicity can be sexy in its own right. 

The makeshift cloak did nothing to cover up what seemed to me a very naked state.  It was worse than standing in my underwear.  I felt vulnerable to my surroundings, unprotected from...what?  Whatever it was that haunted my complete ability to feel sure of myself in front of the cameras like this was robbing me of my ability to affect the look of invincibility I was certain Steve needed from me.  It is not an air, really.  It is knowledge of my capabilities.  And this was a situation for which it was only show, rather than facing an opponent and making them know what they are up against in order to survive.  Nor am I a model or actress trained to effect emotions I do not really feel.  I balked a little when he held his hand out, inviting me against the backdrop.  

"Nervous?" he asked gently, closing his fingers around mine.  "Don't be."  Warm fingertips absent-mindedly strayed to the blanket, then to the strap of the bikini top.  "You'll be a great subject.  We'll do a few practice shots first, get you warmed up."

"I wore far more clothing than this when I was a warrior," I reminded him.  

"No running into battle, painted blue, all that shit?  Thought maybe that's what got your enemies' attention first."  

He made me laugh.  "No.  Only a certain group of warriors actually did that.  I joke about it, but I wasn't a priest of a war god.  I went into battle fully dressed."  His face fell in mock disappointment, then brightened when the next thought dawned in his brain.  The wheels were turning upstairs.  It is as evident in his gaze as it is with any of them. 

"Did you ever want to?"  Steve is very good at what he does, inducing people to let go their inhibitions and play a fantasy while he captures the moment for posterity.  Briefly it came to me that some of the truths that we are missing come from those we never notice, or only give token attention to in life.  Wisdom that could change the course of a lifetime, if we but listen with our hearts.  Steve has studied people a long time.   He digs beyond the words a person says to find the soul hidden behind them, realizing that there may be something deeper taking place that others may not see readily.  Steve, if you read this someday, I thank you for your quiet guidance and for re-educating me in something I seem to have forgotten along my way.  And Stephen, I thank you for having the intuition to know this as well and sending me here to find it again.

But to the matter at hand.  Austere, too-serious Boudicca cracked a grin so wide, it might surprise people she owns one like it.  Taking Steve's steady hand I confessed, "All the time.  Clothes are hindering to movement."  Not to mention that I love the kiss of the elements over my naked form, enticing my spirit out away from the trap of covering and allowing me to revel in my natural state. 

"My point, exactly.  But," he grunted as he fished through a chest of things, producing a man's shirt- warm, too big, and comforting because of it, "if it makes you feel better, we can shoot you in this until you're comfortable enough to do the swimsuit."  I took it gratefully, scurrying back behind the screen to quickly doff the bikini, throw my panties back on, and button up the garment.  It still held the cool of the box and clung to my body, hugging my back and buttocks as I took my place in front of his camera.

"Better?" he asked but never really looked at me.  Instead he fussed over my hair, brushing it back over my shoulders then pulling it forward again to wisp over my face then holding it up awkwardly to get the best view of my neck and what the shirt left visible.  Deciding he liked it better down and letting it lay curly and crazy, he reached for his remote. 

"Much," I grinned, snuggling into the fabric and wriggling among the folds to show him.  

"You look more comfortable, for sure," he agreed, his smile hinting to me how a man's interest grows when he senses a woman's ability to be secure in her attractiveness when she feels safe.  A bit of sick nervousness took over the pit of my stomach, but I held my calm outwardly as he checked the sights through the digital eye of the camera and clicked a couple times with the remote.  It was easier to settle into a feeling of authority with the shirt, though.  The shutter whined shut and then snapped, winking at my image across from it. 

"Deer in the headlights," he laughed.  "Relax, honey.   Just think of yourself running naked into battle.  Conquering the Romans with that beautiful body.   They  forget which sword to grab..." Snorting with mirth, I felt my body unwind from a knot and gave him a genuine smile.  He caught it quickly, hitting the button as soon as he saw it creep over my face.  "Lovely," he praised.   "Now give me a bit of the queen.  Scare me a little.  Make me obey you.  Hold that look."  The snap of the shutter caught my compliance with Steve's direction, and I tried not to giggle hysterically.  

After that initial fit of hilarity as I tried to arrange my features into some semblance of dignity and power- and a quick reprimand from Steve- I sobered up, sitting up straight in the chair, hands splayed over the ends of the arms.  I mustered the most serious air of regality I could within this artificial setting.  He gave me directions, honey-and-whiskey voice telling me to turn this way and that, to look away or at him; could I just move the broom handle (my sword! though it could be a weapon all on its own in reality). I felt the trepidation slide away and started to play the role of not warrior-queen, but queen of my own sensuality, letting the power of femininity guide my body in motion as I became the warrior of myth and reality, in the desperation of defeat or the silent gratitude of victory.  And I had fun doing it.  It is a heady thing to be the object of someone's artistic longing and to fulfill their fantasy in that manner.  And Steve's tender knowledge in making his subject come to life paralleled his creator's ability to do the same with his characters.  I wonder if Russell ever realizes himself all that he accomplishes with his talent?  And how deep the layers of their personalities really are when he develops them?  I would like to ask him someday, or tell him. 

 

***

 

He had been upfront about the nudity required for part of the shoot.  I was aware that at one point or another, I would have to remove everything.  While he changed film, I slung my leg over the arm of the chair and lay over the opposite one without really considering the nakedness of my thighs or the fact that this position pulled the shirt taut over my breasts.  I was that relaxed in Steve's professional care, as I would be in the presence of a doctor.  I closed my eyes for a second and drew in a breath of air to renew the freshness of my attitude, then opened them to catch Steve watching me, half-hidden by the camera, a mix of ideas evident in his eyes.  Predatorial, unsure of whether he should be; sensual, not knowing if I would accept an advance if he followed through or strangle him with his own camera.  His thumb was poised over the button, waiting for the word that it was all right to immortalize this moment.  A picture for all time of when I simply gave in to abandon and let the momentum of my womanhood carry me forward into freedom and experimentation with my sensual nature and all it could mean for me.

Wetting my lips nervously I nodded and the shutter clicked in approval.  Perhaps it was fright that I had actually done something so daring, or excitement that I finally had, but for a moment I was struck dumb by the vision of Steve picking up the smaller digital camera from his case and approaching me with it.  When I remembered to breathe again, it was almost a sigh in response to the warmth of his fingers against my neck, brushing a strand of hair away and exposing my throat. 

"Bou, uh, I don't want you to think I do this with every woman who poses for me.  A couple times, with Monica and a girl I used to go with, but that's all.  It's not my style.  This is for art, you know?"

An answer was required, but to be honest, I had none ready.  Coyness is a foreign game to me, and I liked him too much to play it if I were able.  "I'm not sure what to say to that," I managed.

"You don't have to say anything.  I just wanted you to know it's not a game.  That if I find you beautiful, it's not porn for me, but I like catching beauty in action." 

"I understand.  If I thought it was about sex, I would have left already."   He responded by trailing his fingers lightly at the edge of the V of the shirt, catching the top button and lingering there for a moment before undoing it and letting the weight of my breasts open it further. 

"Don't move," he breathed.  "Just stay like you are." Obediently, I stared into the eye of his camera until he got the shot.  When he directed me to sit up I did, self-consciously wrapping my arms around myself to hide what he had already seen.  But at the same time, I wanted to try it again. 

"Naked into battle, baby," he whispered.  "Fight off your inhibitions."  I smiled and shook my head in agreement, unwinding from the ball I had made of my body and settling back against the chair.  At his bidding, I released another button. 

The palm that slid the shirt from my shoulder brushed a nipple as it reached under to separate fabric and skin.  It was unnerving and calming at the same time, a taste of the sensuous man under the cool exterior, searching for the same in me, rather than a hint at anything sexual. 

"I'm working at it," was all I offered.

"Let me see.  Play with me."  His hand still rested on the juncture between my collarbone and neck; his thumb tickled the line of my throat, soothing and relaxing me until I was able to comply with the parameters of the job. 

He stepped back, angling the camera and snapping the image he had created of me: the start of seduction, baring my body while I bared my insecurities, a near-fatal scar here, a faded depiction of glory in a life long over in yet another place.

I think about that as I write- the difference between my ability to show myself in either era.  When did I learn to worry about exposing myself?  I know it must be the influence of modern society's prudish approach to nudity and sex, most likely begun when the Christians became the dominant faith in the world.   My own people admired physical perfection in that we remained conditioned for war and everyday life by eating and exercise and the care we gave every aspect of our lives.  Scars were trophies, our tattoos reminders of our accomplishments.  I can recall nights of drunken contests in which I was called upon to boast of mine and did not feel the wrench of fear in regards to what another might think.  It only mattered that they remembered how I came to possess every mark I bear.  

Did Maximus ever concern himself with them when he took me in our bed?  I do not think so, when I remember.  But then, Maximus sees beyond the outer shell to the deep well of the soul.  He knew what I was before ever we were lovers.  Beauty to him is the love of a woman and her strength of mind and spirit.   Cort is also not bound to the ideals of mankind or even his own church in matters of modesty and sensuality.   So what was my worry?  That they were both gone from my life.  And if I were to choose another for my life's partner, then I would be limited to the very men that would adhere to the dictates of this time period's standards of attractiveness. 

When that thought crossed my mind then, it angered me a little.  But it also made me realize what Steve was trying to get across to me, and what Terry had been saying that night in August.  That the thing I wanted most- to be a woman with all command of her feminine graces was for me to take back and not let any other steal from me, whether I could face them head on or not.  I can however, face myself.  And if a man was that worried about the physical nature of my person, then perhaps he was not what I want to go seducing. 

I shrugged the other shoulder off until all that held the shirt on were the two buttons that had yet to be unfastened and my hands in the arms, crossed over my breasts protectively.  But I think my shy smile conveyed exactly the message I needed it to because he held the camera away for a moment, tongue peeking out and anchoring on his lip, and if you can imagine, cocked his chin while assessing the scene.  "That's my girl," he breathed, clicking the shutter twice.  "Give me more.  Take me with you where you're going." 

I thought again on his creator.  Russell is not an outlaw preacher or a Roman general-turned-gladiator.  Nor is he skinhead, scientist or even an everyday photographer looking to capture the spirit of the world through a lens.  But from somewhere deep inside, he pulls those men out and gives them life.   There are few of his movies I have not watched, and a thing I note when I see each is that Russell ceases to exist and another man emerges.  And then when the cameras go off, he is just Russell again.   Where is this place?  It must be a core of untapped personal knowledge that one fears to traverse for fear of being burned by the heat of the energy that drives it.  Russell finds it and burns it for many months after it is no longer needed.  My own creator too must feel it deep in there where she dreams us.  And if these men I love possess Russell's attributes, so must I too possess those of she who gives me life.  Perhaps then, this is the very essence of fantasy- to walk the edge of reality and become what we might not dare otherwise.  

But what good does it do if we do not live it beyond our imagination?  A vicarious existence, like an addictive drug, requires deeper, more extensive daydreams to sustain it.  And as the waning high from a fix, waking from the dream only causes us to realize that nothing is different about ourselves. 

I laugh now as I write that, because I realize that in the setting of this particular type of fantasy, a marriage of both physical beauty and the inner values that I hold dear are what the artists seek- the reason it is often focused on women.  The power of seduction in the feminine.  The magnificence of adherence to her own independence.  And neither dictated by any save herself, without prompt or permission from society.

And once upon a time, I lived that woman.  At least half of her, at any rate. 

Take me with you where you're going.  Steve's invitation for me to reach inside myself and take that part of me- the one that I even hide from myself- by the hand and lead her into the light, let her blink a moment until her eyes adjust to the brightness of a new desire, and then let her breathe the air of freedom of expression.  Because it would never be as simple a thing for me after as "I took my clothes off for pictures."  If I grasped at the hem of that shroud of confidence in my ability to walk completely unfettered by another's view of me and rely only on my own self-esteem to barter my way through society, I could not very well confine myself to wearing it only in front of a camera.  It would become that favorite pair of jeans or shirt that one wears until it is little more than a rag. 

"How about it?"  Steve's voice cut through the hesitation while I waded through all the implications of a single decision.  

With the unfastening of the buttons of the shirt I set down my only shield to the onslaught of questions and opinions over my choice.  If I am to live up to the example of the mighty Gesatae warriors that strode through their enemies naked and fearless, then neither can I care for any but my own motivation in doing so when I take up the call to arms against a society that rail at me for refusing to bend to its will.  Not for lover, not for friend, not for some nameless stranger that can use my image to satisfy his sexual need, but in order that I begin to feel whole- woman and warrior in complement to each other without apology.  It must only matter that when I shed the armor of someone else's propriety that the world remembers what I did it for and if there are scars to be borne, then I earned every single one and I will bear them without shame. 

When my clothing lay in a pile on the floor around my feet I looked again at Steve.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the flash of his little silver camera as it moved into place to give testament to this moment when I broke the yoke of modesty and self-image.   Of when I began to feel the natural pride of being spill into every pore of my skin and infuse my soul with strength and courage. 

"You ready now?"

"I am ready."

"Give it to me, girl." 

 

 

The House of Fire and Ice, Boudicca's journal, 2 January, 2005

It would be a lie if I wrote that it all changed in that space of a few hours.  But day by day it gets easier.  There are times I get nervous and wonder if it was the right choice.  But when those who know me most comment on the change they see taking place, I know it was. 

Without Steve's inadvertent shove, though, it might never have taken place.  I wondered at midnight, as I watched him interact with my friends and loved ones at the New Year's party last night, if I gave him any gift close to that which he gave me?  Perhaps when I model for him next, I will ask him.  I hope I have.  He deserves it. 

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