The Allure and Mystique of the Portal
There are few things more enigmatic!
Doors and portals separate the inner from the outer world.
They are where contemplation of what lies beyond takes place.
For those seeking ingress, they either invite or deter. For those behind, they offer privacy, protection – even secrecy.
I imagine all the emotions a door has witnessed; not only fear of intruders, anxiety at the debt collector’s knock or grief on receiving tragic tidings, but also the excitement of opening to love returned and the peace felt within its sanctuary when it quietly closes to shelter the inhabitants within.
Entrances can be embodiments of status: of wealth or poverty: symbolic of culture.
The worn granite or marble flagstones under ancient doors are signatures of the thousands who have crossed those thresholds.
As sentinels to history, they’ve witnessed both laughter and tears – from those in period costume throughout the years.
All entice me to record them, whether locked and secretive, or open and generously offering a view within, or beyond.
The most magnificent doors in Europe and Asia are those financed through religious or royal – and later – merchant or state wealth.
I stand in awe of their craftsmanship and aesthetic design, but the most emotive entrances, for me, are those I found still struggling against the elements to perform their function, like those in an Atlas Mountain village in Morocco. I was impressed by both their simplicity and their individualisation: a singular design feature differentiating each from its neighbour.
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I dream of creating stories for each portal that captures my imagination.
Below (after the images) there’s a short story for you that’s inspired by doors; one travelled to, one waited at – in expectation laced with dread, one slammed shut, the other left open. Will the ‘portal’ stay open or remain slammed shut After The Hammer Falls? Enjoy!
A short story
After The Hammer Falls.
Waves lap against the shore, their mesmerising rhythm broken only by parrot fish breaking the surface. She stands knee deep; the salt tickles where she’d grazed her leg climbing over rocks. Struck by the intensity of colour, she observes how the sky’s blue deepens the turquoise of the sea that surrounds the island. It’s always been the same. Knowing that he’s on his way, no matter where in the world they arrange to meet, sharpens her senses close to overwhelm.
He’d left a distant shore that morning and would arrive at sunset, once their favourite time of day, but this meeting is unlike those engraved in memory. Those were deep enough to gorge a void in his absence that ever hungered to be filled. This time, one of them, she’s certain, wants to rebuild what was broken the last time they’d met, a serenade to resume their love song. The other may well have need of a requiem to pay homage to – and celebrate the passing of – an entity they’d called ‘us’ for over a decade.
The water’s cold despite the afternoon heat and the smell of durian permeates the air. Stray thoughts flit through her consciousness side-tracking her mounting anxiety. Why were even Thais repelled by a durian’s delicious aroma, and where had all the frangipani blooms gone? She hadn’t noticed earlier that the sand was littered with debris and strewn with white and yellow blossoms – the aftermath of last night’s storm. She wonders whether it’s the island’s splendour that heralded his coming – palm trees swaying in the breeze set against a horizon where an aqua sea kissed the sky. Or were last night’s gale-force winds and torrential downpour an omen of grief to come.
The uncertainty catches her breath. Her heart races. She conjures an image of him to prepare her mind for the fork in the road she suspects lies waiting. She forces away the unsettling deafening memory of the storm buffeting the hut’s walls, ripping open the door and tearing at the shutters with a ceaseless banging. Instead, she concentrates on the present calm, white sand and birdsong.
Their unusual relationship had long been defined by extremes, tempests and blissful calm, but the misunderstandings, raised tempers and sharp words of their last sojourn on the Coté Azure were extreme. Willing the lapping waves to help her focus, she recalls the gentle Mediterranean sun creating fancy patterns through lace curtains on lavender-scented sheets. She conjures an image of herself lying beside him, gazing into his deep brown eyes. Sensing his hand on her skin dozens of memories melt into the one in which they habitually reconcile conflict in bed, where touch not words bridged every storm.
Theirs was a world outside the daily realities that saw them playing other roles. That world would keep them apart until the hunger was unbearable and drew them together again. Was it love they craved? Perhaps it was simply that only they could subdue each other’s existential angst. For almost a decade, despite the vulnerability it created, she’d let herself believe that experiencing the joy of simply being alive was only possible in each other’s presence. She wonders if she alone can now recreate that magic to draw him back.
Wishing she felt more certain, she returns to the hut. The wind had battered the door enough to break one hinge. It won’t close. She recalls a similar tempestuous violence in his slamming of the door, and a finality, at best ambiguity, in his ‘goodbye.’ Was it really to be the end? She prays for dignity and opens wide the now-lopsided door. The setting sun will silhouette him in the doorway. There’ll be moment – she wishes for an eternity – before her eyes adjust to read the decision in his eyes. Beyond the portal the distant horizon invites her to meditate while she calms her nerves and waits for the hammer to fall.
