Ah, the dead. That is my first thought too. Or the soon to be dead. Dead death decay ing. All good stuff. Meaningful. Always a well the habitually thirsty can cull from. But not today. Today's terminal is about comings and goings, not goings gone. Airplanes, and the like. People. Lots of people. In a hurry.
Yes. Off to visit the pirate ship (should this be capitalized, or should we inspect this place first and then decide if capitalization has been earned, or if it's even desired? I suppose the latter most prudent) and missed my flight due to a series of improbable events that no one deserves being bored with. Waiting standby for the better part of a day reading and sipping drinks and bad food and lots of eavesdropping and staring, and also some avoiding of a few of the obviously unpleasant travelers and their respective crews. Sitting on my ass too long. Musak. Public address system too loud and too static and too familiar. Dead air. Decidedly harsh impersonal insulting. Plane to catch.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
the green
Our interchange has stayed with me the week. It as if her emerald eyes bore into me and left impression, deeper even than her words, deeper than her expression. And maybe it is as simple as she threw a green cloak over me and just lately I sort from underneath. I untangle. I uncover a detail unnoticed earlier: the moisture from her hands, the roundness of her O's, the shock of her blonde hair. And so it is as if my memory blows kisses from behind me and I am besieged with little whispers, knowing glances, continuous drops of attention.
And it is likely she would be surprised with what I say here. Might deny it, think me building castles of air. Not fully grasping my currency: the aftershock, the resonance, the trailing (yes, Breathe into Now, but do not forget to gather all that remains, for later, when it can be shaped and polished and shown).
I could feel her eyes lowering when I told her of the naming of the pirate ship. Lowering still further when she said, "I wouldn't have gotten that," and shame on me for not correcting immediately, for not saying it is blessing, it is testament, that you do not get such things. Only the afflicted and the irreparable travel to find pirate ships, to call this adventure. To believe so strongly it makes shambles of all else.
And again, I wonder: did I put my hand on your heart to feel your rhythm? did I leave you something to take on your upcoming travels, perhaps a word or two worth repeating like a silly song? did you see even a hint of your green reflected back (it is how you measure, I am certain), or did I fail the test? Will the words spill like seed next time or will you again have to cajole?
And it is likely she would be surprised with what I say here. Might deny it, think me building castles of air. Not fully grasping my currency: the aftershock, the resonance, the trailing (yes, Breathe into Now, but do not forget to gather all that remains, for later, when it can be shaped and polished and shown).
I could feel her eyes lowering when I told her of the naming of the pirate ship. Lowering still further when she said, "I wouldn't have gotten that," and shame on me for not correcting immediately, for not saying it is blessing, it is testament, that you do not get such things. Only the afflicted and the irreparable travel to find pirate ships, to call this adventure. To believe so strongly it makes shambles of all else.
And again, I wonder: did I put my hand on your heart to feel your rhythm? did I leave you something to take on your upcoming travels, perhaps a word or two worth repeating like a silly song? did you see even a hint of your green reflected back (it is how you measure, I am certain), or did I fail the test? Will the words spill like seed next time or will you again have to cajole?
Sunday, August 26, 2012
the emerald-eyed lovely and the love
You coyly behind the door and then a smile, a full white smile but overpowered by your eyes, the green now all that can be measured, your nose and ears and lips, your forehead and chin, all but quiet neighbors. They are left to the margins. The writing, you ask, and we fall quickly into before. Do you notice how short the catching up, how immediate the continuation?
You describe the frightened little girl with a busted appendix, the scary man and of course the disbelievers, always the disbelievers. But I believe and you believe and for a couple of hours this is enough (and you know, you do know, that you can find me whenever you need believing). And then you pull from me with a vigor and compassion I haven't before experienced. Like a skilled interrogator you do not rush, do not over-stimulate (like a breezy dumping of words across my face - now sort! no matter how lovely the words: foul result) but take care to close all of the escape hatchways, all of my favored paths of flight. Breathe, you whisper, when I fight you. Breathe, like a slap, when I stay stubborn. Breathe, like a caress, a kiss, a lover's arm around the midsection. Yay! you say, and I understand your exuberance, your pleasure. And I might measure it against mine own, but imagine - me without further words. Now spent.
M Scott Peck says love is doing saying what one perceives to be in the best interest of the object of our affection. Love is not magical thinking. Love is action and difficult choices. Love is saying what we hope imagine trust is what we need to say, not what sounds good or will make the other think highly of us. Love is a wing and a prayer. It's in the mail.
You describe the frightened little girl with a busted appendix, the scary man and of course the disbelievers, always the disbelievers. But I believe and you believe and for a couple of hours this is enough (and you know, you do know, that you can find me whenever you need believing). And then you pull from me with a vigor and compassion I haven't before experienced. Like a skilled interrogator you do not rush, do not over-stimulate (like a breezy dumping of words across my face - now sort! no matter how lovely the words: foul result) but take care to close all of the escape hatchways, all of my favored paths of flight. Breathe, you whisper, when I fight you. Breathe, like a slap, when I stay stubborn. Breathe, like a caress, a kiss, a lover's arm around the midsection. Yay! you say, and I understand your exuberance, your pleasure. And I might measure it against mine own, but imagine - me without further words. Now spent.
M Scott Peck says love is doing saying what one perceives to be in the best interest of the object of our affection. Love is not magical thinking. Love is action and difficult choices. Love is saying what we hope imagine trust is what we need to say, not what sounds good or will make the other think highly of us. Love is a wing and a prayer. It's in the mail.
Friday, August 24, 2012
the Vietnamese girl
They called her one thing but her name was another. And I called her the one thing also, but I wondered about that, having two names because one was easier for foreigners to say. In those days I didn't think about things for very long, just long enough to decide, a or b, typically, and I decided unfortunate or not, I would go with the easier name. The name she had put on her own name tag. Plus her tickets were a mess and then the cooks would make a mistake and someone's order would get screwed up and then I'd get pissed and I'd call her whatever name I could quickest get my hands on. But Mister, she would say. But nothing, I would say, and she would flash me a look of the wild, and carry that grudge for perhaps the rest of the day, but never more.
And then I got to calling her by her birth name, and getting it just a bit off. Enough off that she would feel the need to correct Mister, enough off that she would flash me a touch of those hot eyes. But the flash would lack bite and she would realize half way in that I was playing, getting her goat, and then she would smile, embarrassed that she did not see, happy that I was playing. And for an hour it would be Mister this and Mister that, suddenly quite the chatterbox, and her tickets would still be a mess but not quite as bad. Or maybe I would care less about it.
I was alone when I had all four wisdom teeth dug out. Three days at home, no solids, pain meds and rest, said the doc. The first day obviously the worst. And then there came a knock on the door and she was there. Mister, please, I bring you soup. You must eat for strength. I will be Mister's nurse. And so she was and while I was in and out of sleep she was there. And one time my eyes opened and my hand was in her hand, her eye's on mine. And one time my eyes opened and her hands held a wash cloth against my chest, then lower, then lower. Mister need cleaning. Everywhere. And she smiled the half annoyed half pleased smile I had grown to accept as part of my everyday necessity.
And then one time I opened my eyes and she was naked and laying beside me. And it was dark outside which meant she had been with me all day and then some more. Please Mister, I stay with you. Always. And in my weakened state the thought of pulling her closer was irresistible. So I pulled her closer and I pulled down the covers and admired the extent of her beauty, the perfection of her form, the stunning smoothness of her skin. Somehow she was simultaneously demure and vibrant, hot and cool, powerful and vulnerable. And I could not help but kiss her.
And then in the morning when I opened my eyes I realized that it was not a dream - that I had sent away perhaps the most stunning woman, in so many ways, that I had yet to meet. I sent her home to her husband. The one of whom I had only heard her say, Too old. He too old to do __, whatever it was being discussed, and then the implied look, But you are not too old, Mister. Are you too old, Mister?
And lately I have been thinking of her because I think today I would have handled things differently. People aren't property. She wasn't his. Love is elusive. Love may be everywhere, but not always so easily gathered. And when it is delivered to your door? Gift wrapped? Youth is truly wasted on the young.
And then I got to calling her by her birth name, and getting it just a bit off. Enough off that she would feel the need to correct Mister, enough off that she would flash me a touch of those hot eyes. But the flash would lack bite and she would realize half way in that I was playing, getting her goat, and then she would smile, embarrassed that she did not see, happy that I was playing. And for an hour it would be Mister this and Mister that, suddenly quite the chatterbox, and her tickets would still be a mess but not quite as bad. Or maybe I would care less about it.
I was alone when I had all four wisdom teeth dug out. Three days at home, no solids, pain meds and rest, said the doc. The first day obviously the worst. And then there came a knock on the door and she was there. Mister, please, I bring you soup. You must eat for strength. I will be Mister's nurse. And so she was and while I was in and out of sleep she was there. And one time my eyes opened and my hand was in her hand, her eye's on mine. And one time my eyes opened and her hands held a wash cloth against my chest, then lower, then lower. Mister need cleaning. Everywhere. And she smiled the half annoyed half pleased smile I had grown to accept as part of my everyday necessity.
And then one time I opened my eyes and she was naked and laying beside me. And it was dark outside which meant she had been with me all day and then some more. Please Mister, I stay with you. Always. And in my weakened state the thought of pulling her closer was irresistible. So I pulled her closer and I pulled down the covers and admired the extent of her beauty, the perfection of her form, the stunning smoothness of her skin. Somehow she was simultaneously demure and vibrant, hot and cool, powerful and vulnerable. And I could not help but kiss her.
And then in the morning when I opened my eyes I realized that it was not a dream - that I had sent away perhaps the most stunning woman, in so many ways, that I had yet to meet. I sent her home to her husband. The one of whom I had only heard her say, Too old. He too old to do __, whatever it was being discussed, and then the implied look, But you are not too old, Mister. Are you too old, Mister?
And lately I have been thinking of her because I think today I would have handled things differently. People aren't property. She wasn't his. Love is elusive. Love may be everywhere, but not always so easily gathered. And when it is delivered to your door? Gift wrapped? Youth is truly wasted on the young.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
all the broken people
The spinners are the most obvious. Tiny delicate things with smiles like a blinking neon: the shades and hues in and out and affected by what is placed nearby, by your eyes even, and certainly by whether you reach in a hand and give them a spin, whether they bounce for you, whether they deign laugh, or shriek, or bite down on a lip, the trickle of blood your doing and the subsequent red smeared grin your doing, and then the ripple of bloody grins crosses the room like a sudden wave, this spectacle you've initiated: like kick starting a motorcycle, the one foot leg digging, and then they spin and blink and then they all squeal their distinct lovely tiny squeal, a symphonic blessing of sorts when you walk alone in a room of shards and can feel no pricks upon your own skin, can feel only the most absurdly outlandish, and the spectacle of the spinners spinning (they howl now, in unison, this pack of tiny broken pain emitters) borders on surreal, perhaps exceeds surreal for those whose paths have remained narrow and steady, and to those I offer caution: what do you think hell will be like? And shouldn't you be preparing for it now?
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
the laughing man
He was easy for me to dislike. The memory of his blubbery rolls and constantly shaking jowls still grates. The blinking squinting giggling eyes. The shrill feigned surprise ("Oh, do that again!") - give me a goddamn break. And to the crux - how did he know to take that seat? What do/did I miss?
How did he know they would reward his choice of real estate, the far far corner couch? The party was central when he wandered off, I assumed the loner misfit taking cover, and from my position I could see the whole room and the smoker's patio and both entrances and also my position was located close to the bathrooms and I could knock my knuckles on the bar without even turning my head and more bourbon would be poured, or whatever else I decided was needed. I had established a power position, tried and true, and so I felt sorry for the jiggly man when he wandered over there, poor bastard.
And then there was one hot thing tucked into his left shoulder, her fingers under his shirt, twisting, and his shrill giggles are felt across the room like an assault, and then soon another tucked under his right shoulder and her fingers are likewise dispatched and jiggly man now has the look of one tickled by a hundred feathers, his puffy eyes closing and opening so rapidly, beyond squinting now, as if they are drowning and gasping, as if compelled by the hot young things, the must be working girls. What the hell, and who could not watch? And then the couch was filled with hot young things and then chairs were dragged over and then more chairs and then the couch was pushed out from the wall so more hot young things could squeeze in behind rolly polly man, massage his shoulder, breathe upon his neck, tickle his ears, caress his arm or back or whatever slice of him they can reach, the laughter raucous now, the touching kissing becoming almost obscene.
What the hell indeed. And I am reminded of the directive from the room of lit candles and vibration, Breathe into now. And so here I think I am getting that down and I stumble into the jiggly man who shows me I don't have nothing down. Not a goddamned thing. Compared to him I'm but a novice and the road ahead is long. But, of course, I can choose a silver lining: I've had a look what's down that road and, Damn. That fat man could party.
How did he know they would reward his choice of real estate, the far far corner couch? The party was central when he wandered off, I assumed the loner misfit taking cover, and from my position I could see the whole room and the smoker's patio and both entrances and also my position was located close to the bathrooms and I could knock my knuckles on the bar without even turning my head and more bourbon would be poured, or whatever else I decided was needed. I had established a power position, tried and true, and so I felt sorry for the jiggly man when he wandered over there, poor bastard.
And then there was one hot thing tucked into his left shoulder, her fingers under his shirt, twisting, and his shrill giggles are felt across the room like an assault, and then soon another tucked under his right shoulder and her fingers are likewise dispatched and jiggly man now has the look of one tickled by a hundred feathers, his puffy eyes closing and opening so rapidly, beyond squinting now, as if they are drowning and gasping, as if compelled by the hot young things, the must be working girls. What the hell, and who could not watch? And then the couch was filled with hot young things and then chairs were dragged over and then more chairs and then the couch was pushed out from the wall so more hot young things could squeeze in behind rolly polly man, massage his shoulder, breathe upon his neck, tickle his ears, caress his arm or back or whatever slice of him they can reach, the laughter raucous now, the touching kissing becoming almost obscene.
What the hell indeed. And I am reminded of the directive from the room of lit candles and vibration, Breathe into now. And so here I think I am getting that down and I stumble into the jiggly man who shows me I don't have nothing down. Not a goddamned thing. Compared to him I'm but a novice and the road ahead is long. But, of course, I can choose a silver lining: I've had a look what's down that road and, Damn. That fat man could party.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
the little lovely
If you were made of porcelain, like one of those China girl figurines, I might sit you next to the bookcase (your choice of black, your favored black, the layers upon layers of it, would play well anywhere in this room, might even address the subdued elegance clearly lacking). But if I place you next to the bookcase so much of you is swallowed by the couch, its height measured at 27 1/2", which, as you well know, leaves me only 32 1/8" of you to view (and yes, I do believe that you would bounce on your toes, endlessly, so that I might see more of you. lovely you.)
But of course you are not porcelain, the goose bumps I felt on your skin very real, very breathing, and the little noises you made were not manufactured either, and I blush to say anymore (and yes, I do see that blush can be pink like another pink, and I do see that blush is found in the cheeks which reminds of other cheeks, and I do see it is the same as flushed, like one gets during you know). So I learn that you are nothing like a doll that can be brought out to play and then returned to over here or over there. You are more constant, insistent (and yes, I see you have called, and yes, I see you have messaged, and yes, I will see you very soon, and yes, but it will be a surprise so I will not tell you now what your surprise will be because then it will not be a surprise and then I will miss the exclamation when you jump to wrap your arms around my neck, the reaching from your tiny painted toes).
The solution, of course, is obvious and has been apparent from the first: I will place you here, inside this narrative. The benefits to you are significant: first, I will ignore eliminate strike any of your tiny flaws, your blemishes (and yes, I did notice several - need I start to catalogue?); and secondly, we can visit anytime anywhere and here it will always be good, you will always be my little lovely, and I will lather you and I will blather for you and you will not find it better elsewhere (and yes, it was different with the Thief of kisses, much different, and I don't want to get into that. And I won't).
(and yes, I know you are real. So am I, and so is here. and yes, you will grow to love it here, and I will love you here, and you can play here always play here we can play here and I will always see you as I did the first time when I said you are amazing and far exceed my expectations and we talked of books and covered decades with the broadest strokes, leaving comfortable portals to revisit, endless portals, and I left with the taste of you ingrained, the scent of you memorized, and now it is time for me to pamper you, don't you see?)
But of course you are not porcelain, the goose bumps I felt on your skin very real, very breathing, and the little noises you made were not manufactured either, and I blush to say anymore (and yes, I do see that blush can be pink like another pink, and I do see that blush is found in the cheeks which reminds of other cheeks, and I do see it is the same as flushed, like one gets during you know). So I learn that you are nothing like a doll that can be brought out to play and then returned to over here or over there. You are more constant, insistent (and yes, I see you have called, and yes, I see you have messaged, and yes, I will see you very soon, and yes, but it will be a surprise so I will not tell you now what your surprise will be because then it will not be a surprise and then I will miss the exclamation when you jump to wrap your arms around my neck, the reaching from your tiny painted toes).
The solution, of course, is obvious and has been apparent from the first: I will place you here, inside this narrative. The benefits to you are significant: first, I will ignore eliminate strike any of your tiny flaws, your blemishes (and yes, I did notice several - need I start to catalogue?); and secondly, we can visit anytime anywhere and here it will always be good, you will always be my little lovely, and I will lather you and I will blather for you and you will not find it better elsewhere (and yes, it was different with the Thief of kisses, much different, and I don't want to get into that. And I won't).
(and yes, I know you are real. So am I, and so is here. and yes, you will grow to love it here, and I will love you here, and you can play here always play here we can play here and I will always see you as I did the first time when I said you are amazing and far exceed my expectations and we talked of books and covered decades with the broadest strokes, leaving comfortable portals to revisit, endless portals, and I left with the taste of you ingrained, the scent of you memorized, and now it is time for me to pamper you, don't you see?)
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