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Didn’t we have fun this afternoon?
A little more distance from the one in front of us on the highway.
A little dirty pant leg. A private, solemn moment at unexpected times. I could feel something matter, but couldn’t put my finger on what.
Puddles keep filling and I wonder where what was important to me went? Nothing the same matters. Nothing but this moment matters. Hang on.
The people stooped and scurried, so the sidewalk was mine. You rained down on me alone. And I bothered a smile because I was the one you found, like you saved up the last seven months of this all for me – just me: cold skies, grey clouds, and runny mascara. These things are the miracles in life.
I risk disintegration. I don’t wanna wake up and be the same.
Tonite is not that nite on the paradise island all alone (or so I thought) just one light from my laptop screen glows.
Upon my face, I am the digital angel and he stood suddenly and surprisingly at my feet, hands on the bars. Through the balcony bars he bekonded silently maybe I want to step feet to the shore and share in a private secret with him. How the little fish did glow in the tide – the shallow, shallow water. They looked neon. Each and every of the thousands it’s own light source. Just little neon moons swimming too close to shore.
This is also not that nite on the full moon island where the temples and the rave seemed quite common place, so he and I walked without electric light through the monsoon season wetness and the island cat did follow me. To my stoop. Then lied down. Taking this as a good sign, I welcomed you in. Welcomed you.
Well, come. This is a new nite and I’m overheating in my summer dress. Flip flops and desert horizon, not even plants live in this kind of desert. Not a single plant. Red rocks sprout up instead.
This is the nite that I yearn. I claim that word. I yearn and I long and I ache in the one hundred degree isolation. I learned to love when I loved like fire. Wild west Arizona bounty huntress has interest in few words.
Tonite is the nite I yearn.
Wa wa. Cry me a river about ground water pollution and rising gas prices. The cost of health care and internet neutrality.
In fact, cry yourself to sleep about solar flares and reptilian Masons. Weak dollars and single parent families and lack of quality programming on your satellite locatable, internet accessible, Bluetool compatible communication device.
And just plain shut up about black female candidates of twenty twelve when?
There’s an Ice Age comin’ whether we reuse our drinking water bottles or not and if you are not gonna let that get you down, then I suggest doing what you are doing anyway while the WGA is on strike and urea is the integral ingredient in Mercede’s Blutec engines – in the face of your created conspiracies … fortify what is precious and live the best way you know how. Without relent, live now with full conviction, full idealism, full passion because one thing is for certain; ain’t no one gonna make it out alive.
We all die next month or next decade or sometime in this or the next century by some cause for some reason at someone’s hands indirectly or directly maybe our own. We all die and the only thing left to do is live it now. Like you wish it had always been. Like you wished it ever could be. This may be the single most important thing you can do in your imperative, insignificant life.
I’m not saving the world here. Everything will be as it evolves and I’m personally banking on a little epigenius. There is nothing to save. Ice Age comin. In fact, it’s a little over due in spite of our efforts to speed it up by altering weather patterns with global thermics. Sometimes the realization of impending Death is the ultimate motivation for true freedom.
Come alive. It matters.
I come home late every single nite. I experience my neighborhood quite differently than the other black windows here. One room emits a space alien glow – a intellectual computer socialite educating himself and bringing down the system. Keep thinking, man. And a blew dancing shadow – somebody’s sister asleep on the couch with the television on.
But otherwise it’s just me and the giant raccoon running half assed from shrub to palm tree. Me and the blossoming whateversinseason. All year long there are scents wafting glorious late blossom nite. Not even the birds are making noise. The downstairs neighbor dogs don’t even wake up even a little.
And this is my world. Coming home late shutting down the DNB club. Outlasting dancers 11 years younger than me. I felt it tonite. DJ Mechete pulling me in and shaking me against the walls like a decomposing death rattle. Deconstructing. Disenchanting. Leaving only what’s real right behind my belly button and just two inches lower.
Sometimes I have so much passion for the things I love and so much ignition energy that I only know how to keep creating every minute. I start. Start again. Start again better. Ride it out. Even higher start again – that I never give the whatitis time to insert the hand of reciprocation.
If you leave your world alone, it turns like a new lover to look at you. It does everything in it’s power to keep you happy. And when you look at it in the eye and thank it for being so generous, you see that your genuine happiness is making the world happy too.
The beginning of my Disenchantment.
“That which first connects man with the surrounding Universe is the power of reflective contemplation. Whereas desire seizes at once its object, reflection removes it to a distance and renders it inalienably her own by saving it from the greed of passion.”
- Schiller (Letters On the Estetic Education of Man)
Every once in a while, I don’t know what it is – maybe the stars line up, maybe she eats an in season Honeycrisp apple, maybe she wakes up without an alarm long after the sun has risen, and from her bed, pulls the blinds open and just lies there staring at the changing leaves in the chill sunny tree tops until she is good and ready to set her heavy and sensitive feet on the floor. Every once in a while, the conditions are perfect to manifest One Of Those Women who rule the world.
One of those women who rule the world is a legend in spirit. None who meet her forget “the light” (everyone always says those words around One Of Those Women). Her limbs are the perfect combination of athlete and Betty Boop. How do some women get so lucky? Does it feel good to live the life of someone who might be a teenager, or a bursting woman or a wise lover? She dances in front of mirrors and she frightens those who are protective, repressed and afraid. The words “I love you” float from the inside space on the top of the heart, up over the vocal chords in an airy announciation. She says “I love you” to me.
And I don’t know how I fit in. And I don’t know if I am pretty enough. And I don’t know if I’m feminine enough. But I’m definitely not stoopid enough to let my insecurities keep me from letting her love me.
One of those women who rule the world shapeshifts in front of my eyes. One moment she is a little girl raised by strong women. One moment she is a spoiled princess. She rules the world like a black hole rules the cosmos – she brings everything to her. They all quest toward her mecca. She knows she is the Mecca. She swims through life. She is in love with the light. Her touch is soft and filled with purpose. She knows she has the power. She powerfully and purposefully touches me.
And I am afraid to be alone. And I exhausted by intimacy. And I don’t even know whom I am. But I definitely won’t allow my own vulnerabilities to keep her away from me.
It is almost too much for me, keeping the company of women who rule the world. We rehearse the same rituals, we discuss the same topics, we day dream the same shade of lavender and don’t know why. Eventually we shed the same blood and share the same bed and when one stays courageous in the face of insecurity and vulnerability, eventually the conditions are perfect and you, too, may wake up without an alarm like one of those women.
I admire you so much, I want to be you. I spend all my time being like you, then get mad at myself for not doing a good enough job at it. When the entire reason I admired you in the first place is because you are perfectly different than me.
I like you.
And I’m gonna let you be you and I’ll just be me. It’s so much easier that way and I am so much better at it. The best in fact. The only one, indeed, who can possibly do the job.
Please be you. I need you to be you. I can’t do it for you.
He does not crave attention, but he sure likes when he has all of mine.
He acts like he’s never had a dirty thought in his life. That’s why I so love to seduce him. And he surrenders so automatically, so wholeheartedly, so naturally. He naturally surrenders to me. He is my willing prey. I am the natural predator.
Nocturnal sleep walk off the bridge without looking down. The massive solid handsome Golden Gate bridge into the always deadly chill bay Pacific ocean. I am the initiator, and he follows through. I would create the jumping scene, I would know the most impressionable execusion, and he would bring down the axe, chop the gallow loose. He would knock the chair from underneath my feet, leaving me dangle there in the air twitching kinda morbid with the most spiritual look I’ll ever achieve – quick, mom, take a picture. I swear I’ll do it. I’ll jump, I swear.
He would not try to stop me.
Oh how I must be filled with this man who does not stop me. He must be as close to me as possible. He can come inside me. This is no ordinary love.
So pure. So present. So perfect. Like every human. Oh, how I long to be a human like him. Oh, how I know what it’s like to be him – to be perfectly human – only when I deliver him. Oh, how all the love songs I used to think were mushy … are still mushy and I’ve found someone to bang heads with instead, dark beat and heavy wave, until the madness falls upon me and I decide I want to see his waist and he takes off his shirt without me asking. I decide I want to see his insides and he takes off his skin like my poppet. How he assures my best when he submits with such eagerness. So naturally the servant becomes the served.
Ah, to give and be received.
You overlook me. I look over you. Over you. Over you.
Not over you.
And I feel feelings that I dealt with already. Remember dealing with this long ago familiar feeling.
Remember the smooth line of your back meeting your hips, descending into your pants, belt low, perfect skin, precious skin I would protect with my very life. I would guard that line so I could look at that line again and again like my property, like it belonged to me. Like the life forever owed to the someone saves it.
I would save you.
I take this uncertainty and new insecurity. What do they call this: intimacy (dependence?).
I take this disgusting unwelcome emotion and turn my private anguish into poetry. Typing landscapes, spellchecking metaphor, placing commas right between the vulnerability and the judgment of it. So I might prolong the discomfort and learn from it. So I might be even more vulnerable the next time I look over you…
You might overlook me. It might hurt.
I’ll make poetry.