Author: D'jaevle

knock, knock, can I come in?

D'jaevle: I can be there in ten minutes.

Lindsay: Don't.

D'jaevle: Ah, but I'm already dressed.

I parked behind her small car and entered the house through the side door. Quiet, so as not to disturb those living above the first floor, I made my way to her bedroom.

The bedroom door was locked. I gave a few gentle knocks. The silence was broken by the barking of her dog on the other side. I knew she was awake, but she wasn't going to let me in. I gave it a few more minutes and then left.

In my car I sent her a quick text-message: "Stopped by to tuck you in. Good night."

I smiled. If I'm going to make mistakes, at least let them be the right kind of mistakes.

—

For the first time in months, I've had three good nights of sleep, and I feel good.

Competence is a drug to me; I'm never so short-sighted that I feel incompetent, but I often let things slide out of boredom.  After six or seven months or getting by, entertaining myself through various diversions, I've got the wolf by the throat.

I'm ready for the quiet games. 

rain-drenched and disheveled

For Magdelana.

— 

rain-drenched and disheveled
i will be guided by your grace
place my feet in the mist-kissed pattern of your own

and dance

swifter than disillusionment,
no time for shame
or self-rot,
or self-not,
i devolved into the sound
of rain
and i sang to you
of rivers and oceans
salt-touched mornings    
and dark blue nights    

until I lay against your breasts
wet beads of perspiration,        
the scars of your dance,
one and the same. 

autumn

This was the view I enjoyed from the back porch this weekend.

 

I'm off to the Shenandoah mountains for a long weekend of reading books in a place where I can taste the approaching Autumn; it has always been my favorite season, and I am ready to embrace it.

Here, some rambling thoughts that might amuse you while I am gone.

[audio:Djaevle_OnWriting.mp3]
D'jaevle, Writing

a kiss, is a kiss, even as dessert

A couple of small snippets from a novel I started writing a couple years ago; it never got very far, but I did have a few scenes that remain captured in my imagination.

The following scenes are two moments in the entwined lives of a woman who thought to raise a child to use for her own ends, and the rewards she reaps for doing so. 

— 

“Motives are complex, but needs are simple."

“You must do this for me. You owe me.”

“I owe you?” Where burning anger might have fed my desire, the cold fury I felt at her words left me numb of anything but its grip on me. “What do I owe you?”

"I took you in, I taught you how to be a man.”

At my side, my fingers curled until I could feel the nails biting into my palm. “You didn’t take me in. You bought me.” My voice was soft as I recalled Jasmin’s words so long ago. “You bought me, and you want your money’s worth. You didn’t teach me, you crafted me, trained me like I was your pet. All so that you could get your revenge; you hate them for what they did and you want to see them suffer.”

Her eyes flashed up to mine and I could see the candlelight reflected in her gaze, “You hate them too.”

“No.” I shook my head, “I don’t hate them. I pity them.” I drew in a slow breath and felt the chilled bite of my anger slip away, “I will do this for you. Because I do owe you. But after this, there will be nothing left between us except what is deserved.”

— 

A month later, having completed his favor to her, she put into motion a string of events that would lead to his death.

They don't succeed. The evening of the annual masquerade ball, he extracts the price for her not entirely unexpected betrayal. 

And there she stood.

I gripped her hair tightly and drew her head back to expose the long curve of her throat. I was ready for this.  I brought the knife up to her neck.

And then I kissed her. Hard.

I felt her tense under me. Her fear made me pull her close, close enough for her heat to become lost lost in mine. I felt her shudder and my lips parted against hers, tasting her for the first time.

I made her mine in that moment and everyone in the room knew it. My eyes moved from one noble to another. Not a single person would hold my gaze; one by one, they looked away.

I let her go, and she slumped to the floor.

flight school

Iron Eagle was a horrible 80s movie. Horrible, and yet I must have watched it three of four times while growing up.

There is a scene in the movie where the lead character, a young kid with a chip on his shoulder, is having difficulty hitting targets while out test-flying an F-16. That is, until he puts on his headphones, slips his mix-tape into the cassette recorder, and zones out to Queen and Twisted Sister. After that, the bad guys don't stand a chance.

We've all been there. Jamming out in the car or dancing naked while cleaning the house. We find that place where the music is pure adrenaline. It gets into our blood stream and shakes loose our inhibitions and restraints.

— 

Prayer being a recent theme to my thoughts and writing, this song feels appropriate. It's one of my recent favorites.

[audio:A3_TooSickToPray.mp3]
A3, Too Sick To Pray

jewelry

I have three pieces of jewelry I wear.

 

The first is a chain with pendant; a gift from my mother, she gave one to each of her sons (four of us). The pendant is a circle enclosing a triangle; the triangle is engraved with a dove.

 

 

The second is a white gold ring, a gift from NE and Bear. I wear it on my right hand, ring-finger.

 

 

The last is also a gift from NE and Bear; a silver chain I wear around my left wrist.     

 

I am less attached to how they look, than to what they mean. I strive for a minimalist approach to possessions  (although my recent acquisition of an HDTV and pending ownership of a 30-year old motorcycle speak to the contrary) because possessions can define you as a person.

In wearing each of these items, I do so as a conscious act.

good girls go to heaven

I first learned the intricacies of sex through the written word. Voice followed text, and I became a disciple of language.

If I can bring you to your knees with my voice alone, imagine what is possible when I have you in front of me.

I don't need to touch you to make you wet.

I just need your faith.

—

The last of my three recently recorded audio pieces, this one is best experienced while alone.

[audio:Djaevle_Wicked.mp3]
D'jaevle, Wicked

last few steps

The last few steps are the hardest to take.

With patience and cruelty I have guided you to this point and left you teetering on the edge.

This next step is hard, because it is done alone. You are not cajoled or teased. The taunting words that drove you here are mere echoes against your own thoughts and growing desperation. The hands that were so firmly wrapped around your wrists and throat await you on the other side of a widening abyss.

It is meant to be hard; more than a mere decision, this step is an acknowledgment and destroyer of conceits. To make this step is to shatter the illusion that you have no responsibility in the process.

You are being asked to be a willing participant in your own ruination. Your hands will be dirtied, your purity sullied, and your ideals blurred.

Will it be done with hesitation, or will you throw yourself over blindly, embracing the inevitable fall?

Will you take the next step?