Sleep is precious; it provides the space we need to think. Without it, the walls are a bit closer.
the long walk
I walked myself through a thought experiment today.
One of my greatest fears is set thinking and ingrained responses.
Now, at thirty-four, the threat is greater than ever.
I think our brains are designed to spend the first twenty to thirty years learning.
We listen, we watch, we taste. We adventure. We test ourselves. We test others.
But the experiences we enjoy are a double-edged sword: while each new experience broadens our perspective and challenges our assumptions, most of our experiences aren’t new ones – they are the routines that make up our lives. They are the things we enjoy most, the work we do every day, and the people we love. They form the rules and guidelines that govern our lives; they train ourselves into a pattern of behavior.
Not just in the larger concepts of job and lifestyle, but in the small. Do we smile when we make eye-contact? Do we respond to pity with anger? Do we judge certain people more harshly than others?
It becomes easier to be what we are – human, father, worker, coke-head – and not who we are.
There’s nothing inherently wrong that. Ignorance is bliss, and so too are the comforts of the familiar.
Personally – I’m just not ready to be that comfortable. I want to keep my rituals, but I’m not done testing myself.
ungentle
I’ve rediscovered the word lascivious: given to or expressing lust.
You inspire the elegance of the enforced stop; the tragic demise; the regulation of self, mirrored in the eyes of the person clutching your throat for dear life.
I am not yet ready to devour.
Although, I found myself thinking of you on my patio, in your dress, your leg over my shoulder.
You have a pulse that runs along the inside of of your thigh, the femoral pulse.
Right, here.
pillage
This the pattern of life; a short breath here, staccato in heat and intent, and now the longer breath, the soft blue of summer sky. We breathe, a biological clock.
Pulse; the low steady rhythm that dictates our thoughts, our hungers; directs our instincts and our habits.
There are days I want to reach into the sinews of my arm and find my pulse, grip it tight, long strands of vibrant red wound about my knuckles; or crack open my rib cage, thrust my hand deep into my lungs and squeeze until I have captured all of my breath in the firm grip of my fist so I can count the number I have left.
I imagine my fingers openings, slowly, and each white-breath fluttering upwards.
(I think I have a more cunning wolf inside me today.)
Scarlet Letters
When a story is being told, it is often best read in one cohesive form.
I’ve moved the Scarlet Letter postings to a separate page, and they can be read here:
little while
Overhead while waiting for Rose Red to arrive at the Museum of Natural History (determined not to be late for a third time, she guaranteed that no other outcome was possible).
Little boy: “The buses take a little long time.”
Mother: “Little long?”
Little boy: “Yes…they take a long time to get here. Not a while though, just a little.”
His logic, I have to say, is impeccable.
a crease, a mountain fold, wolf on paper slipped under the door
To me, possession is an act, not an agreement.
I possess with words. I own with lips, fingers, and the occasional length of rope.
It lasts only as long as the rope burns on her wrists, the welts on her ass, the act in her memory, and my words in her mind.
Ownership is a claim made over and over again.
Asking, requiring, or stating ownership is an empty gesture if it hasn’t already been written against your skin and etched into your consciousness.
karmatic indifference
No matter how good we are on our best days, we often judged by our worst.
absinthe abstinence
Dwell here, my pet. Curl at my feet and I will feed you in sweets cut from ragged cloth that once adorned false prophets. You can taste the promise of their salvation in the creases of their garments.
I, too, will lead you astray. I will touch you possessively with a light hand and then beat you cruelly in my silence. My disciples are many, but they know it not. They will worship you in sympathetic stares and false compassion.
I will crumble your foundations of stone and stillness. I will hold you up just long enough for you to see how far you have to fall.
So dwell here, in absinthe abstinence, and wait for me.
glasswright
Some of the most beautiful things are written in the pain born of desire.
You’re like a stained glass window. All the lines of your life have been etched across your soul with a knife so sharp you can only feel it in the passing.