That magical word, ‘anything’.
For me, the question and answer is not so much about intent, but knowing acquiescence.
The act of giving yourself over while understanding, at a fundamental animal level, just how deep you’ve let yourself be drawn into his world.
Its done in steps, sometimes subtle, sometimes not.
“What would you do for it?”
The answer is a binding twined tightly against you until your very breath catches.
After acquiescence comes the testing.
You are here.
You are braille, read in falling touches and flailing rushes and I know I if I am cut in half we can read our futures in the rings, but my bite is worse then my bark and I cannot be a tree so you should be a stone dropped in still waters so we can count the ripples, but you’re not a stone, you are gypsy and vagabond.
You are here.
But never for long.
“I want to watch you drown,” I said.
It was the way you looked up at me, all dark eyes and trust, while my knee pressed against your chest, making it difficult and then impossible to breathe.
It was the way you waited for me.
It made me wonder how far you would go; would you let me hold you under until you had no choice but to press back, your need to breathe outweighing your need to be still?
Would you struggle?
“I want to watch you drown,” I said, and you said nothing in return.
But you reached for my hands and placed them around your throat.
I imagined her a place.
She was a precocious child and an indecent tease, but her laughter made me smile.
The sanctuary I built for her had paper walls; on them I wrote her letters, but the rain made the words transparent, kissing the ink into rivers of black.
I never left her alone; there were cats that prowled the garden and tempted the stairs to the marble where she slept. They would nibble on her toes while she slumbered and she would dream of oceans and brightly colored fish.
I fed her plump fruits that tasted of bittersweet sunlight and sorrow. She drank from a cistern of clay and bathed in the cask of oak.
When she wept, I made it thunder and she would huddle under garments made in sunset hues, her sadness forgotten.
She kissed me once, but she thought I was part of the dream, or part of the storm, or a memory, or a ghost.
Family. Friends. Lovers.
Work. School.
Twitter. Facebook.
—
My life needs context, not meaning.
Moments of clarity, when we step back from ourselves and see the mechanisms of our lives; the pattern of behavior, the needs that inform our decisions.
The ironic truth is that this understanding doesn’t make our actions any more effective.
But it can make use self-conscious.
We become awkward, our knowledge making us move out of step.
We slip away from the rhythm and rut of the life around us when our natural inclination is to fall in line; the people about us sense the change, adjusting course to avoid anything that threatens the routine they’ve so carefully crafted to insulate themselves.
Still.
Still, all in all, I’ll take perspective over comfort.
You were a tangle.
I brought you a rose; while you undressed, I plucked it clean, letting the petals settle at the end of my fingertips like curled, satin promises.
Waiting, almost patiently.
Thought of you on black sheets, tousled hair and pale skin.
Enough.
I stood, my hand sliding into the back of your hair, anchoring you in place. You were undressed in parts and in my grasp you were not-quite-still. Amused, I ran my fingers along the inside of your thigh, drawing the whisper of black silk to bare you completely.
I lowered you to your knees.
I have a tin box filled with paper airplanes. It once held Christmas cookies sent by a muse of mine.
This is the direct result of the fact that, having not received a new desk calendar over the the holidays, I was forced to find one myself. This is never a particularly good idea, because given a choice, I am not going to be content with a calendar of Dilbert cartoons, inspirational sayings, Irish castles, LOLcats, or fun facts.
I find myself drawn to items that challenge.
Which is how I ended up with a calendar made of daily airplane origami.
Each day reveals a new design and every morning has seen the creation of a new plane. Some are designed for flying, kite-shaped gliders and sharp arrow-headed fliers. Others are merely ornamental, taking on the shape of intricate spacecraft and realistic bi-planes. There are designs beautifully elegant in their simplicity and complicated blueprints with tailwings and rudders.
They all go into the tin box.
We are mid-way through February, and the box is already full.
So here is my question.
What do you do with a tin filled with colorful paper airplanes?
~ words and picture of and by an artist friend.
It started like the roar of a steam engine, slowly climbing the curves of an imposing mountain.
Wrestling gravity.
Waiting, wanting, yearning for the descent.
The sweet enveloping green of the valley below.
Faster.
Determined.
The movement of your fingers in flawless unison with the deep groans that were my last words.
Echoing, as if the sky were a closed arena.
Our bodies bare for some unknown audience.
Fireworks.
A pull, a thrust, a perfect explosion.
She tasted like cloves and cinnamon, the last drag on a cigarette, and the opening notes to a song I’d lost to my youth.
She was iridescent and I couldn’t put her out, not even in my dreams.