i stole a rose petal from a grave

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Walking Pere Lachaise in Paris, the grey skies held back the worst of the rain; the wind was just sharp enough to nudge free the gold leaves from the trees to litter the cobblestone pathways.

All Saints Day was spent in Paris amidst cemeteries and cathedrals; ornate gravestones and large stained glass windows.

I found it strangely comforting.

I should write…more. I should write of Tuscany’s large rolling hills filled with vineyards and small stone villages with winding passageways and prowling calico cats; of the canals of Amsterdam and Bruge, one lined with red lit windows, the other with chocolate shops.

But tonight, my mind remains with stone angels.

go back there someday

There’s not a word yet for old friends who’ve just met.
Part heaven, part space, or have I found my place?
You can just visit, but I plan to stay.
I’m going to go back there someday.
I’m going to go back there someday.

Gonzo, “I’m Going to Go Back There Someday”

—

This song has stayed with me over the last few weeks; I came across it while creating a lullaby CD for NE’s littles. Like all mixes, I listen to the playlist several times, removing a song here, adding another.

And this song, the one sung by a purple muppet sitting at a campfire, gets to me. Every time I hear it.

Sitting in the lobby of a small hotel in Bruges, I think of my friends. The close ones, the ones that mean something to me, that help define my life. The old friends I have met.

And the others I have yet to see.

dialogue

Pinned hands, wrists held; it is an act described and completed a hundred, a thousand times.

Because it is metaphor in motion.

There are binds that tighten with every struggle; skeins that capture more completely; collars that choke more thoroughly.

When your struggle has become the process, when you have played on your hunger until it has become an ache so sharp you feel it cut against your pulse and the lines of your body tremble – then, our dialogue can begin.

…

Your cheek pressed against the cool surface of the desk, hotel stationery scattered, held in place by a hand at the nape of your neck and the heat of a body behind you, bared ass traced by a touch that knows the points of ingress.

…

Legs splayed, your hands buried in dark hair long enough to twine between your fingers. Perched atop the bathroom counter, the mirror in front of you reflecting a low-light painting of the act in progress; the other side of capture, the cruel-edged tongue that circles the edge but never lets you slip.

…

Hands bound at the small of your back, legs over shoulders, back against the ground. Eyes that never leave yours, control laced by tipping points; it is not a lessening of the hold, this undenied fucking. It is the promise of flesh, of fingers that bite into your hips, and teeth that mark your breasts. It is being lost in the dark, naked limbs, where punctuation is made against your lips, the biting kiss and the sweet fever of blood-tinged words.

control at rest

We share a stasis of sorts; a lethargy of motion. We are not meant to be standing still, and because of this, we feel it as a relentless
stirring as life brushes past us.

Unfortunately, it is not moving that is required. It is movement under the right motivation.

A dilemma, if you will: what to do when the act that began as a new challenge becomes routine? Aside from the obvious answers (approaching said challenge from new angles, finding some aspect that is exciting to re-engage interest, etc.), all of which are designed to prolong, but not ultimately fix, the issue.

Let me be honest. I do not think there is a fix. I am simply not content to be content.

Because, at heart, I require challenges in my life. When dealing with challenges, stress is applied, the ligaments of life are stretched and I am forced to react, to fight, to bare my teeth and be more than a stationary object.

Given one role, should it be so easy to face it forward? Should we write fiction to mirror what we want in life, or live our lives like the fiction we want to write?

irreverence in place

At heart, we are needful.

We crave life in all it’s inglorious beauty. We want to experience it stripped naked of pretense.

And we all share a fundamental desire to test ourselves against the razor-thin lines between what is safe and what is possible.

—

These are my thoughts, tonight; my desires; my needful things.

[audio:Djaevle_Serenity.mp3]
D’jaevle, Serenity

snack

The bruises left against the skin wrapped from the front of her thighs to the warm curve between her legs; they were shaded purple, a dark inkwell trail that marked the passage of teeth and fingernails.

I remember heat, and fingers dragging cloth over skin, each inch a hard won victory as fingernails dug into my back and shoulder. Her nails were sharp, but my teeth teeth were sharper, and while her cries drove me deeper, my own came as low-buried growls made against the bared flesh I was feasting on.

city of lights, city of shadow

It’s official; I’ll be heading to Europe in late October, hitting six countries in fifteen days.

On the one hand, I’ll get to experience several cultures and hit the highlights at each location; on the other hand, two days in Paris is no way to enjoy the place.

Of course, if I fall in love with one particular country, I can always return.

If there is anyone who lives in (or near) London, Bruges, Amsterdam, Paris, Innerlaken, or Rome, who would like to meet up for drinks while I’m over there, just let me know (I’ll be staying at the Four Seasons King George while in Paris, and they must have a kick ass bar there).