I haven’t written in a while, but I have nothing of appropriate scope and scale to say. I, instead, muse:
This world has within it pleasures so chocolate and sublime that simply taste of them brings wonder into one’s heart; we ask, ‘what scandal have we gotten away with to find such utter, undiluted glee amongst the folds, in the gentle pocket between every and the day?’
I am wealthy and unwilling to share my fortune; selfish and petulant you may label me thusly, and be completely right to brand me as such. But there is only two reasons a child is ever quiet – he has innocently found happiness and contentment, and enjoys his enjoyment, or he is up to the very best kind of mischief.
For both above reasons has my voice found peace, and I suspect I shall need to be roughly unsettled to have much to speak about if I would have more to say anytime soon.
I don’t know whether I’ve moved up, or simply moved on, but I point anyone who comes across this body of work to the site archives on the right. My best work is undeniably done when I’m miserable, so anything I’d have to write at this point and onward would most likely be catastrophically underwhelming.
So… so long, but not necessarily goodbye. I just pray I have little to write about for a long time to come, if quiet tastes this good to my tongue.
With the most reckless sort of love,
Our experiences are always catalogued as story, tale, fable and song. We are storytellers, before we’re anything else, before lovers and fathers and cellmates and heathens, we are storytellers first and foremost.
Our mind lags as it grapples with the ‘now’, it trails just barely behind the moment itself so that we are forever scratching the pens across the pages of our mind, lazily taking note of the history unfolding on a second by second basis. We anticipate a future, but never a present oncoming.
Consider, as I type, I hear these words in my mind, and my fingers trail still, always behind, always the scribe and never the sculptor. I take note of the songs in my mind and I lay this sheet music bare and before you here. But the now, the present, the actual moments and notes in this song, those psychotic, clanging keys, banged out at random, impossible for me to apprehend and then overtake in process, impossible to predict and out-tactic, impossible to walk with and alongside, for it’s stroll is my fervor and race.
With all the struggle I can inflict upon such a chase, I can reach only that precious point behind our present, where the trails of it’s long hair just brush my cheek and the scent of today and what ‘is’, eludes me so gracefully and without exception.
Eluded without exception. Hmmph. Do I fail as a hunter, or do my moments fail as prey?
But then, that is my function, to record and recall, to emboss into memory what impressions I’ve been left with, to survey and pore over the marks left upon me after the fact(s).
I hold her in my arms and I forget that I’m there, so busy a bee I am, buzzing about and collecting into my honeycomb the very stuff of my dreams, stockpiling my senses in slavish anticipation of my wants and needs to come.
I’m alone tonight, but I’m never really alone. So sweet does my story of her taste to my memory, the gentle calligraphic arcs of each of her subtle curves and subtle words and subtle nerves; her subtle verve and subtle… her.
I am the story of a writer who wrote of a story of a writer who wrote of a story of a writer who will never know what the present feels like: whether it would be liberating, like a car with no roads, unchaining and everchanging, or whether it would be a horror unlike anything else, a limbo and wry emptiness of soul, an unconnectedness of strained proportions, a vertigo into self… and as I dream of it, fantasize what a moment would feel like, I’m again just the puppet and idle hands of a mind un-idle. I am the story and the student to the author, a mind and soul that teaches and preaches and hopes, that perches just behind and above and recites to me my thoughts and loves… and with each clack of the key, I write of his wanderings through the mindscape. I’m forever the middle-man, the go between, the hoarse, grimy voice of the cover band that, despite an inspired performance, ruins a great song with uninspiring skills.
I’m eyes that see and believe and warm winds that lift and soften and wax wings that just never get close enough to melt.
I’m the story of all, and all that I am isn’t close enough even to be touched by what I see, at least not yet. I see it, but I can only give you my insular, impish perspective on the whole accord, my story of it, my characterization of it’s people and my dramas set in it’s settings, my fantasies of it’s laying of hands and touching me so that I might learn of it’s touch and collect it’s details for honest recall.
I’ve been told that I love this story, so I’ll keep up my read and recital; my gentle, forgiving trudge through the litter and opened boxes and packing peanuts and blister packs of ideas, my well chaptered and appointed books, bound with leather and pomp, set in such bookshelves of grandeur and importance.
But when I opened the drawer in the hotel, I found a bible there. Not my petaled words and thorny grins, but something else, a story and book that can sit on any shelf, rest in any pocket, be read by any voice. Unassuming, but assumed to be present. That’s a moment there, a real present and ‘now.’ That’s one of dozens I’ve seen, but I’ll never know their character well enough to write of them and add them to the story. I can only describe their appearance.
The enlightened possess understanding
So profound they can not be understood.
Because they cannot be understood
I can only describe their appearance:
Cautious as one crossing thin ice,
Undecided as one surrounded by danger,
Modest as one who is a guest,
Unbounded as melting ice,
Genuine as unshaped wood,
Broad as a valley,
Seamless as muddy water.
Who stills the water that the mud may settle,
Who seeks to stop that he may travel on,
Who desires less than what may transpire,
Decays, but will not renew.
I love this story – our story, and all it’s subtle whispers into my ear and heart. How nice to be a character of this world. How nice to hear the narration.
Looking through, looking past and into, a sideways glance, a shard and piece of the whole, half of a reflection, a tenth of soul and yet all too much substance, oppressive in her presence and demanding of my lips.
I feel like everything she tells me is a secret she’s decided to share, words I’ve earned, softly spoken, directly to my heart.
Wild acceptance, unending patience, friendly smiles, happy glances and giggles, girlishness and pride in and of it, sensuality of curve and curvature of senses, wild arcs in impossible directions and sly slopes of female in all of her form.
I feel like everything she does she does with grace, moving slowly as the world rips by at fantastic speeds, time itself bending to her beauty and pushed aside to make room for her divine soul.
Generous glee and softhearted insistence, pushing and penitent in her desires and drive; hesitant and anxious, self-conscious and self-conquered; well traveled and static; bright, loving, noble eyes.
I feel like every day starts where our last day ends, and the sun rises and sets with every sweet breath she drinks in.
God help us all if this love ever dies; she’s made with her love, this monster a monk.
And not in final, but with finality, to look upon her is to desire the memory of her the instant you see her; the very second eyes such as mine come to touch on her skin, I should never want of anything else again but to find that soft topaz glow in the darkness behind my eyes… I should become a defender of memory, guarding precious rocks and ore of the mind, crystal memories of only the best, and whole storehouses of past trinkets and the unprecious gems of my prior recall laid out with the trash to make good room and space for my new betters.
I am better for keeping my memories of her; all present(s) in her presence should be secondary to a burning and wild need to remember them. Men like me should see her and live in such unbelief of themselves at that moment, we should be human enough to fail at our understandings, and find ourselves scrambling about collecting temporal scraps of proof should doubt of her and our moment together ever enter our hearts.
She demands that I feel like she belongs only to me.
I demand then of myself that I rise, and deserve.
So paint her then Veach, if I lend her like this, and my friend… do treat her with a new sort of care.
Brush dipped into my deepest of sleeps, I can paint myself quite a dream when this artist finds his artistry. Her favourite colour is green. My favourite colour is her. I’m throwing out my canvas in favour of drowning in paint.
I’m listening to her breath as she sleeps. I can be hard, and hard of hearing, but I cannot mistake the peaceful winds that carry past those lips and grace my soul with their favour and flavour. She paints across me in broad, playful strokes with every kind word, she dispels my magic and glamour with every laugh and smile.
She asked me if soulmates exist. I learn of prayer only by praying to be hers.
I never expected to come through my ordeals unscathed. I wonder if that’s the nature of war, how the true test of a soldier is knowing when and how to lay down his arms and unclench his fists. She washes over me with every slumbered sigh, she paints me in emerald and cobalt and rain. I’m eroded until I’m hers and nothing else. I’m hers before I’m me, and I love, I swear it, I love who I’ve become.
And this illusion bends so freely, and this dream never creases no matter how I mistreat it in my mind. This woman can’t seem to find in my hands and my eyes and my voice the same brute and broken soul that my years have seen stomp about dressed in coarse memory and philisophical torment. Maybe he’s gone. Maybe that’s why I feel so light and so enlightened. If you grind a vase to dust, should memory allow, it will remain a vase.
I disperse as dust in her winds! Sweep me up!
This dream won’t see me wake, because I’m no longer dreaming. The winds of change escape from each of her satisfied sighs, and I drink them in greedily.
I am madly in love, and my heart cries it’s uncontrollable little heart out at seeing it’s very first realized dream. I cannot stress the magnitude of my experience enough. Of my infinite ideas, expressions, words, hopes, needs, loves, whims, screams, demands, pleasures, pains… I’ve finally actually fucking found one honest, pure form in this world, and my poor little heart is hysterical and livid at the very first glance: shocked and horrified at seeing it’s hard earned cynicism and jade trapping stripped away with the gentlest whisk of her fingers; vindicated and justified for seeing it’s unbroken, uncompromising faith culminate in the penitent service to an angel.
And how ironic. The girl who loves green loves the most jaded man she’d ever find.
For a man who lives only in, only with, only for his dreams: I just cannot; will not describe her beauty. I’m not up to it. I can’t deal in figures when all I live for is form, even if I’d only ever seen it in dream.
But I’m awake. And christ… I see her now. I see nothing else whatever.
Sweep me up!
My life has been the poem I would have writ,
But I could not both live and utter it.
~ Henry David Thoreau
She told me that she loves me an obscene amount. I’ve been thinking about this for days now, what that might even begin to mean, to be loved obscenely, what an obscene sort of love might be.
Something described as obscene is excessive to the point of offense to one’s tastes, it’s a little taboo, a little too much, a little too wanton and needing, more than required, more than deserved, but given and taken with abandon in case supply would ever run dry. It’s a sort of dangerous attachment, a sort of begging trust, a leaning on one another to a too-scary point… I get this image of two lovers with outstretched arms reaching over a chasm, looking to lock fingers, tipping over, reaching too far, falling… catching each other, pressing against each other, bridging together, preventing each other’s fall…
And that’s the obscenity and absurdity of it, no? They can’t let go, or they tumble into the chasm. They can’t head back, because of the unforgiving pact they had to strike with balance. It’s obscene in it’s very existance, this tableau, offensive because of it’s dichotomy: dire impracticality of position struck against the happy, satisfied smiles of lovers having finally found their other.
Who are we to smile when so precariously placed?
Who are you to suggest our feet should ever, EVER falter, that our fingers would ever let go?
She is more than I can ever deserve.
Maybe our love is obscene, and maybe it should be, maybe all love that’s real, and honest, needs to be a little obscene to break through the banality and let itself be heard and felt and be real. I don’t think a lone person can judge the quality of, and label a thing ‘obscenity,’ I think there’s an element of socialization involved – if we are obscene, we are obscene to the world’s tastes.
And that’s a particular set of senses and sensibilities I’m all too happy to offend.
I joked to her that a love like ours gives love back to the gods, that all our happy, silly, impossible smiles and smiling possibilities does generate something, a tangible feeling, presence, aura that keeps us wrapped and enveloped, our message excitable and still undelivered… and again, how obscene! All these words, my push and pull and thrust and struggle to explain us, I feel her here beside me, around me… and when the words bleed off the page, as my mind and eyes wander to her side and to feast on her sides, I want, and I want her obscenely, to peel at her layers and taste of her skin and keep her so offensively close and for so offensively long a time.
Watch me kiss her and see how she’ll shudder at my touch and gentle requests.
Using the male, being female, we enter the world and offend all, blasphemous even to the gods, as they behold a love that they too, lack.
So be offended, you lookers on and onlookers. Be wildly offended at our love and our needs and our fulsome sensualities, and continue to be offended until you feel enough of a stirring to notice that parched taste in your mouth, that quiet and maddening thirst for an obsession you can rightfully and righteously live for.
Tell me again how obscene we are and will be, when you too find that hunger, when you hunger for another the way my soul screams for her hands and her mouth and her love.
Tell me with a smile how your woman tastes to you, or better, tell her instead, let her know just how you lust and linger over thoughts of her, watch her blush and then kiss the fire off her reddening cheeks.
Be human, be a man, love a woman, and love her obscenely. Love each other as obscenely as you can. I implore you, I promise it’s right.
She showed me it’s right.