Dear Journey:

CONFESSION (of the sexual kind)

I pull them in unintentionally and they become arrested, prisoners pulled from the sheets and into the wind, and they look towards me for answers, security, protection: I am not your goddess. I wasn’t meant to be seen in soft lights, the glow I manifest as I step is not meant to bring you closer, the haze that emanates is not intended to attract your kind; I am only trying to get by; this elusiveness is merely the natural byproduct of the processes of my survival. I guess its not worth it to smile, when the lonely grasp onto it like a rope dropped to save the masses from a well; the weak see it as an invitation to fall in love. But a smile is a way for me to say that life is alright; like a stone in the center of a rapid stream I let the rough waters stroke my back and continue to stare in the same direction, never waiting or wanting more from the swarms of wave riders that grace my space with a swift hello.

But some want to stay despite that the flow is too strong: you try to hang on forever and I’ll forever ask for your removal; you see, you are a stone too, to think you are free falling and failing to love is to mistake your life with the life of floating debris.

I am no trickster: If anything I am too kind to reveal the truth that I do not love you in the way that lovers do: but it hurts me to see you unhappy, (this is my dishonesty) and so I allow you to hold on until your arms became tired and sore; eventually impermanence is revealed (nothing is ever-lasting, I should know better) and you require another way and so you were forced to figure the truth of my indifference, and you did but it was a painful realization, and so with your wild imagination you tell a story in which I embody the source of all your troubles and regress: it makes it easier to let go this way, it does when you confess your hatred of the thing to which you are so attached (after they buck you), like burning your finger on fire and claiming to never want to witness vivid flames burn again. The fire is the reason for the tingle and the taste (of searing flesh), and I am the reason your heart breaks, and I hate to see you unhappy, so I let it be, I accept your ill-energies with a smile and a shrug.

Nothing personal, I tell myself. How could I truly hear your hostilities and be alright? I don’t sit on a thrown, I don’t wear any robes; I am not more than human. Yet you throw demon-blessed frequencies my way as if I have developed some royal filter that purifies my heart each time some mean confession permeates the air I breathe. I have no such abilities. I have only the power to remove the power from your words by understanding that you are damaged and destroyed by your need to believe these illusions of me created by your gushing mind. In protecting yourself; in preserving your righteousness, sense of security, and in anticipating disappointment, your thoughts have painted me in dismal tones of black and blue and now your masterpiece hangs in the hall with other untouchable works of a loathsome hue; I am not defined as such but by your side. After all I was never meant for such things as being the center of a crying artist’s attention; besides, I know this, and suddenly I burst out of the shell and leave bitter rinds to rot; sweet citrus oozes as tangy teardrops from my eyes and I find that I need not erase you from my life, but to stay and witness how clever the trickster actually is, watching him coax you into believing the illusions of your trying mind, decorating the cake you bake in celebration of your freedom from me with an icy coat of useless rumors.

So it goes, and such is life. If this is the process then I surrender: I ask for nothing and I apologize to no one when that means I must scold the most sacred part of myself: my love.

That’s the thing about love: where you think its your partner that has betrayed you and whom you can no longer trust it is in fact yourself that has granted them the authority to make you the lesser. Love has a funny way of glorifying the beloved; you then compare them to things like crystal radiance and full moons, and they become just as powerful in your mind. Of course,once they leave its like god kicked the stars from your skies and dulled your vision of shiny lights: the only way you can regain stability and ground, the only way things can ever be the same is if you commit to maim and slander; so you tear violently at those projections of your beloved that you yourself created, pulling yourself back up and into reality by clawing into the goddess flesh of your once lover and telling yourself its the right thing to do because she couldn’t be worth anything more since she hurt you so badly. You justify your actions by blaming the ex-lover, when in all truth this love couldn’t exist without you, the carrier of love’s disease, and the act of all this fluff and dramatic break-up stuff is just a natural reaction to feeling as though you’ve been rejected by a queen: I am no queen, therefore, you’re argument is invalid. See? love is the trickster, not I (said the little red hen).

-”This is for all them girls who have ever been made to feel ugly by an even uglier man”. – Violet

 I told a man to go fuck himself today; it was after he looked me deep in my eyes and whispered those sweet sweet words. It was after we made love. It was after he revoked the meaning of every meaningful thing he had ever revealed to me. It was after he draped a cloak around his secret vulnerability and reacted like the coward who fires his gun before the bear begins to charge; it was after he looked me deep in my eyes and whispered those nasty, nasty words. Ya’ll know what I mean, no matter the actual content it was the way he said it; I mean, he said a million things and acted a hundred colorful ways but I absorbed only the base line of his poisonous message and it went something like this: “boom boom, I don’t want you in my life, boom boom, I don’t want you in my life, boom boom…”. I felt it. It hurt. I felt ugly. I felt small. I felt like runnin’ and divin’ into the coldest water to freeze the growth of sensitivity and pain, but I didn’t. I just swallowed and smiled and said, “its alright boy. You are the last brother from the tribe of indifferent men that I will ever dance with. I can say a proper goodbye now. Thank you for the challenge mister, now go fuck yourself”.

 This is gon’ be my new way, I think, makin’ it my bus’ness to know where those men come from, and tellin’ ‘em how I truly feel. Ain’t like I’m doing nothin’ wrong, I mean I ain’t hurtin’ nobody really. It ain’t my problem if he takes it personally, right? I’m just livin’ my life is all, and he should know better anyhow. Its like, what do you think is gon’ happen when you wear your selfish expectations as openly as your troubled grin? I ain’t here to please nobody! I ain’t layin’ down the right to bear myself, no way am I gon’ spread my legs kindly so he can have a taste of true power. I ain’t givin’ nothin’ to nobody that ain’t already pourin’ freely from the flow of things; why force myself further? Ain’t enough you’ve got that girl between your legs you wanna sew her up after you done, you wanna brand your name like a pretty little scar that she’ll forever wear as a reminder that she’s a missin’ a piece of her heart to you.

 I’ve been had and I’ve been a means to an end for many a mischievous man but I say enough! They made me, ya know, as a girl comin’ up in this world, tricked by every fake kiss and every false prophecy spoken from the filthy grave of his soiled dreams; I believed that love was when your name felt safe in the mouth of a well-respected man. Uh, uh, no way; and now I’ve paid my dues and I have been God-honored with the authority to love nobody but myself, and if the mosquitoes want a taste of my blood then let them have it; they’ll prick the skin of another man soon, and that will be my victory when the shaft of his cock is swollen with regret of having behaved a devil’s fool; guilt itches, my friend. Itch it long and good, watch how it changes you, I’ll wear a rosy dress to celebrate the rise and fall of your oozing fantasies, ha! I’ll bite harder than any alligator I swear, I’m tired of resting in the swamps next to other second-hand ladies; through rouge and globs of lip paint they slur from too many sips of moonshine while the moonlight shines on their tears that the water beast dries with his yellow eyes.

 I ain’t one them girls who jus’ wanna man, ya hear? I ain’t wanna sit ’round, and sip tea and talk about fancy things with lace, and whisper lyrics and batter my eyes and smell nice things and have nice things: I ain’t lookin’ for nothing from you: not acceptance nor approval, not a warm blanket or a humble bed, not a compliment or a dare, not nothin’ you can do to change me slightly, not no way for you to keep me comin’ round cause I dance to the beat of distant drums, harmonic gifts of direction granted by higher things, higher than the way you feel when you see me smile that smile that ain’t got nothin’ to do with you, not no more; I’m stronger than I seem, grace is not weak but tender like a mother lion with her cubs. Don’t you know boy? When spirits are suppressed, when they are confined, ya see, they revolt to any extreme; the spirit knows only how to be itself and it will do so under any condition, under any circumstance, whether you speak its language or not it will rise within and swell like the tides of the sea when the full moon calls. It’s like, you can take a person and you can train them and mold them and teach them how you want them to be, you can tell them that some things jus’ ain’t right and others are plain wrong, but it ain’t no use; you only gonna make a murderer, or a liar, or a rapist, or a drunk; stiflin’ energies morph and manifest in unwholesome ways when left to rot on the shelves of a restricted heart.

 So, boy, I release myself from the bonds that have held me down; turns out they were of my own makin’; but ya’ll can’t convince me to stitch them again. No way, I have a voice as strong as a million angry bees and though my soul is lyin’ on the side of a road a ruby stone in my chest has been graciously restored. So again, i”ll say it with mighty conviction, those sweet sweet words I’ll whisper in your ear; “go fuck yourself”.

Red Magnetic Moon

“I just can’t do this”, she wants to say, but a thoughtful silhouette keeps her from confessing her most prominent insecurities. Instead she synthesizes a thousand reasons for being cold; one plain-clothes response for why she is suddenly so distant. He reaches for her and she denies his motivations though they haven’t changed since they last danced in the presence of stage lights and strangers. Awkward amongst the cheerful banter of her peers she strays far into her own mind, dressed in a smile although dangerously close to tears. “Excuse me”, she says, and drifts into the solace of a single stall bathroom, checking her expression in the mirror and practicing poise. In a place this close to love she is cosmically uncertain of her own contributions and wishes it all to vanish like rain under the spell of an exhausted sun. No such luck: he waits for her on the other side of the door. In a place this close to love there are but a few options for the wounded, even fewer for the bearer of an honest heart: she smooths the gaps in her mind and finds him, and so he says, “Does she have any idea how beautiful she is? How her eyes light up when she talks about things for which she is passionate? If only she knew what she does to me when she smiles…”

She dissolves, he responds, they interact with the nature of this place that is so close to love: perhaps it is love actually; perhaps it is simply something defined by a beauty greater than the misery which shades the reclusive habits of her lonely soul.

“Excuse me?” replied Ham, slightly perturbed on account of the odd request of this stranger. She quickly calmed when she noticed his eyes which were speckled green and well-defined by an attractive facial structure.

“So I can shoot myself…” continued the man, who smiled now, revealing a brilliance which seemed to ignite the secret vibrancy of his eyes: Ham thought she was watching them blossom, and knew instantly his intentions of courtship. She chuckled, realizing his sarcastic declaration of suicidal intent was in fact an invitation to seek refuge together, away from the sickening sounds of the band from down under.

“My name is Vaughn,” he extended his hand and Ham accepted it in hers. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

Ham was compelled to leave with him, she was usually accepting of well-solicited offers to thwart her self-pity. She glanced down towards the fresh ink stains on the page of her journal that she had mindlessly filled with scribbles: it read, ‘By concentrating my thoughts-overcoming a lack of self confidence(?), I can succeed beyond my expectations! Remember: it requires will power and energy to make a success in this life! Do not dwell upon the past: make the best of the present. Cultivate patience, natural talent, and I can, I will in the end lead a happy life! Be warned: be very careful in choosing your frie–’. She felt indebted to the edge of her tired pen having abandoned the last letters of the last word but she was looking at his eyes now, those green eyes which seemed to blossom in her presence. She closed the book and said, “let’s get outta here”.

Ham and Vaughn sat across from one another in the seclusion of a sleepy hillside overlooking the restless valley they had recently fled. He was as calm as the waves at the bottom of the ocean; his motives with Ham were plain and pure, like the taste of his skin after a midnight bath. He lacked the capacity to forge any sentiments: with her he hadn’t the heart to be anything other than in love. Within the eyes of Vaughn that night was born a new shade of green, one that glistened like a streamer in the heat of the sun.  As for Ham, she had been romantically relieved of her sinful obligation to radiate extraordinary energies. But like an armed weapon, impending doom was certainly imminent, though for now she often allowed herself to believe that she would remain forever at the heels of Vaughn.

“You just do something to me”, Vaughn would say at the corner collision of two cobblestone streets, under the dim glow of a street lamp beneath his city apartment. Ham’s infinite span of whirlwind adoration for Vaughn would bubble in her belly and she would sometimes smile, other times cry, but mostly she would turn to face him in the middle of the avenue and garnish his face with a kiss.

And now Ham was facing the smears of cream-colored shadows which teased the sheets mounted over the open window, and the medicine was in her blood, and she was willfully slipping into a slumber soured by the scarcity of Vaughn. Her imagination drew a portrait of him standing beneath the dim glow of a street light, though he was wearing a top hat and leaning slightly against a metal trunk whose roots crept beyond the depths of the paved sideway. He was standing as if he were perfectly centered in the frame of a door, and when he saw Ham he tilted his hat with the tip of his finger and said, “you just do something to me”. Ham approached him and fell into his arms and he breathed her in deeply as if she had bathed in the sweet scent of some expensive perfume. And then the light cracked and she looked up to see black water tides envelop the stars, and Vaughn stepped away from her and seemed to be laughing, and she watched as his arms fell from his body as though they had been severed by a translucent swordsman; his eyes turned a cold color blue in mockery of the warmth he radiated before the incident. She glanced down at her leg; a hundred needles pricked its flesh and she screamed from the pain of it all.

“Ham, sweetheart? Wake up. It’s time to draw blood.”

She returned from her hallucination and pardoned herself from the presence of faceless souls trapped within the fabric of the hospital curtains. The nurses were all about and there was a doctor who was by her side with a clipboard in hand, the head of a clan of white coats who seemed sullen and only mildly eager to document her tragic story. “Tell us, Ham. What happened?”

It was a Saturday night and Ham was burning with the energy of a million angry bees. She raced along the city highway and crossed a bridge closing the ocean between them, and stood perfectly centered in the frame of the door, waiting for him to look in her direction. When disturbing the surface tension of a puddle of whiskey no longer sustained the fluidity of his thoughts he glanced up and saw her, perfectly centered in the frame of the door, waiting for him to look in her direction.

She smiled at the sight of those green eyes which always spoiled when she wasn’t near, though now they blossomed like a single stem through the white blanket of a winter’s snow. She rushed to his side and he took her body within his while the radio bellowed a love song from the past.  “When are you two gettin’ married?” said the man seated sloppily on the stool next to Vaughn. Ham looked at Vaughn and together they laughed, producing a chorus of cheerful sounds which ripened to a kiss.

“You just do something to me,” he professed with modest sensitivity, while he brushed her hair aside and wet her forehead with the skin of his lips. Ham melted in his arms, and in his arms she stayed as they sank into a deviated state of the senses, swallowing the syrup of toxic liquids, meddling in the heightened awareness of their immense connection.

At home they prepared for bed as they had many time before, though Vaughn made it under the covers alone and too tired to wonder about Ham’s bathroom preoccupations. He slipped into a deep sleep as she stood before her reflection in the mirror and cried. Ham wondered about the mystical origin of her sadness; she knew she was severely famished in some way that perhaps only a high priest could diagnose. She felt powerless and full of power at the same time, challenging her echo to produce a thought so profound it would satiate her subconscious request for an out of this world affirmation. She loved Vaughn but about this side of her he knew little, as she kept it hooded within the depths of her tortured spirit. She saw her life with him as a quiet confirmation of an ordinary routine, where nothing extraordinary would ever gestate in the womb of their modern compound. She was confused, unhappy, uncertain, and then it happened that a bottle of liquid bliss unmarked and as unexplainable as her sudden peak of self-destruction fell into her hands. She unscrewed the cap, listened to make sure of Vaughn’s absence from the waking world, and stared into the long face decorated by glistening strokes of moisture from her tears: “here we go”, she whispered, and let the elixir fall into the pit of her stomach.

“I didn’t know…It wasn’t intentional. Did I have a choice? It felt as though it was something I had to do, a sacrifice in adherence to the forces of the universe…I don’t know, the end of so many things, the beginning of something new?…” She would answer this to the doctors who asked “why” and who eagerly aligned to meet the girl who arrived with a wrench in her smile and lacking the use of one leg.

Vaughn had brought her here in the mist of a gray morning when she had finally risen from the spell of the witch’s brew. He awoke next to her earlier that morning; she was as wet as the sand at the edge of the shore, and as diluted as a drunk after a weekend binge. He undressed her, placing her under a sheet of bath water after she had refused to respond to his aggressive attempts at reviving her consciousness. She was vaguely alert in his arms and he was vaguely aware of the seriousness of her condition except that he tripped over an empty brown bottle and knew she had taken too much. She was barely breathing and hardly able to move. He carried her like a child in his arms and into his carriage and they rode until they sat across from each other in the seclusion of a sleepy parking lot overlooking the emergency room at which they had recently arrived. He left her in the playground of her demented life after saying through a storm of tears, “I cant let you do this with me,” while he brushed her hair aside and wet her forehead with the skin of his lips. Ham wanted to melt in his arms but she was in such pain, and so instead she melted into the seat of a hospital chair and lowered her head as she was wheeled into the care of armed professionals.

She missed him dearly yet it was no wonder he left; having awoken next to a limp body he had experienced the fate of a man who awakens to the death of his one true love. Ham had done this to herself, from a place within her mind that only she alone could battle armed with her morbid will to survive.

“I watched the color of his eyes spoil and it hurt more than the pain of losing my leg a thousand times. With him I was like the sole pedestrian crossing an intersection when all the world had stopped; he made me feel so desired…what did I do? Where did I g—?”

“Thank you, Ham. Okay. She may never regain the full use of her leg, the nerve damage she suffered has caused the muscle to atrophy…”, the doctor at the head of the clan of white coats interjected, and Ham rolled her head away from the circus of suits and onto the smears of cream-colored shadows teasing the sheets mounted over the open window.

Streams of tears poured down her face; she said, “do you have a gun?”

“Excuse me?” remarked the doctor, slightly perturbed on account of the odd request of his patient.

“So I can shoot myself…” continued Ham. She chuckled, remembering Vaughn, and despite the void into which she had fallen, she thought she felt the color in her eyes blossom. She thought of him as she had in her dreams, laughing and without arms with which to cradle her, and she whispered into the stale atmosphere of the forsaken hospital wing, “I have underestimated the value of love; I am so sorry”. She emerged remorsefully from beneath the fabric of her quarantined gurney.

Thus began another chapter in the life of Ham, one prefaced by the loss of love, one marked by the struggle to relearn the simplicity of walking.

My mood was transformed at the sight of him; his blue eyes were as gentle as the tide in the mist of a morning fog and his composure was reflective of experience and age. I smiled as his mere presence numbed the stinging pain from the wounds I endured on behalf of the unexpected encounter with the beauty. I breathed him in deeply: “what a beautiful offer of company from a beautiful man”, I thought. She faded into the distance and I faded into a romantic fantasy on a random park bench with an absolute stranger.

He was a man from New Orleans who drank red wine for no reason other than he liked the taste, and who played music to the fireflies in the southern darkness between the curls of smoke that seeped from his hand rolled cigarettes. He was easy and wise; none of what he said was shadowed by any attempt to conceal his true colors. Near him I couldn’t hide, nor lie, nor could I even mask the shyness in my own voice.

He asked me about my life, but there wasn’t much to tell: I had lived like the rest of the world up to this very day we shared alone on a park bench in a town without a name. I couldn’t speak, I felt as though I was of lesser importance comparatively because I was poor in terms of places traveled and tales told; I was like a peasant in rags before the prince of a kingdom who was now impressing me with knowledge and wisdom I had only read about in books. And he was charming, a beam of effervescence floated upon the feathers of his wings as he soared throughout the pinkish atmosphere within the outline of our sprouting affections: I accepted his invitation to begin and followed him home.

The night was smudged with uneven patches of charcoal and all around the edges seemed defined by a clear frame; it was as though we were seated on a set of some fabulous production, painted against the canvas of a dark sky. I was slightly nervous and so I denied his offer of a beverage, which in his clear plastic cup moved like the fabric of a maroon satin dress belonging to a girl who was twirling in a field at dusk on the eve of her birthday. He talked and I listened, the two of us staring into each other, neither one of us wanting to be the first to look away. I became flushed when he made mention of the freckles on my face and my eyes darted to watch something familiar, the scattered lines on the palms of my hands folded haphazardly in my lap. I felt his touch upon the fine hairs of my chin; he reacted to my meek gesture of insecurity and was now cradling my face in the warmth of his hand. I was embarrassed, but he didn’t allow me to retreat into thoughtful obscurity. “Let me see you”, he said, and I allowed our eyes to trace an imaginary line across a plane which united us in the spring of our blossoming romance. We stayed for hours until the sky began to boil from the heat of the sun on the morning after. I had fallen asleep atop the breast of his brown corduroy jacket, his arms were wrapped around me and the laces of our shoes were tangled as we lay. I knew that he was the sort of person I would begin to miss before I had even begun to say goodbye.

I rose up from our nest and watched him as he slept on the splinters of the redwood deck; his long blond hair was all about his handsome face. I felt an assortment of unfamiliar emotions which lifted my spirits like the air beneath the arms of a kite, and so many reasons and expectations had melted in spite of him; I thought I was falling in love.

I was gone only a few hours when he called and we held each other for a while as we allowed our bodies to exchange subliminal messages of intimacy and adoration. It happened twice, once while sitting around a dining room table in the fluorescent glow of a home furnishings department, and again while stepping over the chain link divide of a neglected churchyard, that he cradled my face in his hands and said those words ‘let me see you’, though this time each episode was marked with a kiss. I favored his lips to conversation, and we were in bed together in the backseat of his car in a sort of surreal setting of intellectual abandonment, learning only about the sensitivities of our exposed flesh. His touch was so soft, so smooth: the perfect compliment to the savage smoke from the purple-weed we inhaled earlier. The music from the car stereo played something emotionally disturbing, and my eyes became swollen with tears which drizzled from the corners of my eyes as the weight of his body impressed upon mine all the while we made love.

Afterward our sights seemed narrowed and our airways were clear and he reached to cradle my face in his hands; “let me see you”, he whispered, and I smiled for what felt like the first time in my life. That’s when he said “I need to tell you something…”, and I swore I heard the shots of a rifle in the distance and I became supremely defensive, pulling my face from his hands in preparation for some awful news.”I’m leaving tomorrow for New Orleans”. A ringing bell sliced through my fantasy and it shattered like a window at the mercy of a steel metal baseball bat. “Really?” was all I could manage to say through the tepid wind that escaped my deflated lungs.

Like a lost limb in the aftermath of a shark attack I was left minus one important part of myself, to bleed until I retired from grief and exhaustion. Our relationship had expired sooner than the milk I had purchased days before we met. I said goodbye after a night of patient caress and slowly released the idea of him from my imagination, like a child letting go of a balloon. He boarded the craft and as I turned to leave I saw her, the beauty, an attractive presence in an otherwise formidable setting of lingering sadness. She had come to say goodbye too. I felt the cold chill of winter’s approach though the heat of the day was all around me, and my heart began to beat wildly and my chest collapsed: had she meant something to him too?

I was confused, upside down and rationally guarded: I must have exaggerated the details of our indulgence, indeed I was no more special to him than the beauty, and I wanted to be gone from this moment of stark revelation and shrivel against an icy portal of isolation. I calmed myself, refusing the temptation to soak in self pity, and walked quickly to the ladies’ room on the second floor of central station.

I looked at the pathetic reflection of a hopeless romantic in the opaque mirror of the bathroom and cried, my knees bending as I slid my back against a steel door and took a seat upon the colonies of filth forming on the bathroom floor. To have been introduced to love and have her stolen away was devastating: add an ounce of insecurity and a pinch of jealousy on account of the beauty and I was in absolute ruins. I collected myself and walked hurriedly through the crowds and into a place introduced simply by the words from the pen of an Asian artist. I came here because I didn’t know of where else to go where I could escape the tormenting heat and rest without being punished by guilt which would surmount until I gave in and purchased some useless thing which would serve as rent paid for the space I embodied. It seems I wasn’t alone; the population here is a handful of other heartbroken fools, where instead of committing suicide one simply decides it would be easier to make the trip to the local wishing well. I was watching the carousel which was so out of place in the midst of the nightmarish fortune that was unfolding before my tired feet. I sat with a penny in my hand reluctant to release it into the waters and I wondered if it was even worth the effort to make a wish. I opened my hand and the bronze button slid clumsily down the length of my palm and seemed to linger a moment at the edge, hesitating, as if to mirror my disposition on this regrettable day. In a single moment the object spiraled towards its aqueous fate and I imagined that it contained both the power to preserve and destroy me, and I clenched my eyes to avoid witnessing its final descent into the bottom of this artificial pond, to join other decaying hopes and dreams now breathless at the end of this sepulcher for wishes. It’s done, and now it rests in the pit of pale blue, and the process proved as unfulfilling as the day was born, and I turned and walked towards the door.

Before I am able to depart from these afternoon moments of misery and self loathing I am asked by a blinking light to forfeit a quarter and a quarter of my skepticism and stand tall upon a machine no less than half my height. The quarter seemed happy to part from my mess of pathetic personals and slipped down the throat of this steel beast, the clinking and clanging grew soft as it settled amongst the collection of other silver refugees. I awaited the results with a long face and a heavy heart: 123 pounds of me weighing down upon this earth, and a lousy excuse for a daily insight: the machine says ‘love will find you’. How appropriate: the lack of which has brought me to entertain this soulless trap is the very thing which is now promised to me. I sighed and left, into the sunlight, though I thought I was walking into a veil of disgruntled rain clouds on a scorned day.

And to my dismay there she was, it seems as though I cannot escape her. I recall the image of his Hollywood smile, and in betrayal of my self confidence a portrait is displayed before my mind’s eye of him and of her laughing at the world through a crystal ball. I approached her, did I have a choice? Suddenly she became the object of my affection because she was the bearer of great emotional power; within me she had conjured a royal fermentation of evil prophecy fit for the last meal of a wizard’s king. I had to get close to her, to understand her; if she was worthy of his affection she would be worthy of mine. I drank my tears and decided that I would invite her to begin.

“Hi”, I said, feigning a regal composure. In an instant that seemed as rapid as the flash from a Polaroid camera she was beside me and we were no longer enemies. Rather we were bonded; our curiosities outweighed our hormonal response to such a messy circumstance. She was an adventurer and was older than her appearance portrayed though younger than me. I was a bit more reserved but I accepted her invitation to begin and followed her home.

We shared about our time with the boy, both having suffered upon hearing the plans of his sudden departure, the boy who held our faces in his hands and whispered with a rosy hint of eternal affection “let me see you”. It was by nature of having been recognized so tenderly by the boy that we were now inseparable. We discovered that it wasn’t worth our efforts to be bitter towards one another: he proved to be the catalyst for our blossoming romance.

We moved into a cottage by the pond behind the busy streets of an empty neighborhood. We had a bedroom window that never quite closed and a bathtub that would forever own the stains of the red wine she had spilled while bathing. In my arms she was always welcome, always loved, and always adored. I never forgot those precious moments when the cruelty of the world would invade her heart, and her green eyes would weep the sorrowful harmonies of a harpooned whale, and she would become limp like a child in my possession. Her coffee brown hair I would brush against the length of her moist lashes, and I would hold her face in my hands as delicately as the petals of a garden flower. Her smile would rise up from behind sheets of tears and to witness this would leave me without a voice and I would drink her in.

There was nothing strange about the two of us: we forged at a unique point in our lives because of the boy from New Orleans.

There was nothing exceptional about the two of us: we lived like the rest of the world, enchanted yet directionless, a shoulder to cry on, a reason to survive, one phone call away from the grave; she pulled me exponentially closer to love. Neither of us ever heard from the boy from New Orleans, and we never spoke of him really. We dreamed of what it would be like to see him again, by the edge of the water in the wishing well. She laughed when we made mention of it, but I often wondered if he would come to know the weight of his lighthearted actions, and if perhaps he would hold both our faces in his hands and say softly those words that stirred the swelling tides of our noble hearts; “let me see you”. I shrugged the thought away, and looked over to see Ash, a silver emblem in the shape of a star glazed the skin beneath her emerald eye and her hands were cupped, a bronze button resting within like a baby in a bassinet. It caught the shine from the midday sun as it slipped down the length of her palm, and she wore a slight smirk as it dove into the waters of the well, though this time the penny had only the power to preserve; I no longer had any use for destruction.

From ‘Love and Furlough’

The fog before me seems so thick, another broken cigarette

Grasped between my fingertips, the taste of blood upon my lips-

Kiss your face, time has stopped in this embrace.

You’re insubstantial as a ghost, I inhale toxic sips of smoke,

My lungs they burn black when I breathe, your touch now is but a tease

Me like rain, driving slowly in the fast lane.

A Taste of Blood…

Cold water splashed like satin sheets against my rosy tearstained cheeks

Just like your nails across my spine, I cry because I cannot touch

The clouds I exhale before my eyes.

Pitch black decorates my mind, imprints of you I cannot find

It burns like ember leaves its mark, the charcoal journeys into dark

Ness sleeps the last caress of you a breeze

A Taste of Blood…

Solo

By Nick Rastegar and Rasham Nassar

I awoke one morning in early May and hurried from my bed to the blue convertible, my escort on the journey which would end a semester at school: just one more paper to turn in and I was free for the summer. As the vehicle growled through the peaks of the college boulevard I inhaled deep sips of toxic smoke, pleased and entirely proud. The celebratory gathering was confirmed; my dress clung to the arms of the hanger in my coat closet, and as I released the seventeen-paged document from the grips of my polished finger nails I sighed; I was sad to be losing a challenge, though elated to have conquered some feat.

Life seemed average, and when it wasn’t average, it seemed unbearable; otherwise it was only slightly above.

I arrived four hours later as scheduled and met my friends with whom I drank a ceremonial shot of pure intoxication. Down and burning, again and again; I was drowning in the pale glow of an exceptional accomplishment for a mess of a girl. The fourth barrel of poison would not so easily slither into the pit of my insides, and I excused myself to recollect my balance and composure, alone but in the company of other disheveled ladies in the boudoir. Cold water splashed once, then twice, lip gloss, hair, and align. “Another night, another drunk”, I said to my reflection. I embarked to return to the group, but someone had me entirely distracted: a man who drank alone was always worth the attention. His name was Jay, and it was because he was isolated, because his hair was entirely disorderly, and his drink was a bourbon over ice. It was because his humbled presence penetrated the traditional chatter of chums at this regular house of spirit and ale, and because his posture was poor and his shirt was a size too big that I was utterly fascinated by him. I had been standing still watching him curiously, and I had to apologize to a woman who had from behind become hesitantly trapped. Powered by a strange confidence and slightly snickered from the sequence of slugs to sobriety, I approached the man of my affection. Breathe in, exhale; “hi”, I said, and as he turned slowly I could feel the heat flood to fill the pockets of my cheeks and I glowed timidly as my heart thudded loudly in my chest. “Hey!” he remarked, and our eyes met and we smiled and lingered in this moment, allowing for a brief exchange of karmic awareness. I completely melted at the sight of those dimples, and I knew it right then, that I would love him from that moment and onwards through time and space. We were instantly bonded, for it was as deep as the ocean blue that we were connected as though we had been for longer than our years on earth. To the entire world we faded, we became as insubstantial as ghosts independent of one another, but together we were powerful, as substantial as a jester on the roof of a kingdom in the atmosphere. However, this union came at a cost; retribution had to be paid, one of us owed the other some debt from lives past, and it was no mistake that that debt was being called upon now by the forces of the universe and fueled by biological attraction: we had collided, and until balance in retribution was achieved, nothing would tear us apart. Like the sun and the moon we began to coalesce from vast clouds of empty space and nothingness. At the bar I sat besides him as the world around fell quiet; he was all I could see. We were side by side in bliss and smiling with ease, our shadows cast were swimming in the surrounding vaporous atmosphere. Our eyes glowed with a certain awareness of the unknown; a realm past anything our senses could validate. We knew we belonged together, resting as the world moved in rapid cycles; this was our place, our day, our moment in time, and together we discovered ourselves in a new facet of reality, like children by the shore for the very first time. We had only just met, and few words were exchanged between us, but we had given each other more in peaceful gestures of acceptance and simplicity than anything before. There was no surface, no depth, just two souls dissolving into the essential nature of pure being. His body leaned against mine as a lucid fantasy was being realized by us believers, and we watched as people danced to the tick tock of time in an intricate warehouse of machinery and artificial incandescence.

On that night, we left the bar arm in arm, traveling from a den of darkness to a bright room of popular appeal, the two of us in a whirlwind of emotional uprising. Drink one, drink two, and we were spinning safely to the melody of our soul’s reunion, approached by a short man with long hair who said, “You want to go for a ride? Free yourselves and feel color and spirit…” We agreed by extending our hands and in our palms fell two round dumplings which we allowed to sizzle on our tongues for a while. Euphoria, and we were running down the Embarcadero, seeking adventure in unlikely chambers of sea salty air and sewage water wells. Pitch black, we boarded a fire engine boat and slipped into a crevice where we made love and laughed and explored a dimension of existence only available to the daringly self destructive sinners of the world. I cried, his touch tingled, I was reawakening, never before had I experienced someone so beautifully, so completely, and so honestly. That night was painted in vivid imagination, the stars in the sky played like a xylophone as the liquid alloy spilled like sheets against our castle in the sea, and we twirled the fabric of our garments in the echoing breeze, watching the traces of energy emanate from our fingertips, dynamically alive in a state of absolute assurance; I was home.

I remember the first time he said “I love you”, three days after our epic nautical adventure. It was by no means an indication of the depth of our commitment: the words were ornamental, utilized to simply decorate our conversations. Our connection was our livelihood, without him I would die. He felt the same way. Everyday was another opportunity to elope, and we traveled the world indulging in each other’s company, inseparable and nostalgic. We spoiled ourselves by simply being together: but what brought us together was a power far greater than either of us could comprehend, though she would show her ugly face in the end, for now, on the day he said “I love you”, he was all I could see, and I was all for which he had to live.

We created a nest within a quiet suburban neighborhood, and adorned our retreat with trinkets from trips and fragments from our journeys. Home was merely our base, walls which protected our humble possessions from the threat of thievery and bad weather. Our home was in our heads, in the secrecy of our private imaginations; in each other. We were the same; our most radical desires suddenly were our reality: between the two of us, we lacked rationality and reasoning, we were characteristically spontaneous and unpredictable individually, and together it was as though these facets of character ruled our lives as we no longer had any fear or inhibitions because we were never to be alone. “Let’s go to the beach”, he would say, and I would wink in compliance. Though the beach was only a short walk away, we would mount his motorcycle and ride, my arms wrapped around him as he became my means for survival on this thrilling expedition. One beach, two beach, three beaches passed and we were still riding, night creeping, the both of us carefree and smiling. Three days later and two states through we found our beach, and neither of us had any thought as to whether we had even bothered to lock our front door. It didn’t matter: nothing mattered: all that was desired, precious, and worth breathing for in this world was by my side, holding my heart in his hands.

“I can’t believe we did that!” was the sort of thing we would usually say to one another. On the islands we had chased sea turtles in the sand, in the caves we licked the ice from ancient carvings of rock. In the desert we sweat the heat in strands of rainbow rose petals melting from our eyes, and against the cool of a brick wall we tempted sensitivity with nakedness and touch. We went everywhere, tried everything, and we did it quickly, as if there was no time to spare. We were braided, infatuated, impossibly isolated from the rest, yet it was still unclear as to whom karmic retribution was owed, and in what nature it was to be obeyed.

On nights where the sky seemed to breathe the light from the twinkling rounds of acquiescent bulbs, we would gaze upwards from the comfort of a bed of green blades. Not once, not twice, but seventeen times I listened to him speak on the subject of his father, and I loved to listen, for never before had I experienced someone so beautifully, so completely, and so honestly. “When I was a boy I held my father in my arms while he forced a smiled despite the pain; he asked for a bourbon over ice. We were to be parted then, I was guided there by her, lady Karma, and for that I wasn’t angry. He was to be with me all my life until that day, to learn to love me, and to learn to trust me, and to believe me each time I told him how much I adored him, so that on that day I would be with him during his departure from earth, for I owed him karmic retribution, and it was clear then, watching as he passed, to whom it was owed, and in what nature it was to be obeyed.” I wept all the while he spoke, and tears were forming in his eyes, and as he saddened his dimples showed themselves slightly at first, then more clearly, and I melted at the sight of him, knowing from this day and onwards through time and space that I would love him as he had his father, to have him love me, trust me, and to believe me each time I said “I adore you”.

Two years and three months and lady Karma allowed us to be together. The nature of our togetherness was changing; my energies were waning yet Jay’s appetite for the wild and untamed remained constant. I loved him still, and my heart doubled with the adoption of a pup. Now there were three: Jay, the pup, and me, but it was becoming two again, this time me and the pup, and Jay was fluttering. That pup altered our course, for no longer did my actions lack consequences outside my personal hygiene and health; the pup was with me, and to be so always, in dreams and in wake. Jay was still my darling, but our togetherness began to fade, the two of us becoming as insubstantial as ghosts, while the pup became as substantial as a jester on the roof of a kingdom in the atmosphere. We were no longer powerful; we were becoming stale, but lady Karma was no fool, and in respect of her wisdom and will we continued to love one another as we understood that our connection was as deep as the ocean blue.

“Where were you last night?” now became the sort of thing we would say to one another. It broke our hearts to be this way, but retribution had yet to be paid, though it was still unclear as to whom it was owed, and in what nature it was to be obeyed. We waited me and the pup, Jay and the pup, but never me and Jay. A love as great as ours was never forever; the faster it lived, the faster it died and we both knew this fact of the world, we understood it, and of all the iconoclastic ideals we painted red across banners of boredom and mediocrity, we never battled this unsettling truth about love. It had been two years, three months, and seventeen days since we met. Seventeen pages, seventeen days, seventeen Parker Street on the day of the accident, where she finally showed her ugly face.

I remember the last time I said “I love you”, your hands were clutching mine in the street where you lay, your hair was entirely disorderly and your shirt was a size too big. You forced a smile despite the pain, and you asked me for a bourbon over ice. I completely melted at the sight of those dimples, and I knew it right then, that I would love you from that moment and onwards through time and space. I wiped the tears from my face, and I kissed the blood from your cheek; once, twice, seventeen times until the sounds of the motorcycle beneath you choked, and you no longer breathed. I looked around and there were three: me, you and the pup, and seventeen painted in white on the sidewalk besides. You left me then; it was dusk and gray in a cold place. Time had stopped and I glided through alley ways passed back doors and entrance halls. My thoughts were pulsing, the word seventeen repeated in my mind until it was dry in meaning: seventeen, seventeen, seventeen…I could still taste your blood on the moist skin of my lips and the fog before me seemed as thick as the weight of the air through which I was swimming . I was dragging, reality was uncertain, and the cobble stone walk appeared like a bubbly cloud for silent rest. ‘Seventeen, seventeen…’, I said through sticky beads of burgundy, and I collapsed into the tender arms of a great giant as I thought of things in numbers and blue.

Without you I sat alone at the bar, one drink, two drinks, seventeen drinks, down and burning, again and again, and I was drowning in the pale glow of an exceptional accomplishment for a mess of a girl. I thought I saw you, your posture was poor, and you said “hey!” as you had on the very first day, and I said “you were to be with me from that moment and on for the rest of your life, to learn to love me, and to learn to trust me, and to believe me each time I told you how much I adored you, so that on that day I would be with you during your departure from earth, for I owed you karmic retribution, and it was clear then, watching as you passed, to whom it was owed, and in what nature it was to be obeyed.”

I wept all the while I spoke, another sip of bourbon over ice, alone at the bar, I was hardly worth any attention, as insubstantial as a ghost.

‘Love and Furlough’

Jord: It is strange-our connection, like a hide a key: always there but you only know when you look.

It is early morning at the train station, the chill of the mist is biting, and I relish in the thought of a hot coffee, as I skip over the tracks in route to the nearest oasis. My fingertips begin to tingle as the warmth of blood returns, and I pause, studying the cast and crew of this early bird production: a gathering of officers has my attention, in costume and fully armed.

The grassy voice of the oboe slices through the mumbles and murmurs, and as I warily watch the uniformed chums babble and laugh, I realize just how human they really are. The presence of their weapons gradually becomes insignificant in my overall assessment: they appear as children, faced with he unfortunate future of danger and uncertainty because of the badges they carry. It almost brought tears to my tired eyes: I wanted to thank them for having allowed me to see them as such: vulnerable and afraid.

Before me a family of three takes three seats around a four cornered table. The tabletop is set with solo cups and pastries, and before a single slice of the confection is enjoyed, they grasp hands in a religious act of silent prayer. I wonder to which God they pray, and to whom they owe their words of piety. All that is apparent in this moment of divinity is their love for one another: otherwise, it is in the faith of mankind, and not God, that they bow heads in unison. It is so, that the properties of God and our ideas of Him exist within our minds, and not outside of him, nor in any other being. When one man says he knows of the existence of God, another who hears him may believe out of a need to appease his own curiosity and abate his nerves: the belief in God is then a mere belief in the words of that man. History is the greatest account of these phenomena, where from the awe of unexplainable good and from the unsettling fear of a lurking and mysterious evil spawned a need to trust in the word of our fellow man when he said to trust in the good of a power greater than ourselves; God. God shows himself in nothing but our own expressions of Him; in our own exhausted explanations of universal processes which are religiously defined. What we call ‘God’ is that to which we attribute those phenomena which simply cannot be explained by methods of science or rational thought. However, it is a force nonetheless, a force of human imagination and a manifestation of the relentless will of man to quiet his worldly suspicions and grief thereof. We still need each other in ways of which we are quite unaware; that we have an unspoken faith in the word of our fellow man despite the devastating condition of mankind is reassuring.

A child’s voice brightens the mood, which has become somber with the sad strokes of a stringed bass emanating from someplace within this espresso scented sanctuary. She is cuddled against her father’s chest as he reads from ‘Little House on the Prairie’, her petite face marked with round pillows of cream from her mug of hot chocolate. She looks in my direction though past me, sharing a moment with another little girl propped against the cushions of the filth spattered bench, a pink stemmed flower clutched in her delicate hands. The two are connected by the nature of their youth, exchanging innocent messages through the intensity of their virgin eyes: an experience which can only be had by the souls of children in a mature world. In the corner of the cafe is the sudden sound of steam escaping a metal vat and I am interrupted by the awareness of time: I must leave if I am to meet the train.

The station features a unique element of uniform contentment in that the presence of eager passengers is not forsaken by the presence of nervousness and anxiety, as when the mean of transport is by way of flight. Announcements fill the space between the queries of curious children and the laudable laughter of couples engaged, and my anticipation is fed on behalf of the light hearted energies of my traveling companions.

I take my first step onboard the California Zephyr, and already I can feel Jord’s presence, so comforting and familiar, the italic script in smoke-blue snaking across the tanned skin if his muscular back. It’s been a year since our last embrace, six since the beginning of our friendship: he is the sole reason for which I am a passenger on this vessel. We would find each other during trivial lapses of proper insignificance in our lives, and would welcome the opportunity to unite, usually under conditions of disparity and loneliness. When all other avenues of love had failed, when time reduced my romantic soul from wildly beating to broken-hearted and the thrills of life had become swallowed by the overgrowth of depression and boredom, I would reconnect with him, my dearest friend from the past. In his arms he would take me from bruised to beautiful, from dull to daringly enthusiastic. And when he called, I always answered, knowingly sacrificing my condition for just one glimpse into his hazy blue eyes. In opposite directions our paths had diverged, the similarities between us were fewer now than ever before. Though the consequences of our choices depict us as two opposites trapped in a cyclical perpetuation of an impotent romance, none of it is of any significance: together we are simple, all affects of our commitments and responsibilities have no bearing in our tiny corner of the world. Whence we stand in front of one another for the first time after a lapse in communication, our weapons are laid, our baggage is left behind: we surrender our images and are nothing but wholly ourselves. Our differing worlds collide in an empathetic moment of universal forgiveness.

Against the backdrop of the high sierra mountains we now reside in the bliss of each other’s company. The tendrils of his dirty blond hair are wildly wavering in the soothing breeze, and the cool of the country night is all around as we sit like children at the edge of the river’s shore. His voice is humming the tune of some forgotten melody as his fingers fondle the nylon strings of his guitar. I cannot remember a time in space where things were as simple as they are now. Torn blue jeans and bare feet, he had a young soul, delighted with the art of the outdoors. He would tell me of hunting tales he survived on islands in the North Pacific, where he roamed the territory armed with a shotgun, seeking a fatal confrontation with a black bear. His spirit was never more vibrant than when he spoke of his life then, of his times of vagrancy in an uninhabited land, and as a fisherman out at sea. It seems he flourished under such conditions, as he embellished his native origins, being just as well versed in the literature of his ancestry as we was experienced in their primitive life style. The ebbing water in the river before us seemed to extract traces of those experiences within him: the inflections in his soft voice were tainted with a sense of eagerness and excitement for things past. He had his own way of denouncing the modern and neglecting the fast-paced, and it was in his style that the truth of this was evidenced. He knew the stars as well as I knew the lines which defined his rugged face, and he referenced them in the songs he sang on this late summer night in the Nevada countryside. The constellation Cassiopeia twinkled politely in the far away distance in accordance with the love which was so gratefully accepted by the both of us.

I often wondered why we had spent so much time apart, but as I complete the thought in my mind, I am already certain of the answer: between him and me, a romance could not exist in any other way. The essence of our attraction is that we are not bound by the shackles of commitment, and perhaps if we had forged at one cross in time our interests for each other would have depleted, and that would of left us empty, hurriedly engaging in our long term goodbyes. Relationships are patterns: we repeat behavior which causes pleasure, and avoid those which cause pain. Ours was a distinct pattern marked by periods of indifference, which made the times we were together all the more pleasurable. It was at a distance that we were the best symbol of the harmonies of man and woman, and to desire anything more would be to tweak the course of our lives in a direction devastating to our friendship. “Better to let things flow”, he would say, after rehearsing a passage from the epic adventures of Crazy Horse.

“Across the cold midnight sky, you walked by, you walked by…and now you’re mine. I reached out and held your hand, I will love you till the end, of my life. Baby don’t be angry at the world, though it seems so cruel, I have you. Don’t fight with your hands, for hate there is no use…I love you….” He sang those words in an almost whisper, his eyes finding mine each time he breathed the words “love you”. I was sitting besides him with my bare knees in my chest; the linen from my dress formed a pond of fabric around me. He put his guitar aside, and slid across the mulch on the earthy ground, closing the space between us. I accepted his offer of embrace and relaxed my neck so that my head rest upon his shoulder.

“Do you ever wonder”, he said calmly, “about people…who die victims, before their time in this crazy world? I don’t know…like those girls you read about in the newspapers; young, beautiful, and taken by men who then took the lives of their youthful captives Every passing moment of their lives, every choice they made or which was made for them on behalf of those who cared was such that it brought them closer to death…”

I was as calm in listening to him as he was in speaking, but I lifted my head and looked towards the stars, searching perhaps for some guidance which would help me to respond to his random inquiry. It was always the case, however, that when the two of us would find one another, we were able to travel outside of ourselves in thought and conversation, toying with ideas which made the both of us feel safe only within each other’s immediate presence; we spoke of things which were cause for fear, and that made us feel humbled and small.

“I guess”, I said weakly, “that though it was, perhaps, a fateful end, it couldn’t have happened in any other way. It may seem as though we have choices, but only when we are able to view the consequences as they have already happened. While we are in that delicate moment which defines us in ways that have yet to be revealed, we are usually guided by forces unseen; we choose that which would benefit us, and which would leave the balance all around undisturbed. There is no other choice; just the next best thing. Had they chosen differently at certain points in their lives, perhaps they would still be alive. But they would see their end another time, in another place, as is the fate of us all. And maybe there are no horrible accidents in life. Perhaps there are those who are born to grow beautiful and strong, and retain their innocence so that on this one day, in this seemingly arbitrary nonessential wrinkle on the evolutionary clock, we may learn from the way of their departure from this world, and perhaps shift our awareness, and subsequently, the direction of life on Earth. Maybe that’s what it takes to spark people’s interest in making a change for the better good of the whole. That would be the philosophy behind suicide bombers, wouldn’t it? People don’t listen to words anymore; they don’t call in sick to work in order to attend the regular March for Peace. In our waking lives we are sedated, happily complacent, and lazy: only when we become disturbed do we begin to think for ourselves again, to question the reality within which we live. In death we rally, in death we unite, in death we open our eyes to the horrible truth of what our constant state of passivity has allowed human civilization to become; nasty and full of evil. And those poor girls; well, nature perhaps chose them to be the suicide bombers of our societies. It was their fate from birth. It’s sad, but perhaps we can say it is necessary in order to attract the attention of us all, and motivate us to do things which prior to the event were not being accomplished.”

He was watching me the entire time I spoke, and I was only half convincing, knowing that if I became too impassioned he would be inclined to wrestle me playfully to the ground.

“Well then…every passing moment of my life has brought me closer to you, now…” he said, with a smile on his face. It was such a smile as was deserving of a kiss, and I released my knees from the wrap of my arms and leaned over to touch my lips to his. I pulled away and returned to my previous position, my head resting upon his shoulder, my arms cuddling my bent knees.

We sat in this way for a short while longer, until the need for sleep was no longer avertable. Sitting on the bench seat of his pick-up truck, he had one arm around me, the other in firm control of the movements of his vehicle. The windows were rolled down and the breeze from the stale summer air filtered through the cabin, licking loose strands of my unkempt hair. In the sky it seemed an artist had wept the pastel paints from the edge of a wand: a swirling tapestry of pink rose, lavender, and dense white clouds loomed overhead. We turned off the main road, the headlights catching the glare of two sparkling rubies in the distance: the eyes of a fawn, alert and rationally hesitant. On the way the truck rumbled over the uneven surface, and I glanced back to watch clouds of dirt drift upwards to greet the clouds in the sky. His arm never left my shoulders, his sight never strayed from the road ahead, and when we had reached our destination, the sounds of the engine were suffocated by a simple twist of the key, and all around was silence save a symphony of creek insects and shallow breaths. “Shall we?” he said, and I smiled softly as our hands met and we escorted one another to the porch steps of his unadorned dwelling.

The floorboards creaked under the weight of the intruders. He set his keys next to a picture from the past, where by a pool of turquoise blue a young mother held in her arms a beautiful little boy in a pinstriped bathing suit. Jord wandered up the wooden stairs, and I followed, turning slightly into the master bedroom. The drapes along the open window’s barrier were pulled aside, flowing gracefully in the welcomed breeze. The light of the moon was upon his face, and in between the spaces of midnight blue on the quilt spread across the modest bed, the glow of night illuminated our haven for sensuality and surrender. We undressed in unison, and took our places atop the blankets, resting on our sides, his chest pressed against my back. His arm reached around me so that I was able to kiss his hands, of which the skin was rough, cracked and scabbing from years of work in the trade of skilled labor. We were cuddled, holding each other as if we were to be faced with our last moments on earth, content that we would not have to face it alone. As my eyes coerced my mind to rest with involuntary episodes of chronic blinking, I wondered about the moon, visible outside the window from where I lay, though shielded by the masterpiece of the artist in the atmosphere: for whom was it also shining, and what part were they to play in this world?

A coat of moisture soaked the skin on my face as I awoke to the presence of the sun, and to Jord, who seemed so alive in gradually waking from his slumber. “Hey sweet pea”, he said, as he nuzzled his unshaven cheek against the blade of my shoulder.

“Hey you”, I said in a hoarse morning voice. Branches from the tree outside were dancing in the light of day, and I relaxed the urge to spring from bed, watching the performance just beyond the bedroom window. Jord looked outwards as well, and he sighed in agreement of our delayed departure from the wrath of sleep. “You know…looking at that Maple tree, I am seeing all of it: every tiny branch, every irregular leaf, every imperfection and inconsistency, every flaw, every speck of color, all which composes this thing, and yet it still appears as one fluid entity before me…”

“Every tiny golden hair planted slightly above your wrist, every curve and bend of your body…I see you, and you appear as perfection in whole before me…” he said, exploring my skin with his coarse hands. I spun around to face him, and then rose up from the wrath of blankets. I peered across the room, where in a corner a shotgun was angled against the wall. Jord was a hunter of duck, dove, and deer, learned by his father, and his father’s father. I was his most attentive audience, listening with extreme intent as he recalled stories, enamored by the radiance of his natural spirit when he spoke. Some stories I had heard more than once, though because of his love for sharing such tales was admirable, I never stopped him from telling it once more. “The eagle feather,” he had narrated to me years past, “that I wore in my hair guided me to the bearer of that feather…I followed that bald eagle for miles, never once losing sight of him, until the both of us approached a rise in the land, and he flew from sight, ending our journey together. I searched the sky with eyes so wide, wishing for one last encounter with my spiritual companion…instead, not but a short distance ahead stood a buck of supreme stature, and our eyes met as I slowly drew my rifle, neither of us committing to any rapid motion: just me and him, suspended…it was pure existence, watching as the beast watched me, seemingly understanding my motives, but making no effort to escape…he knew death was inevitable, such is nature…I had one shot, and with it I took his life…”

When he told such accounts he did so with vitality and grace, never looking in my direction, but afar, as though the memory played like a slideshow of tangible images before his pale blue eyes. Hunting wasn’t a sport to Jord as much as it was the revival of ancient tradition, and a kill was never cause for celebration; it was an opportunity for sacred prayer and an essential element of surviving man’s evolutionary superiority. Jord killed only that which he would eat, utilizing the life of the land in harmony with creation.

“Let’s go to the river”, I said, tearing my eyes from the weapon.

It was still morning when we made it to the rocky shores; the river was animated as gravity performed her usual duties, tugging the snow melt downstream. In a small cove the two of us sat, each on separate stones, Jord with a fishing pole in hand. The energy of the day was static; it seemed as though I had lived in this way for an eternity, and that here I could remain for eternity still. Perched upon this solid slice of sediment I thought of what was said last night, regarding fate and choice. To what extent do we have choice, and power over the present? I wondered about his story with the buck in the wilderness, and inquiries surfaced in my mind; what course of events, what choices defined the scene which displayed the two characters, together in that exact location in that exact moment in time? It would seem as though since the instance of Jord’s arrival on earth and the birth of the animal, a series of seemingly unimportant events were consciously lived by the two, though separately, which would find them, hunter and prey, as it happened far off in the future. Perhaps it was decided by powers unrecognizable that the buck would meet his end at the front of Jord’s rifle. Perhaps they were guided to that moment so subtly yet so perfectly, as Jord had felt escorted by the bald eagle, never once questioning their paths or fighting the urge to participate in their lives.

Only in retrospect can we see that the power of choice was ours, or not ours. Power over destiny is an illusion similar to God, in that we are comforted by the belief in having it, yet so mystified when made to explain it. It is that great power we all wish to possess, that we are in control, that we have the freedom to choose our course in this infinite world. We may think we have power when the moment at hand finds us miserable, believing that our inadequacies and personal defects have led us to perpetuate a series of wrong choices. We may think we have power when the moment at hand finds us happy and free, that our courage and brevity have led us to perpetuate a series of good choices. But only during occasional pause are we afforded the privilege of invoking memories which allow us to access the insight of hindsight, and thus the illusion of power of fate is fabricated by our imaginations, propelled by a desire to know and understand, and a will to possess that power. In a world full of billions of people, inhabited by an infinite number of life forms, it seems silly to say that I am the sole director of my own life, for how could I possibly shape my future when unpredictability is looming, and whatever lays ahead is mysterious and hardly promised?  We are all heavily bombarded by interactions with our surrounding environment and all that is within. Truly, the only power we possess is in how we choose to react to the natural forces which are all encompassing, and very much alive. In acceptance of the truth of a connected and reciprocal existence we find that our course runs smoothly; in self-seeking we find that our paths are tumultuous and defined by disorder and struggle. We have passions, that mental aspect which decides our interests and desires, and we have memory of positive and negative consequents of action; these two factors in conjunction with universal motion often finds us conscious in the present moment, looking into our crystal ball and wondering “how did I get here?” We just are here, however time may find you, guided by forces outside of our own control but within the power of acceptance, on a unique journey with a definite and uniform end. The choices we make in our lives are arbitrary; they usually mean nothing until they are set in the context of our pasts and colored by the nature of the present. Jord and the beast were guided by mystical forces of existence and nature from the very start of their lives; that buck could not have met his end in any other way, and Jord could not have been in any other place during that window in time.

Some sound seemed invading to my train of thought, and I turned to see Jord skillfully winding the reel of his pole: he had caught a fish. Steady, steady, wrestling with the creature, with not but a wand and string between the two. I watched him, and not the water, for his movements were poetic, foreshadowing of a glimpse into the subject of fate which has me baffled and thoughtfully rambling. On shore now, he has the fish subdued as it flounders helplessly atop the sitting stone. Grasping a rock and in one simple motion he strikes the fish’s head, leaving it still in the unchanging atmosphere. Jord whispers something not meant to be heard over the rush of water in the river, and I make no sound, in awe of the peaceful essence of events I had just witnessed. In some way it felt as though time had lost meaning, and I pretended as though civilization had not yet come to be, and this was the fish which would serve the purpose of extending our lives for one more day.

Now on the train returning to my origin I recall the memories of Jord, as I had days before our retreat, pondering the nature of our connection. We had parted after a lengthy goodbye, in which he said, “until next time, sweet pea…”, and I can’t stand to resist the inkling that some part of me rests with him, though we are now miles apart. However the forces of life guide me in matters of fate and choice, all that is needed is a simple fold, a crease in time, which would reunite my world with his, and the shadows of our pasts will collide once again, and we will be wholly ourselves, in tune with the nature of direction and in love with the present moment of togetherness. As the train conquers layers of track ahead I wonder of what choices I have yet to face, and how they will evolve in unison with time in such a way as to bring me back to him. Until that day, I will miss you Jord.

From ‘Love and Furlough’

Modern cell phones are a powerful tool for intercommunication: the capabilities of the most common devices can send messages instantly and offer direct access to e-mail and other online accounts. News is reported and received almost as soon as it occurs; conversations can be continued on throughout the day without a ‘hello’ or a ‘goodbye’. It’s a social instrument which can be manipulated and abused, offering shade from emotion and sensory expression. It presents everything neatly and in an organized manner, one word after another, with the bonus of allowing you to safely edit and spell check your entries prior to sharing. With text messaging and virtual mail, there is no ‘on the spot’: you always have time to censor your responses, to absorb the content of the message received and craft a rebuttal to depict yourself as accurately as your verbal skills allow.

How brilliant it is, that whilst I engage in the mundane rituals of life I may perpetuate a secret meeting with my lover who resides across purple mountains majesty. I preserve our entire relationship in the archive of our phone chat, comfortably resting in the butt pocket of my favorite jeans. Like a sweet, sweet drug my phone has become, tempting me with its subtle vibrations and quirky ring tones. When I am in a state of boredom, I slip the secret password beneath the badge of my fabricated persona and steal a peek at an unopened virtual letter. When I am awkwardly assembled between a disgruntled boss and an outraged customer, or when I simply want a taste of his ‘textual’ sense of humor I grasp my cellular device and feast my eyes upon those delectable words: ‘new text message’. He has become the phone and the words in his e-mails: without them, I feel disconnected from his fleshy form.

What is happening to me? Is it that wonderful a long distance liaison that I truly am drawn to his every printed word and minimally expressive emoticon? Or have I who punish all who openly flaunt their virtual addictions become addicted to digital dating?

Relationships have evolved parallel to technology. E-dating, e-mailing, instant messaging, pop-up invites, internet status updates, portfolios and e-files: it seems that although many people claim to find true love through such portals, these avenues of meets and mingling only serve to complicate and frustrate the owners of lonely hearts. We put ourselves out there in the web of social networking to be viewed and reviewed. Unlike a traditional first date, where the mean of rejection is a lack of follow-up or a verbal ‘this just isn’t going to work’, the world of technology hosts a thousand different ways to execute rejection. The mere thought of potential repudiation is enough to turn an eligible profile into a neurotic obsession, and time soon finds me reading into the font of perfectly printed words, studying them for any trace evidence which could offer insight into the disposition of their emotional origin.

Because the nature of computer dialogue is bland, it’s a grueling assignment to interpret the words in such a way as to attach meaning to a message. Words are dry when they are simply words on a screen, and although they may, as such, lack in value, it’s how the word is expressed which is relevant to how it was meant to be understood. In the virtual world, it is also that which must be deciphered. This can lead to many misinterpretations, and surmounting paranoia and stress if performed by someone, say, like me. Negative feedback, missing punctuation, delayed responses, periods instead of exclamation marks at the end of vivid sentences, an emoticon at the wrong emoti-moment: all of these become clues which serve to support the self inflicted theory that the person with whom I am virtually engaged isn’t interested.

After suffering through a devastating time warp of technological indifference, I think to myself, ‘maybe I should text him to find out. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should just text ‘hi’, or send a picture, or text ‘hey’ (insert pic) add ’.

There are also those rare defining moments when I courageously take a risk, sending a blurb as bold and blunt as my curiosity and angst, hoping to dramatically alter the natural course of the message chat in a more favorable direction. It isn’t well received by my now disoriented accomplice in computer-chat crime, and I am powerless to excuse myself. Oh, crap. What have I done? Delete? Erase?…too late. The words have left their mark in history; they are permanently imprinted in the fibers of our cell phone marriage.

It’s exhausting. I have the option of calling, but as I remove the phone from the grip of my opposable thumbs, it occurs to me just how frightened I am to hear his voice. By calling I would be surrendering my weapons of spell check and auto revision. I would be exposed, naked; my voice might reveal things about me previously concealed by my Palm powered identity. In text I am simple, black and white and easy to understand. I am without my feminine insecurities and hormonal syndromes, and as attractive as there are adjectives to describe.

Oh what a wonderful world I have built for myself. If only this were true: instead I sit here staring at my cell phone, which is turned upside down on the table, a false declaration of my independence from the touch screen which ignites waves of adrenaline each time it glows that soft bluish green upon receipt of a message. I pretend to ignore its blinking reception signal, urging me to take a gander at the welcome window from the corner of my eye. My will is strong and the cell phone remains in its shallow grave; however, I must check my e-mail, then my Facebook account, followed by MySpace and AIM: all empty! For how much longer can I deny the spell cast upon me by romantic internet affairs and its text message mafia?

And worse; it seems as though my self-esteem suffers at the threshold of all this ambiguity. My heart sinks at the sight of an empty inbox. I didn’t want to resort to such measures, but maybe I should send a naked picture of myself…oh no. Something has to change.

I know what I must do: break up with my cell phone and cancel my stale dating accounts. I must abandon QWERTY and downgrade to a less digital form of dating. Although the benefits of internet alternatives offer supreme hospitality to a single twenty-something in the city, the consequences have been proven to torture my female inquisitive brain. I wonder…what were relationships like before technology stole our hearts?

Relationships were organic, built upon a foundation of meet-‘n’-greet soil. There was never any paranoia precipitated by the allure of match making web genies and the promise of love at first click. People met on the streets, in cafés, at local pubs. They wrote love letters, their personalities bleeding into the words on the page with every unique stroke of the pen. They danced not to mp3’s, but to the dynamic blend of ethereal orchestras. He stood before her, and she stood before him; they were grounded from the very beginning; the first impression was naturally contaminated by the beautiful truth of a real connection.

And as much as it dazzles me to be able to showcase my literary love blurb talents, I am unable to compromise honesty and straight forwardness for love in an alternate dimension. The prospect for disappointment and unnecessary hurt is a big turn-off; it’s a risk I simply cannot take.

Perhaps it is just that I am unwilling to continuously update my technological image in an effort to seem more available and more ‘the best things of me’. I must remind myself of the fact that I have a voice, I am three dimensional, and I exist in a world of brilliant color, where words have meaning in many different styles of language. However difficult this breakup will be, I take comfort in knowing that in the least I can save myself the cost of unlimited texts and the forsaken pain of thumb cramps.

(That’s not to say that I am retreating into the solitude of single life. For a typical Piscean the pursuit of romance is always worth the wager; hope endures, and love conquers all!)

I was his lost little treasure, completely submissive and willing. I would wait for him in places bustling with sounds of laughter and life, bathed in the light of the moon, wondering when he was going to approach, and for how long he had been watching from the disguise of shade and shadow. And when he would appear and violate the boundaries of clothing draped over my virgin skin, his creeping touch like gentle intrusions, I would quiver and hear nothing over the thundering of my own heart.

It was a strange union of man and woman, or maybe not as strange as it was strangely comfortable. It seemed familiar from the beginning; that I was carefree in his wrath of power, that I had nothing to be but to be his, to belong to him in every way, a beautiful and precious object of his every desire. An object, yes; but an object to be protected and coveted, to be taught and disciplined, valued and loved.

It feels natural when we are together; I feel strangely empowered by having been stripped of power; that my most instinctual desires are realized as I practice acceptance of what I truly am; a woman, a receiver of man, a weaker creation in need of a guardian. No longer do I feel the need to challenge authority, or fight in an attempt to match his masculine strength. I am not plagued with feminist ideals of equality and sexuality because I cannot deny his inherent dominance, which extends beyond the realm of choice, but is within the boundaries of admission. The intuitive cravings of human nature are fed on behalf of such self sacrifice, and suddenly the fluidity of red wine bears a striking resemblance to the consistency of blood, and I am secretly ravenous and raging with a need to survive my primordial essence, as all impediments placed upon me by the demands of civilized norms vanishes in light of him. I am on my knees before him, even as I stand a mortal witness amidst the grave circumstance in the kitchen of this establishment, my eyes gleaming as I subconsciously experience the suppressed fantasies of my feminine soul; guide me, Jude, and I will forever be yours.

And as his statuesque presence absolves even the slightest fragments of my insecurities, I am at peace. Although his calm is like a threatening mist forewarning of erotically demanding acts of ultimate surrender to come, I know that it is from all else that I possess fear, and so long as I maintain my position beneath the rule of his autocratic sanctuary, I will live an eternity as a blissful servant to the virtues of this remarkable man. He has my heart so long as I possess the strength to lower my eyes in recognition of his role as master in my so called life.

His ambitious nature is manifested aggressively within the context of the bedroom, in which I am happily his with whom to experiment and pleasurably abuse. It is freeing; no harm would ever come to me, nothing could ever be taken from me, as to Jude, I have already willingly offered myself unconditionally. It was a matter of compliance to that oath I had already agreed to obey; I was never to be a victim of anyone again.

And with this simple acceptance of powerlessness comes great relief and inevitable gratitude. Only when I have acknowledged that I no longer possess power of control can I be free to express my creative capacities. I feel safe enough within the boundaries of my relationship with Jude to venture through life as a fiercely brave child of the world, and learn all that I may in an attempt to strengthen my heart and fulfill my potentials; luxuries afforded for me by simply saying ‘yes’ to the man who made a grand proposition. “Give me control”, he said assertively, “and I shall show you happiness”.

We left the restaurant that night and navigated the solitude of the streets of Denver on a warm August night. My hand in his, he said nothing as we journeyed from someplace public to the lonely space of his sixth floor apartment. He didn’t know this, but even as he subtly guided my movements throughout the evening in such a way as to have me almost naked before him now, I felt cuddled; the warmth of the summer air lingered upon my skin and was complimented by the tender way in which he cared for me, despite his seemingly distant and cold manner. I truly admired this man, and there wasn’t anything that would keep me from believing in our untraditional affair of love conquers all standards of gender equivalence.

“Darling, you know I would never keep you waiting, and I would sooner die than cross you”, I said shyly, as I purposefully teased him in the slow removal of my undergarments.

“Good girl”, he responded in a soft whisper, and he held his gaze sternly for a moment, and then turned and walked away, leaving me safe but alone in the confines of his personal space, to wonder about what adventure we would the two of us next engage.

In the modern black and white display of furniture and art in his lavish abode, I succumbed to fatigue and lay down to rest upon the bed. I could vaguely hear sounds echoing throughout the barren halls of his bachelor kingdom; first the soothing tones of an unknown elixir filling a crystal glass, and then the deep rumble of steps as he made his way from kitchen to couch. The television began to echo sounds of late night programming, and I closed my eyes as I accepted the invitation to retire from service for the remainder of the evening.

I awoke easily to find myself in his arms; his pale skin clashing with the golden tones of mine; the soft light from the candles in the bathroom displayed the two of us entwined in the midnight atmosphere. Without moving my head I raised my eyes to meet his and understood that which was never spoken; he held me firmly and as I began to tremble and coward before his growing presence, he reached to cradle my chin so that it was impossible for me to turn away. His lips boldly met mine, and in a moment it seemed as though all the life had been taken from me and replaced by some alien energy which was stimulating and exciting, the both of us becoming heated with passion and anticipation. He rose upwards in a consistent poetic motion, moving beyond the bedroom and into the vanity bathroom, where a warm bath laced with the fragrant scent of freshly soaked rose petals awaited. I obediently followed behind him and entered the pool of water to meet him in a romantic scene of fairytale essence. As I slid my back against the porcelain bearing of the tub, he took a seat in front of me so that his back was pressed against my tender breasts, and I expressed my love and adoration for Jude with every sweeping stroke of my fingertips, which caressed the moist skin of his bare backside. I was his, and his for whom to care, and I cared for him now while he melted into me, his larger than life appeal fading blissfully into a beautiful display of innocent compassion. “Thank you”, he said. I always remembered those two words of gratitude he had confessed to me that evening, and recalled the importance of that simple declaration whenever I began to question the philosophies which survived our relationship. Like slave and master we were, but in the most harmonious way, the pair of us deeply understanding that the one could not survive without the other, and because of that fact, a nurturing attitude developed and was always adhered and forever recognized in the most intimate of moments. In response I had said nothing, but bent forwards to kiss the sweet drops of bath water from his neck. In the silky residue of lavender oil lingering in swirls around us I had written the words “I love you” with the tip of my forefinger, though they were hardly visible except in my mind. I wanted him to know, but I didn’t wish to disturb the nature of our togetherness. I thought it was better that I could feel and express such fondness obscurely, knowing that the words would soon dissipate into the lagoon of sexual perfection we had created.

Emerging from the bath we then engaged in a visceral performance, physically displaying raw emotion as we danced to the sounds of pleasure moans and melodious breathing. At times his body swallowed mine, and I disappeared beneath his massive frame though comfortably experiencing a plethora of orgasmic energies. At times his hand was wrapped around my neck, a form of intimacy which was symbolic of my lesser position within the realm of our sexual ideal; I was at his mercy, and it was from the deepest bond of trust that he was able to perform such an act, though I was well aware that at any moment he could suffocate the very life from me. The commitment we had made to one another accounted for this solemn covenant of absolute faith in our partnership; I was to surrender myself before him and allow him to lead me into a world unknown. Just as a vampire takes his victim gently from the sphere of life into the realm of the dead, Jude took me from a woman of stature and poise to the one before him now, helpless and subdued under the firm grasp of his muscular arms. I was able to transcend all mortal thoughts as I allowed myself to be swept away into the placid calm of sensual divinity. When he was satisfied he collapsed besides me, and we once again found ourselves interlaced amongst the tangled sheets of his bed. I fell asleep that evening content, with a smile on my flushed face.

The next morning I awoke to find myself alone with penetrating rays of morning light, the scent of fresh brewed coffee permeating the air of his apartment. It was eight am, and Jude was in his office conducting business of sorts; in what avenue of affairs I never bothered to know; it was of little use for me to understand the nature of his work related interactions. I had adopted the habit of squandering any inclination which would possess me to verbally inquire of what we were going to be experiencing that day, where we would be going, and how I should dress for the occasion. Jude always guided me in choosing the only decision; all that was needed from my end was quiet compliance. I wrapped a robe around my naked body and wandered into the kitchen. I prepared a cup of coffee for Jude and served it to him in his office, after hesitating at the door, waiting for permission to advance. He reached his hand up the length of my dress and fondled me for a brief moment, then refocused his attention onto the screen of the computer console. I departed so as to begin my daily duties, which included fixing the bed in which we had made love only hours before. When I had finished with the chores, I sought personal refuge in the seclusion of the bathroom. Alone, I dropped the robe and examined myself in the mirror, noticing the faint hints of violet and blue coloring the length of my neck, a territorial indication of my belonging to Jude. A smile escaped the corner of my mouth; the presence of the bruises filled me with intense pride; the temporary swellings were indicative of the eccentric duo in which I belonged, and I wanted them to be a part of my wardrobe as much as Jude wanted his painful manifestation of dominance visible.

As I stood before the mirror, the bathroom door opened and Jude entered behind me. I wasn’t startled, nor did I turn around in acknowledgement of his sudden appearance. He approached and looked at me from our reflection in the glass, noticing that which had me radiating with excitement.

“I own you”, he said, as he caressed the contusions just beneath the curve of my ear. He slipped by me and undressed, entering the shower. I stood undisturbed, until the opening of the shower door interrupted the serenity of my thoughts. It was an invitation to join him in the rain of fresh water, and I obediently slipped in through the crack, and we laughed together at things irrelevant and silly as we cleansed ourselves of our soils and sins.

To Be Continued….

(From ‘Love and Furlough’)