Blow and Morning Brilliance

‘Oh my gato’ how the energies are painted in tiny specks across a spiraling reality: how minuscule the projection appears through my weary lenses looking out from within a  nightlife capsule; the sniffles and sneezes, the dollar-menu gazes and gourmet hollowness of this place is spawned from an oath to commit an act of epic togetherness.

It is this element of absurdity that links the faded frequencies of gone people; we’ve done this before, we do it again, distance is a trophy best honored by recurring sips of powdered air.

There are warts on the morning horizon, craters on the face of dawn pop and leak fluids that unveil a recent history of conscious massacre, one fueled by an overabundance of mind-altering goodies.

‘Quick’, I think. ‘Lets clean it up before the aliens arrive. I don’t want the obvious remnants of an intentional mutilation ceremony to taint the preliminary impressions of my possible saviors’.

Oh well. I shrug my thoughts and lean into myself: an olive tree is pointing a finger at me and I grin: ‘okay, okay, I’ll play my part’, says I in a whine. I collect my frigid form and manifest a smile when all I most easily want is to play with the party people. Regaining a sense of stillness I remember the impermanence of it all and sentence myself to detention, surrendering the responsibility of playing straight.

While life seems to be descending to a fine point for the partakers of illusory escape, I am with absolute presence and awareness, in a dress fit for a clown, laughing at the process and counting the seconds until I can gracefully walk away; I am free to feel the frequencies of a morning sun without the burden of having to pop her pimples.

I fled the basement, then the ballroom of convenience store items and onto the sidewalk where I discovered myself sliding in a strangely romantic momentum into the arms of the city. I felt the filth of her skirt my ankles and imagined it was a kiss. Steam hissed from the narrow-toothed mouths in the trampled pavement and I imagined it was the nonsensical whispers of love. Instead of the symphony of taxi car horns I heard the harmonies of a French quartet and it filled my heart as I began to walk alongside the wildly enamored crowds, glancing upwards at the violet shadings which like a cape draped the backsides of her magnificent structures.

I relished, rambled, reacted like a puppy to his master’s touch. I was weak at the knees, kind of awkwardly smiling with a strange glimmer of satisfaction in the mirrors of my eyes. Like 400 years of history in 40 pages of words the whole world was in motion though my existence remained as a footnote in my own thoughtful assumptions of this city.

I remembered my life before in the tame valleys of the immature coastline, nestled within the breasts of the earth, quiet and obscured. I would see only the world through the skin of my television set which usually spoke of some wild occurrence, leading me to believe that the rest of the world was dying. Whole continents were vanishing from my vocabulary, I wasn’t so certain regarding the existence of other places. I thought the evil empires had swallowed the seven wonders in an explosive rage, that history was lost in fire and elsewhere lives were reduced to feather light grains of silver ash. I sometimes feared any proof of life in the distance beyond my bedroom window, I hated the taste of conflict and wished it all to manifest gently into the space between the moonlight and my skin. No voices, no noise, no worries, no harm.

I used to sway to the lullabies of the pacific breeze in pleasant solitude. Now I was humbled by the unexpected company of all the universe colliding in a single moment on a crooked sidewalk of New York City. I was falling in love with her, and couldn’t dream of returning to the desolate grounds of the wooded suburbs I called home. Life occupied a different capacity here, everything seemed to not only breath but to breathe deeply, energy absorbed, recycled and expelled at a rate only measurable by the comparative speed of shuffling feet and shifting lights. A seat with a view of the end of the world and how I could I go back to beginnings?

It was as though there was charge, a slow pull which could not be challenged, and I first surrendered myself to her in the sanctuary of a Catholic church with doors wide open, where I sat and wept in the presence of statues for whom in the language of pure sadness the tears of an entire city had been spilled, the tears of the great and the powerful in tragic instances of self realization and need.

Again she called to me as I skated along the water’s edge and took a moment to look in her direction and into an abandoned lot with many pillars set like pawns in a line of defense ahead of the weathered ticket booth. It wasn’t significant, no historical markers labeled this warehouse as worthy of pondering but it was fascinating nonetheless. Perhaps if I stood here a hundred years’ past it wouldn’t seem so barren and alone. Something happened here long ago, and in the songs of the pigeons at my feet I recognized the sweet melody of a carnival tune once performed by the clowns at the gatherings in this seaside courtyard. The life of this place hadn’t died; it had only diminished so that it could still be perceived in the imaginations of idealistic tourists searching for love in the ruins of a city.

I thought it was unfair that time had forbidden me the opportunity to see her irrepressibly alive, but I had long ago realized the absoluteness of my contemporary birth and subsequent modern survival. I thought that perhaps I had been here before in some other manifestation of myself, that perhaps I was so intensely attracted to this dilapidated scene because some memory fond surfaced in my core, and the city wasn’t inclined to allow me to pass without proper recognition of what could very well have been the place of some noteworthy event in a past life, like my first kiss or broken heart. I chuckled slightly under my breath and in a fog of silliness I airily pranced along, not a single expectation or destination in mind, on a first date with New York City.

I noticed him from the edge of my vision as he brought the cigarette to meet his toothless grin and sipped, exciting the ember glow which was the only sight about him that seemed to resemble life. I approached; he saw me and said, “Wow. Lets get married”, to which I allowed a half smile to garnish my expression though I walked past him without a break in pace. “You smiling though, right? Ahhhh…” said the toothless man from behind. I was amused, perhaps enchanted: I had never before been in receipt of a marriage proposal, and though it had been produced by a sewer bum as substantial as the dirt wedged between his bare toes he was in this moment the most valuable person in my life having caused me such delight, and I secretly accepted his offer as if it had been the entire state of New York on bended knee.

The air was spiced with fumes of seared flesh leaking from holes where chefs were busy with the orders of a ravenous city. My appetite began to flourish and so I turned abruptly to face the entrance of a café. I violated its boundaries by peeling aside the veil of beads and crossed over into a Mediterranean oasis. Oh the sounds were luring, the voice of a thousand winds to the beat of a hand drum and I was off my feet and onto the embroidered fabric of a pillow upon the floor.

The radiance of the candle in the middle of the mosaic countertop was masked by curls of fog from the snouts of intoxicated smokers: from bubbling fountains at the base of the huge glass pipe to the fire pit at its peak, sweet tobacco was inhaled through the mouth of the hose and released. My inhibitions too are clouded in a haze and I put the piece between my lips and filled my lungs with the scents of moist apple. I let it all go, every bit of anxiety and nervousness escapes, and I am afraid to feel my pulse because it is dangerously low. I am in the company of a beautiful woman from Spain whose lips are stained red from the wine in the gauntlet she is flirtatiously fondling with her fingers. Her long blond hair blankets the bare skin of her backside, and her moves are as seductive as the length of her dress: she has the savage attention of every male in the room. She stood up to dance and before my eyes she transformed into an Arabian gypsy; her body mimicked the sultry energy of the den and behaved as chaotically as the wisps of smoke.

I sunk like a ball in a glove, slipping towards the floor all the while nursing the argeela like a child at her mother’s tit. I recanted the validity of the knowledge I had thus far held timidly in my mind, and suddenly the course of my life seemed to have been at the mercy of a map reader’s mistake all along. A vivid premonition fabricated by the allure of the Spanish dancer showed me that indeed my life, however small, however useless, however mundane, was changing. The beautiful mirage of sequential encounters with New York City on this arbitrary day forewarned of a love so great it could only spawn glorious triumph, or worse; supreme devastation.

I thought of never returning home. I thought that I would stand center stage on a patch of stone in a city square and dramatically declare my intentions to abandon my origin and live like a renegade on the run from a past less desired. I thought I would forgive myself of all the remedial attempts at a praiseworthy life, and like the carcass of a shorebird being dragged out to sea, let myself go limp while she carried me into the abyss of her cosmopolitan junkyard.

I thought of never returning home, but in a small cubby of the world events were forming that would influence my life in ways I had yet to experience. Sitting somber on a craft bound for disaster I had only the look of a corpse bound for a muddy retreat, and I blankly stared at the couple who stood before me now as they always had: the old man chanting prayer, and mother bear prancing around as if she deserved his attention (and my pity).

-’Twenty Something: The Chronicles of Ham’

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’)

Although the candidates differed, the substance of the on-going dialogue remained the same: each interviewee spoke of themselves, of their strengths and favorable characteristics, of their experiences and history, while the receiver nodded in encouragement of the conversation. The energy permeating the space around the subjects was tense, as the contestants, in the uncomfortable silence that would befall the pair at the end of a brief, nervously awaited approval from their host. They feared rejection, humiliation, embarrassment, and this fear was present in the slight movements of their hands and legs, and the awkward inflections in the tones of their voices. They were selling themselves, placing themselves on the shelf marked ‘for sale’, elaborating on the benefits of that which they were offering.

We do it everyday, in every aspect of our lives. We sell ourselves as thin, fit, healthy, intelligent, witted, and funny. We buy what we value and pay for that from which we benefit.  It rules our civilized lives; we are constantly concerned with maintaining the well being of our bodies and our minds, decorating and educating ourselves so that we may one day be highly valued by our peers. We are conditioned by media and market, by economics and mainstream ideals to respond to the egoist impulse to strive and achieve, and we have fused the idea of happiness and success with knowledge and wealth, appraising those accomplished individuals for greater worth than those who have neither the brains nor the goods. A poorly valued individual is like an unattractive hooker: she struggles to survive in the business of life because she lacks that which makes her appealing to potential employers:  she may be disregarded, discounted, and placed in the half-off bin with other useless items and moral waste.

Although illegal in its most sexual application, the essence of prostitution is that upon which our modern day society is constructed, survived by the philosophy that if you have nothing to sell, you simply don’t get the job.