thunderstorm

Soft distant crashing, it is, at first, the far off reminders of extreme weather, you.

It is raining now, as I look down, this familiar scene of streets and cars, so familiar as to seem by now a commonplace… that stereotypical romantic scene where we kiss in rain, then come inside all wet, now warm. It is lovely to think of such things, trite though they are in theory.

I want to find the passion in the rain as I once did, want to be thrilled by the garters I fasten in the morning as I head out the door (expecting still great things). And so it is, I have become spoiled by grand attentions, by reaching heights I never imagined possible.

La chair est triste?

Surely not, and there are books yet to read, it is true.

Surely there is pleasure here between the sheets, between the moments, between glances, between rocks and hard places, between the lines…

spring, joy, more spring

The first string of warm days finally bloomed its magnolias, and forsythia, and pansies in flower boxes all along the avenue, dogs running, hot dog carts. It starts again, this spring, winter ending–yes, please yes–end the dullness and the near-death.

Near death.. yes, I only sensed it, but looking back now at the signs, reading them now on some records in a folder, yes: someone I love could easily be gone right now. In the midst of it all, I did not feel that rush of imminent loss, only a dull numbness that must have insulated me from panic. It was survival, and then–now–that is all gone, and only a sense of sadness at loss of innocence remain. Things appear to have gone back to normal–but that normal is something new.

Desire departs in crisis–in strange ways; it comes crashing back again in strange urgent fits. Or it is need, perhaps, for a moment when the sun shines briefly, like a trick when all is still so uncertain?

And then, one day the lusty goodness returns again–joy now–on a day that death is no longer so imminent, that light returns, lightness and air, and again I am happy for it, too.

It is amazing how we can wake everyday and embrace the earth, the birds singing, the breeze, and think we are living fully as we go about the business of the day, the schedules and errands and jobs and calls. Markers of our own mortality redefine the essential.

Life has slowed in some ways now; it seems happier, less urgent–but more so, too. Urgent in the desire to love, to jump into the cold, into the fire, to fight the good fights, to feel all of this life, fully.

“Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich stärker.”… such common thoughts in times of adversity. But perhaps they are also true.

Perhaps–perhaps we are stronger with our scars and stories and strings of broken hearts and losses. We become sinewy. Tough, even…

But we eventually become more tender, too, if we let ourselves stay in the heat of life, not running from the things that might hurt us. Perhaps, in fact, the very things that can hurt us are the only things that really do matter.

come out in the flesh

I come to my senses once more. It is over, over, the shock, the undoing. I awaken, dazed at first, immersed, floating upward.

Swimming through the colorful blur, to the surface, coming back to this again. It is always this I return to, after all. I realize I never left. Long time I did as I was told. Long time I went to bed early, chastely, resisting the waves of desire rushing over me, my hands ever tempted to touch myself, to touch you, whoever you were. Such were days innocent, yes? Pure, unreal, faraway. Simpler? no. Never simple. Simply suppressed.

This imperfect world, its tousled sheets, draw me in, in all their splendor. Time and space, their smoke and mirrors, change nothing. A softness, a scream, a pale light, darkness, a touch, a whisper, a tear. I find my own self here still in spite of it all, desire, this undeniable common bond that fuses me to my nature, no matter where I am, no matter when.

I want, want it all, not segmented, not inhibited, not tidy, but whole, messy, bloody and beautiful.