As the light falls its lonely last rays across the emblazoned trees, I think about how many writers have tried to describe an autumn sky. That gray and shifting dome like one great marble eye curving its gaze over the earth. What does it see down here but a beautiful ignorant mess. The more I know of this world the more I retreat, hoping, maybe, that if I find the right words – tell the right stories – I will find some kind of way out, or through. Or to disappear from the world they have created and appear in the midst of my own free place, a thick wooded forest untouched, untainted, designed with pleasure, curiosity and truth in mind. A place to calm all the ticking inside which never lets up. Have you ever felt like the only one in a crowded room who wants to scream to put a stop to all the bullshit chatter but you know that would only make you seem nuts so you just pour another glass of red to numb the panic and let them talk to you about money and mergers and fancy vacations? As the planet torches itself to charred embers all around us at ever increasing speed, we photograph our dinner plates at designer restaurants and compare acquisitions and hate-like our friends and cut ourselves up and cut each other down. Try as you might to keep them happy, no one really sees you. Who will talk with you about the poetry that is so unbearably touching it makes you weep and rejoice just for the impossible magic of being alive. Who will explore the nighttime stars with you as you lie huddled together on a grassy hill in the cold of midnight, shivering and electric with hope and possibility. We are transient beings, here for such a short time and yet no one and nothing stops for a second to notice our dumb glorious luck. We dream, we wish, we hide, we settle. But somewhere deep down inside these bones of mine I am still searching which means I must have some kind of faith that doesn’t fit anywhere else but inside of me. Something which grows stronger with age, a voice, an urge which runs far deeper than the reality or spirituality or pop psychology this cheap world spews at every turn, it calls to me like the most beautiful siren. There are others who seek her voice. They are artists, musicians, lovers. They worship their gods and I worship mine. For me it’s the word. No matter what comes and goes in my life, it has always been the word.
My mind swirls in circular patterns around the center point of a dread so certain it nearly calms the nerves purely by paralyzing them into numbness. My stomach is sick, clamps tight around the moth wings fluttering madness inside. These timid hours hung around my neck like a wreath. Glancing down at my hands and opening my palms toward the ceiling, I observe from a distance these silent dark flashes which melt into one another like tissue, sinew, veins, skin, teeth. Of what is this body made, in what womb is it contained. Speckled lights are pin pricks at the back of my eyes; this is how the gods made the night come alive. Smearing their breath like tar, small hands held alone in the dark. Touching my fingers to the soft and dying leaves, I open the well worn book of you. Healer. Teacher. Priest. I am reminded of you, your smoothness in body and tongue parting the lips of an ancient sea. Red stained wood and a word broken away from its heat. The way you mouthed desire into my blood, with just the glistening threads of the idea of you, I stroke and soothe my ache.
In her eyes are a series of crystalline webs spiraling in toward a center point which they never quite reach, which sparkle and spin as you gaze at her face between the palms of your hands. The more the blood in your veins thrashes against your own skin, the closer and closer you come to falling all the way in. It’s been a long stressful day and here you are on the edge of your weary life, passing you by with every punch of the clock. In a small room with tall windows overlooking vastly sprawling twilight hills, you stand together by only the glow of candlelight. You steady your stare to look deep in her eyes as your hands move to firmly grasp her throat. Those eyes full of oceans erupting into endless waves which pound a pristine beach, the sound of her pulsing silence at your command, nearly deafening as it roars in your ears. She is a huntress, hunted. She with her sinister charm, a spider eating her way through the softening body of her prey, a slow self-inflicted death by suffocation, thin spindles of exquisite torment. Each ragged sound you let fall from her lips is a face in the mirror turning to dust. With every breath, every movement she is watching you. Hungry. Pleading. Desperate. Your fingers spread through the thick of her silken hair as you imagine her taste, the taste of this burning in your body for hers, try to allow yourself a sip while still calculating the inevitable damage you will suffer by her particular poison. How you wish you could turn back time to the way it was before you found yourself in this compromised state, now unable to walk away, unable to resist the terrible knowledge that you want everything those cruel lips have to offer. You move your tongue deep into her, forcing her wide, and with a low moan suck the air from her lungs, teach her to worship the pleasure and brutality of desire. To withhold, to be withheld from, this is the dance, this is the crux of your kind of affection. Destruction. Resurrection. Power. The power to grant and deny control. Your hands are on her breasts now, pinching, caressing, moving expertly as you press and stimulate, the heat between you sending licks of flame down her length through the blossoming folds between her thighs. As your mind fills itself with thoughts of how warm she must be at the glistening center of her prismatic being, how sweet and delicate the way her tenderness would cause your bones to shatter every star from its pierced arrangement in the swollen midnight sky, she says your name over and over again, in blind shameless need. Placing two fingers inside her gaping mouth, you know she is the only evidence left in a desecrated world that humanity can still be pure, still be beautiful in its helplessness, still drip with honeyed wilderness for the forces which will end us all in ruinous screams. You do not promise to stay, you promise to witness. To make of yourself a sacrifice to her sacrifice. Every offering, every touch, is a quiet prayer that some small memory of this night will remain until her flesh and blood abandon this world for good.
Almost the end of October and you can already feel the year rushing right through the holidays. For all the joy and excitement they bring there are always a handful of days that stretch out in painful gray-washed emptiness. For all the teary-eyed laughter there remains an aching in your throat that just won’t quit. That time not long ago when it rained the day after Christmas so that all the enchantment of the fresh fallen snow began to turn dirty, grit from the wet roads packed into its virginity by the cars sliding along in cold indifference. Rain in winter is heavier than rain in any other season, falling in large metallic globes upon the naked trees which reach like skeletal fingers high into the clouds, as if attempting to claw their way out of the earth and into the great beyond. But they are rooted here just like you, and there it is: the immobile center of your melancholy fixation on the thin line between life and death. The heaviness of the rain in winter has always been a part of you ever since you were a little girl, the weight of it which you both despised and cherished as your very own terrible invisible companion. You are seeing a man you shouldn’t be. He is much older and he’s not technically free, although when he takes you to a strange bed across town and reminds you what a devastating high ecstasy is, none of this matters to you in the least, just as long as he keeps looking at you like that, and moves his body like he knows the secret codes to all the forces of pleasure and punishment in the universe. What is freedom if not danger. What is lust if not what’s forbidden. Bite him, fight him, fuck him. Break the chains and break the rules. Let him pin your hands behind your back and take everything he wants from you. Of course, this is not the girl you were brought up to be but you’re on your own now and suddenly it seems everything you thought you believed in no longer applies. This man meets you in a dive bar which smells of must and cheap wooden tables, shaking off the rain from his coat and loosening his scarf he takes the seat next to you at the bar. You slink back in the corner where it’s dark and feels safe for the secrecy and sad for the scent of bottom shelf liquor at two in the afternoon. You order a Manhattan and he orders the same. He lights you a cigarette because in this place no one cares about anything least of all smoke or infidelity. As you take that first inhale to make sure it’s burning, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror behind the bar above a tangle of bottles of booze and below a string of multicolored holiday lights, blinking softly. Crimson lips and glowing skin, you are slightly surprised to find yourself attractive in spite of the feeling inside that you are falling into a black abyss, sinking farther and farther away from whoever it was you were supposed to be. And yet for all the chaos and indignity in your life right now, this man is gravity. He gets you so high and pushes you down so low, but for some mysterious reason written in the darkness behind his hazel flecked eyes, he keeps you coming back.
The air is warm and still, an odd but welcome surprise for an afternoon this late in October. I’m sitting quietly in the local park on a plaid blanket underneath a sprawling oak tree now the color of flames and fire, her final exclamation before a graceful bow into the lifeless dead of winter. When you appear, I can smell the sweetness of the grass beneath the fallen leaves mingled with a touch of a wood fire burning somewhere off over the hills in the distance. Joining me on the blanket, you open your bag and pour us some white wine to accompany the fresh croissants you always bring from that tiny bakery I like around the corner from your place. I would have walked to the bakery with you, but I didn’t wake up with you this morning. This morning you woke up with her. So far we have been giving each other plenty of space to do whatever we want with whomever we please but somewhere in between pulling you close and pushing you away my callus heart has grown a bit too soft, a bit too affectionate, a bit too greedy. As we trade small talk about nothing in particular, I am beginning to wonder which of us is the other woman if she doesn’t know about me but I know about her. You tell me you don’t love her but she needs you and you aren’t sure it’s fair to untangle yourself when at the moment she’s so vulnerable. I drink more of the wine as I swallow your words and try to sort out your intentions but while the undeniable attraction between two bodies is simple, emotions are a lot more tricky. I am not sure if what you are saying makes you kind or unkind, or if my being here with you makes me a welcome or unwelcome presence in your life. Perhaps because I don’t know what I want I’m just trying to stir things up as a way to distract myself and give you a hard time. Either way, it’s a gorgeous day in late autumn and when you touch my neck I fall back into you with such ease it shatters all sense of what is right or wrong. All I know is I will give you everything the second you ask. Your mouth on my mouth is to drown in the vastness of the deep blue sky overhead and as you lift up my blouse and work your way down the length of my body nothing else matters. The evening sky has turned to crimson along the horizon. From the orange leaves on the dying trees to the electric pinks streaking the reddening sky it’s as though the entire world around us is on fire. Buildings raging into rivers, our naked bodies bare like open fields at the mercy of the heat of the relentless sun, burning, burning. It’s the way you kiss me until I’m ruined that I can’t resist. Losing myself to the magic of your lips, your hands, I am the only woman on the face of the earth.
I tell you I hate you but that’s only because you turn me on and pushing you away is a good way to ensure you stick around, if only for the game. There are black birds circling in a winter white sky as gray swaths of thin clouds move swiftly in the opposite direction. Something invisible but razor sharp in the atmosphere plays with my body like ten thousand tiny hot pin pricks, an energy live as electric wires and I can taste the heat in my mouth. There are moving cars and street lights streaking haphazardly across the wet blacktop as I remember the first time we gave in to our darkest temptations, like two predators with nothing left to sink our teeth into except each other. I like the way you look at me when you know what you want and how you want it and won’t put up with anything less. The chaos swirling in your hungry eyes is the only sight in this frightening world that calms the fear which claws inside me all the time. As you grasp the back of my neck, I feel the cruelty of the ages slide off of me along with my tee shirt and torn up jeans. All the mental brutality of living which I carry around with me all day, kneading it constantly between my fingers and my shoulder blades, falls like meat off the bone. I’m so much more tired than I let on, I’ve been fighting my whole life it seems, to get out of my own head, to spit in the face of convention and crawl away from the terrible of gray cinder block walls and coffee stained hallways that snake through the dead buildings in this miserable city. The pain in you, that’s what I want to taste the most because it’s the only way to know this feeling is genuine. The way that you make me ache all over splits me open, and I need that in ways only you can understand. You like that when I come to you I’m willing, so you can work my body until it is worn waif thin. When we merge, we kiss until our bones beg for relief. Sex is death is a way to erase each other and disappear. Let me break you, baby, let me break you slow. There is a cigarette burning in smoky silence on the nightstand and a hole in my heart where love should be but I prefer a little emptiness. What is love anyway but a vanishing, a marked figure stalking in shadows. There is a fence around the walls which guard my heart for protection. In the fading evening light, I pull on your beat-up cotton shirt, and arrange some flowers in a vase while sipping on the whiskey warming in your glass. Every fleck of dust is my breath suspended, every creak in the floor boards is a lover who has walked away. As you are gazing out the window which overlooks an empty tree lined street, I place my hand on your stomach. We are no fairy tale, you and I, this I have always known. But just for a time, when this life gets under my skin, when I don’t know what I believe in or if standing at the gate I’m looking outside or in, I lay my head in your hands and let you pretend to call me home.
As my eyes darken and the storm erupts inside my veins, you mistake my anger for passion, slide your hands around my hips and press me to you hard. My mind is a lightning rod of electric visions, none of them tender. To be alive at all in times like this is to exist inside a caricature of cruelty, the outside world has become a pornography of brutal harm. Women and children fleeing for their very survival in the desert, chased into madness by the callus greed of the rich and powerful men who own everything but most importantly they own the power to kill. Kill us. Destroy all of the things we worship and believe in as we scramble to understand what is even happening when it’s all happening too fast. You grab a fistful of my hair and firmly tug while kissing the soft skin of my exposed neck and in one deep exhale I try to imagine what it must feel like to die. To be on the other side of destruction, free of the fear. Do we still feel affection even after we cross over? Do we still know all the same things we know now but are they somehow neatly tied together in such a way that it all makes sense? You don’t ask yourself any of these things that I obsess over with near relentless hyper attention which may be why there are times when you can get yourself off while all I can do is roll with it through the numbness. Who deserves pleasure, who deserves pain. Who deserves more of one or the other. As I drive to work with headlights peering through the hollow darkness down the same old road, I pass a deer on the side of the highway, headless. In the split second when I notice it I see only its wide stump of bloodied insides, then its beautiful young body limp, lifeless. We have been told there are too many deer and it’s a problem and it’s a shame. We have been told a lot of things are not as they seem. Violence is not violence, truth is not truth. What you see is not what you see. But who hits a deer with a car in such a way that the head comes clean off – and then disappears? A static voice on the radio speaks of the most recent catastrophic event on the other side of the globe. Hand grenades and the smiles on the laughing faces of the enemy. War is not war. Death is not death. Life is not life and this one’s not mine. I sip my coffee, and drive.
There is a mysterious light which sometimes trickles through the caramel leaves in the trees, glistening my strawberry blond hair into a shimmery halo around my head. I’ve recently cut much of it off and now I’m waiting impatiently for it to grow back again because when I have it one way I always want it the other, such is the story of so many seemingly trivial things in my small little life which, to be honest, feels like it’s growing smaller and smaller with each passing day. As the years slide by, this strange life becomes more and more like looking through a keyhole that leads into a most heavenly garden: soft grass beneath bare feet, beautiful bodies caressing each other to ecstasy, ivory flowering vines, tiger butterflies and a perpetual sunset glow, if only you could open the door and step foot where you know you belong, or finally become so small that you could slip right through that tiny opening and disappear into someplace warm, welcoming, free of the mindless clutches of calendars and clocks. We are insatiable creatures. We want to hold tight to the lives we have for fear of the fall from grace, the fall from the esteem we hold in other people’s eyes, and yet we want a taste of the life that has been living alongside of us like a haunting, flowing like a stream you can admire from afar but cannot swim in. A life less organized but infinitely more honest, real, alive. There are choices you refuse to make. There are dreams you have about chances to be brave and in those dreams your courage is reckless, wild, untamed, it is the pulse of the life not explored, not taken. It’s the hungriest pieces of yourself that you let fall away which come back to wake you in the dead of night. As I turn and pull the blankets up around my chin, the white unblinking eye of the harvest moon watches as I shudder at the first crisp night of another autumn curling itself around me in silence. I know I want too much and I know that is what keeps me at arm’s length from everybody else. It’s only the poets, the artists, the difficult, the sleepless, the shipwrecked who still believe in the whispers of what could be. So many ghosts around my throat, so much time has passed and will I ever be more than this wandering woman, grasping for the hand of something with no name.
As I tighten my mouth around a smooth cigarette, you are telling me things I already don’t care to know about. Something about the guy at work who never has his shit together and always manages to drag you into the mired mess with him because that is what people who are clueless do, grab onto everything helpful around them and drown it out. Meanwhile I, on the other hand, feel something of a smug triumph because I have managed to hold down a day job that doesn’t come home with me. All the useless drivel is left where it belongs: inside the gray and dying walls of a building which corrals hundreds of people for the better part of their days, the majority of their squirmy eyeless lives. Taking a long sip of wine, I attempt to change the subject and talk about moving because I am terrified of a future together which is devoid of adventure, but the truth is I love our house with a bone-deep kind of love I have never known in a place ever before. It’s just a split level house in a no-name town, but over the years we have carved ourselves into it so deeply that I can’t imagine being anywhere else let alone leaving this place behind. The way it feels like living in a park when I wake up to the sunlight falling through the trees and streaming through our open bedroom windows. The logs on the fireplace in the dead of winter as snow piles up against the back patio. It’s a home now, one that stays inside of you even when you go away for a while so that it is always calling you back. I think sometimes I talk to you about home because I don’t know how to talk to you about writing, how much it means to me, how much I need it. To have a home like this is a beautiful trap not unlike writing. There is a wandering loneliness in writing which is oddly seductive, it keeps you writhing around in its web until it kills you or makes a meal of you or both. But if I don’t write, I can feel the sickness crawling up underneath my skin, the sad panic at not being able to find the words. For all the romance they will offer you about being a writer, it’s nothing short of an affliction really to have a relentless desire to retreat alone to a room and be with the dead quiet so that you can close your mind to everything except the most immediate sensations and thoughts. It’s still dark outside as I type, there is a cat crying loudly down the street. The sound is so crushingly hollow with pain and desperation it makes my insides ache with both affection and disgust. For as long as I can remember I have had myself convinced that I am a writer who can only write in the very early mornings before the rest of the world realizes anything is even happening. It’s not true of course, a real writer can write at any hour and we are always writing no matter where we are at any given time. We are just especially good at fooling ourselves, at backing ourselves into corners in our lives and in our stories. The only way to claw out of ourselves is to dive into ourselves. Maybe that’s why I love the home we have built together so much. No matter how far off I need to wander I always seem to wind up coming back. The cat is screaming now— hasn’t let up. And high above the idle moon watches, glowing from a vast cold distance.
Something in the precise words you use to describe the sharp lines of a powerful city you’ve just been visiting half way across the globe makes me believe that if you took me to bed you would know exactly what to do to make me come undone. It’s not just the body it’s the mind and you are quite the master of twisting both so as to cause every nerve ending to stiffen to attention. The way with those eyes you penetrate every breath I ever took until right this moment but now I don’t care if I get five million more or ten I just need you to keep talking. As I listen, patient and impatient like an itchy cat studying the movement of her prey, you tell me about the natural and constant chaos spinning itself outward further and further into the outer most rungs of the universe. Nestled in the dim candle light glow of my living room, it is well past midnight, there’s a half pack of cigarettes, various bottles of wine, and the many stacked rings on your fingers are flashing like planets in a small distant galaxy as you motion with your long thick fingers toward the glittering night sky out the window. The wine having sedated me, I’m trying to follow the course of your lesson which sounds more like a boyish aspiration, a tale of adventure and discovery, I’m falling into the vast blackness of the shirt you’re wearing, the leather belt you have fastened lightly around your waist, the charcoal smudges barely visible around the rims of your tired eyes. You love women almost as much as you love yourself. To hear you tell it there have been any number of them, each one languid, beautiful, in possession of a sweetness which can only be birthed of both strength and submission, not to you necessarily but to a passion which you are uniquely able to stimulate between the two of you such that everything else becomes meaningless and instantly falls away. Though you have never been mine and likely never will be, something strange inside me rejoices to know of the lust you treasure for these women, for yourself, for art, for the magic inherent in life itself. Because you understand science, you understand chemistry which means you understand how to manipulate, to agitate. Experiment. Control. Study. As the words fall softly from your wide sensual mouth, I imagine you are tired but ignoring it, the whiskey has you humming inside and all I can think is nothing and all I can feel is every cell in my body suffocating with desire. Tell me, stranger. Tell me everything you know and everything you dream about. Tell me your secrets. Speak to me of the laws of physics which cause the stars to spread themselves like a glistening womb, mysterious, dark, pulsing, eternal. Your voice grows low and you are nodding off and I’m losing you to yourself as I always have and always will. How I wonder what it would be like to crawl inside that mind of yours, to see what you see through the mad brilliance of a man who loves so many things, who finds himself in ridiculous awe of a world I only want to leave behind at every turn.