I tell you that I am a mess. ”You are, but it’s okay.”
I feel immobile. ”Are you dressed? To your shoes?”
I am too far behind. ”Progress, not perfection.”
Anatomy of a Bruise October 28, 2008
The bruises on my breast are fading, so I am writing smut in biology class. A few nights ago I iced the places where blood seeped out and histamines swelled. I fell asleep with an ice pack on my right breast. The sharp cold reminded me of who its need came from. I’m mentally tracing the lines of my bruises, the colors of hemoglobin breaking down escaped red blood cells- dark red, purple, black, blue and yellow. In my smut, more bright red bruises appear before bilirubin yellows my current collection.
Tightly bound October 26, 2008
I’m wearing remnants of the school girl outfit I arrived in. My discarded clothing is strewn over three rooms of the kinky basement. I’m squirming and smiling on top of some vintage medical table that was once used for setting bones. My legs are spread by equipment that reminds me of gynecologists and pap smears. I could comfortably spread them much farther apart, but I keep that information to myself. Along with most of my mouthy comments, I hide secret tickle spots; I tuck away the knowledge of tiny orgasms. Even though I am at ease with you, I notice that my sounds and movements are tightly bound, restrained by my own unfurling hesitations.
It reminds me of another first time. It reminds me of being tied to his bed, face down while he ran his fingers and his dick over my back and my ass. I barely made a sound as I felt the rush of my hesitations falling off with each thrust. That was our last quiet fuck.
Collecting you October 25, 2008
It’s Wednesday night and I am across the table from you, gulping down chamomile tea. I take my time studying your voice and your words.
It’s Thursday night and I’m walking toward a closed intersection at a protest. I take my time studying your ass and the almost silly yellow marshall stash across your shoulder. A little closer and I’m studying your hands, your lips, the past-life maybe cancerous spot above your lip. Later in the evening you’ve somehow managed to find your way to my red couch. I’m trying to keep my mind on the time and the cats, but I have a lustful mind full of wandering thoughts. I can’t decide if I want to be wrestled down to the floor or lay my head the the crook of your arm.
It’s Friday night and I am on the floor, leaning over puzzle pieces with a friend. I take my time studying the space between us. You are sitting in a chair just next to our puzzling attempts. I’m dressed as a sailor and keenly aware of how short my skirt is. I want to look at you and the way you are looking at me, but I can barely manage to look at your boots.
To Have Without Holding October 14, 2008
To Have Without Holding
Marge Piercy
Learning to love differently is hard,
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
that thwack like rubber bands
in an open palm.
It hurts to love wide open
stretching the muscles that feel
as if they are made of wet plaster,
then of blunt knives, then
of sharp knives.
It hurts to thwart the reflexes
of grab, of clutch; to love and let
go again and again. It pesters to remember
the lover who is not in the bed,
to hold back what is owed to the work
that gutters like a candle in a cave
without air, to love consciously,
conscientiously, concretely, constructively.
I can’t do it, you say it’s killing
me, but you thrive, you glow
on the street like a neon raspberry,
You float and sail, a helium balloon
bright bachelor’s button blue and bobbing
on the cold and hot winds of our breath,
as we make and unmake in passionate
diastole and systole the rhythm
of our unbound bonding, to have
and not to hold, to love
with minimized malice, hunger
and anger moment by moment balanced.
How Mountains are Climbed October 14, 2008
Mountains should be climbed with as little effort as possible and without desire. The reality of your own nature should determine the speed. If you become restless, speed up. If you become winded, slow down. You climb the mountain in an equilibrium between restlessness and exhaustion. Then, when you’re no longer thinking ahead, each footstep isn’t just a means to and end but a unique event in itself. This leaf has jagged edges. This rock looks loose. From this place the snow is less visible, even though closer. These are things you should notice anyway. To live only for some future goal is shallow. It’s the sides of the mountains which sustain life, not the top.
-Robert Pirsig
The River October 14, 2008
Siddhartha had often heard all of this before, all these numerous voices in the river, but today they sounded different. They all belonged to each other: the lament of those who yearn, the laughter of the wise, the cry of indication and the groan of dying and all the voices, all the goals, all the pleasures, all the good and evil, all of them together was the world.
-Hermann Hesse
I am still thinking about this: October 14, 2008
In Letters to a Young Poet, Rilke says, “The highest form of love is to be the protector of another person’s solitude.” That’s what I want. For other people to love each other without having to partake in them, to possess them, to allow them to be their own inside their solitude, to protect that. I wish people respected each other’s aloneness. I wish I could write something very beautiful and erotic without worrying about people wanting to use me to fulfill some fantasy– which I have no control over, and often, has nothing to do with me– inside themselves. (Kristen Kosmas, writer and performer).
-Cunt
Cup of Empty October 14, 2008
One of my regulars came into the clinic today. We watch him closely because his depression is unstable. We get along well, him and I. I remember his words from his first visit. ”I am so sad. I have nothing to do because there is nothing I can do.” I’ve never seen him look anything but empty. Old and empty. He is a big cup of empty.
He was different today. It was only a few seconds, but it was there. Today, for just long enough to catch, his posture and expression changed. I’d asked him how he was today, a question I’ve asked this man on many previous visits. Today, instead of grumbling at me, he lifted himself up in his seat, looked me in the eye, and said, “I voted today for the first time in my life.”
One Act Play from Longwood October 14, 2008
Sarah: “Hey Aden, how much is the Wahl?”
Adrienne: “What is the wall?”
Aden: “The what?”
Adrienne: “What is the wall?”
Sarah: “The Wahl 7-in-1″
Adrienne: “What is the wall?”
Aden: “Uh, about $30.”
Sarah: “The Wahl is a plug-in vibrator.”
Adrienne (quietly, deadpan): “The Wall is a Pink Floyd album.”
Aden: “QED”
