Sunday, May 4, 2008

Poison in a pretty glass

Late 70's summers were long and hot. I remember being sent to my grandparent's house that stood in the middle of painfully flat meadows. boredom and heat slowing me down, dizzy and not sure who I am anymore.
And yet...I remember one lazy afternoon. Laying on the grass in the orchard. Breathing in heavy air and smell of half - rotten fruit.
My eyes closed. time almost standing still. eating sweet, ripe apples.
And then the wasps came.
I felt the first one landing on my lips. Then the next and a few others. I was petrified.
I couldn't breathe.
But the wasps tamed me. The tenderness of their movements hypnotized me. I didn't want them to go. I gave in. I opened my mouth, slowly letting the wasps in. I think that they were feeding on the bits of apple. At the same time eating all my primal fears away. They flew away but they left the essence of their presence within me.
I was 8.
Since then I'm longing for the feeling of wasps crawling into my mouth. I live my life chasing the wasps.

I will make believe. shush. quiet.
I will still my demons. bury your ghosts. I will pretend.
I lay here on top of cool sheets, my entire arm stinging from needles. fresh ink under skin. I look at it. how odd. a sleeve that doesn't keep me warm. but i had her. have her, hold her now.
Ive lost my place in this book ive been reading. I turn pages and someone has underlined sentences. I think, "this is how much it has also meant to me. "
I have underlined you.
now I write in my moleskine journal. dear you. dear you. dear anyone, but you.

Has she underlined me? I'm thirsty but i don't want to get up, I'm hungry but I don't want to get out of this bed. I am trapped. Do you feel trapped?
this is heaven. just us. here. now. read it. It's for you but not for you. It's something I say when it's late. in the dark. it's something that you can feel but cant touch, does that make any sense? reach for it. ask for it. a story..silly. that's what I meant. ask and I will tell you something that Ive never told anyone ever before.
dear you,

1 comment:

Mir said...

Dear you,
What I find when I'm starved for conversation--which is always when you work behind a counter and get paid to push buttons and smile for scumbags--is you, here. Saying something I can reach for, touch fingertips with, and feel warm again.