As the hour of departure drew near, Trev sat with pen and paper. Em was quietly packing, folding clothes with care, holding them with the dignity of sacred texts. He thought of the return to space, to the hardness of metal, of manufactured air. Of how very different life had been here with the cottage, the lake, the pathways through the woods, of the sun in the morning, of dusk descending, of the sound of wildlife, of birds and crickets and owls. He thought of reading by the stream, a blanket laid on a bed of clover. Of glasses raised and toasts given, of wine on the tongue and smiles as beautiful as butterflies. He thought of open windows and candles and poetry written as she slept, that gentle rising of breath, the softness of her bosom under a light throw, of how her hair flowed over tranquil eyes. He watched her now, moving from chest to bed, organized, he thought, like the daughter of a sea captain, always mindful of what to bring and how to bring it. He thought too of the hour, of their leaving and as if a window was open and a gentle breeze beckoned, he thought of the soft soil of this place, of its wonderful aromatic richness and in this thought, of richness, of fresh-turned earth, this mother of all they ate and drank, he thought of Em. Of the line between mothers and birth, of the dying to one thing in order to be born to another, of the movement of arm and leg, the sweep of a look, the tenderness in breath against the ear. So he wrote. No editing, no revision, no care but for the flow. Then he wrote it again. Only later, when Em was emptying the trash did she find what he had written.
We leave in an hour. I want you in the humid soil before the lake, to know your dampness, that soft domain, refulgent, indolent, of grass and flower, of skirt and thigh. I want your sigh seen as ghosts rising, your teeth unconsciously bare in desire, your eyes full of the stars beyond my back. I want to know your gravity and shiver warm and cold, warm and cold with celsius pleasure, that seduction known to finger and glove. There is here life, this fullness, this rush, this fit. This crashing of you into me, my world, our world as changed as the boy upon the breast. I want muddy earth between my fingers, to smell of your bloom flowering my shoulder, your lust in the tremor of calf and the impaling of nails, this seeking of blood, to rip open, to expose, to reveal to the heavens what heretofore has been hidden. It is here, this last freedom released, unbound before fruit and flower, intoxicated in the way of poets with verbs and architects with nouns. But above all, I want not your soul nor your willing flesh sinuous and shimmering. I want what can never be taken, never be replaced. I want you, as you have never been, as you will never be again. I want dissolution. I want abject capitulation. The melding of our coin into new currency. I want it this night. I want it forever more.
As the hour draws near, my desire surges for soil, that alluvial stain, damp as damp to be, those soft domains moonly refulgent, this indolent night of sweet grass and bowed flower, of pleated skirt and willful thigh. I need this place of ghostly sighs rising from parted lips, of teeth bare before nature and eyes scarred of fallen stars. I ache to know your tidal gravity, to shiver warm and cold with celsius pleasure, that snug seduction known to finger and glove. This fit, this fullness, this silty rush of life, this crashing of you into me, our world as changed as the boy upon the breast. I want muddy earth between my fingers, the pungent flowering of my shoulder, lust in the tremor of calf, the impaling of nails, this seeking of blood, to rip open, to expose and reveal to the heavens what heretofore has been hidden. I need this last freedom released, unbound and given flight. I want not your soul nor your flesh sinuous and shimmering. It is not in the hour, or minute nor second that I seek, but this eternal imprint of memory stained in the act of dissolution, abject capitulation, the melding of coin into new currency.
Showing posts with label Trev. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Trev. Show all posts
Monday, January 10, 2011
Thursday, January 06, 2011
803. tomorrow, we leave
We sit before the picture window, robed, eyes full of sleep. The house is empty of sound. A warmness in dawn, of the silent view before us growing. Two cardinals flit, as if for us, a private ballet. We don’t talk. There is no need. Her hand reaches for mine. She smiles, takes a sip of coffee, her eyes over the rim looking at me in the way of eyes emerging from still water. It is quiet like that and I can tell from the tilt of her head, the squint of her looking, the grasp of her fingers, all is right. And the day looks brighter.
Later, we walk to the lake to take in a final view. Not so much to look as to breath, to know the air of fawn and fauna. Flowers everywhere, open, shamelessly exposed. Each breath full of this flora, infusing lungs and memory. Tomorrow we leave, replacing the blue sky for inky darkness, the soft earth under our feet for cold metal. It is as if we are leaving life. Even gravity seems reluctant.
Again she takes my hand. Holding tighter this time and I know this turning of page, this closing of chapter. She knows too. The unknown of space before us made more acute by the lack of space between us. We have, as two roots, grown together, unseen to others but by evidence of bough and branch, a shine as wind in our leaves. We glitter. Catching light in a thousand ways, fragments of moments seen mostly by contrast.
The sun rises above the trees now and the lake shimmers away the last wisps of mauvish mallow. Everywhere, as not before, gentle sound. She closes her eyes. Breaths deep. And I watch her lean her head into the warmth of day. Her hand still holds mine. Her fingers moist in our heat. We mix this way such that what is hers and what is mine seems the wrong question just as mother and child to be are both two and one at the same time. I kiss her cheek. She smiles without opening her eyes.
Neither of us wants to leave this place of birth, of root so firmly grown. The fear of the gardener. Of transplanting. Will it take? Are we more than this place of tranquility?
Later, we walk to the lake to take in a final view. Not so much to look as to breath, to know the air of fawn and fauna. Flowers everywhere, open, shamelessly exposed. Each breath full of this flora, infusing lungs and memory. Tomorrow we leave, replacing the blue sky for inky darkness, the soft earth under our feet for cold metal. It is as if we are leaving life. Even gravity seems reluctant.
Again she takes my hand. Holding tighter this time and I know this turning of page, this closing of chapter. She knows too. The unknown of space before us made more acute by the lack of space between us. We have, as two roots, grown together, unseen to others but by evidence of bough and branch, a shine as wind in our leaves. We glitter. Catching light in a thousand ways, fragments of moments seen mostly by contrast.
The sun rises above the trees now and the lake shimmers away the last wisps of mauvish mallow. Everywhere, as not before, gentle sound. She closes her eyes. Breaths deep. And I watch her lean her head into the warmth of day. Her hand still holds mine. Her fingers moist in our heat. We mix this way such that what is hers and what is mine seems the wrong question just as mother and child to be are both two and one at the same time. I kiss her cheek. She smiles without opening her eyes.
Neither of us wants to leave this place of birth, of root so firmly grown. The fear of the gardener. Of transplanting. Will it take? Are we more than this place of tranquility?
Thursday, October 28, 2010
792. water and fish and such
I would say you mean the world to me but that would be like a fish saying that water was important.
Overheard, Trev to Em
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
791. and out the door
Continuation of Trev's last journal entry:
When she leaves and the smell of her is still upon the air, still in the room of kitchen warm, what flows into my vacuum is as a dam opened. And waters rise. To know of flooding, of how it comes and cannot be stopped, to know of nature in this way is to know of passion and desire unleashed by her absence. I ask not for this. Seek not this force of want and need just as one seeks not the hunger between meals or the thirst between drink. She has become necessary. Vital. I bloom in the sunshine of her smile. And although wilt is too strong a word, I am not the same when she is gone.
So she leaves, as she must. And the hours slow, the cottage silent but for ticking clocks. In this way I know of two times. The time of her and the time not of her. They are not the same and this is where I know math will not explain the universe, cannot manage the ticking of a heart or comprehend the seeking of a soul for union. Too, I know the essence of oneness by its breaking, for that is how it feels when she leaves, a breaking of wholeness into pieces and the feeling is of incompleteness and where before with two legs I could run, now with one, nothing is the same, every step a hop, a struggle and where before there was grace and elegance and dance, now there is only longing and sitting and waiting.
When she leaves and the smell of her is still upon the air, still in the room of kitchen warm, what flows into my vacuum is as a dam opened. And waters rise. To know of flooding, of how it comes and cannot be stopped, to know of nature in this way is to know of passion and desire unleashed by her absence. I ask not for this. Seek not this force of want and need just as one seeks not the hunger between meals or the thirst between drink. She has become necessary. Vital. I bloom in the sunshine of her smile. And although wilt is too strong a word, I am not the same when she is gone.
So she leaves, as she must. And the hours slow, the cottage silent but for ticking clocks. In this way I know of two times. The time of her and the time not of her. They are not the same and this is where I know math will not explain the universe, cannot manage the ticking of a heart or comprehend the seeking of a soul for union. Too, I know the essence of oneness by its breaking, for that is how it feels when she leaves, a breaking of wholeness into pieces and the feeling is of incompleteness and where before with two legs I could run, now with one, nothing is the same, every step a hop, a struggle and where before there was grace and elegance and dance, now there is only longing and sitting and waiting.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
790. through the door
Trev's journal . . .
She walks through the door and what happens next is hard to explain. It starts with a look, of eyes that see only the moment, that see from someplace known not of sight or touch or any sense. The eyes look as if the soul is looking, as one looks for what was lost and is now found; and what is seen is raw, naked, without artifice, without facade or agenda, pure as hammered sweat upon the rail. The seeing is felt as one feels water when swimming or diving, as from the bottom looking up and all around beams of light refract minnows among beige and blue. The looking is of life alive, of a train coming to station in the night, inevitable, of a wait ended, ending, of a journey about to begin, of time and watches jettisoned or stopped or broken or just not applicable. Everything fades and vision is as sunlight, which is to say everywhere and nowhere all at once. Most of all, past and future exit. The looking is pure present. And what flows forth, time and time again, day after day, only grows, deepens--and this belies explanation, as looking seems afresh, new, like every day was the first day of school, every kiss the first date, every hug as a hug a thousand days out.
The above was crossed out. No date given as to revision.
She walks through the door and what happens next is hard to explain. It starts with a look, of eyes that see only the moment, that see from someplace known not of light and shadow or form and shape. They look as if the soul is looking and what is sought is not something other nor something of human hand or mind. She is the math we are yet to know.
Upon the distance closed, within musket range one might say, the things of this world slip from bound and moor and past and future fade with all earthly delusions. Gravity, too, treads not on this sacred ground, this place of harp and wing, of skies beyond the pale blue of terrestrial life.
There is breathing, to and from, warm, heated between lips tender in desire not of body or mind but in union of what once was, before sight, before thought. And light blurs as with speed, as through a portal of life in reverse, of childhood, of birth, womb, and then, weightlessness. There is nothing heavy of this place. And there is nothing separate. The moment is eternal. The feeling is of home, of a place known just beyond our consciousness.
She walks through the door and what happens next is hard to explain. It starts with a look, of eyes that see only the moment, that see from someplace known not of sight or touch or any sense. The eyes look as if the soul is looking, as one looks for what was lost and is now found; and what is seen is raw, naked, without artifice, without facade or agenda, pure as hammered sweat upon the rail. The seeing is felt as one feels water when swimming or diving, as from the bottom looking up and all around beams of light refract minnows among beige and blue. The looking is of life alive, of a train coming to station in the night, inevitable, of a wait ended, ending, of a journey about to begin, of time and watches jettisoned or stopped or broken or just not applicable. Everything fades and vision is as sunlight, which is to say everywhere and nowhere all at once. Most of all, past and future exit. The looking is pure present. And what flows forth, time and time again, day after day, only grows, deepens--and this belies explanation, as looking seems afresh, new, like every day was the first day of school, every kiss the first date, every hug as a hug a thousand days out.
The above was crossed out. No date given as to revision.
She walks through the door and what happens next is hard to explain. It starts with a look, of eyes that see only the moment, that see from someplace known not of light and shadow or form and shape. They look as if the soul is looking and what is sought is not something other nor something of human hand or mind. She is the math we are yet to know.
Upon the distance closed, within musket range one might say, the things of this world slip from bound and moor and past and future fade with all earthly delusions. Gravity, too, treads not on this sacred ground, this place of harp and wing, of skies beyond the pale blue of terrestrial life.
There is breathing, to and from, warm, heated between lips tender in desire not of body or mind but in union of what once was, before sight, before thought. And light blurs as with speed, as through a portal of life in reverse, of childhood, of birth, womb, and then, weightlessness. There is nothing heavy of this place. And there is nothing separate. The moment is eternal. The feeling is of home, of a place known just beyond our consciousness.
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
789. near and far
Sigh. Miss you too. Want and need you. I am not the same without your arms around me and your lips upon mine as starlight on the ocean glittered. I need of your smell, of hair and shampoo, of neck and nape, soft of the day, of you within me by breath. I need the fit of you against me as if in all the world there is no other to my half, no salvation but through you. You live in me, near and far. But I need you near, as a diver diving needs air, again, soon. Let me know when we can talk. When I can hear of your day and know you are okay.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
784. rounding the bend
They rounded the bend, the lake as coffee before the quiet rising sun. Trev sat upon a boulder and begin to write. Em stood behind, watching over his shoulder, occasionally kissing the top of his head. The cottage was a pastel blur from across the water and only the sound of birds accompanied the sound of his pen on paper, a sound Em had come to love, a sound unlike any other. When he finished, he tore the sheet from his notebook and handed it to her. With bowed head, she walked to the edge of the lake, soaking in the spaces between the words, swimming in his vision of present and future, of them as an us, of life blooming as only they knew it to bloom. She would later say, nothing was ever the same again.
I love you dearly. Miss you like crazy when you leave the room. Can think of nothing else but your arms, your lips, our home humming with activity, the energy positive as sun. I need to swim in your eyes and wade between your legs within that dewy blossom pink and red, tight and taut. I need to see your hair flow like rivers over the pillow as your cheeks arch before my kisses sweet. I want you in ways that would make you blush and take the words from your tongue and throw them out the window. I want you speechless of lip and expressive of face when you are asked of coffee, of us, of sheets that sing in morning light. Most of all, I want you pregnant. With our baby. I want to make you pregnant, to paint your world with colors you don't even know exist. I want you to know joy and happiness not as some occasion here and there, but as something abnormal by absence. I want you to know love, my love, as from a well everlasting, bottomless, of water cool and fresh on summer days. I want to walk us among maple leaves and stare upon the sky blue of winter to come, of autumn rustling, of hands held warm. I want your lips in the crisp of winter and your breath as plume upon me before bird and branch. I miss you. I want you. What more can I say.
love
Trev
I love you dearly. Miss you like crazy when you leave the room. Can think of nothing else but your arms, your lips, our home humming with activity, the energy positive as sun. I need to swim in your eyes and wade between your legs within that dewy blossom pink and red, tight and taut. I need to see your hair flow like rivers over the pillow as your cheeks arch before my kisses sweet. I want you in ways that would make you blush and take the words from your tongue and throw them out the window. I want you speechless of lip and expressive of face when you are asked of coffee, of us, of sheets that sing in morning light. Most of all, I want you pregnant. With our baby. I want to make you pregnant, to paint your world with colors you don't even know exist. I want you to know joy and happiness not as some occasion here and there, but as something abnormal by absence. I want you to know love, my love, as from a well everlasting, bottomless, of water cool and fresh on summer days. I want to walk us among maple leaves and stare upon the sky blue of winter to come, of autumn rustling, of hands held warm. I want your lips in the crisp of winter and your breath as plume upon me before bird and branch. I miss you. I want you. What more can I say.
love
Trev
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
783. just walking
Papa: What would you like to do today?
Kyra: Take a walk on the beach.
Papa: I’d like that. Anything else?
Kyra: Nope. Just you and I.
________
Em: We’ve been walking for close to an hour now and you’ve not said a word. What’s up?
Trev: Nothing’s up.
Em: Really?
Trev: You know, sometimes, I don’t want words between us. I just want your hand, your smile and the quiet of the two of us, walking, slowly.
__________
Yul: Hey Rog, want to go for a walk?
Rog: What for?
Yul: What do you mean “what for?”
Rog: Well, where are we going?
Yul: For a walk.
Rog: I know that.
Yul: No, I don’t think you do.
Kyra: Take a walk on the beach.
Papa: I’d like that. Anything else?
Kyra: Nope. Just you and I.
________
Em: We’ve been walking for close to an hour now and you’ve not said a word. What’s up?
Trev: Nothing’s up.
Em: Really?
Trev: You know, sometimes, I don’t want words between us. I just want your hand, your smile and the quiet of the two of us, walking, slowly.
__________
Yul: Hey Rog, want to go for a walk?
Rog: What for?
Yul: What do you mean “what for?”
Rog: Well, where are we going?
Yul: For a walk.
Rog: I know that.
Yul: No, I don’t think you do.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
781. don't sigh me
Well, it is what it is and then it is what you think of it, said Trev.
What the hell does that mean? asked Em.
I think you think too much of things that were and things that never had a grounding beyond imagination.
Really? Is that what you think? You think my eyes deceived me? You think I don’t see what is not said between looks and touches?
No, I’m just saying there is nothing.
Look at me. I know nothing. Lived with nothing for a long time. And what I see, ain’t nothing.
Sigh.
Don’t sigh me.
What the hell does that mean? asked Em.
I think you think too much of things that were and things that never had a grounding beyond imagination.
Really? Is that what you think? You think my eyes deceived me? You think I don’t see what is not said between looks and touches?
No, I’m just saying there is nothing.
Look at me. I know nothing. Lived with nothing for a long time. And what I see, ain’t nothing.
Sigh.
Don’t sigh me.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Thursday, June 03, 2010
774. round the campfire
They sat the campfire for the longest time before Kyra spoke. Read to us Trev. Let us know not of word but of song. Standing with eyes but for Em, he opened his notebook and began to read. Those that were there said later, perhaps it was the night, perhaps the flicking fire upon his face, but as the words rolled forth, something changed and the Trevor they knew was from that moment, but memory.
from the notebook of Trev, a reading:
The house is quiet but for my thoughts. The sky, grey, and the feeling the same, the world colorless without her. I cannot explain this stark dichotomy. Sledgehammer blunt. All or nothing. Light or dark. And what pounds is a longing within my chest to hold and be held, to again luxuriate in her arms as in a warm bath, for that is how it feels, this peace, of a calmness such that comes after a storm, when the air is clean and crisp and the grass bejeweled of recent rain.
I want to walk in the light of her eyes and to know what it is to be looked upon as she looks, as salve and succor to my pains. And there too is reaching without asking, as two old trees our hands branch toward the other and fingers twine a firm warmth beyond my ability to explain. So I look, and perhaps think upon it too much, for I know it is not the holding or lacing or twining for no other hand would do what her hand does, would reach effortlessly into the heart's uncharted terrain and walk therein so freely, as if home, as if always home it was. No it is not the holding and this is why the eye seems so limited, for how to explain what is seen is not what is witnessed or experienced or known? The tongue seems lost, in retreat of a force known within and this, I say, is how it is, this audible click of a puzzle of two, fitting within as the view without.
How to say how one lives in the other, where thought is synchronized simultaneously and where two hearts beat but one is heard, where to separate is to take what is one and make it two and therein lies the pain as surely as there is pain in the breaking of souls grown together. And breathing changes, for how can it not when the life of one is the life of the other and where there is but one, nothing is as it was, nothing the same, a bleeding I would say, a bleeding out of hue, of color as if the very heart itself in protest or melancholy pumps less.
She is somewhere, this very moment. And her beauty is seen by eyes not my own, the lilt of her voice heard beyond my walls upon ears I know, know not the melody of joy I cannot live without. And I praise fate while cursing the same as every clock an enemy, every tick a reminder that the day once lived is lived never more. So I sigh or more so it seems, something within me sighs and I feel it, my soul. I feel it within me as I have never felt before. And this is where they come, these sighs. And they come like waves upon the thought, of a clock ticking, of her sight unseen, her touch unfelt, her whisper lost on the miles for even a stone's throw is too far as too the hour too short.
I am in the hands of something greater than myself. And there is life in me as if reborn to the world for that is how it is. Nothing looks the same, sounds the same, tastes the same. And all my years are but nothing against this tide of her and I feel as helpless as the shore to resist what is coming.
from the notebook of Trev, a reading:
The house is quiet but for my thoughts. The sky, grey, and the feeling the same, the world colorless without her. I cannot explain this stark dichotomy. Sledgehammer blunt. All or nothing. Light or dark. And what pounds is a longing within my chest to hold and be held, to again luxuriate in her arms as in a warm bath, for that is how it feels, this peace, of a calmness such that comes after a storm, when the air is clean and crisp and the grass bejeweled of recent rain.
I want to walk in the light of her eyes and to know what it is to be looked upon as she looks, as salve and succor to my pains. And there too is reaching without asking, as two old trees our hands branch toward the other and fingers twine a firm warmth beyond my ability to explain. So I look, and perhaps think upon it too much, for I know it is not the holding or lacing or twining for no other hand would do what her hand does, would reach effortlessly into the heart's uncharted terrain and walk therein so freely, as if home, as if always home it was. No it is not the holding and this is why the eye seems so limited, for how to explain what is seen is not what is witnessed or experienced or known? The tongue seems lost, in retreat of a force known within and this, I say, is how it is, this audible click of a puzzle of two, fitting within as the view without.
How to say how one lives in the other, where thought is synchronized simultaneously and where two hearts beat but one is heard, where to separate is to take what is one and make it two and therein lies the pain as surely as there is pain in the breaking of souls grown together. And breathing changes, for how can it not when the life of one is the life of the other and where there is but one, nothing is as it was, nothing the same, a bleeding I would say, a bleeding out of hue, of color as if the very heart itself in protest or melancholy pumps less.
She is somewhere, this very moment. And her beauty is seen by eyes not my own, the lilt of her voice heard beyond my walls upon ears I know, know not the melody of joy I cannot live without. And I praise fate while cursing the same as every clock an enemy, every tick a reminder that the day once lived is lived never more. So I sigh or more so it seems, something within me sighs and I feel it, my soul. I feel it within me as I have never felt before. And this is where they come, these sighs. And they come like waves upon the thought, of a clock ticking, of her sight unseen, her touch unfelt, her whisper lost on the miles for even a stone's throw is too far as too the hour too short.
I am in the hands of something greater than myself. And there is life in me as if reborn to the world for that is how it is. Nothing looks the same, sounds the same, tastes the same. And all my years are but nothing against this tide of her and I feel as helpless as the shore to resist what is coming.
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
773. of nothing I have known
She runs in my veins. Intoxicates me. Alters perception. And time is of nothing I have known, when she is around. I know this by fact and absence, like one knows day by night and night by day. Every sense of her plays a dance on my neurons, my brain afire of sight and sound, smell and touch such that now, I say even now, just the thought is all to stir my chemical high, to touch the chemistry in me with nary pin nor needle. This is how she moves, how she plays with my soul as the wind through the trees and like ice it is when she leaves and I shutter and shake in withdrawal, the sense so strong as to be matters of report, of chills so violent no fire can warm what she alone has touched. I am beyond return and what has been healed can heal no more. I live with ache full sore, of muscle rope tight in gale and the billow of canvas screaming in strain of horizon, of light, of the moment she returns to fill again my veins with her sweet poison.
found in Trev's notebook
date unknown
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
772. the page
Later that night and unable to sleep, Yul found Trev on the porch. Tell me how it is she asked. He looked at her for awhile and then begin to write. Upon finishing, he handed her the page. She read, then wept. Although they sat till morn, nothing more was said between them.
The page:
How to say it. The sound of her breathing has ruined music for me. Nothing sounds of heaven as her rising chest. And what before, is now but earthbound dust. This is how it is when I say everything has changed. And if I were to say of her, opium, neither this nor that could I deny how the very blood of me courses through the narrows of her touch. And the fit of curve on curve is as canyon to river, of one from the other, each as to the other as light to day and star to night for what am I without her. Nothing. Nothing without her. So when I say she is the very breath within my lungs, the light greening my leaves, and her kisses, so hummingbird like in the giving and taking, so delicate as to make her very eyes appear as dream, then this and only this I say is how it is, for the act itself is untranslatable.
The page:
How to say it. The sound of her breathing has ruined music for me. Nothing sounds of heaven as her rising chest. And what before, is now but earthbound dust. This is how it is when I say everything has changed. And if I were to say of her, opium, neither this nor that could I deny how the very blood of me courses through the narrows of her touch. And the fit of curve on curve is as canyon to river, of one from the other, each as to the other as light to day and star to night for what am I without her. Nothing. Nothing without her. So when I say she is the very breath within my lungs, the light greening my leaves, and her kisses, so hummingbird like in the giving and taking, so delicate as to make her very eyes appear as dream, then this and only this I say is how it is, for the act itself is untranslatable.
771. natural ease
You guys sit an awful lot, but I see no talking, sometimes no touching. What the hellocks is that? asked Rog.
Not sure how to explain it, said Trev. In a word, breathing. We sit with the natural ease of breathing.
Breathing? You two just sit and breathe? Is that it?
Trev sighed. Yes and no. When we are together, when we sit side by side, it just is, it just happens, and it is like the breath, the very essence of life and there is no need, no desire, and certainly no thought of adding anything to what is already complete.
You know what I think. I think you're full of bullshite.
Trev smiled. I wasn't finished.
Well, by all means, continue.
Ease such there is no need to tell of it, to profane it with translation.
_______
So what did Trev say, asked Yul.
Nothing, replied Rog.
So all that talking I saw was nothing?
Yep.
Really?
Nothing but gibberish. I think the boy is on drugs.
Yul says something under her breath.
What did you say?
I said I'd like to be on that drug.
Rog just stared. Yul stared back. Dinner was quiet, but not nearly as quiet as the night.
Not sure how to explain it, said Trev. In a word, breathing. We sit with the natural ease of breathing.
Breathing? You two just sit and breathe? Is that it?
Trev sighed. Yes and no. When we are together, when we sit side by side, it just is, it just happens, and it is like the breath, the very essence of life and there is no need, no desire, and certainly no thought of adding anything to what is already complete.
You know what I think. I think you're full of bullshite.
Trev smiled. I wasn't finished.
Well, by all means, continue.
Ease such there is no need to tell of it, to profane it with translation.
_______
So what did Trev say, asked Yul.
Nothing, replied Rog.
So all that talking I saw was nothing?
Yep.
Really?
Nothing but gibberish. I think the boy is on drugs.
Yul says something under her breath.
What did you say?
I said I'd like to be on that drug.
Rog just stared. Yul stared back. Dinner was quiet, but not nearly as quiet as the night.
Friday, May 28, 2010
770. as hue to petal
as hue
to petal
as warmth
to ray
home
in
your
arms
drifting
beyond
shore's
sight
voices
once heard
but
seen
this place
of
quiet
lapping
warm
sun
beyond
words
beyond
endless
discourse
in
your
arms
Yul put the poem down, a solitary stain falling upon parchment.
to petal
as warmth
to ray
home
in
your
arms
drifting
beyond
shore's
sight
voices
once heard
but
seen
this place
of
quiet
lapping
warm
sun
beyond
words
beyond
endless
discourse
in
your
arms
Yul put the poem down, a solitary stain falling upon parchment.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
769. eating apples
I'm eating an apple and thinking you might be too. Such a simple thought brings me great joy. If you can understand that then I think you have some inkling of what you mean to me.
Text message Trev sent to Em from the banks of the lake
768. once black, now bright
Her lips heal wounds seen not of eye, felt not of hand, known not other than tear streaked pain. And in her arms, salvation, light, a future once black, now bright.
Can you understand that asked Trev.
Rog looked at him judging the proper response.
You don't, do you?
I'm sorry Trev. Just don't really get it.
Trev sighed. Rog looked away. Nothing more was said.
Can you understand that asked Trev.
Rog looked at him judging the proper response.
You don't, do you?
I'm sorry Trev. Just don't really get it.
Trev sighed. Rog looked away. Nothing more was said.
Friday, May 21, 2010
767. the others
I want to go into town he said. To a cafe, one with an outdoor patio to the street. And I want to sit there with you, just us, and watch people walk by.
She smiled and said okay.
But that is not really why he added.
Oh?
I want to hold your hand.
Again she smiled.
And I want to kiss you.
You know we can do that here.
We could, but then I wouldn't be able to see the others.
What others?
The others looking at us.
Really?
You know that look, that smile, the kind one has when walking into the sun. I want to see that; and too, to give that, to give those smiles. You know we can do that.
She sighed and opened her arms. Then let's go.
She smiled and said okay.
But that is not really why he added.
Oh?
I want to hold your hand.
Again she smiled.
And I want to kiss you.
You know we can do that here.
We could, but then I wouldn't be able to see the others.
What others?
The others looking at us.
Really?
You know that look, that smile, the kind one has when walking into the sun. I want to see that; and too, to give that, to give those smiles. You know we can do that.
She sighed and opened her arms. Then let's go.
Friday, May 07, 2010
764. beyond compromise
Breathe this air, she said. Beyond compromise. There is no other way to know me. There is no other door. So breathe.
They sat this way before the lake, holding hands, synchronizing hearts. The rhythm of nature fading into the rhythm of that place, beyond compromise, beyond language, beyond the machinery of thought, of sense, of perception. Just light. Just pure light.
They sat this way before the lake, holding hands, synchronizing hearts. The rhythm of nature fading into the rhythm of that place, beyond compromise, beyond language, beyond the machinery of thought, of sense, of perception. Just light. Just pure light.
763. sitting with the morning
As Em slept, Trev slipped down to the lake with pen and pad and sat the morning as the turtles near by. He began to write:
I am a child before her smile and in her arms feel no need to go anywhere, to do anything but be, exist, float, the connection to life, to living, so strong. And as I watch the flowers swaying I feel a kinship I've never known and the separation between body and mind slips away and there is a feeling of peace that I can only describe as floating upon a summer lake, in the mountains, with nary a sound or song outside of cardinals and sparrows and, perhaps, a nightingale.
I am a child before her smile and in her arms feel no need to go anywhere, to do anything but be, exist, float, the connection to life, to living, so strong. And as I watch the flowers swaying I feel a kinship I've never known and the separation between body and mind slips away and there is a feeling of peace that I can only describe as floating upon a summer lake, in the mountains, with nary a sound or song outside of cardinals and sparrows and, perhaps, a nightingale.
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