Love and sex are two
forest roads divergent, entwined, like parabolic pathways which ideally overlap. One soil is deeper depending on how it rained
the day or three decades before, building up caked ambrosias and vernaculars of
how one discusses human insides. The
caulked window pane places, the epidermal flaking assortments, the bedrooms we
leave particles of ourselves, ones we want to return, flee, morn departure in
the ache.
We think about
photographs of ecstasy in a mental pornography library, catalogs rapt of tea
cup servings of areola, thigh stiff, a curve at the rise in a hip socket
arching like a slide. We feel it again
in that canyon where sex and love start discussing terms of “What is this?” “What are we doing here? When is this something else, that physical
gratification merging wood? When do
rivers converge and leave one gasping inside the mouth of a lover’s kiss like
the only air tank? When does a
passionate tongue mean that increment of elsewhere, that glade of emotional flowering
where we quake peach, lick fuzz, and drip fruits juices from ravishing to
indentured?”
Love is that space
of unable that allowance of vulnerability where the body becomes a portal
awakening a path of questions that demands being addressed. Love is midnight, a wolf and a human standing
in a street, world alive, and inviting the animal into one’s home. Love is trying to balance embracing the very
beast that you know can rip you apart, but chooses not to. You trust that balance because becoming a
lover is to become a reciprocal being.
You are the wolf in their sheets, biting and howling and you feel as
powerless as you make them feel in the incisors behind their heart. Without the threat of loss, the wager risked,
there is no love, only one being or both munching.
Love
busts, forcing one to digest season, accept the unsettled, and give
self-permission to close dissecting what transpired rather than expect the
other to participate in closure. We feel
a chunk of humanity, an uncanny morsel identified as native rare and the point
of participating in the Circus. The
audience infected with popcorn butter hand in bag to mouth churning until
staring at the remnant un-popped kernels forlorn. There is monotony to ritual, of seeing what
is expected, the boxes people fit in, the puff of the kernel, digested, tasted
as per usual. This one didn’t taste that
way. One tries to understand why or how. It hurts, simply hurts, in the gut pent
forest of being a human.
We
delve into what is in a given or a series of moments to tap behind the veil,
that fantastical second form of being, all the surface cake batter and
developing polaroid flapping in between the fingers of it all. We feel a ghost, a broom sweep, however brief
or elongated, an impactful personal connection.
Not always a linear cumulative mass, but the potential a human being
shows. A certain inexplicable way one
wishes to be acknowledged, an inkling one did not become insane for having
sensed, to not feel like the humanity of the situation got commercialized like
a credit card swipe or some wrap-it-up thirty-minute television situational
drama flashback way of living.
Characters
replaying roles, lines of do not cross, of delectable appetizers and entrees of
certain death. I know I am going to hurt
you; I have seen how this plays out in my head, fair warnings to paint the
picture before it paints itself.
Monogamy and commitment starvation camps process vampiric thirsts to
escape, to extract a self and find bloody oxygen outside of obligation to show
up in what the other thinks you are or wants you to be. Rather be alone, even if lonely than embalmed
behind the cornea of the other.
Opening
up has a temporal scab nature, figuring out crossroads in a recycled
serendipity taste test. Beading love and
seeing a being on a native level, to feel on par, to say, “I felt on par.” To sit in those words, wear them. Take the cap off the telescope, see the
shrapnel, trauma, and nature; each needs to see the other first before
admitting feelings. Seeing each other
the way a subject poses for a sculptor from the tendon out to the skin. Love is allowing oneself to be
witnessed. The small and deadly poison
of reading a post script “I am starting to have feelings for you.” A winless
gambit, a tripped explosive, stuck with the bomb when the timer goes off.
Cars
collide, hit and run, palm over eye socket, mouth attempting a cell phone. One sped well out of range. Hope inside a
bubble about the way a person makes one feel to simply talk, to feel alive
around a specific human being as possible in dual appreciation, to feel on
par. Sections of an internal factory
activating, interfacing in contemplation about what love is, not in confines to
a specific human but to explore loving the universe through art in varied
mediums and try to drink that daring cup of being present and stare the bigness
and fullness of what maybe life is.
Inspire
one to the audacity to whisper the word safe.
Oozed and melted like a molted crab out of the water unsure why one even
tried natural language. Repackaging and
hardening a shell. Reputations to
maintain and stories of identity we tell ourselves. Cracking that inch of dawn and balancing the
submission to a departure in a confounding pang.
Fear
of ever attempting love again, to open the room. Sex is direct and easy. Pre-packaged intimacy illusion, peaceful
penis, vagina, skin, lovely consensual play, but the masks, the galleries of
masks we build… We begin to believe love
requires delusions that are only feasible in temporal mutable seasons;
permanence is a subjective cog in clockwork hearts subject to rust.
We
go down a path of barricading love, not because of pain or hurt, but because
love itself becomes an illusion. The
biological opiates and tricks we engage of picking any specific person are
arbitrary and circumstantial; the acrobatics to perpetuate distortions of
monogamy after such summersaults even more so and often poisonous to true
growth if done with blinders. If that
spirit felt was figment, a distortion of whimsy then maybe life is that
quotidian and plastic and maybe life is just brain circuits firing images on a
screen, this whole realm of spiritual connection of greater universe atheist
bones war with the what-is-in-the-marrow.
Love becomes leukemia in such ways.
Engaging
in the entire universe becomes the only mathematical solution, because if this
was created out of nothingness, a platter of tangible reality to craft art or
the spark of intimacy or sex or life and that was such light graphite to lift
off the page, then this Jedi-monastic distancing artistic meditative pool may
be all there is, the closest truth. Even
sex giving that orgasmic act to another human being, seeing feminine shiver
quake vibrating one after the other or that halo-like reverberating orgasm of
releasing manhood, if that doesn’t go anywhere, meaning if there is no
potential keyed locket to an infiniteness of the universe beyond that available
in certain parting cloud rainbow like sparked cataclysmic intersections given
rare chemistry and physics, like some biological combination humanity keeps
attempting and failing and succeeding even on some base level of the random
hookup to peek behind the curtain of holy shit what the hell is this, my god I
must tongue new language…then what? What
point is there, just the animalistic detour, however fun and hedonistic,
joyously entertaining? Eventually the
crestfallen nature of endorphins whets the stones that nests inside us all to
inquire before the vibration’s bell curve flat-lines.
We
meet people; we approach. On eclipse
occasion we feel that infinite window open inside our vertex, and we question,
“What just happened? Was that something
more, not was that person something more, but the whole deal the pathway, the
opening the room that happened in that combination in that moment is what we
sense through that corridor the something more?” We process the iterations believing and
doubting and realizing the interconnected nature of all reality if we are lucky
enough to muster faith in such a courageous perception.
People
are conduits, not destinations. There
are no musts, no mandatories. Sex and
love, the whole bath is a numbing agent to specificity for the ecstasy of
universality, but for brief windows we are challenged to see the entire universe
through a specific human in a seasonal light that the stars, fate, whatever you
want to call it set into one’s path not because of a confinement or an
encapsulation in who the other presents, but the portal, the thoroughfare, the
flowing river to the sky aspect, the wanting to show the other the rainbow
bridge in one’s self on par to offer at least some season of what you were put
here to create as an artist, provide, allow the other to be and create, and
possibly love as a divine being, maybe to ride each other in that violet indigo
stellar rain for a painted inhalation and exhalation if mutually elected or
maybe love and sex are nothing.
Maybe
love was for a prism of colors hazed in liquid sunshine ephemeral flittering
between a space of shifting clouds soaked in the reactive sweat of bodies in
proximity. Maybe love and sex were
nothing but mist. The lucidity
maddening, not the pane of feelings, but the potential, how clear one thought
one saw a human. One feels that
audacious pin prick, where whoever they are, whatever this was strikes with
native amperage that jolts veins in a way one struggles to dissipate. You feel foolish and
stupid, childish, and naïve like a son looking up to the black sparkling canopy
with his father and the elder saying, “No son they are just stars. We are just skin and bones. There is nothing more than this.”
It
makes one want to give up natural language to explore and attempt to discuss
that honeycomb quagmire of what that does to insides, the struggle to dismiss,
like trying to cease the vibration in a sun.
The light has to starve itself out into a cold sterile place. Drinking what being human is and that last
phantasmal coffee taste of release a bit bitter, but savory long on the tongue
and ultimately swallowed.
