There is a place between my gut and my heart that hunches my shoulders whenever it longs to connect on a deeper level. I've used the strumming of a guitar or the tone of a voice to relieve the guard around my emotions.
But then it isn't enough anymore and I'm left raw, hands cupped, holding vivid images of people from my past.
It isn't easy to touch them in my mind alone, and sometimes I wonder if I am supposed to remember them at all. It doesn't seem right that I should relive pieces of their lives without consent. But I guess we all do that. I'm not as separate as I think I am.
_________
"You don't belong among pretty things," he told me.
I kissed the patch of white skin below his eye.
He picked up the guitar and stretched the skin that had been grafted onto his hand sometime before I met him. I spread my legs across the thin plaid fabric on the couch and tucked my feet under his crossed leg. It was Saturday night and we had nothing better to do than hide in his house with our demons.
A voice like rain drizzling on a parked car filled the living room. He tried to tuck a loose dreadlock behind an ear that wasn't there. I relaxed and let a damaged spirit escape a beautiful body.
This had to be the place I was born...in a house where neither of us cared if the lights were on. He was physically scarred, carrying a dead wife and child in his heart. I hid my damage behind flawless skin and taut muscle.
I needed to show my ugliness. He needed to feel beautiful sitting next to someone else.
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Monday, December 10, 2007
Saturday, December 8, 2007
White Wicker and Wrought Iron
He stood on the front porch and professed his love in a long winded curse. The words, ready to be spat, sat on my tongue. I took it in; the white wicker, the wrought-iron railings, the gardenias, and shook my addiction.
The wind burrowed under the hairs on my arms, created a cold the shivers couldn’t disperse. Had it been that long ago that I left myself to the elements, walking into the hot damp of a New Orleans’ summer night? Yet again, I found myself exposed, my life lugged around in a green backpack, orbiting to the only place I knew to go when the moon hung low in the sky.
"You shaved your head." I hung my bag on the hook above the arranged row of sneakers.
"What do you think?" Van rubbed a hand down his smooth head to his sleepy eye.
"Makes you look too tough," I said. He looked splintered. The untreated curls had always masked the self-inflicted pain behind his eyes.
He arched his back, stretched his lean belly muscles. "You’re a softy under all that garb," he chuckled. "I’m going back to bed. There’s towels in the bathroom if you want to shower." Van followed me to the back of the house and swatted me on the rear before dodging into his room.
I stripped my clothes and dropped them to the floor. I stared at the long skirt, the tights, the torn Sonic Youth tee; studied them, then scooped them up and sat behind the door. I mixed them into the pile of jerseys and ribbed white tanks, tucked the tights under a pair of Girbaud’s.
Van cracked open the door. I shrunk against the wall in embarrassment.
"Crys?"
"Yeah?"
"I’m glad you’re home." The door shut.
In the shower, scrubbing the numbness from my skin, wincing with soap in my eyes, I whispered, "Me, too."
I rolled Rico to the cold side of the bed before getting in.
"Did you dry your hair?"
"Sort of," I lied.
"Get the towel." he pushed himself up and leaned against the headboard.
I sat between his legs, covers wrapped around our waists, while he rubbed the length of my hair between the towel.
"Will I see you in the morning?"
I picked at a loose thread on the quilt I made for him two birthdays ago. "I need to be here a while."
He wrung my hair out in the towel one last time before dropping it over the side of the bed. Under the covers, my nose pressed into the pillow, a soft kiss lingering on the nape of my neck, I thought about the white wicker, the wrought-iron railings, the gardenias, and saw them for what they were; chipped, rusted, and wilted.
The wind burrowed under the hairs on my arms, created a cold the shivers couldn’t disperse. Had it been that long ago that I left myself to the elements, walking into the hot damp of a New Orleans’ summer night? Yet again, I found myself exposed, my life lugged around in a green backpack, orbiting to the only place I knew to go when the moon hung low in the sky.
"You shaved your head." I hung my bag on the hook above the arranged row of sneakers.
"What do you think?" Van rubbed a hand down his smooth head to his sleepy eye.
"Makes you look too tough," I said. He looked splintered. The untreated curls had always masked the self-inflicted pain behind his eyes.
He arched his back, stretched his lean belly muscles. "You’re a softy under all that garb," he chuckled. "I’m going back to bed. There’s towels in the bathroom if you want to shower." Van followed me to the back of the house and swatted me on the rear before dodging into his room.
I stripped my clothes and dropped them to the floor. I stared at the long skirt, the tights, the torn Sonic Youth tee; studied them, then scooped them up and sat behind the door. I mixed them into the pile of jerseys and ribbed white tanks, tucked the tights under a pair of Girbaud’s.
Van cracked open the door. I shrunk against the wall in embarrassment.
"Crys?"
"Yeah?"
"I’m glad you’re home." The door shut.
In the shower, scrubbing the numbness from my skin, wincing with soap in my eyes, I whispered, "Me, too."
I rolled Rico to the cold side of the bed before getting in.
"Did you dry your hair?"
"Sort of," I lied.
"Get the towel." he pushed himself up and leaned against the headboard.
I sat between his legs, covers wrapped around our waists, while he rubbed the length of my hair between the towel.
"Will I see you in the morning?"
I picked at a loose thread on the quilt I made for him two birthdays ago. "I need to be here a while."
He wrung my hair out in the towel one last time before dropping it over the side of the bed. Under the covers, my nose pressed into the pillow, a soft kiss lingering on the nape of my neck, I thought about the white wicker, the wrought-iron railings, the gardenias, and saw them for what they were; chipped, rusted, and wilted.
O You
O you whom I often and silently come where you are that
I may be with you,
As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same
room with you,
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake
is playing within me.
WW
He called the first time at 10:30pm. "I followed you to the club Saturday night. Those kids are weird." Why the hell was he calling me?
"You aren’t one of them," he noted, an impressive observation.
"Why do you think that?" I asked, pushing the flowered sheet to the end of the bed with my feet.
"The way you lean against the wall, speaking to no one yet reading them all. I can see it in your eyes. I’ll bet they are beautiful without all that crud around them."
Up on one elbow, I looked down at the black smears on my pillow. "You’re an ass."
The Priscilla curtain clung to the back of the rotating fan. "Wanna pick me up?"
"Um, sure. I’ll be there in twenty." He didn’t ask for directions.
The watermill that greeted visitors and the homeward bound at the front of the apartment complex had been hit again. The foam shimmered beneath the spotlights at the base of the fountain.
I stretched out in the grass, pulled a Camel from the waistband of my black mini, and cursed the mudflap girl on my Zippo. Out of fluid again.
The blue Lincoln turned onto the street, lights off. He made the circle, opening the passenger door before bringing the car to a complete stop. "Where you wanna go?"
I saw only the whites of his eyes and the braids twisting from the top of his head like the tree branches in winter. "Wherever, Baby."
The streetlights cast shadows across my fish netted thighs. I tapped the smoke against the armrest until he offered a light.
He drove a couple of miles away to the park, unbuckled my seatbelt, and pulled me to the middle of the seat. Taking my chin in his hand, he looked me in the eyes, and before kissing me said, "Next time wash that crud off your face."
I wasn’t his regular any more than he was mine yet we had a sickness for each other that killed time. After the shows every weekend, I scrubbed the black putty eyeliner off my eyes, and he lied to his girlfriend about going straight home.
He used to tell me I wasn’t created equal…that there was something about me that frightened the shit out of people.
I dreamt of him the other night….sitting at the park, legs stretched out beneath the picnic table, listening to me ramble about a picture I’d seen of Egyptians shooting up, and woke up wondering what it is about me that scares the shit out of people.
Wasted on Her
Two pair of hairy legs hang out the back of the escort. My heart drops, floating on the contents of a forty ounce. Jenny isn't here.
I toss my bag onto the seat behind their heads and crawl in. Jeremy rolls to his side, exposing a welcoming nook. "Where's Jenny?" I ask. He gathers my hair in one hand and pulls the bundle tightly, seeking a bare bit of neck to rest his cheek. "She's with Mosh Boy."
"Look what I found in her pack," Adam says, unzipping her pack. The front flap opens, and a new copy of Mein Kampf tumbles out. His eyes stare us down until Jeremy boots it out of the car, its contents too filthy to touch.
I want to shred the image of her in Mosh Boy's arms, eyes open in fascination, hanging onto his hate the way she used to suck Whitman's free verse from my mouth. Jeremy's bones feel sharper. I try to sit up but he pulls me closer, digging his fingers into the soft flesh under my halter. "Let it be us tonight. Not her, too. She doesn't deserve this."
She does deserve this, lodges in my throat, but it's all or nothing with Jeremy. Tonight would be nothing.
Adam's mom left the hall light on for us. He waves us to his room before disappearing up the stairs to let her know we made it home.
I want to talk about Jenny but Jeremy will tell me to let her go. He's never had anyone worth hanging on to, except Adam, and me. A wheeze escapes him as he sleeps. At seventeen, the nonfilter cigarettes are already turning his sweetness black. I untie the laces, tug the boots off his feet, and toss an army blanket over his thin frame. "Not us. Not tonight," I say to Jeremy, cupping his calf in my hand before turning to Adam.
The backyard limbs stretch and sway, beholding the moon's gaze. Arms reach out to me, drawing me down to the ground. Lips parted, he searches my face for those tears that were sure to come. Adam always knows.
He never minds the dampness on his back. I slide on top of him.
"Is this jealousy?" I ask, running my fingers through the crevices between his ribs. What I want is in his shirt pocket.
"No, just concern. She's not like us. She wants the thrill of being defiant. We are defiant."
Tugging his bottom lip open with my thumb, I lean over and blow the smoke into his mouth.
"It's all about what you need, whom you need, and knowing where to find it," he chokes out. "She's still searching for all of them."
I toss my bag onto the seat behind their heads and crawl in. Jeremy rolls to his side, exposing a welcoming nook. "Where's Jenny?" I ask. He gathers my hair in one hand and pulls the bundle tightly, seeking a bare bit of neck to rest his cheek. "She's with Mosh Boy."
"Look what I found in her pack," Adam says, unzipping her pack. The front flap opens, and a new copy of Mein Kampf tumbles out. His eyes stare us down until Jeremy boots it out of the car, its contents too filthy to touch.
I want to shred the image of her in Mosh Boy's arms, eyes open in fascination, hanging onto his hate the way she used to suck Whitman's free verse from my mouth. Jeremy's bones feel sharper. I try to sit up but he pulls me closer, digging his fingers into the soft flesh under my halter. "Let it be us tonight. Not her, too. She doesn't deserve this."
She does deserve this, lodges in my throat, but it's all or nothing with Jeremy. Tonight would be nothing.
Adam's mom left the hall light on for us. He waves us to his room before disappearing up the stairs to let her know we made it home.
I want to talk about Jenny but Jeremy will tell me to let her go. He's never had anyone worth hanging on to, except Adam, and me. A wheeze escapes him as he sleeps. At seventeen, the nonfilter cigarettes are already turning his sweetness black. I untie the laces, tug the boots off his feet, and toss an army blanket over his thin frame. "Not us. Not tonight," I say to Jeremy, cupping his calf in my hand before turning to Adam.
The backyard limbs stretch and sway, beholding the moon's gaze. Arms reach out to me, drawing me down to the ground. Lips parted, he searches my face for those tears that were sure to come. Adam always knows.
He never minds the dampness on his back. I slide on top of him.
"Is this jealousy?" I ask, running my fingers through the crevices between his ribs. What I want is in his shirt pocket.
"No, just concern. She's not like us. She wants the thrill of being defiant. We are defiant."
Tugging his bottom lip open with my thumb, I lean over and blow the smoke into his mouth.
"It's all about what you need, whom you need, and knowing where to find it," he chokes out. "She's still searching for all of them."
Why Not?
'Alone And Drinking Under The Moon' by Li Po
I want to surround myself with people who have nothing better to do than be with me, no demands, leave your baggage at the door.
At nineteen, I quit college. I tossed my knee high Doc Martins, a green hoodie, and Whitman's 'Leaves of Grass' onto the pile of cassettes in the front seat and drove south.
Nothing changes in rural western Kentucky; the picket fences get a fresh coat of paint, dead dogs are replaced with replicas, pickups powder into rust next to leaning gray barns. It would be the same when I returned.
The house sat two acres off the highway. The front porch sagged. The shingles turned over like leaves before a storm. Cindi smeared blackberry juice on the front of her shirt before wrapping her plump arms around my waist. It wasn't home, but if you are going to squat for a while there's no place better than in the kitchen of an old friend.
The barbecue began the next evening. He strutted through the smoke like a warrior after victory. He didn't need game, or lines. One look in his black eyes and you knew he had never once doubted he was beautiful.
We hid behind the barn.
"How long are you staying?"
"A week, a month, never leaving, I don't know," I said, spinning before him.
He reached out for my hand. "You're beautiful."
"What does that have to do with how long I'm staying?" I mumbled into his curls.
He laughed at me. "I'll call you a toad if you'd rather I did so."
I stood there, biting my lip.
"Do you want company?"
"Tonight?" I asked.
"While you're here."
"Why not?"
I just want to be with people for no good reason.
Amongst the flowers I
am alone with my pot of wine
drinking by myself; then lifting
my cup I asked the moon
to drink with me, its reflection
and mine in the wine cup, just
the three of us; then I sigh
for the moon cannot drink,
and my shadow goes emptily along
with me never saying a word;
with no other friends here, I can
but use these two for company;
in the time of happiness, I
too must be happy with all
around me; I sit and sing
and it is as if the moon
accompanies me; then if I
dance, it is my shadow that
dances along with me; while
still not drunk, I am glad
to make the moon and my shadow
into friends, but then when
I have drunk too much, we
all part; yet these are
friends I can always count on
these who have no emotion
whatsoever; I hope that one day
we three will meet again,
deep in the Milky Way.
I want to surround myself with people who have nothing better to do than be with me, no demands, leave your baggage at the door.
At nineteen, I quit college. I tossed my knee high Doc Martins, a green hoodie, and Whitman's 'Leaves of Grass' onto the pile of cassettes in the front seat and drove south.
Nothing changes in rural western Kentucky; the picket fences get a fresh coat of paint, dead dogs are replaced with replicas, pickups powder into rust next to leaning gray barns. It would be the same when I returned.
The house sat two acres off the highway. The front porch sagged. The shingles turned over like leaves before a storm. Cindi smeared blackberry juice on the front of her shirt before wrapping her plump arms around my waist. It wasn't home, but if you are going to squat for a while there's no place better than in the kitchen of an old friend.
The barbecue began the next evening. He strutted through the smoke like a warrior after victory. He didn't need game, or lines. One look in his black eyes and you knew he had never once doubted he was beautiful.
We hid behind the barn.
"How long are you staying?"
"A week, a month, never leaving, I don't know," I said, spinning before him.
He reached out for my hand. "You're beautiful."
"What does that have to do with how long I'm staying?" I mumbled into his curls.
He laughed at me. "I'll call you a toad if you'd rather I did so."
I stood there, biting my lip.
"Do you want company?"
"Tonight?" I asked.
"While you're here."
"Why not?"
I just want to be with people for no good reason.
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