elizabeth lane lawley
michael "OC" clarke
e v h e a d
sweet fancy moses
wood s lot
m. melting object
Monday, May 31, 2004
Out of Africa
bless the rains
I was drifting in and out of sleep in wonder of you whom I told myself I hardly knew. Yet I knew what I needed to know: that you were beside me, had touched me, body and soul, that I was in love, an impossible miracle. You. Don't miss this part, you said, try to keep up here. You can sleep when you're dead. You didn't say that last bit, but I would have laughed. You would have been right. So I struggled up out of the miracle of you only to find it was no miracle at all but that you were there beside me, real, in the flesh, warm in my arms saying wake up, listen. And some guy is saying you might have asked, you know? And the other guy says I did. She said yes. Laughing then, both of us, knowing everything that could not be said, cannot be ever, but moments like this when saying doesn't matter, would be superfluous. Like the next morning I'm shaving, naked, and you come into the bathroom, say see? they do match, the color of your thong, your necklace laid out against your skin above your lovely breasts. Nothing else separating us. Nothing at all. Only connecting. No words for it. I never knew delight before that moment. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, you said. And it was. Full of wonder, the world wrapped in your colors, woven and wreathed into the wrack and woof of many more W words worth always winding round your heart. You said yes, no takebacks. Memory forward, memory back. Never forget. Ever now am I your coyote.
And so much later, many days alone here, many moons, dreaming deep, I see as if I am inside you sperm and ovum in technicolor slo-mo coming together a flash of light and I wake, just enough to dial the number, say into the message I saw something so clear so real I think it might be. Then fall back down into sleep so deep again I didn't remember at first, when you called some weeks later and I'm sitting outside Starbucks, Steppenwolf in the Colorado sunshine, and you said: you were right. Couldn't quite recall at first what I was right about, despite wanting to take, of course, credit for whatever it might be. But when you told me, it came back, slowly at first, then the colors coming up, the slow motion dream, my call, only barely awake. Impossible miracle. Because I am here, you there. Distance learning, I think. Limbic resonance. Mystery of true attachment. I feel you in my life. New life in you. Not a dream. Not impossible. Real.
Beaver, opossum, chinchilla, my totems. A joke of sorts, but also true. Truer, in fact, because irrational. Language of dream, I would make them my coat of arms, buckle them to my shield and let no man laugh. Appropriate for a one such as myself. Don't you agree, Roncinate? I don't hear her reply, though I'm sure it was yes, because the wind has come up now, milling time into future. And I, tilting into it, ride on. Come Sancho, the world awaits us.
I wake this morning, amazed to see it's already 12:30. I keep repeating it. 12:30, 12:30, I slept till 12:20! The meds have worn off, but I'm OK, in some deep place within myself. I look across the room, see the book that surfaced in a recent rearrangement, the cover facing me now as if delivering a message: Self and Others. Then I remember I dreamed this morning, of reaching out to her and she took my hand. Not you, no. But the one you know about without me having to say. To live now I need to find the place in myself I loved her from. The phone rings and it's you. Synchronicity City or something much simpler. Limbic resonance. Attachment acknowledged and returned. Radar love. Yes, no, you didn't wake me up. But I'm barely awake and need coffee. I'm at Starbucks, you say. So we'll have coffee together, so far apart. But what's distance to us? Out on the far ice, I saw your courage, saw your heart open like a tropical flower against crystalline snow. The sunlight blinding, midnight sun thawed into endless morning.
I was dreaming, I say, about someone I don't often dream about these days. You know, as I know you will. That'll happen, you say. And because there are only so many ways to say I love you, all of them wrong for all the right reasons, I say I love your new love for the other one, so fragile yet so strong. I see what you see in those eyes, what they see in yours. I have never been to this place, yet I know it. I was born for this. And you let me love this new love, allow me to be born in you. So heavy we neither of us speak to it, rather letting it flow through and around the words we do say.
Segue. Just remembering now, writing this, there was something about a segue in my dream. But I am awake now and never mind. Somehow I was saying we all came out of Africa. So I wonder: How and when did we get so white? Good question, you say. One for the anthropologists. Just chatting over coffee, we speak in a language that carries time like a clutch of flowers gathered by a child. For you. I am for you.
There's more. Always more. But I have to get ready to go see Don. And Don, this is the reason it looks like I'll be a little late. But lighting the incense I have always burned for this one, not late for the sky.
4:21 PM | link |
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"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
28 October 2004
||More of Chris Locke's photos
Until a minute ago, I had no photos. I still have no photos to speak of.
I don't even have a camera. But all these people were linking to "my photos."
It was embarassing. It's still embarassing. But I'm used to that.
what I'm listening to...
egr on topica
on yahoo groups
terms of service
It is too late.