can i call you darling–

–and tell you how i am moved by the way your eyes caress me from that distance, two bottles of dark roast brew between us and a universe with seeming infinite possibilities in our hands on this table where the rest of the world is lost on us and the only people who know us are the waiters ever so loyal to bring us our elixir, make the night possible, permit us to prolong, stay

can i say, darling, lean closer, let the roll of the r elide into the curl of the l, the way tongues move – oh you know that well – and plant another kiss on your cheek, and another, and another. easy, it comes naturally. acquainted properly, our lips know where to go, what mark it will leave on the skin that anticipates, the body that craves, every inch that aches. we have imagined this so well. waited, so eagerly. darling, i whisper, and on your ear you will hear the blooming of a flower.

darling, darling daredevil slip your hands where it belongs, if you will. under the seat, behind the wheel and hold on, hold tight as we speed through the night. have we not always longed for dawn? to be bathed in the rays of a rising sun? finally, together, our morning no longer another typewritten daydream. there it is, don’t you see, at the turn of the highway, away from this city. or maybe, just maybe, under these sheets in a universe that knows only you, only me.

 

 

**a replica of this somewhere, lost in stealth

Conversations with the City

I wonder what tonight will bring.

Polished nails, a decent dinner, another bottle of beer (or more), a cold breeze? Today there is no orange sky. What will I long for then, after the gray heavens stop rumbling, when Wednesday has sneaked up on me?  

The cars crawl through the city while the children smelling of afternoon sweat rush through the dimly lit streets. My hours of work are finished, the reports pile up on my desk. Outside the window, a horde of problems wait to be solved. There is no rest. I walk through the alleys wondering what  needs to be done. A motorcycle speeds by and I catch myself  swept off to the side, clutching a sense of reality that almost escaped me.

The sun is down. The ones in uniforms are on their way home, worn out books inside bags weighing down on their backs. The soles of their shoes crumble with every step on the concrete. The day’s heat rises from the ground, stinging tired feet. At the end of the street a mother waits, forgets about the rice boiling over the stove.  Her child cries in her arms. I hear these things from an opposite corner. The sounds bounce off other bodies, dragging with it another banter, squeal, whine, scream.

Tonight, the city brings me a new story. She whispers something in my ear. 

But I am still behind this window. Still staring at the lampposts light up one by one, illuminating the metropolis inch by inch. The sun has set. Another day ends. What am I waiting for?

Why am I waiting?

Triggering the Rain

In the middle of a hot afternoon at the end of April, I am taking down notes about telling stories. The people inside the room begin to lose themselves in details of objects that hold the secrets of the character in the story. The story is about leaving.

The atmosphere around me changes. I begin to lose myself in a memory. 

—————–

I remember the rain. Drops fall from the gray sky and shatter themselves on the hotel window. Shards of water pass in front me and get lost in the puddles below. I press my palm against the glass. I feel the city shudder. I pull the blanket tighter around me. The cloth is soft against my skin but offers little warmth. I trace a line from my lips to my neck, and lower, to where his kisses lead and end. My fingers feel like ice. I shiver and the city shivers with me.

Inside the room, music plays faintly. The soft melody is drowned out by the patter of rain running after each other on the surface of the city. There are all these sounds and yet it is as if he breathes into my ear. The air in the room is still. Cold. Below, people hidden beneath their umbrellas rush through the streets. They do not look up. They keep on running, running away from or running to something. They all have to be somewhere else other than where they already are.

I feel him asleep on the bed behind me, in a room I do not own. I look out the window at a view I will never see again. I turn around and look at the man sleeping on the bed. The sun rises in the rain. I turn around and continue to stare out the window, waiting for when the rain will end.

—————-

Yeah. So I did get lost. But that’s just that. I’m back taking down notes from the workshop now. 

Maybe waiting for when the rain will come again.

365 for 2012: (34) Traces of You In Me

Marked territory.

We are covered by our dirt.

Flying back to dust.

365 for 2012: (31, 32, 33) Step Forward Further Behind

I. 

A door is slammed shut.

Is it an act of courage

if you didn’t look back?

 

II.

Walk on to nowhere.

What’s there to be afraid of?

You’ve left. Move on. Go.

 

III.

The urge to move is

just as strong as the fear of

being left behind.

***Upon the end of April we find out: nothing ever truly disappears. Sound behaves as such: static, in the air, abuzz to those who strain to hear.

50 for 25th: Gray Area

Nothing stands between you and the city except for the glass walls. The rooftops of rust  pop out against the city’s gray, hiding between skyscrapers, dodging our eyes. They wait to be found beneath those crumbling roofs. The wall is easy to break, but are you ready to jump?

——–

March 24, 2012.

It was a building with a view. We had the luxury of the metro’s skyline punctuated by free-flowing coffee, cookies and leftover fancy lunch. To be able to see what the world looks like from that height, we’ll have to choose between the actual bigger picture or the dominant view. The details need attention, but they need first to be seen. Are our eyes open? Are we really looking?

Workweek Ends

My desk is filled with such delightful thingamabobs. If too much home-dwelling activity prompts domestication, there’s probably an equivalent for a life lived in cubicle corners inside brightly-lit airconditioned rooms. I never thought I’d enjoy office life this much.

I like surrounding myself with all these paraphernalia: the post-its, cutters, scissors, paper clips, bull clips, clip boards, cork boards, push pins, stamps, stamp pads, ink bottles, markers, pens, pencils, erasers, sharpeners, book cases, book ends,  long bonds, short bonds, special papers, scratch papers, paper trays, punchers, staplers, staple removers — I could go on naming everything that’s on my desk and even justify why I have it there. There’s even a separate tray under my table dedicated solely to office snacks. The more stuff occupying my desk, the more meaning desk-dwelling develops in my life. I’ve begun to fully embrace administrative, logistical, eight hours per day, Bundy-measured workweeks. It’s created in me a life of habit that puts a sense of order to my intrinsic chaos. The overlap of order and spontaneity is beautiful.

This experience is showing me how logical wonder really is. That it erupts in so-called unlikely places when it does because it should and therefore, although it is unexpected, we can anticipate it. Better yet, we can will the wonder in each minute.  That is how I know for a fact that there is never too little time to smile in-between to-do lists and marginal notes despite tight schedules and guerrilla meetings. The random smile will take place when it should if everything has fallen into place beforehand.

Strange? Maybe a little difficult to follow. For the skeptic, even maybe a little unbelievable. I don’t know why I’m saying all these things but, well, this bubbly  blurtout’s been brought about by the accomplishment of the week’s tasks and had I not been able to answer that need according to the order of what needs to be done then maybe this entry wouldn’t exist.

Every little knick-knack tucked in each nook of my desk is evidence of a fulfilling life. I would do away with nothing, make room for more than enough.

When The Sun Sets

This is the image of how my fantasy should be processed by my brain.

There’s a thick cloud covering a great portion of the sky, drawing a straight line that defines where the stars appear and disappear. The horizon should stretch as far as the eyes could see, but heaven sets its limits on mine.

Fair enough. The divide between the starry and starless sky evens out as the night deepens anyway. And the stars do shine bright. They pop out in the dark. Twinkling and dancing, too.