I feel I should clarify something, specifically the last line of the last post. Where I was talking about catching the ring, mind you, I wasn't talking wedding rings, I was referring to the best ring of all... the brass ring on the carousel, the one you reach out and seize, the biggest and the heaviest ring of them all. Carpe Diem and all that jazz....
Just so we're all clear, on rings and things.
And then there is a little romance, like standing beside the carousel picking your favorite mythological beast to ride, perfumed in childhood, popcorn and cottoncandy, sugarsweet pink drinks astride a dragon. A finger down a spine, a sideways smile. A low slung January sun and early magnolia blossoms and it's just early enough that everyone and everything is just waking up, stretching abstractedly towards the small patch of sunlight, gravitating towards brightness.
Yesterday, at the edge of the continent, after a pair of adequate burritos, on a beach south of here and down a hill, he drew maps in the sand. And the air was cypress scrubbed and brilliant after the rain. At the far end on the beach the surf was breaking in sweet fury against an obstinate earth buttress, elsewhere the sea foam was after my sneakers and the sand conspired to sneak into my trousers, and I suspect that the engineer was in collusion.
It's late January and we are just two kids on a nearly empty beach shedding jackets and collecting sand, I am wind burned and sunburned and beard scorched and I couldn't have begged for a lovlier afternoon.
Later we will see the sun splash down from a jetty, and the surfers bob like apples. And later we will move from the couch to the floor to my bed, and it will be reasonably chaste and totally new to me, because you can't exactly fuck and run if you haven't exactly fucked. Especially if your curiosity is piqued and you are waiting, hemmed and nearly hawed, with twin mysterious bruises on your right shoulder, and all your fires righteously stoked to a slow burn. You can't run from that, not when he makes you giggle. You can't run when you want, you just stand there in the middle of the road making googly eyes at the semi bearing down on you, and pray for a soft landing or a near miss. And I am just feeling brave enough for a near miss, if I could just have one more kiss that stretches from dusk to the last gasp of darkness before morning, where a day from now half my face will peel off, and slough off my kissed lips, and I can give up the distraction of being wildly smitten and get back to the usual business of enlightened bitterness.
The truth being, of course, that I'd rather not, not get back to our regularly scheduled bitterness, I'd rather like to allow myself to fall madly in love, just not sure that my self is willing to comply. Not such great copy afterall, who cares that he's your height and that you watched the lawn bowlers and how the elderly Japanese man was wearing a belt with suspenders and how he said he could be a contender, and how his clothes felt so right against your clothes, under the sun and in front of the elderly lawn bowlers, and just how, with little prompting, you could have taken him down in front of the lawn bowlers and the sunday strollers with strollers for silver lining fuck of it, for the sheer unadulterated pleasure of it.
So I took me and my revved engine out to Marin to thwack balls with B, and that helped. Then I roasted a chicken for P&M and that helped, and I think I'll sit in the bath tub and stew, stick my face in a vat of moisturizer and hope for the best.
What else can I do.
Just so we're all clear, on rings and things.
And then there is a little romance, like standing beside the carousel picking your favorite mythological beast to ride, perfumed in childhood, popcorn and cottoncandy, sugarsweet pink drinks astride a dragon. A finger down a spine, a sideways smile. A low slung January sun and early magnolia blossoms and it's just early enough that everyone and everything is just waking up, stretching abstractedly towards the small patch of sunlight, gravitating towards brightness.
Yesterday, at the edge of the continent, after a pair of adequate burritos, on a beach south of here and down a hill, he drew maps in the sand. And the air was cypress scrubbed and brilliant after the rain. At the far end on the beach the surf was breaking in sweet fury against an obstinate earth buttress, elsewhere the sea foam was after my sneakers and the sand conspired to sneak into my trousers, and I suspect that the engineer was in collusion.
It's late January and we are just two kids on a nearly empty beach shedding jackets and collecting sand, I am wind burned and sunburned and beard scorched and I couldn't have begged for a lovlier afternoon.
Later we will see the sun splash down from a jetty, and the surfers bob like apples. And later we will move from the couch to the floor to my bed, and it will be reasonably chaste and totally new to me, because you can't exactly fuck and run if you haven't exactly fucked. Especially if your curiosity is piqued and you are waiting, hemmed and nearly hawed, with twin mysterious bruises on your right shoulder, and all your fires righteously stoked to a slow burn. You can't run from that, not when he makes you giggle. You can't run when you want, you just stand there in the middle of the road making googly eyes at the semi bearing down on you, and pray for a soft landing or a near miss. And I am just feeling brave enough for a near miss, if I could just have one more kiss that stretches from dusk to the last gasp of darkness before morning, where a day from now half my face will peel off, and slough off my kissed lips, and I can give up the distraction of being wildly smitten and get back to the usual business of enlightened bitterness.
The truth being, of course, that I'd rather not, not get back to our regularly scheduled bitterness, I'd rather like to allow myself to fall madly in love, just not sure that my self is willing to comply. Not such great copy afterall, who cares that he's your height and that you watched the lawn bowlers and how the elderly Japanese man was wearing a belt with suspenders and how he said he could be a contender, and how his clothes felt so right against your clothes, under the sun and in front of the elderly lawn bowlers, and just how, with little prompting, you could have taken him down in front of the lawn bowlers and the sunday strollers with strollers for silver lining fuck of it, for the sheer unadulterated pleasure of it.
So I took me and my revved engine out to Marin to thwack balls with B, and that helped. Then I roasted a chicken for P&M and that helped, and I think I'll sit in the bath tub and stew, stick my face in a vat of moisturizer and hope for the best.
What else can I do.
posted by emma at
10:47 PM
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