Laughing a little, we rolled over. I settled back against his side and nestled my head into his shoulder. Light breathing filled the room and he stroked over my shoulder. Small comments drifted between us and I could feel a laziness settle it. Grinning, I propped my head up on his chest and looked at him.
“Why don't you play the piano for me,” I coaxed him out of our bed and shooed him towards the living room. My piano lay ahead – I remembered him commenting on it a few nights ago. I was eager to hear someone else play. The piano always seemed to speak to my secret place.
“Just so you know, I'm not playing for you in return.” I joked, popping his bottom, warning him not to expect me to perform for him in return. I never played for anyone – playing the piano created a path to a secret place of mine – not many were invited down that path.
“That's fine.” Confidently he sat on my piano bench. I stood slightly awkwardly by the piano. It is an upright and I didn't want to curl up next to him on the bench but I did want to be where I could see him as he played.I was eager to hear him play, watching someone play pieces that they love is a treat.
His fingers pressed the keys and I was startled. They weren't soft. They weren't slow. They weren't light. They didn't ease over the white keys and tease the black keys forward. Instead he ran over them, mashed them, forced them. I shrank into my seat I beside the piano.
A mass of sound waves pounded over me. It could be described as nothing more refined than that. From the waves hitting my ear I did not need a visual to know his foot sat heavy, foreboding on the pedal – forcing it down ruthlessly - trying to draw out more sound but not realizing he was choking the very sound he was creating.
I couldn't bring myself to look at his fingers which carelessly pounded each note from the keyboard. They were quick and uncaring. They didn't bother to draw out each note or caress it to fullness, leaving some heavy and some light. There was no acknowledgment of difference between soft and hard, quick or long. They ran over each sound as if each note was no different from the one before or the one following. I sat, shocked, as note after note rushed towards me, calling out for help as he ruthlessly ran each one down without notice.
I barely managed to glance up at him, feeling horror course through me. He looked over and smiled, confident and happy - slaughtering note after simple careful soft note as if they were no more than an incidental happenstance in his life. My horror must have not made it to my eyes.
“Do you recognize this? Beach Boys” he said, continuing to ram notes through the air between us. There was no distinction in his fingers, no thought or coaxing in his hands. My body wanted to withdraw, rushed and undignified, into a ball – retreating from such lack of awareness. It couldn't imagine itself next to someone that could not imagine slowness. It couldn't understand someone that didn't dwell in the quietness between notes...someone that didn't understand the beauty of the rest, the value of the silent breath, the quietness of the slow coaxing of a simply melody, the importance of drawing out a soul not crowded by a sustaining pedal.
He ran over it all, covering individual voices with a heavy foot that refused to let up enough for a single thought to catch a breath. Oblivious, he choked the life out of each line of melody.
The war on sound halted and silence filled the air. I heard the heat in my apartment cut on – loud and hissing – insistent that we pay attention. Realizing I was frozen in place, I jerked my eyes towards his face and form. For the first time, he seemed only like a mound sitting on my piano bench, a hideous formless mound, not defined by anything – not even his own skin. He appeared a mindless lump that trumped through wild life and failed to notice delicate Violets he probably trod upon without notice or care.
“I'm sure you play much better than me,” he said, leafing through my sheet music that I stored on the piano.
To him I'm sure I muttered something quiet like “Definitely not – how long have you been playing?”
To myself I whispered, “I may not play as quickly or as many notes – but at least I don't commit murder.” I knew later I would need to caress my keyboard back to life.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Seat of the Soul
My experience of my world starts with the skin – is absorbed physically into my body and spread out to the rest of my consciousness. I gather bits of information seep into my skin and read vibrations that pound my body; then, when it is all collected, my brain begins the translation of what is happening. The translation is needed for the future, for the time I will be required to speak about my experience and my life. The time between the first sensations and the beginning of the translation is pure – a time when I am able to communicate with myself with intense intimacy.
My soul resides just beneath the skin, instantly translating myself outward and interpreting messages coming inward. The soul is caressed by both my skin and my muscles, massaged between them with growing strength and smoothness as I evolve. I’m wrapped in a give and take of soul and body – each one feeding off of the other in a symbiotic relationship that moves in perfect harmony. Within this exchange, no words exist; not once will my soul misunderstand me; I trust it implicitly to understand without the need of language. I am greedy for that silence in which everything is wholly understood; where nothing is fragmented into understandable pieces. I wallow in that space that is swollen with no need to speak.
My soul resides just beneath the skin, instantly translating myself outward and interpreting messages coming inward. The soul is caressed by both my skin and my muscles, massaged between them with growing strength and smoothness as I evolve. I’m wrapped in a give and take of soul and body – each one feeding off of the other in a symbiotic relationship that moves in perfect harmony. Within this exchange, no words exist; not once will my soul misunderstand me; I trust it implicitly to understand without the need of language. I am greedy for that silence in which everything is wholly understood; where nothing is fragmented into understandable pieces. I wallow in that space that is swollen with no need to speak.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Itch
Shelly’s skin itched something fierce. The insistent irritation invaded her thoughts and tore her mind from her task. Her skin had developed tiny needle pitched voices that pierced her brain directly, demanding attention. Shelly’s finger muscles began to rebel her brain’s command to remain at ease and began to twitch. She knew this was a clear sign her fingers and the voices were winning.
Telling herself that she was just providing minor relief, Shelly’s hand drifted to her forearm. Blessed calm blanketed her at the first light scratch. The voices stilled and everything inside her focused on that light touch scrapping over her skin. Nothing had ever felt better against her body; no silk could be have been more luxurious. For a few minutes, she lived in a world of perfect; perfect sensations, perfect sounds, perfect calm.
Then, her fingers became a bit heavier and the scratching became a bit more intense. The change was almost imperceptible and Shelly didn’t even register the shift at the beginning. As her fingers continued to move, she slowly became of their weight and the shape of their nails moving into her skin. She started to become alarmed when she felt the bite sinking into her arm deeper than she had intended but she couldn’t stop her scratching. She watched as they continued to dig and scratch at the irritated skin that had been screaming at her moments earlier. And then, as slowly as she had become aware of the increasing intensity of her scratching, she became aware of prickles riding the rest of her skin.
Her thigh wanted attention so badly it started twitching as if it were trying to make the journey to her hand instead of waiting for the hand to come to it. Her back flinched in anger when its itch was ignored. Her ankle begged her reach down and treat it to the same rough treatment her arm had received. Shelly’s hands flashed over her skin, scratching and tearing into each itch. They lighted like butterflies and dug in like plows, never quite quick enough to sooth one spot before the next bellowed for attention.
Shelly’s body rocked with the violence, moving and arching under the nails that provided both a salve to the itch and a slight pain with the pressure. As her hands answered the prayers of other parts of her body, the greed slowly began to be quenched. Her back no longer pitched and heaved seeking attention. Her thigh quieted down and lay content along her bone. Her hands still moved to answer smaller requests but instead of violent sweeps they were now hiccups. Shelly became quiet stillness broken by a small jerky motion that lapsed back into stillness.
Gathering her body around her, Shelly stood and moved softly toward the bathroom. Perhaps a glass of water was in order. Perhaps she just wanted to wash her hands because they felt as if they were coated. She wasn’t quite sure why she moved. She just knew the storm was over and that she could now return to what she had been doing a few moments ago. She leaned in and picked up the glass. Her eyes drifted up with the glass, she met her eyes in the mirror and froze.
Her skin. It was gone. But it was still there. She blinked and looked down at her hands. The fingertips were crusty with sloughed off skin; cells packed the recesses of her nails. Beneath this grime she saw new skin covering her palms. Her forearms blinked back at her in the healthy pink hue that appears after the last of a scab has fallen away. Shelly turned on the water and washed the last evidence of the old layers away from her hands. Drying them, she noted the sensitivity that hadn’t been there before. She ran her hands over her stomach, feeling the freshly exposed nerve endings flicker uncertainly, new to the feeling of touch. Her calves were tender to contact. The newness of her skin was smooth, baby like, but the muscles beneath the new covering remained as firm as they had been earlier.
Shelly stepped back from the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. Before her was a new woman, fresh, unmarred, and vibrant. Her skin shone with eagerness and freshness. Yet, she wasn’t new. She felt the years of experience and hard work supporting this new sheath. She would still be able to run as fast; she would still be able to lift as much; she would still remember everything the years had taught her. Those lessons ran deep and clear to the bone. But now, it seemed, she had a new way to sense the world around her. Here, coating her body, were new sensations to replace the spots that had been dead. There would be new touches and new scratches. But for now it was just new. Shelly looked over this new suit calmly. She breathed in slowly and grinned, accepting the gift. She was prepared and eager to start again.
Telling herself that she was just providing minor relief, Shelly’s hand drifted to her forearm. Blessed calm blanketed her at the first light scratch. The voices stilled and everything inside her focused on that light touch scrapping over her skin. Nothing had ever felt better against her body; no silk could be have been more luxurious. For a few minutes, she lived in a world of perfect; perfect sensations, perfect sounds, perfect calm.
Then, her fingers became a bit heavier and the scratching became a bit more intense. The change was almost imperceptible and Shelly didn’t even register the shift at the beginning. As her fingers continued to move, she slowly became of their weight and the shape of their nails moving into her skin. She started to become alarmed when she felt the bite sinking into her arm deeper than she had intended but she couldn’t stop her scratching. She watched as they continued to dig and scratch at the irritated skin that had been screaming at her moments earlier. And then, as slowly as she had become aware of the increasing intensity of her scratching, she became aware of prickles riding the rest of her skin.
Her thigh wanted attention so badly it started twitching as if it were trying to make the journey to her hand instead of waiting for the hand to come to it. Her back flinched in anger when its itch was ignored. Her ankle begged her reach down and treat it to the same rough treatment her arm had received. Shelly’s hands flashed over her skin, scratching and tearing into each itch. They lighted like butterflies and dug in like plows, never quite quick enough to sooth one spot before the next bellowed for attention.
Shelly’s body rocked with the violence, moving and arching under the nails that provided both a salve to the itch and a slight pain with the pressure. As her hands answered the prayers of other parts of her body, the greed slowly began to be quenched. Her back no longer pitched and heaved seeking attention. Her thigh quieted down and lay content along her bone. Her hands still moved to answer smaller requests but instead of violent sweeps they were now hiccups. Shelly became quiet stillness broken by a small jerky motion that lapsed back into stillness.
Gathering her body around her, Shelly stood and moved softly toward the bathroom. Perhaps a glass of water was in order. Perhaps she just wanted to wash her hands because they felt as if they were coated. She wasn’t quite sure why she moved. She just knew the storm was over and that she could now return to what she had been doing a few moments ago. She leaned in and picked up the glass. Her eyes drifted up with the glass, she met her eyes in the mirror and froze.
Her skin. It was gone. But it was still there. She blinked and looked down at her hands. The fingertips were crusty with sloughed off skin; cells packed the recesses of her nails. Beneath this grime she saw new skin covering her palms. Her forearms blinked back at her in the healthy pink hue that appears after the last of a scab has fallen away. Shelly turned on the water and washed the last evidence of the old layers away from her hands. Drying them, she noted the sensitivity that hadn’t been there before. She ran her hands over her stomach, feeling the freshly exposed nerve endings flicker uncertainly, new to the feeling of touch. Her calves were tender to contact. The newness of her skin was smooth, baby like, but the muscles beneath the new covering remained as firm as they had been earlier.
Shelly stepped back from the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. Before her was a new woman, fresh, unmarred, and vibrant. Her skin shone with eagerness and freshness. Yet, she wasn’t new. She felt the years of experience and hard work supporting this new sheath. She would still be able to run as fast; she would still be able to lift as much; she would still remember everything the years had taught her. Those lessons ran deep and clear to the bone. But now, it seemed, she had a new way to sense the world around her. Here, coating her body, were new sensations to replace the spots that had been dead. There would be new touches and new scratches. But for now it was just new. Shelly looked over this new suit calmly. She breathed in slowly and grinned, accepting the gift. She was prepared and eager to start again.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Accepting a Gift
When we lose something infinitely important to us we splinter apart. We burst apart, pieces of us fleeing in shards, flying to get away from us. In that split second, our perception of time is slowed and we watch the explosion drive parts of us from us, frozen in our shock and helplessness. There is no stopping this flight. Some of our pieces will return. Many will be damaged but will heal with time. These pieces will snuggle back into their home and our lives will appear normal. But the pieces that don’t return will leave a vacancy.
Now is the time to remember- loss is not crippling. No doubt that we will forget that we lost something and reach for what was once there. Our hands will grasp the empty air, our feet will fall through the space, leaving us gasping in fear until we find floor - now at a much different level than it was before. That sudden vacant space is not empty - merely waiting.
Perhaps we chose to leave it empty, a vacant reminder of what we’ve lost. It can become a memorial of void, adding nothing to our lives - merely a vacancy we carry throughout our days. A space that we skirt with averted eyes, hoping if we stop interacting with it, the emptiness will slowly fade.
Or, perhaps, we choose to search for the closest replica of what we lost. We can sift through materials, assemble approximations, paint surfaces to mimic the old parts. Carefully, oh so deliberately, we can try to rebuild a hollow reincarnation of what we had before, desperately hoping that this trickery will lead us back to peace.
But, maybe there is a third possibility. Maybe we can be strong enough to stop and watch the space. Perhaps we can stare into and allow ourselves to remember what was once there, revisit the pain, and let that go. Perhaps if we stand there long enough, we might begin to see the space as receptive instead of empty - a new space for us to create within, tempting us instead of tormenting us. Where we once felt loss, we can feel a calling, a luring of the creative- an urge to redefine what will occupy that space. We can allow ourselves to be seduced into the space and then we can begin again, molding and creating anew. Giddy, we can start shaping our ideas of what should replace it.
Throwing out restraints, we may fill the space with something that resembles the lost item very little. In redefining and shaping our view of the vacancy, we can create something extraordinary to take it’s previous occupant’s place. We can create something that feels softer and warmer; something that fits our souls closer; something that doesn’t chafe quite so much; something that is stronger and unexpected.
Perhaps, if we abandon restraints - we can create wings where we had legs.
Now is the time to remember- loss is not crippling. No doubt that we will forget that we lost something and reach for what was once there. Our hands will grasp the empty air, our feet will fall through the space, leaving us gasping in fear until we find floor - now at a much different level than it was before. That sudden vacant space is not empty - merely waiting.
Perhaps we chose to leave it empty, a vacant reminder of what we’ve lost. It can become a memorial of void, adding nothing to our lives - merely a vacancy we carry throughout our days. A space that we skirt with averted eyes, hoping if we stop interacting with it, the emptiness will slowly fade.
Or, perhaps, we choose to search for the closest replica of what we lost. We can sift through materials, assemble approximations, paint surfaces to mimic the old parts. Carefully, oh so deliberately, we can try to rebuild a hollow reincarnation of what we had before, desperately hoping that this trickery will lead us back to peace.
But, maybe there is a third possibility. Maybe we can be strong enough to stop and watch the space. Perhaps we can stare into and allow ourselves to remember what was once there, revisit the pain, and let that go. Perhaps if we stand there long enough, we might begin to see the space as receptive instead of empty - a new space for us to create within, tempting us instead of tormenting us. Where we once felt loss, we can feel a calling, a luring of the creative- an urge to redefine what will occupy that space. We can allow ourselves to be seduced into the space and then we can begin again, molding and creating anew. Giddy, we can start shaping our ideas of what should replace it.
Throwing out restraints, we may fill the space with something that resembles the lost item very little. In redefining and shaping our view of the vacancy, we can create something extraordinary to take it’s previous occupant’s place. We can create something that feels softer and warmer; something that fits our souls closer; something that doesn’t chafe quite so much; something that is stronger and unexpected.
Perhaps, if we abandon restraints - we can create wings where we had legs.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Mr. Odd Job Says
Originally this blog had two contributors - Mr. Odd Job - we had a kind of call and response. Mr. Odd Job has been busy - but sends this response to this one...
Mr. Odd Job's Bed
I hug the narrow strip of land, my back to the expanse of dark behind me. The waters roll and my breath catches. I am a stranger at the sea, and I have come to hate and fear her like a primitive. Though I am layered in cloth armor, the ocean reaches for me. I can never tell if it is intentional or not, and in truth it doesn't matter. In the daylight of a stolen afternoon, I can enjoy the expanse. My body uncurls and I feel gigantic and free. Blood swells in me as my dreams relish in the open calm of sheets, pillows and blankets. In this moment, I have no dominion and no dominion has me, the ocean loses its malevolence, becomes an extension of me and I float, swim and dive in the my own skin.
Mr. Odd Job's Bed
I hug the narrow strip of land, my back to the expanse of dark behind me. The waters roll and my breath catches. I am a stranger at the sea, and I have come to hate and fear her like a primitive. Though I am layered in cloth armor, the ocean reaches for me. I can never tell if it is intentional or not, and in truth it doesn't matter. In the daylight of a stolen afternoon, I can enjoy the expanse. My body uncurls and I feel gigantic and free. Blood swells in me as my dreams relish in the open calm of sheets, pillows and blankets. In this moment, I have no dominion and no dominion has me, the ocean loses its malevolence, becomes an extension of me and I float, swim and dive in the my own skin.
Ocean of Bed
At the start of this journey, I stayed close to shore. I laid myself gingerly on 'my side' of the bed and stared across the empty space next to me. On the other side of the body pillow I hugged like a life raft, a great empty ocean mocked me. No matter how often I quieted myself and held onto the life preserver, I would wake up confused and lost when I woke up in the uncharted waters. The night stand would be to further away and I had to strain to find the snooze button; the edge of the bed seemed so to great a distance for my short legs to reach to.
So slowly I didn't realize I was doing it, I learned to swim, float, and dive. During my sleep, my body let go and trusted itself. No longer did my toes search out to find that ankle and my back decided that it wasn't searching to lean against something warm anymore. My arms decided they were tired of the fruitless search for a chest to rest on and my head began to race eagerly to the pillow instead of a shoulder. While my brain rested, my body taught what beauty there was in the weightlessness of the ocean that had frightened me a short time before.
Now I stretch to each far corner – testing the limits of the bed. The pillows that used to be body floats are slowly becoming more of a hassle than a reassurance. My limbs have found the easy rhythm of this ocean and they rest quietly in a dreaming back float, no longer searching for anything. We've all found home.
So slowly I didn't realize I was doing it, I learned to swim, float, and dive. During my sleep, my body let go and trusted itself. No longer did my toes search out to find that ankle and my back decided that it wasn't searching to lean against something warm anymore. My arms decided they were tired of the fruitless search for a chest to rest on and my head began to race eagerly to the pillow instead of a shoulder. While my brain rested, my body taught what beauty there was in the weightlessness of the ocean that had frightened me a short time before.
Now I stretch to each far corner – testing the limits of the bed. The pillows that used to be body floats are slowly becoming more of a hassle than a reassurance. My limbs have found the easy rhythm of this ocean and they rest quietly in a dreaming back float, no longer searching for anything. We've all found home.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Morning Companions
Jackson's eyes snapped open; she heard Routine rustling beside her, a clear indication she was about to be herded to the shower. Her detached body began the climb from the bed and the cool walk to the bathroom. The radio buzzed behind her with the same volume it did every morning. Routine bustled around her freeing her from the need to think about reaching for the hair dryer; he erased the need to really see the table she skirted on the way into the kitchen. Routine ensured the eggs were made, her gym bag was a packed, and her wallet and cell phone were in the proper purse. She was eternally grateful every day at lunch that he oversaw to her nutritional needs.
Routine efficiently ran the the mornings in their house. Jackson willingly allowed him control and disappeared into the background. Routine worked in silence and she smiled at his focus. Even so, Jackson thought she heard sounds echoing through her head. Routine familiar rhythm rocked her body and Jackson began to listen to the sounds else in a daze.
.
..
...
....
.....
......
"He makes eggs every morning. This morning they seem to be a bit fluffier. I wonder how that happened."
.
..
...
....
"I think I'd like to find a gentle man. I wonder if that would work..."
.
..
"It's Friday. That means it's movie night. Hope the movie's good."
These sounds didn't even come through as conversation to Jackson. She felt they were on the other side of the side of her cocoon. Perhaps this other person was talking to Routine to keep him company. She certainly wasn't much of a companion in the morning and didn't want to intrude on the conversation.
"I wonder which bus will show up first today. Maybe I should put on my headphones instead of read."
.
"We don't normally stop here. Oh...it looks like the "Hey Lady" didn't get on today. Hope she's alright."
.
"His skin looks like he uses lotion. Wonder if he does lotion his elbows. I think that might be odd for a man but who am I to say. His hair cut is perfect – every hair in place. Too cute and a bit scary."
Jackson was stunned. The sounds started to pound past her, one right after another – never giving her space to hear the silence. She wondered if it bother Routine but he seemed unphased, continuing his methodical plod into the new day. The conversation's pace increased until there seemed to be no space to draw a breath.
"She looks like she' really running hard when she runs. Her form makes her look like she's not in control of her own body."......."I love living in an active town."........"I mean, really. It's 7:30am – it's not so hot that you need to be only dressed in shorts. But you do look prettier when you run that way.".........."They're in full army gear with backpacks and running the other way. Wonder if that means anything. Wonder if the guys in the shorts would feel inferior if they had to run past the army guys."
Routine resolutely plodded with her, keeping her company as she walked across the campus and headed inside the building. Everyday, she felt him leaving her side about the time she stepped inside and pressed the button of the elevator. He usually just wanted to see her safely to work. As his presence slipped further and further away, the sounds she heard faded with him.
"Why is there something in my mailbox – who in the world leaves things in my mailbox between 5pm and 7am!"
.
..
"Wonder will Jackie come up to say hello today."
.
..
...
....
"Coffee sounds like an excellent idea........"
.
..
...
....
......
...........
................
Silence.
Routine efficiently ran the the mornings in their house. Jackson willingly allowed him control and disappeared into the background. Routine worked in silence and she smiled at his focus. Even so, Jackson thought she heard sounds echoing through her head. Routine familiar rhythm rocked her body and Jackson began to listen to the sounds else in a daze.
.
..
...
....
.....
......
"He makes eggs every morning. This morning they seem to be a bit fluffier. I wonder how that happened."
.
..
...
....
"I think I'd like to find a gentle man. I wonder if that would work..."
.
..
"It's Friday. That means it's movie night. Hope the movie's good."
These sounds didn't even come through as conversation to Jackson. She felt they were on the other side of the side of her cocoon. Perhaps this other person was talking to Routine to keep him company. She certainly wasn't much of a companion in the morning and didn't want to intrude on the conversation.
"I wonder which bus will show up first today. Maybe I should put on my headphones instead of read."
.
"We don't normally stop here. Oh...it looks like the "Hey Lady" didn't get on today. Hope she's alright."
.
"His skin looks like he uses lotion. Wonder if he does lotion his elbows. I think that might be odd for a man but who am I to say. His hair cut is perfect – every hair in place. Too cute and a bit scary."
Jackson was stunned. The sounds started to pound past her, one right after another – never giving her space to hear the silence. She wondered if it bother Routine but he seemed unphased, continuing his methodical plod into the new day. The conversation's pace increased until there seemed to be no space to draw a breath.
"She looks like she' really running hard when she runs. Her form makes her look like she's not in control of her own body."......."I love living in an active town."........"I mean, really. It's 7:30am – it's not so hot that you need to be only dressed in shorts. But you do look prettier when you run that way.".........."They're in full army gear with backpacks and running the other way. Wonder if that means anything. Wonder if the guys in the shorts would feel inferior if they had to run past the army guys."
Routine resolutely plodded with her, keeping her company as she walked across the campus and headed inside the building. Everyday, she felt him leaving her side about the time she stepped inside and pressed the button of the elevator. He usually just wanted to see her safely to work. As his presence slipped further and further away, the sounds she heard faded with him.
"Why is there something in my mailbox – who in the world leaves things in my mailbox between 5pm and 7am!"
.
..
"Wonder will Jackie come up to say hello today."
.
..
...
....
"Coffee sounds like an excellent idea........"
.
..
...
....
......
...........
................
Silence.
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