As she cozies into bed, the thought of the warm sun blanket through the dirty windshield comes drifting across the consciousness. While the toes are cold, the memory is still there, seen through tinted glasses, or maybe it is just enhanced by the scratches on her eyeglass lenses.
As she sat today, fighting sleep on the drive home from Santa Barbara, the mind drifted to the usual things. Do I like him? Not really that, but you know, the girly things. The subtle nuances included in the brain scheme after the concept of
“like” has been installed.
Well, of course, the answer is no. The like is impossible. The interest is there, but the being is not the one desired. It is the maleness, the realness, the being present. It’s all there, and yet he is not. He is not the one.
Kids, don’t play that record. This is not the convincing game at play. Trust, this realization/conclusion is the laborious effort of all too many sessions of convincing, non-convincing, and slipping again. When the mind wanders, and the poor heart aches, it is only the purveyor of these inane thoughts, this author, who can be trusted. Trust not your weary assumptions.
On the road again… the mind flits back to the image of turning over her shoulder. Hoping not to wake the sleeping giant. Catching a glimpse of the lips parted, or maybe it is the eyes watching her. They’re closed for sure, but they could be… watching. And then, the thoughts. Yes, he must have known these thoughts. For they were so obvious in the beginning. Seeping out from the cracks of her poor heart smile. Evidence of a mind unglued.
There is no truth in these vanities. It is just a simple pattern. Click and rehash. Look and reconsider. To say they are easily stimulated, is to call a spade a spade. It’s a tiresome game, really, but you know… the mind.
So she ponders and wonders and muses a bit. The moment when she glanced up a bit too close and made eye contact with the mouth. Heavy as one would suppose the lip of Henry Miller drooped when he lolled about a cigarette and spoke to his whores. Grotesque. Engorged. Nothing sensual really about the obvious ways they part and shine.
But it still makes her jump. ‘Am I ok?’ The thoughts start racing. The mind again, up to its old tricks. The casual reference to the girl that does share his kiss. Nothing sexy really about the anecdote. So why couldn’t it be as easy to drop it from the mind? Who knows…
The smell of him in the car in the morning is overwhelming. The subtle dustiness of skin and scalp. This is a smell she knows well from father and self. Something shared only in the waking hours, before we face the light. But this morning, the sun is shining bright. And the energy is alive. Bright and early. The tea she drinks is steeped in uncertainty. A poor metaphor for the simple notion that it is not her favorite kind of tea. There’s uncertainty in that, you know. Why did I buy this tea?
And as the sun streams through the window, her quiet contents are mired in the hazy glow of love that streams out from her sunglasses. Past the lenses so carefully crafted, so generously helpful. Lovely and comfortable in the moments like these that require shields to harness her love for humans.
--
Sometimes I love human beings. And I am so frustrated by the fact that I cannot express that automatically in my relationships with men. Always marred by the fact that they are men. So. What.
But I am still giddy with the idea of friendship. A companion to share in the exploits of a warrior’s life lived in ecstasy. Yes, she would like to say to the terrorized ones, there is constant ecstasy - on this planet. And it is living like a slip, tender in the moments that you only share every couple days of the week. Don’t you know these scribble out all the other days, those of the unsavory past that we bemoan on Sundays?
--
So much force in her conversation that she feels as though she is retreating into herself once again. Yet, he is responsive. Gentle, but not failing to touch the topic, to respond. Something precious that only gets trotted out for the members of the tribe, but even so, cautiously. He understands. And moreover, his contribution consists of technologies, made to connect the thoughts that only humans have. Thoughts transmitted by touch. The experiences that turn into ego. That make up our past and inform our present. I mean, how will we ever really understand if we are not standing under one other in every waking moment? There is no conversation, only presentation. Usually.
But this tool, whether by wire or by fingertips, could be the catalyst that reconnects human beings to the whole of their experiences. The shared experience of belonging to the Omniverse. Beyond the collective thought that ruled our tribes and forebears. Great leaps that wail over the wily mess that was once/will have been capitalism. Back to collect the good stuff, but not back to basics. And then bounding off into infinity, evolving with every step. We are there, he thinks. On the precipice.
Yes, I agree. I am intent in this belief, in this mode of evolution. The new institution of love .The institution of being. We are it. A love song for humanity that needn’t share a kiss.
I am charmed by the notion. The touch or transmission that could launch a thousand songs. Buddhists do it. The birds and mycelium do it. So why can’t we all connect?
I am enthralled with this creation. Spellbound for a minute. And completely free of romantic interest. In theory. In the moment. The infinite creations that we are about to release. On different paths. In different cities. With similar intents. I love this.
So, why? (the mind?) Why, the body? Not the body as home, but the catalyst? The sexual thing related to it that has come to seem so dirty. Messy and unappealing. Underwear strewn on the floor, that kind of thing. Who knows…
Would it be any better if this were easier? If she was devoid of genes for libido and didn’t own a mirror? If I had no past experiences, nothing to inform my relation to men? Who knows…
All she knows is that the sun was bright. And on the ride home, it was all she could do to stop her sleepy self from drifting up and curling into the backseat with the most comfortable blanket in the world, to go to sleep. To take a luxurious nap with the sun streaming on my face, as the car coasts home. Just to share in the parallels, the possible vision of two individuals with the core of their world resting in the middle.
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