It has always been the prerogative of children and half-wits to point out that the emperor has no clothes. But a half-wit remains a half-wit, and the emperor remains an emperor." --Neil Gaiman (The Kindly Ones)
“Trusting someone,” Adam mutters, only partly to himself, “is like catching a fast ball—one part intuition, one part faith, and two parts courage. Or more than two parts. Who said that there should only ever be four parts in something—I know it gets a bit complicated after that, but still. Shit. You know, that putting a hand out for something coming at you really fast bit. Fucking scary.”
He says this with his hands cupping the back of his head, and the edge of his shirt riding up. There is a line of red-brown skin at the gap, testament to too much time spent by the lake docks and something of a characteristic absent-mindedness. He’s twenty-four, virile, some how only of an average height, which he resents mightily. I don’t mind, even if I look him in the eyes directly when I kiss him. I’m twenty-six, and some somehow things have always been a little shook up anyway.
“Sure.” I say. Little strips of cloud, high up, look like the ripples over water and catch the last of a perfect summer day. The air hangs still but for the occasional hum of a car far off, and it’s like every story where there’s a bubble of twilight held suspended in time.
“And love! Fuck love.” He says. There’s this smile, like this is humorous somehow. He has pretty strange lips, tugged down in one corner and up in the other. “Like the Emperor’s new clothes—”
“That’s a little cynical, don’t you think?”
“—because it only exists when you believe.” He rolls over, props his head up on a hand, and then threads my fingers though his. Lying on my stomach, I can smell the bruised grass so bad it’s like a taste in my mouth; when I look at him, he’s flat out grinning.
“Like fairies. You could’ve said, like fairies.” I say, and scritch my nails lightly across the back of his hand.
“Yeah. But I think the Emperor’s new clothes is a bit less mainstream, and a bit more apt.” There’s a little silence, and I know that he’s laughing at a private joke he thinks I’m in on. “Plus, I just like it when you get my references.”
“Ha.” Close my eyes. “I know. So elitist, Mr. Voysey.”
“Hardly.” Adam says, very distinctly. It’s a sore point, but he should laugh about it.
I think he’s pouting. Somehow, the lip quirk is more noticeable when he’s pulling a face. Open my eyes, just to check, and he’s looking ridiculous. Close them, smug. There’s a pause, and I ask, “Where did this come from?”
“It’s our one month anniversary. I think this is the longest that I’ve been with a girl since secondary school.” Adam’s a little too smug about this, and I frown. Pause again, and then the space between replies is suddenly apologetic when he raises my hand to his face and runs it up and down his stubble. It’s to make me laugh, and I do.
“Okay, alright.” I pull my hand away and look at him. The evening’s falling quicker now, and the damp pulling up the smells that only exist in the dark. From the garden, there’s now that marshy musk. His face is bleached into smooth, soft planes: a high forehead, black eyes, light brows that are pulled into a question. I shrug, murmur, “Yup.”
He reaches for my hand again and I give it to him. Adam, for all his emphatic resistance to touch-comfort, loves it much more than he lets on. He’s wearing his shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbow and open at the collar, and all I can think of is what a devil of a time he’ll have trying to get out the grass stains.
There’s that smile again, where something is genuinely funny, while his thumb is tracing circles into the back of my hand. I can barely see the outline of his lips, but I raise myself onto my elbows. A white, toothy smile in the darkness, and he leans over and kisses me.
Somehow it’s one of those kisses that is wonderful more for what feelings you’re carrying into it than for the sensations themselves. For that, it’s a peaceful kiss, a hungry, hopeful kiss. It’s there in him too, and he takes it sweet, leaves it when it’s only the tiniest, most powerful and gentle touch of our lips together.
I smile, worm the foot of distance between our two bodies until he can throw an arm over me and pull me close. It’s our autumn, and winter’s not so far off that I can’t feel its nip. And yet…still there’s something of summer here. Enough to remind, enough that I still burn for him, enough that I’m strangling myself with hope.
“Strange, Mr. Voysey.”
“Curious,” He corrects. He is smiling. It's when he reaches over, two fingers in the corner of my mouth, drawing it upward, that I realise that I am not.
So where from here? Anywhere
Anywhere I go, smile, and yes.
(Laugh at syntax.
--Smile, and laugh at syntax.)
Go to Jo-anne’s for a
And find a poem snagged
Like gossamer faery wings
And calloused fingers
On the silks? That would be grand.
And forget the questions
That he never asked.
Wall décor and book space
And red cloth for the lamp.
(And let’s not forget
To let go, let go.
Let my hair down.
And raise some roofs.
So, it's here! Or something, but I'm nearly gloriously delirious on my plans and ideas for change.
Wonderful, you know, because it was kinda something that'd been eluding me for a bit, but now here it is. And I'm wonderfully, gloriously, revelling in the damn stuff. I haven't been this happy in awhile, see, but here it is and it's a full moon--the window-open night air is making me giddy.
Craig's list and I'm squirreling around, looking for interesting things. I'd been head-in-a-whole--hole?--in the sand because I was being all terrified about Andy. Scary thing to be letting things happen again, things that might lead to Things. Annoying too, because I could know myself to be running away. (I refuse, as is my god-given right, to speak in whole sentences. Or grammarically. Or even in words, and maybe I should try that? String letters and sounds together, see if I can say anything with simply sounds?)
(though I won't. Don't want to be lost in translation, even if I am giddy enough not to care. La!)
But now I'm energetically throwing things about, comforters, cotton balls, water thugs-jugs, and chapstick thing-y-s. It makes me happy, like when you're in the fall-wind-eddy that spouts up next to the swim deck at North. When you're just grinning because you fucking can. Hi-ya!
Crazy is as crazy does, and college is no different from high school in levels of OH GOD WHY THE DRAMA. This makes me sad on some deep level; I mean, really?
1.) James kissed me. Then proceded to tell me I'm 'fucking stupid' and immature. Right. Thanks, James. (The last bit is true, but dammit, I'm working hard to change that! *mad face*)
2.) I got a love letter today from Andrew which made me feel like a puppy-kicker. I mean he signed it 'with innocent feelings'--who signs things like that? Really! I mean, who doesn't have an alterior motive to make me feel like an ogre. *woe*
3.) I saw Patrick today. I ran in the opposite direction like any sane woman would do when confronted with an ex who attempts to incinderate her with nothing more than a ferocious scowl and willpower.
4.) I'm currently lacking a textbook (which I ordered a week ago and still hasn't arrived) for Anthro., and I need it for questions that are due tomorrow. AHHHHHH.
I hate him. I’d forgotten how much I hated him, but I hadn’t seen him in what seemed like years and I thought I’d been able to grow past it. (Lie, lie, lie, because there will never be anything like growing past it.)
I touched him, gave him a hug hello and a hug good bye because that’s what you do, right? When you haven’t seen someone in ages and they're family. It wasn't so bad until I thought about it--he smelled like pot and I thought I could feel it clinging to my skin for minutes afterwards. (I won't ever be able to say how much I loathe him. So much, and I still feel like that little girl who's curled on her side on the top bunk, sobbing into the phone because she still doesn't understand what happened. And now I'm just a big girl at my desk, weeping like she doesn't understand and because the worst part is that she does. )
Ah, O LJ, how I have missed-ed-ish thou! (And by that, I mean you guys. Sorry I've been away so long!)
11:19 PST and I'm just...sitting. Nothing's really going on and I certainly haven't abandoned my lj...there's just really, nothing going on.
Life has been kinda blah lately. School, with its crazy testing schedule, has been much...shorter than usual. Don't ask me how this works, but it does. AG (/Apathetic Garrett, as opposed to Panda-Garrett) has been something of a dead end. I mean, I rather figured we were done for when there was that whole 'I'MMA GO B ANTI-SOC' IN MY CORNER NAO K
I AM HERE, Q. I SWEAAAARRRRR.
A godly man once told her to see it all. In a book. In words of prose and poetry and erotic sing sing sing images. Jamais vu, he said, not deja vu.
And so she lifted her head and looked? (It was a question, not a statement. Tried to see things that were missed.)
(the boy who folds the vaccuum cord has languid eyes, simple eyes, and a drooping mouth. Picks his nose, looks guiltity around, sees me (not her) and freezes. I look away. (his mustache is lile a moss on him lip.)
Am I seeing everything? (now?)
Maybe a page a week. Just to reflect.
Words can save you where guns can't.
---I don't wonder if it's true. Think how many lives can be saved/have been because of a few words on a paper. (or haven't been?)
Or maybe this poem is an insurgent art is for a soldier, boy, don't throw your life away!--take up a pen (in my life I shall never see!?) a poem as lovely as a tree) and you'll
(and a boy walks in with the thump-ah-thump of Jesus-weary tread. Look at him. I wonder what he hides in the folds of his neck.)
maybe I will scorn punctuation (so long as I scorn it out of?) and make with it something awesome. The night, a few stars.
*gangsta style, lines shade in the left shadows of the letters*
I can appreciate it I'd like to try it again again again until I can see inside their language head (pop their language head?) maybe the lines were a bit too much *in frantic cursive*
*more gangsta style*
I'm talking to him right now--maybe should start capitalizing it to Him. Him, because he's the He in my life. Weird, because I've gone for awhile without a definite or, you know, substantial Boy. (C. and W. don't really count. And J. has a definite more definite-ness about him than they do.)
It's so bizzarre, too, because I talk to him and there's all these things that I never noticed before. They make me happy, because it's like it all might work itself out. (Things like he talks to stuff like I do. I hear him occasionally addressing a rake in his backyard, or a fence as he lifts it up. Endearing stuff--stuff that makes me remember why we're best friends.)
There's a little jar, long and rectangle, that I've sitting on my desk. Leaning rather, I suppose, against the dresser. There's scentless, drooping lavender and rosemary that folds up (like rosemary does.) It's sitting in an old candle holder I have, metal, pressed with wide country-style-print flowers and little triangle cutouts. I love it dearly.
Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant.
Ah the new blog smell: Eau d'blog. And my post will be the idiot child in the back seat that pipes up, 'mama, I just--' and before he can finish,the driver rolls down the window. Sigh. No more new blog smell.
Ave, old knitter of black wool, Morituri te salutant.