The quiet sets in. Long seconds with only my heartbeat and the rush of blood through my ears to accompany the waiting…the anticipation…but first I tap out a yellow on the wall. Yellow for distress, yellow for, not stop but help.
The gag is unknotted and the soft warm cotton falls away.
Pel…Something in me whimpers with relief, its Pel.
Pel whispers, “Whatever could be wrong, my darkest night?”
Tension eases and the fear of moments…minutes?…before subsides.
“Bathroom please,” I whisper.
With a disappointed sigh Pel unlocks my restraints and stands me up. He does this economically with a minimum amount of touch and briefly I have this flash of what did I do wrong before I’m being marched to the bathroom. The blindfold stays on as he guides me to the toilet and sets me down.
The door closes and I’m alone but I dare not take off the blindfold. Instead I go pee and reach out by memory to get clean. Nothing has been moved thankfully and I am able to wash up without difficulty.
With the water running, I hear voices in the bedroom and I go still. Who is Pel talking to…I strain to hear but the muffled sounds through the door and the rushing water make that too indistinct.
When I shut off the water and knock on the door ready to go back, the voices have stopped. Maybe I was hearing things.
Again the hands that lead me to the bed and place the restraints back on are businesslike and without hesitation. Like I’m just meat. And that more than anything spikes my fear. Pel is constitutionally incapable of not kissing me when he touches me. At least on the palm of my hand or o to my neck, but never like this. Like I don’t matter…
There where darkness pools and love is no mystery
To waste what magic brings in heart
In loves embrace
And sitting hollow in crook of arms
Fleshly needs sated while I become empty
What malice I must bear to self to inflict this terror
In hopes of finding truth in the simple kiss
What folly to embrace death after death
Looking for a way home when it was ever in your arms
This life so fleeting without ears to hear your song
Or am I struck deaf and faint whisper only draws forward
Choice and choose and you to see what love is
In my pain and blood
Turn back and hold what is known
And I but to memory
And kind thoughts of aid to see
I sit alone and empty
And know love
Choked words spill onto bloody snow
Hand caresses soft skin
Weights too heavy to bare
Pepper frozen blood
Flayed of protective cover
In the brittle
Long before the dawn
I have things I want to say but they all feel like a remix rehash of conversations held before. Like being tired isn’t new and being alone isn’t new. Waking up and going to work. Being in love, the constant state of my being. Wondering about maybes and wondering about other shoes and planning actions and reading books and reading poetry and it’s all the same.
The constant drips of a life flowing away.
The minutes spent with a pet. The enforced perspective of now.
Not having anything to say except all the things I’ve said.
I’m sure there are stories I’ve not told and memories I’ve not shared. They just seem so far away. And very few want a dissertation on mannerisms and choices as informed by sociological pressures which become psychological norms by stint of being accepted practices.
Or to hear why a single brick of c4 would never create such a huge explosion no matter how many detonators you pushed into it(not withstanding the complete lack of electrical signal to said detonators)
I suppose this is the unfortunate circumstance where you want to talk but have no one whose as weird as you are or who loves you enough to listen to you being weird at four in the morning.
Life isn’t what we portray it as. Sometimes, the closest you can get to a person is to hear their oddball ideas and observations and bounce your own back and that’s enough.
And other times…you need to hold someone and tell them it will be ok. Not just for them but because we all need to hear that too.
How can I feel as if I know exactly who I am and still feel completely lost
In one moment
Like I stand astride mountains
Seeing with my heart entire
Seeing the wind blow and knowing exactly how it will feel against my skin the split second before contact
And in others
Like hope was a flame that instead of burning out
Was quenched too soon and instead of ashes awaiting rebirth
We have a sodden mess of maybe and might haves
Like a puzzle box
Revealing concealed truths
Exposed and unabashed
I fall wings clipped
Yearning for the crash that ends it all
What I want
Is not destined for my arms
And tears fall as blood
From the broken places
From the memory of
When I soared
From those moments
When we were possible
I have a love/hate relationship with classical music. Or perhaps love/sleep with it. There are pieces of classical music that soar and take me in and hold me up to heights unrealized and other pieces that feel uninspired and tired.
And I wonder, is this just how the notes impact me or is it that these are pieces that were written without need beyond the need for a meal or a drink?
Are these the pieces written for patrons, for commission? For some Duke or Queen, to garner attention in the hopes that it will lead to a steady gig?
And, while I don’t begrudge an artist the means of making a living, should these pieces now be venerated merely because of provinance and age? Or should they be viewed with an eye which turns first inwards then with a heart looking for that precipice from which to leap and grow wings?
Playing it safe pleases donors. Pleases the modern patrons, but should this be the criteria?
Should we not be able to embrace the classical composer without also embracing the mediocre or culturally uninspired efforts that allowed them to put bread on the table?
Maybe that’s hard to do. Hard to see what is emotionally resonant when the pieces themselves are tied to names that echo with greatness. Hard to justify risk when the continued success of the players is dependent on donations.
Perhaps, instead of begging for donations the price of a ticket should reflect the cost of the performance. It’s an oft quoted figure that each performance is only half paid by ticket sales. Making up the rest with donations…makes art hostage to future generosity.
It’s probable that I don’t fully grasp the economics of it. But I’d rather hear a schedule that takes risks and plays with fire than one that is merely safe. Speaking as a lover of classical music, why must I choose to support staid selections to receive the hope of one or two truly moving pieces in a season.
Perhaps it’s too much to hope for. I’m not sure. But I do know that if you play music that makes my heart sing…when I am enraptured… Then you will have a patron for life.
We must all serve the beauty in our hearts.
Or maybe I just hate falling asleep at the Symphony.
Every night feels long
Tossing and turning
Waiting for words to come
Today is the Winter Solstice. Today the strength of night surges and fades. Today winter wakes and reaches forth its hand.
Today it all ends and maybe begins again. The spent fury of transition.
Today is a day of relunctance. Wanting one more hour of sleep. Reaching out across dreams. Hoping to give a moment of peace.
Feeling unsettled and anxious.
Today is a day of contemplation. Of enacting last strategies. And setting last pieces on the board.
Today is the winter solstice.
Today night surges and fades.
Today Winter unfurls and spends its fury on the world