(no subject)
My lips are stained purple with wine, and my fingers are swollen and sweaty. This is where we begin. We end with me on a couch, numb and alone in an empty room somewhere in the hills - thinking lonely thoughts only because I know I can. But we are not there yet. This is not the end, we’ve just begun.
I think that my crystal glass has been perfectly designed to reflect the deep burgundy shades in front of candlelight. The body of the glass has a delicate dip, like that of a woman’s waist…like a pretty dress with diamond shaped patters on the hem. It sits on a stem, as if it is a flower rather than a utensil; and I know all at once that this is perfection of human artistry. This, grouped with all the many things sitting on my glass and wrought iron table, makes a pretty picture of it. A pen is perpendicular to a lighter. While sheets of scribbled on papers, and books to be read or paid attention to, make a pile in the far corner that looks as if it is about to topple over with the encouragement of the slightest tremour. There is the wood carving of a man bent over in sadness crying, and beside a small hand painted box from Russia. An open package sits in the left corner, holding photographs of dear faces and a letter written to me in the old form, the familiar form which as I read it makes me feel like I know some kind of secret by merely recognizing its ancient script. And of course, this would not be a modern life if it were not for the plastic that is on my table as well, the candy wrappers and the telephone - with all its intricate wiring hidden underneath its smooth white and scalloped exteriour. What else - there is a knife, and scissors, and more unlit candles and bits of thoughts on even smaller bits of paper. All are crafted with a specific purpose, all with a role to play in my days, but none with the romantic and intoxicating feel and depth of the crystal glass. And I laugh at the fact that though it is deep, I drain it all too quickly and yearn to see it full again with the liquid like blood - with the liquid that I at once equally prefer to admire with my eyes and my tongue.
Thought it is usually my tongue that wins. Thought it is usually my lust that wins. Because I must taste something to really have it. As if it were not really existent until I am to have real piece of it, a real morsel in my mouth to let melt on my tongue. Like chewing hard bread into a starchy sweet mush, I need to feel everything dissolve in my saliva.
I’ve just imagined another detail of the home I am to make mine. I will cover the walls and ceilings with thick layers of stucco which, while still wet, I will scratch and gouge with my fingers, mould into rough shapes and knead into deep grooves - as if I dug out each of the rooms from stone with bare hands. In contrast with the rough and uneven walls will hang the soft and heavy fabrics from the corners, spilling to the floors, draping over furniture and paintings.
There will be fire burning. And crystal glasses always full.
I am anxious to unearth this cave; I need a spot somewhere to take on my form that at the same time impresses upon me its own distinct curves and corners. I need my mouth to be filled with the familiar taste. I need a place where I can be stepped into.
And even as my sticky fingers spill all this out, there is a part of me that knows that life will always take on its own form, despite what I may be ready or yearning for. It will be my greatest task to shape all that is around me, all that brushes against me, into the shapes and colours that I imagine. Because very deeply I believe that the stones will always stack against me and that I will truly have to dig out my walls with bare fingers. And live in a blood stained hole. And it will take time to wait for broken and torn fingernails to grow and to chip away another small chunk of the restraining heavy masses. Because one is born into a catacomb, in the exact shape of one’s body, which will soothingly keep its smooth and cool form - unless torn and screamed at.
I could stand the stifling surroundings, like a womb, but biologically I know to tear at it after a while. Biologically I know to keep biting.