Here You Go...
As promised:
Oh, and P.S. LJ doesn't do paragraphs, so there are spaces between the paragraphs that really bug me, but without them it looks really weird. Just letting you know.
I didn’t decide not to wear shoes today. Somewhere along the way I took them off, and they never got put back on. It was neither a purposeful action nor an accident, it simply just happened. Walking with rocks stuck to the thick pads of my feet, the stinging of every footfall reminding me of the smallest distances we put between nature and ourselves, I realized how alive this effortless gesture was making me. As though some substance integral to existence had been missing from my being, and now, finally, it was being absorbed. I noticed - for the first time? - how unimaginably soft pathways of pine needles can be, and how shocking it is to tread carelessly over a fallen pinecone. I was sure that I could feel the greenness of the grass as it stained my sweaty soles. I felt how the world could paint me into its unintelligible creation, sensations made of colors I will never see. I lay in the setting sun and watched a bare tree change from its sleeping state to an explosion of blossoms, only to be covered in a thick blanket of fallen petals as new leaves burst forth. Beauty so fleeting that I cried continuously, fearing that if I blinked for even an instant it would disappear completely.
The birds have all begun to sing. I hear them through the palms of my hands: piercing whistles of procreation spread their wings and flit from branch to branch. The world is alive with sex. Pheromones tease out deep yearnings, invisible love notes written to those who take the time to read them. This elaborate dance is not romantic and silly but passionate, rich, and deadly: find a mate or live to go extinct. Listen long enough and the melodies turn into war cries - shrill, howling pleas of "take me or I am no more!" I watch a bird lift his blood-colored head to scream his soul to the wind, and it is ravishing terror. Nothing but a primal desperation to survive can create such a sound. His notes ring out, "I am here! I am glorious!" A final, rising crescendo that ends without resolution: "I will triumph!" I open my mouth to join him, and when I do my throat fills with the tastes of music. Sweet and burning I swallow them whole. The melodies move my body without choice. I am a sexual being, and I too am being called to that spot with the one I desire.
I find him in what is ordinarily a dim room, but today there is no ceiling and the sunlight gleams off of the leaves of the trees that surround us. I sit and watch him dance. He moves, the rhythm pulsing in his body. It runs through him like water - spastic water - yet even and flowing as a stream over pebbles. I can neither predict his movements nor replicate them, so I gaze in wonder and amazement. The dance is in his hands. Skimming along the glistening ivory, I want to touch those hands. I sit, consumed with desire, and imagine what it would be to feel his fingers laced with mine. He finishes his song and turns to me, a proud male so confident in his power. His eyes are the color of the sky over head, crisp blue that whirls like windy water. Normally, I would turn away, too shy to look into those eyes that swim with the ocean. But today is different; today I wear no shoes. I reach for those hands, so long the objects of my desire, and I feel the coarseness of his skin against mine as our fingers entwine. We stand, and together we run into the aliveness of the world. Spinning in circles, the sky laughs at our merriment and cries sweet tears of joy. We roll in the mud and come to rest in a patch of dusty earth.
“We spend so much time together,” I say, breaking through the reverie, “but I don’t know you.”
“You don’t know me?” He raises an eyebrow and I fall into the deep, clear pools of his liquid eyes.
“I’ve read your story, but that doesn’t mean I know you.” I struggle to find the words I long to say: I know your words, your prose of wit and recklessness. I know the serious moments when you rise above what is expected and allow yourself to feel what you cannot speak aloud. I know this, but I want to know you without the writing. I want to know you the way I know your song when you play and I sit and I try to hide the pain and ecstasy I feel when we are so close to touching that I can see the electricity as it runs through your hands. Your hands, your hands! I know your hands.
“What don’t you know about me?” He is teasing, flirting. It takes me a moment to recognize this reciprocation, and when I do my limbs turn to wax and I am melting in the hot sun of his smile. In my puddled self I search for a response, but everything is oozing and there is nothing.
Nothing. I start to say it, but the sounds are stuck. Something solid sends a chill through my spine, and I am at once rigid. My body returns to its human form. I feel the wall at my back, hard wooden floor numbing my tailbone, and the tight grip around my feet. Shoes. I look down, and there they are. So strange, so pointless, so powerful. I look back, and he is still smiling, but I have lost my courage. I have lost the colors that stung my eyes. The room is flat and dull. I am trapped; I can no longer stare into the blue sky of his eyes. He shifts his weight away from me. Reality is awkward. I focus on his hands, those hands that met mine for an instant. How long ago? I want to reach out and hold them, but I can’t remember the feeling, and they are a mystery to me once more. He stands, and I stare at the spot where his touch has left invisible fingerprints. My focus stays fixed to that point as I hear the door open and close, and he is gone.
I didn’t decide not to wear shoes today. Somewhere along the way I took them off, and they never got put back on. It was neither a purposeful action nor an accident, it simply just happened. Sometimes it just happens.
So...yeah, I'm going to edit it before turning it in. It's supposed to be a memoir of fact and fiction, historical truths and falsity. I'm not sure if it is that, but as a memoir I suppose it can be whatever I want it to be, right? Right.
Oh, and P.S. LJ doesn't do paragraphs, so there are spaces between the paragraphs that really bug me, but without them it looks really weird. Just letting you know.
I didn’t decide not to wear shoes today. Somewhere along the way I took them off, and they never got put back on. It was neither a purposeful action nor an accident, it simply just happened. Walking with rocks stuck to the thick pads of my feet, the stinging of every footfall reminding me of the smallest distances we put between nature and ourselves, I realized how alive this effortless gesture was making me. As though some substance integral to existence had been missing from my being, and now, finally, it was being absorbed. I noticed - for the first time? - how unimaginably soft pathways of pine needles can be, and how shocking it is to tread carelessly over a fallen pinecone. I was sure that I could feel the greenness of the grass as it stained my sweaty soles. I felt how the world could paint me into its unintelligible creation, sensations made of colors I will never see. I lay in the setting sun and watched a bare tree change from its sleeping state to an explosion of blossoms, only to be covered in a thick blanket of fallen petals as new leaves burst forth. Beauty so fleeting that I cried continuously, fearing that if I blinked for even an instant it would disappear completely.
The birds have all begun to sing. I hear them through the palms of my hands: piercing whistles of procreation spread their wings and flit from branch to branch. The world is alive with sex. Pheromones tease out deep yearnings, invisible love notes written to those who take the time to read them. This elaborate dance is not romantic and silly but passionate, rich, and deadly: find a mate or live to go extinct. Listen long enough and the melodies turn into war cries - shrill, howling pleas of "take me or I am no more!" I watch a bird lift his blood-colored head to scream his soul to the wind, and it is ravishing terror. Nothing but a primal desperation to survive can create such a sound. His notes ring out, "I am here! I am glorious!" A final, rising crescendo that ends without resolution: "I will triumph!" I open my mouth to join him, and when I do my throat fills with the tastes of music. Sweet and burning I swallow them whole. The melodies move my body without choice. I am a sexual being, and I too am being called to that spot with the one I desire.
I find him in what is ordinarily a dim room, but today there is no ceiling and the sunlight gleams off of the leaves of the trees that surround us. I sit and watch him dance. He moves, the rhythm pulsing in his body. It runs through him like water - spastic water - yet even and flowing as a stream over pebbles. I can neither predict his movements nor replicate them, so I gaze in wonder and amazement. The dance is in his hands. Skimming along the glistening ivory, I want to touch those hands. I sit, consumed with desire, and imagine what it would be to feel his fingers laced with mine. He finishes his song and turns to me, a proud male so confident in his power. His eyes are the color of the sky over head, crisp blue that whirls like windy water. Normally, I would turn away, too shy to look into those eyes that swim with the ocean. But today is different; today I wear no shoes. I reach for those hands, so long the objects of my desire, and I feel the coarseness of his skin against mine as our fingers entwine. We stand, and together we run into the aliveness of the world. Spinning in circles, the sky laughs at our merriment and cries sweet tears of joy. We roll in the mud and come to rest in a patch of dusty earth.
“We spend so much time together,” I say, breaking through the reverie, “but I don’t know you.”
“You don’t know me?” He raises an eyebrow and I fall into the deep, clear pools of his liquid eyes.
“I’ve read your story, but that doesn’t mean I know you.” I struggle to find the words I long to say: I know your words, your prose of wit and recklessness. I know the serious moments when you rise above what is expected and allow yourself to feel what you cannot speak aloud. I know this, but I want to know you without the writing. I want to know you the way I know your song when you play and I sit and I try to hide the pain and ecstasy I feel when we are so close to touching that I can see the electricity as it runs through your hands. Your hands, your hands! I know your hands.
“What don’t you know about me?” He is teasing, flirting. It takes me a moment to recognize this reciprocation, and when I do my limbs turn to wax and I am melting in the hot sun of his smile. In my puddled self I search for a response, but everything is oozing and there is nothing.
Nothing. I start to say it, but the sounds are stuck. Something solid sends a chill through my spine, and I am at once rigid. My body returns to its human form. I feel the wall at my back, hard wooden floor numbing my tailbone, and the tight grip around my feet. Shoes. I look down, and there they are. So strange, so pointless, so powerful. I look back, and he is still smiling, but I have lost my courage. I have lost the colors that stung my eyes. The room is flat and dull. I am trapped; I can no longer stare into the blue sky of his eyes. He shifts his weight away from me. Reality is awkward. I focus on his hands, those hands that met mine for an instant. How long ago? I want to reach out and hold them, but I can’t remember the feeling, and they are a mystery to me once more. He stands, and I stare at the spot where his touch has left invisible fingerprints. My focus stays fixed to that point as I hear the door open and close, and he is gone.
I didn’t decide not to wear shoes today. Somewhere along the way I took them off, and they never got put back on. It was neither a purposeful action nor an accident, it simply just happened. Sometimes it just happens.
So...yeah, I'm going to edit it before turning it in. It's supposed to be a memoir of fact and fiction, historical truths and falsity. I'm not sure if it is that, but as a memoir I suppose it can be whatever I want it to be, right? Right.