ramblings, fantasies, stories, theories part 1
I don’t understand desire but I recognize it.
The start of desire is a calm, mild creature, which purrs and presses against the inside of my skin - it wants to reach out, recognizing its other. The beginning of desire is content with a kind word, an embrace, the brief brush of lips across my cheek.
The mid-point of desire is a less timid creature. When faced with the object of this desire, I can be calm, self assured and poised up to that moment, and their mere presence will twist my intestines as tightly as a housewife wringing out a beach towel. It is no less subtle than being stabbed in the chest. Normalcy can still be maintained when in the grip of the mid-point of desire. You can steel yourself against it, and show no more sign of your turmoil than a slight glow to your complexion, a flush to your chest, a tremor to your hand.
The end point of desire is feral in nature. It knows only of feasting and consuming. It rages like a tyrant and it has the power to bring the best among us to our knees. If you think you have resisted it, you have never faced it. In the hands of mad men, end point desire makes killers eat their victims and those with a more standard morality bite into each others flesh, claw at each others skin, shake, shiver, scream, cry. Die. Live.
I am passing through. The airplane has taxied to a stop and I can see the crouching shapes of the city and the glow of a stretching shapeless mass of humanity through the white shadow of my own breath on the window beside me. The suited bulk shifts in his seat. One of his hands grips down on the arm rest between us as he positions himself to boost into the isle. I feel calm and still in that flat dead moment, watching his white red knuckles. I wait for movement and freedom, not allowing myself to anticipate it. I am on the tarmac breathing the air of a strange country. It feels metallic - or maybe that’s just the echo of 12 hours of airline food.
I am passing through. The chances I could have taken, the mistakes I haven’t found a chance to make and the longing to pursue that which I deny myself sit heavily in my stomach like a stone. I am surrounded by the slack expressionless faces of strangers and travelers. We shuffle forward without thinking, our eyes on each others backs, on the floor, on our luggage. The hall smells of dry-cleaning, plastic, sweat and compensatory cologne. I am the only woman in this part of the queue and the concession is that suited bulk, still in front of me, and faceless older man behind me, keep an extra foot of distance between us. It’s my turn at the counter next, then I’ll be moving on to a four hour wait in the departure lounge on a metal chair bolted too low to the ground.
I step up to the counter and present my documents, expecting the normal tight-lipped reaction to my passport, profession and gender - perhaps a remark or a raised eyebrow at the stamps over stamps, the documents rough worn edges, its obvious overuse. This time something is different. The man in uniform opposite regards me with what appears to be the start of a leer, but also something more - recognition - then amusement. He is a stranger, but his eyes take me in as if he knows me, pausing on the simple lines of my wrap dress, lingering for a moment on the curve of my breasts, then returning to my face.
“You need to step aside maam,” His accent reminds me where I am.
“Step aside.” My answer. Not a question. Just a statement - out loud, as I attempt to process his request, while trying to read that expression, almost putting my finger on it - then as the pieces try to break apart and reform in those seconds, I feel the grip of a firm hand just above my elbow, the fingers biting into my skin just below the sleeve of my dress. As the arm begins to steer me away through the crowd and beyond, I look back on the face behind the counter and see a small smile of collusion, and an almost imperceptible nod.
“Keep going” the voice belonging to the hand instructs me. I try to turn to look up at the voice, the owner of the hand - but the pace we are walking propels me forward and instead I only see the shoulder, a uniform and the arm that holds me.
“In here”
We are standing in front of a metal door that says staff only. He pushes it open with his free hand and his body connects with mine as he does. A thousand instincts converge within me and react at once. The stone in my stomach is now a serpent. I haven’t seen his face and I don’t need to. The door opens into a smaller room, which leads into another. He bolts the second door and we are alone, but he hasn’t released his grip, if anything it tightens. I am still facing away from him.
“This is elaborate” My voice does not sound like my own. It’s lower than usual, and I can feel the serpent turning and its venom beginning to speed through my veins.
The start of desire is a calm, mild creature, which purrs and presses against the inside of my skin - it wants to reach out, recognizing its other. The beginning of desire is content with a kind word, an embrace, the brief brush of lips across my cheek.
The mid-point of desire is a less timid creature. When faced with the object of this desire, I can be calm, self assured and poised up to that moment, and their mere presence will twist my intestines as tightly as a housewife wringing out a beach towel. It is no less subtle than being stabbed in the chest. Normalcy can still be maintained when in the grip of the mid-point of desire. You can steel yourself against it, and show no more sign of your turmoil than a slight glow to your complexion, a flush to your chest, a tremor to your hand.
The end point of desire is feral in nature. It knows only of feasting and consuming. It rages like a tyrant and it has the power to bring the best among us to our knees. If you think you have resisted it, you have never faced it. In the hands of mad men, end point desire makes killers eat their victims and those with a more standard morality bite into each others flesh, claw at each others skin, shake, shiver, scream, cry. Die. Live.
I am passing through. The airplane has taxied to a stop and I can see the crouching shapes of the city and the glow of a stretching shapeless mass of humanity through the white shadow of my own breath on the window beside me. The suited bulk shifts in his seat. One of his hands grips down on the arm rest between us as he positions himself to boost into the isle. I feel calm and still in that flat dead moment, watching his white red knuckles. I wait for movement and freedom, not allowing myself to anticipate it. I am on the tarmac breathing the air of a strange country. It feels metallic - or maybe that’s just the echo of 12 hours of airline food.
I am passing through. The chances I could have taken, the mistakes I haven’t found a chance to make and the longing to pursue that which I deny myself sit heavily in my stomach like a stone. I am surrounded by the slack expressionless faces of strangers and travelers. We shuffle forward without thinking, our eyes on each others backs, on the floor, on our luggage. The hall smells of dry-cleaning, plastic, sweat and compensatory cologne. I am the only woman in this part of the queue and the concession is that suited bulk, still in front of me, and faceless older man behind me, keep an extra foot of distance between us. It’s my turn at the counter next, then I’ll be moving on to a four hour wait in the departure lounge on a metal chair bolted too low to the ground.
I step up to the counter and present my documents, expecting the normal tight-lipped reaction to my passport, profession and gender - perhaps a remark or a raised eyebrow at the stamps over stamps, the documents rough worn edges, its obvious overuse. This time something is different. The man in uniform opposite regards me with what appears to be the start of a leer, but also something more - recognition - then amusement. He is a stranger, but his eyes take me in as if he knows me, pausing on the simple lines of my wrap dress, lingering for a moment on the curve of my breasts, then returning to my face.
“You need to step aside maam,” His accent reminds me where I am.
“Step aside.” My answer. Not a question. Just a statement - out loud, as I attempt to process his request, while trying to read that expression, almost putting my finger on it - then as the pieces try to break apart and reform in those seconds, I feel the grip of a firm hand just above my elbow, the fingers biting into my skin just below the sleeve of my dress. As the arm begins to steer me away through the crowd and beyond, I look back on the face behind the counter and see a small smile of collusion, and an almost imperceptible nod.
“Keep going” the voice belonging to the hand instructs me. I try to turn to look up at the voice, the owner of the hand - but the pace we are walking propels me forward and instead I only see the shoulder, a uniform and the arm that holds me.
“In here”
We are standing in front of a metal door that says staff only. He pushes it open with his free hand and his body connects with mine as he does. A thousand instincts converge within me and react at once. The stone in my stomach is now a serpent. I haven’t seen his face and I don’t need to. The door opens into a smaller room, which leads into another. He bolts the second door and we are alone, but he hasn’t released his grip, if anything it tightens. I am still facing away from him.
“This is elaborate” My voice does not sound like my own. It’s lower than usual, and I can feel the serpent turning and its venom beginning to speed through my veins.