becoming Cirsea
LJ Idol week 26: sated
Whenever I go to Hawaii, my skin turns a delightful shade of blue. Literally. For no apparent reason. I visit Maui with my parents most summers and I turn blue every time. Especially my legs. I can't figure out what causes it, but I'm not imagining it. By the time we land in San Francisco again, my legs are a delicate shade of lapis. Or maybe it's a mild turquoise. A balmy ultramarine perhaps. It's faint enough that you could almost mistake it for a shadow if you didn't know it was there.
The moon is fat and gold, hanging low overhead and reflecting brilliantly in the lake. It is a traitor's moon, ripe fruit waiting to burst. When our hands meet, the ground shakes, even though this is far from earthquake country. My mouth is full of magic, conjuring words that will call our desire into being. But being so far from the ocean is killing me. My heart is forgetting how to beat without the steady susurrant rhythm of the tides.
I grew up thinking I was a mermaid. I loved to be in the water, though I wasn't all that interested in swimming class. I just wanted to be surrounded by water, pushed by the current, dancing without gravity. In the pool, I would float close to the lanes, so the whoosh of adult swimmers passing would mimic the tides. I have always been close to the water, the ocean in particular. Almost every picture I drew had water in it. Cerulean was my favorite crayon as a child: for every fresh box I got, the cerulean one wore out first.
You weren't startled by me popping out of the cattails, though you did stare for longer than is polite. My hair dripped over my breasts and onto my dress. You had never met one of us before, so you did not sense the danger. I didn't warn you either. I had seen you before: there had been picnics on the banks of the river and I had watched from the reeds. Your skin is pink, ripe with possibilities, and I couldn't resist.
I don't live close to the ocean anymore. I can swim in the river, but it's not enough to sate my desire to be in the water. So I try to replace the lack of ocean in other ways. When I moved three years ago, I chose a place that had azure walls in the bedroom. The sheets on my bed are deep dark cobalt and the quilt is a sapphire-teal. There are other things too, unexpected magic that has to do with the sea. A few months ago, I passed an indigo jeep with a license plate that said "cirsea". The name resonated with me, the way Francesca Lia Block might have felt when she saw that pink cadillac with "Weetzie" on the license plate. I always wanted to be a Greek myth come to life, a water witch.
If I were an ondine, I wouldn't want to bear your child; the sea is all I need. They say I am a wicked girl. There is a storm of wanting in my chest. Desire flows with the tides that also guide my heartbeat. They say I need a child to gain a soul. I have a heart though, so I don't see why I need a soul. It won't make me any more real. I could never get enough of the ocean though. You, I can live without.
A poem about ondines by yours truly (sorry, friends only)
"Ondine" by Ravel, as played by Cheryl Shantz
Poem by Mary Barnard
♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥ not a needle but a drink ♥ Einstein I am not ♥ searching for ballon ♥ of the earth ♥
Whenever I go to Hawaii, my skin turns a delightful shade of blue. Literally. For no apparent reason. I visit Maui with my parents most summers and I turn blue every time. Especially my legs. I can't figure out what causes it, but I'm not imagining it. By the time we land in San Francisco again, my legs are a delicate shade of lapis. Or maybe it's a mild turquoise. A balmy ultramarine perhaps. It's faint enough that you could almost mistake it for a shadow if you didn't know it was there.
The moon is fat and gold, hanging low overhead and reflecting brilliantly in the lake. It is a traitor's moon, ripe fruit waiting to burst. When our hands meet, the ground shakes, even though this is far from earthquake country. My mouth is full of magic, conjuring words that will call our desire into being. But being so far from the ocean is killing me. My heart is forgetting how to beat without the steady susurrant rhythm of the tides.
I grew up thinking I was a mermaid. I loved to be in the water, though I wasn't all that interested in swimming class. I just wanted to be surrounded by water, pushed by the current, dancing without gravity. In the pool, I would float close to the lanes, so the whoosh of adult swimmers passing would mimic the tides. I have always been close to the water, the ocean in particular. Almost every picture I drew had water in it. Cerulean was my favorite crayon as a child: for every fresh box I got, the cerulean one wore out first.
You weren't startled by me popping out of the cattails, though you did stare for longer than is polite. My hair dripped over my breasts and onto my dress. You had never met one of us before, so you did not sense the danger. I didn't warn you either. I had seen you before: there had been picnics on the banks of the river and I had watched from the reeds. Your skin is pink, ripe with possibilities, and I couldn't resist.
I don't live close to the ocean anymore. I can swim in the river, but it's not enough to sate my desire to be in the water. So I try to replace the lack of ocean in other ways. When I moved three years ago, I chose a place that had azure walls in the bedroom. The sheets on my bed are deep dark cobalt and the quilt is a sapphire-teal. There are other things too, unexpected magic that has to do with the sea. A few months ago, I passed an indigo jeep with a license plate that said "cirsea". The name resonated with me, the way Francesca Lia Block might have felt when she saw that pink cadillac with "Weetzie" on the license plate. I always wanted to be a Greek myth come to life, a water witch.
If I were an ondine, I wouldn't want to bear your child; the sea is all I need. They say I am a wicked girl. There is a storm of wanting in my chest. Desire flows with the tides that also guide my heartbeat. They say I need a child to gain a soul. I have a heart though, so I don't see why I need a soul. It won't make me any more real. I could never get enough of the ocean though. You, I can live without.
A poem about ondines by yours truly (sorry, friends only)
"Ondine" by Ravel, as played by Cheryl Shantz
Poem by Mary Barnard
♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥ betrayal by choice ♥ how to age gracefully ♥ San Francisco's smile ♥ not a needle but a drink ♥ Einstein I am not ♥ searching for ballon ♥ of the earth ♥