The lotus and the plum
by Narcissus
(Person, 1435 views) - 5/9/05
(recorded 5/9/05 @ 4:13:37 PM)
I think about it as if it was an abstract--but perhaps that's correct; the English language refers to the "abstract 'it'", be it "it rains" or "it is done this way."--but tonight, all the puzzle pieces, the separated, darkly-outlined body parts of Picasso's self portrait, all fell together during those awkward minutes. With one slow, suffocating grasp, my abstract "it" was given a violent thrust into reality.

Desperately, I could try to reseparate the pieces, rebreak the mirror, rescatter the smooth-but-dimpled puzzle sheet, completed, and as the laws of entropy would have it, newly ordered, causing an eruption of chaos in another part of the universe. The die was cast and the disorder is now found pulsating through my veins, surfacing on my cheeks and chest. I'm burning...

I stand:

mouth open but not breathing, eyes staring at the tell-tale expression of my only understanding companion,
cheeks bleeding with the shame and excitement and uncertainty

There my abstract stands before me, dark, cunning, her appearance a monumental victory of everything I can't bring myself to say or believe. While I stand perplexed and slightly disgusted, she, relaxed, stares back at me with a smug smile of accomplishment.

Together, we will remember....

...Ah, there it is, that old familiar ache.

The lotus opens, a spreading bud, hands breaking away from a prayer...

....oh God,I'm breathing, reality escapes...

My pedals, red and new and glistening, licked lips soft and trembling. The flower is plucked by a soft hand and resting carefully on sweaty palms. It closes slightly, and then opens, emitting a light, wispy scent that swirls and intertwines with the stocky fingers. The pink petals, red--now a violent purple shade, plum, the vibration between female and male now so deliciously strong, so painfully loud that a record amount of blood rises to the surface--open in full bloom and press gently against the palms, these chiseled marble palms, steady, unwavered, I fear, by this offering.

Wait! Cheek to cheek, the very corners of my lips turning softly toward your neck, just under your earlobe. There-- just there-- warmth. A comfort I never want to let go of.

Heat... a flush, a surprise card pulled from the deck: the Jack of hearts, the hearts bleeding, dripping from the card, drops landing on your neck... a gentle warmth--your neck, your cheek, your ear--in a moment, you are a dessert of peach and cream, the first slice made with the knife leaves the steel wet and glistening. Your eyes, wet and glistening.

The lotus recoils in defense, retreating from these dangerous palms. If they wished, they could part or they could crush; the waiting is the worst part, the uncertainty is almost too much to bear. But of course, the offering is--no, not rejected, but simply--waved aside. "No, not now." Instead, palms cup over the petals, crinkled and still dark in color; a shield, a protection--

perhaps worse than destruction, the promise of hope and waiting

--you embrace me tightly, my arms around your waist following the trail of your shoulder blades, palms to your back, digging my nails into your shirt, clinging to the warmth and affection; surely, the last I will see for three months, in the best of scenarios, or never again, if the person I've become hasn't yet become enough. Your arms are above mine, around my shoulders, one across my upper-back, pulling me into your chest, the other--my favorite sensation during this slow, painful realization, the loss of my abstract--falls down from my shoulders to the small of my back, forearm teetering on my spine, those stocky fingers cupped around my side between waist and hipbone. I bury my face into your right shoulder, nose gently tucked in the small nose-shaped cavity between your collarbone, neck, and shoulder-muscle. I inhale deeply, three times. You smell clean and cold, like the old, steep, green stairway in the Montanan ranch house; you smell like boys and family and winter and fresh air and open spaces. You are so hard to let go of.

And when I do, I realize you, my painter, my creator, my Picasso, have left me in two pieces; myself and a reflection of myself, the shamed and the victorious, the hopeless and the hopeful. She holds all my secrets, balled up tightly, packaged delicately, waiting.

One bite of my plum and all the sweet, dark juices will dribble down and stain fingers, lips, and hearts.
Previous musing: My son sang today
Back to Narcissus's Notebook :: Back to the Musings
Amazing, how much one can derive from a simply embrace.
Entire novels, no?

It reminds me of the piece I wrote, My Manual For Everything.

I thought it was ironic that you talk about your reflection of yourself, considering your pseudonym here, but fitting, perhaps. We all want to rebreak the mirror just so—some of us are just luckier with the outcome than others.

   [disillusioned (J :: M) 5/9/05 8:06 PM]

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