desert

I once took a road trip with a friend and a lover. Although both of them are to me both things, they are formally known as one and the other, so that is what I will say they are here. Many memorable things happened on that trip, but one that I think of now is the old plantation we visited. I remember the salves quarters, the weight of the cookware they had to use, the "hospital" they were treated in and the barbaric tools that were used. Then there was the house. I stood just inside the doors of this beautiful old place and we were all being told of the value of the antiques surrounding us. They were delicate and breakable and irreplaceable. And I was overwhelmed. I was overwhelmed with the desire to touch, to lift, to drop onto the wooden floors these precious lamps and bassinets and dishes. I saw myself doing this in my imagination. But I shushed that evil demon child inside me and went on through the tour as though I were a well adjusted adult.

It's the same irresistible force that had me giggling uncontrollably during communion or jumping from the alter after finishing a performance of some gospel song for the church audience.

I wonder now if it's a need to destroy the seriousness of things. Like there is this thing existing in the world that weeps at the sense of importance humans impose onto objects and ideas and rituals and that it's frustration gets so built up that it heaps itself onto some helpless infant. And that infant grows wild or crazy or suicidal depending on her circumstances. And maybe all three. Or maybe just two.

I find myself in a destructive mood. I find myself just bored enough, just exasperated enough to create some havoc.

Maybe we are all born with this instinct and we have strict parents or teachers who show us the potential for pain in our ways and we get the message.

Perhaps my parents had been too impressed with this message as children and they wanted secretly to see what would result if they let their child be as wild as they could tolerate.

In any case, I am struggling with this part of me. People may love to read bumper stickers telling the world that well-behaved women rarely make history, but keeping company with such a woman is another matter.

This morning while smelling a young british boy awaken, my throat scratching from whatever scent he was wearing to cover up the delicious scent of cock that lingered underneath, I imagined myself in my old house with three bedrooms, a large kitchen and a living room ALL TO MYSELF. I could wake up naked and make breakfast that way and there would be no one to avert their eyes.

So, the romance of the wander is coming to dusk. I would like to remember how to cook. I can barely remember. I think I once owned beautifully matching sets of things to cook with and in and to eat those things I cooked upon. I believe there was a time when I could open a cupboard and find spices and mugs. I had a refrigerator all to myself. I think.

I will soon be bending my body into positions she hasn't seen in a while, or maybe ever. I will be back in the warm north. This moment is gorgeous. I am in the desert again. I escaped to a place I thought desert could not be, but it is here and I am in it. I stopped to take pictures for proof. Desert surrounded by rainforest is tolerable I suppose.

I have not been so desperate for you and so not desperate since I left you.

If that's confusing to think of, then imagine what it must be to live it.

Anyway, kisses and hugs and love love love, above all.