Thursday, March 29, 2007

God of Wine

"Vintage" Jamie, originally found at Kill the Goat.

The Lamborghini races along the old highway, going nowhere in particular, but going there fast. The road traces the contour of a familiar river; the car becomes a red blur along this road. I am unimpressed by the car. I think it's ugly, but there aren't many like it in the area, indeed there are not many people from a certain income bracket in the area, which makes the car, and its driver, conspicuous.

Strands of my hair whip around my face, threatening to mar the cerise lip gloss I have carefully applied. The wind is strong, but the sun is hot, and it feels good. The flowers on my skirt ruffle with the breeze. My toes, painted red for the summer, are up on the dashboard. Any oncoming cars would have quite a show, but there are none. It's just me, and Justin, and Linda. Linda is the car. He named the car. I try not to judge him too harshly for this.

Unlike me, he is tanned. When I am close enough, I can smell the sun in his skin, as if he's marinated in it. He looks over, and smiles. One eyebrow is raised cockily over his Raybans. God he's good looking, and damned if he doesn't know it. It’s that smile, so disarming, that got me here in the first place. He is charming and aloof, and irresistible to women. He is sure of himself, and sure of me.

At his house, we sit out on the patio, indulging as the night brings cooler air. Wolf Blass, Yellow Label. My toes are in the grass, my sandals long forgotten. We talk of the Mordecai Richler I am currently reading, and sip the wine, wine that will forever taste like summer evenings to me. I am 17, and impressionable. I don't know it yet of course, I feel worldly and sophisticated when I'm with him, but the fact remains that I was young, and a lot of what happened that summer shaped me in ways I am still discovering today.

We sit in 2 scooped canvass chairs; we hold hands between them, watching the sky turn orange, then burn into pink, glare briefly in red, and then go out in a convoluted blue. There is music playing somewhere, it goes well with the wine, intermingling somewhere between my tongue and my heart. He pulls me to my feet. We dance in the grass; there isn't dew on it yet, but it feels cool between my toes. We don't dance cheek to cheek, that only happens in the movies; we dance cheek to chest since in my bare feet I am a good foot shorter than he is. His shoulders are so broad that I get lost in them when he holds me tight.

He tells me I have beautiful collarbones, then leans down to trace their contour with his tongue. Finally, he reaches my mouth. He controls his desire, taking his time, driving me crazy. He leaves me breathless in the moonlight with his kisses, and then leads me back inside.

A little while later, he is tending to my carpet burns. We laugh, and languish, and polish off a second bottle of Yellow Label. I sit between his legs, leaning against his chest, and I feel him stiffen with excitement, ready to go again. He may be a decade older, but he’s as eager as any boy I’ve ever known, just far more deliberate.

As he takes a nipple possessively in his mouth, I think to myself, So this is growing up.

Friday, March 16, 2007

Unanswered Prayers

I used to pray for company. For another heart that bled like mine. Someone who felt as deeply as I did and knew both the blessings and the curse. I prayed from selfish, impure motives, without care for consequences. I tried to pray away the loneliness.

I used to pray for peace. For the walls to stop shaking and my bones to stop quaking. To stop the tears, or the blood, or the fear. I prayed from lack of faith, not knowing that strength grows out of weakness. I tried to pray away the pain.

I used to pray for protection. From the knowable and the unknowable. From the sadness that surrounds us, the unseen enemies and the isolation. I prayed without humbling myself, not trusting in the greater good. I tried to pray away the insecurity.

I used to pray for understanding. To know my own fortune and find a path that I could follow unafraid. To win without having gambled. I prayed for my own will to be done. I tried to pray away the peril.

I used to pray for salvation. To deliver my friends from the clutches of their addictions. To save them from themselves. I prayed without confessing my own sins. I tried to pray away the suffering, the stigma, and the guilt.

I used to pray.

Monday, March 05, 2007

Song For A Muse

I wipe the page clean
Or fill it up with absurdities
I sit with pen to paper
Or wear the carpet thin with pacing
And the muse, she does not come.

I could see new people places faces
I could drink my weight in gin
Inject liquid creativity into my vein
Cut myself just to see me bleed
And still, she would not come

If I broke and saddled the beast within
If I scissored open the silver lining
Fucked over all my inhibitions
Unshackled the savage inside my head
Even then she would not come.

Be a dirty girl or straight and chaste
Travel the world or live in solitude
Starve myself or stuff my face
Vulnerable or showing only strength
She doesn't care; she will not come.

I may seduce the ink
I may open my mind
Find the sweet spot
Chase the elusive thought
It makes no difference to the muse.

Engaged or disengaged
Celebrating or lost in grief
Capable or emptied out
Alone or with my shadow
The muse, she does not come.