Friday, October 19, 2012

Afternoon Disappointment

Posting or reposting drafts left in my blogger folder.

I am asleep. In my dream. This sort of dream is only remembered if I wake up soon after REM is achieved. In shorter periods of slumber. On car rides. Day naps. I always start by dreaming about being asleep.

I am asleep. I can feel grass beneath my arms and legs. I can hear birds I don't quite recognize. And traffic. And then I hear a voice, unmistakably yours. You're calling for me. Searching.

I think that you know where I am. I am where you left me. I open my eyes to the night. I see stars I don't recognize hanging in a pool of deep violet-blue sky. I see a large orange harvest moon. I hear the bugs and creatures of the night. I hear you call. Again.

I try to open my mouth before I realize that it's already open, as if in a silent scream. And that's when I feel it. I feel it rolling through my veins, a burning. I feel like I'm imploding, like my blood is made of fire and is threatening to burst out of my body.

There is a distant wailing, getting closer. I feel every muscle in my body extend and go stiff. The fire is at my skin. The wailing is louder. You call again and I can tell you're closer.

I see your shadow, blocking the moon. The wail bounces off of you and I'm suddenly very aware that it's coming from me.

You are yelling at me. You are telling me to stop. But I have no control over my voice or my implosion. I cannot stop.

You drop to your knees between my legs. You pound your fists into my muscles, each finding relief with each strike. I can still feel my fiery blood. I am still wailing. But I'm gaining control of my muscles, one by one, with your help.

And you are on top of me. And my boiling blood heads toward my groin. I feel myself stiffen, the fire all regulated to my cock. And I am still wailing until I feel your mouth pressing against mine. And suddenly, the wailing stops. I no longer hear the birds or the traffic or the creatures of the night. I hear my heart beating. That is all I hear.

We dissolve into a fine mist, twirling and tangling in the dark, exploring each other, forming larger drops as we combine together, returning back to mist as we fall apart. We move like tides. We wax and we wane and we sound like the ocean as we crash against each other just to retreat back into our own selves.

We become corporeal again.

"Are you sure you meant to be water?" you ask me.

"I didn't meant to be fire," I answer.

"What's left? Earth?"

I look at you, understanding what you are asking me to do. I crumble to the ground. I am the mound of dirt. You walk to me. I can see you with the eyes I no longer have. You sit on top of me and move your hands through me. You lift me up and let me slip through the gaps between your fingers and onto your thighs. You reach deep inside of me and pull me inside out, tilling me with your hands, bringing the most fecund parts of me to the surface. You replace my top soil. As you work, you turn from body to mist to body to mist and back and forth again and again.

We combine into a muddy clay. You lie in me and breathe into me. When you exhale, I feel you invading me. When you inhale, I feel myself being drawn into you.

When you are inside of me, I feel nervous and vulnerable. When I am inside of you, I feel calm and protected. We begin to hover in that in between space, both half in and half out. We both hang on, the dynamic becoming harder and harder to maintain.

I have the very sudden thought that I don't know what any of this means to you. I do not know what you are feeling. And at that moment, we fall apart. And we are on the grass. We are sprawled on our backs, beside each other. My hand is touching yours.

I feel the crack of electricity at my fingers. I turn to my side and you have gone.

I am small. A child. I am in the WWII tent my father used for rendezvous. The wood stove is stoked hot. I'm too hot.

I lift the flap and I see that we're camped in a clearing near the river. It's cold outside. There's a breeze. It's just barely spring. There are puddles on the field where the other buckskinners have set up camp. I search for my father. I can hear laughter in the teepee. I know it's Ed's teepee and that my father is probably there. They are probably sitting around a campfire and telling stories and singing songs an passing a pipe around the circle. A couple people probably have guitars or ukuleles out. Possibly a fiddle.

I steer clear of the teepee. I pad through the puddles in my bare feet, the mud oozing up between my toes. I pause to play, wiggling my toes to feel the power in the mud. It reminds me of something, but I can't remember what.

I head toward a trail. I don't take this trail at night. I'm not allowed to leave camp at night. But I take it anyway. A short way in, I hear a hissing from just above me. I look up. I see the opossum that threatened me during the daytime on this same trail in this same spot when I was a real child rather than a dream child. I am suddenly myself again. I am an adult. I remember running as a child. I ran back to camp. I got my brother. I took him back to the tree. I don't remember what happened after that. As an adult, I do not turn and run. I stare at the possum. I am no longer scared.

I understand her instinct. She is not alone, or she would not draw attention to herself. She is protecting somebody. I mean no harm. I continue down the trail.

I cross the bridge over the small creek. I see the large cross and halved log pews of the outdoor chapel of the Mennonite camp sitting atop the hill. I was told to stay away from the camp if the campers were there. It was never clear if this was out of respect for them or if it was a denouncement of them.

You sit on one of the pews. You look up at me.

"Did you have a nice walk?"

"It would have been nicer if you were with me."

"Obviously."

You smile and I fall to my knees before you. I put my head in your lap and you stroke my hair. My fingers grasp at you, getting tangled in your shirt. The sobs burst out of my chest as if they've been trapped, waiting and pushing at the door with the knob twisted--just waiting for someone to disengage the dead bolt.

"You've got to stop this crying at the drop of a hat," you say sternly, still stroking my hair.

I laugh into my sobs. "Yes."

"It's getting quite tiring."

"Yes."

You pull my head off of your lap by my hair and you force me to look into your eyes. You are crying.

I try to move closer to kiss your eyes, but you hold me back by the hair.

"Your actions have consequences."

"Yes."

"Your feelings have consequences."

"Yes."

"Do you like these consequences?"

"No."

You let go of my hair and I half-stand, stretching to kiss your eyes. Your tears are salty on my lips. You pull me back down and into an embrace and I breathe you in. I feel calm and protected and nervous and vulnerable. I feel terrified. I feel content.

I wrap my arms around you, one hand on your shoulder blade, one on your waist. The pebbles beneath me dig into my knees. I feel your heat, insistent on my stomach. You begin to push me down farther. I can smell arousal on you. You are suddenly naked, as am I.

I bite my tongue as you push me hard into the ground.

You start to speak again, but I hear a beeping and a buzzing, rhythmic and annoying. I wake up to my phone alarm.

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