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Sunday, July 23, 2017


What would people look like if we could see them as they are
soaked in honey, stung and swollen, reckless, pinned against time?   

Ellen Bass, from The Human Line; “If You Knew

All words are spells in one way or another. His, coming out of a mouth whose spit had turned chalk-white, evinced I'm fragile and unholy. 

It's dehydration you know, I haven't had enough water, that is what happens when you don't, the right edge of his lips forms a pint-sized crescent. 
I must have produced something between a smile and a frown, a certain nod of disbelief, or unawareness, or maybe just my caught attention. I'd show you, but nah, nobody wants to see that, right? 
Go on I urged. He did. 
Oh wow, that is some serious white right there

Boys love causing aversion, it is a game of power against the weaklings. Mostly that's girls who say oh eww you're such a jackass that is gross, which is a pretense -of course- because really, people do tons of crazy-gross shit when no one's watching. 

And so do girls. We tweak our body parts and pick our noses, mess with our natural fluids like tasting our own snot when we cry, pee in the sea, burp loudly, or scratch that crusty cake of skin off a wound, and then give it a good look up close, just like the next guy. Only we hate to admit it. Along the process of establishing that comely identity, we just get infused with that damsel-y blight of fragility that has our asses going ew and yuck and I don't know what else. 

I recall doing so myself at some point in life but it was only a pre-adolescent veneer that chipped soon as I hit the age of fourteen. Right then I decided I preferred to go with the liberties guys had, meaning to go as raw and as indecent as they liked, not giving it a lot of thought, just freedom.  Freedom, so necessary and so cherished, and so deliberately delivered to flames when you fall for someone's jade-colored eyes and chalk-white spit I guess. 

We each have our triggers, things that wait for us in the dark and one can't be honest enough when they want to. I found the sight of his spit particularly risque. All I  had to do was be wise and unsee it, or at least put a sock in it about what makes my thoughts a little less tame. 
I definitely avoided saying I like it, cause liking it can't go unexplained, it's fucking dehydration.  And I don't think I even said that's kinda cool, which can be partly explained if you're able enough to twist words to your benefit. 
I'd be an asshole to go for that trick. So I lit another smoke, got out of my chair and changed the subject smoothly. 
Play another song for me. I liked that track you chose. I'll play you one or two. 's that cool?

Ryker is smart -all kinds of smart- talkative when he feels like giving you a taste of thorns, his future plans or a piece of his vagaries, wistful, enthusiastic, seriously self-judgemental and therefore touchy to what can spoil your image of him , a tad impatient and mildly skeptical before he lets a little honey drop. He will appreciate your honesty (a lot), will let you in on it in a softly-spoken single word, and if the input has been sweet,  he'll find a way to pay it back a few moments later by dosing you with an affectionate remark his tone implies he means it. 

Sometimes you 're able to taste the very young on people's lips long after they're considered such, the 1994-hard of their curves or the 1995-sweet of their skin each time you touch them. And sometimes you can sense the thirty-something give of their body or the forty-something way they'd come like they're setting a blues song loose like they're gonna break every string. 

So it is no big mystery why, when we accidentally touch, my kneecap flinches as if he tapped me with a rubber hammer. He notices. I'm no doc I remark but that means I've got good reflexes. He's way too smart to buy it, and besides, unlike the case of doctor Feelgood and his little gizmo, this one is a bilateral reaction. I know it, Ryker knows it. As long as no one's asked to hop on one leg while they pat their head and rub their belly, there is his hand drawn back in a flash saying sorry, and there is my kneecap in all its unadorned glory. No biggie, right? So we sit tight.This didn't hurt a bit. 

He's now perched up the wooden balcony rail, balancing himself, hugging the corner sleeve, crossing his tanned thighs, then blows on a hay golden strand of hair falling over his eyes as he speaks of the future and blushes like an ocean in love, wild with blueness. 
I'll do it, for real .. he pauses as if he's had a clear vision of his life passing before his eyes like cinemascope,  I'll make a living for myself and then go find a nice little place of my own and die without anyone being able to locate the body. I hate old age and the idea of people crying over a senile corpse. 

What was that thing Van Gogh had said: I'd rather die of passion than of boredom? You crazy-ass idealist, romantic, Mustang boy. 

I'd go on telling him that who he is, is bound to change, that some things will always be able to take him back, music, tastes, scents, and probably that rash he gets from climbing the surfboard he so much loves despite the reaction. 

I'd go on saying that these things are now making him who he is and one day they'll be unspooling time for him, like a dress slipping on the floor or some woman who'll be all hair and hips and hell. 

I wanna tell him that life is going to pull him apart and put him back together, expecting him to look the same, and see the same, and speak the same, but he'll be different.He's going to have thorns and poetry and be brave as hell; still eager to live a little bit longer, go into the unknown a little bit deeper; he will be fearless despite the fear.

But he has to have been there. He has to have smelled that scent. He has to have tasted that wine and danced to that music. So before he changes he needs to save who he is. He needs to bury his body in someone's skin, and they should cover each other in need and dance.

I found this written on somebody's wall the other day. I'm only showing you because that's how I'd love people to witness me one day, I tell him.  
Sounds like a cry, or worse, It's swagger and cocky .. I'm conceited like that. But I like it. Somehow I think a part of you will like it too. We're all such pricks and weirdos, aren't we? 

Let me be God. Let me be
Fuck. Let me be Christ
when you’re bitten too hard.
Let me be animal sounds.

You know what? I am a weirdo, he says pulling back his hair, both knees fidgeting, one arm jammed under his armpit. 

You know what, Ryker, I think that's rather cool. 

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