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I woke with a poem settling on my lips, and the heaviness of arousal sitting on my hips like a tired but welcome old gargoyle.
The poem...
In a stillness she feels the feast begin,
a dark nothingness that envelops her feet.
She sees them in her mind's eye,
small squirming sharp-toothed wormy creatures,
nibbling away at her bone and flesh.
Squinting down she watches as,
bit by bit, she is gnawed away.
Disappointed by the lack of pain,
WHY DON'T I FEEL
she remains unmoved by the threat.
A vague beat of heat as they devour her sex.
A barely-there tug at her torso.
Gentle relief there, at her tongue
WHY CAN'T I SPEAK
And then her eyes know no more.
Now, at her last refuge, in that cold place in her mind, finally it is there, that icy pain that slices and removes...
Until all is black strangeness.
Several years back, on a business trip, I picked up a book in the airport bookstore. The back cover said things like 'fantasy, Santa, fairy tale for adults' and I decided it was just my speed. Halfway through the flight, I was hooked. It was porn! Erotica of the most gruesomely erotic! I was amazed that it was being sold in an airport shop, and tittered at the joke being pulled on the normals.
The book was called Santa Steps Out. I imagine you can still pick it up on abebooks.
The gist was this...Santa, the horny old man, is really the pagan god Pan. His exploits with human females, Mrs. Claus, the Tooth Fairy, etc....are just, well, deliciously obscene.
Since then, I've written some very detailed letters to Santa about what I want under MY tree.
There is finally a touch of fall here, and I'm entertaining myself with thoughts of fireplaces and hot chocolate. A dog is curled up next to me, one eye blinking lazily at me when I stir. It's peaceful, at long last, my head is clear.
At the end of yoga, during our relaxation poses, the instructor has us laid out, eyes closed, focused totally inward. Then she rings this bell thing. I've never actually wanted to open my eyes to see it, that would spoil it. But for descriptive purposes, it sounds like a much deeper version of running your wet finger around the edge of a water glass. It gets inside your head somehow. At the end of this long tone, you start wondering if it is just in your head, if anyone else hears it, if you are perhaps so deep in a meditative state that it's only for you.
Tonight was like that, only with bagpipes. I know there is a debate over whether or not bagpipes are an actual musical instrument...some people think they sound like cats being stepped on. But what a delicious caterwhauling of sound. Just like that yoga bell, I closed my eyes, and that cacophany got inside my head and I could feel it all the way inside, rattling my bones.
I forget how good that feels, that transcendance.
Of course, it helped that the bagpipe player had a sexy brogue and a beard down to his waistband. Mmmm.
This morning, I saw a long-legged bird scratching for worms. I was still fifty yards away or so when I saw the bird pull up a very large worm. As I got closer, I realized it was a small snake. It was twisting and writhing, and the bird tipped up its head, trying to gulp the snake down its throat.
As I went past, I watched. I was torn between wanting to save the snake, and a philosophical call to the circle of life. I don't have any particular fear or hatred of snakes, nor any great love for them either. Same with birds. I suppose my decision to do nothing was born from my ambivalence rather than any hesitance to intervene.
I continued on my journey, thinking of the snake and the bird, and was reminded of a poem by Stephen Crane...
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter-bitter," he answered,
"But I like it
Because it is bitter
And because it is my heart."
