Hooky Day
3-14-2
I have not wanted to work all week. I am off work and in my study here at Borders, drinking coffee, watching people, feeling the coffee work its way through my brain, hearing the whoosh of HVAC- the mechanical rattle of the printing of a register receipt- the voice of a squealing baby- the crinkling of a plastic wrapper opening-- the low hubbub of the few patrons-- the clink of teaspoon on cup-- the slurp---ahhh of me drinking-- the twink of keys as I type and the hollow sound of an empty headed writer going on and on and on about the sounds he hears.
I wish my nose worked better; perhaps it would smell freshly baked bread.
The cafe overlooks a parking lot. My mind looks out at the ocean from a house built into a hollow high above the crashing white waves. I want to ride down a water slide onto a black sand beach. There you would be untanned white stark against the beach black.
"Would you do this?" you ask handing me the sun block.
I travel around the landscape of your back. My fingers rest at the top of your shoulder blades and then ride down. Slick, slick, slick my fingers sound against the valley of your back. Light touches on spine bumps and the landscape heaves and the earth of you squeals. My hands dissolve and atoms of you and I collide like Fermi Laboratory children detected only by the sensitive instruments of the imagination. Great blue oceans of you and continents of me form out of the primordial ooze and ahhs of touching ideas. Inspiration- the breathing in of another soul-- a soul from some past time? A soul from some future life?
I have not wanted to work all week. I am off work and in my study here at Borders, drinking coffee, watching people, feeling the coffee work its way through my brain, hearing the whoosh of HVAC- the mechanical rattle of the printing of a register receipt- the voice of a squealing baby- the crinkling of a plastic wrapper opening-- the low hubbub of the few patrons-- the clink of teaspoon on cup-- the slurp---ahhh of me drinking-- the twink of keys as I type and the hollow sound of an empty headed writer going on and on and on about the sounds he hears.
I wish my nose worked better; perhaps it would smell freshly baked bread.
The cafe overlooks a parking lot. My mind looks out at the ocean from a house built into a hollow high above the crashing white waves. I want to ride down a water slide onto a black sand beach. There you would be untanned white stark against the beach black.
"Would you do this?" you ask handing me the sun block.
I travel around the landscape of your back. My fingers rest at the top of your shoulder blades and then ride down. Slick, slick, slick my fingers sound against the valley of your back. Light touches on spine bumps and the landscape heaves and the earth of you squeals. My hands dissolve and atoms of you and I collide like Fermi Laboratory children detected only by the sensitive instruments of the imagination. Great blue oceans of you and continents of me form out of the primordial ooze and ahhs of touching ideas. Inspiration- the breathing in of another soul-- a soul from some past time? A soul from some future life?
posted by Kajgreb | 5:46 PM
2 Comments:
What wonderful descriptions!
What would happen if you expanded that paragraph? Just take that paragraph where fingers are light touches on the landscape of a back, open it up, delve into it, make it haunting, or funny, or dramatic, throw in a woman with sultry blue eyes, a man whose face is shadowed by the sun. . .
What would happen?
Soul mates. is there such a thing? I've often thought so.
I just came back from dinner
such a long wait - a few memorable diners:
a red faced squally baby
an absolutely beautiful 80 year old lady with her birthday party entourage. I should look so good.
old people, young people, all shapes but so many fat ones!
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