i'm going to have to do this entry in installments because i'm sitting here before you all ...a wreck of a woman-human.
today was the big move. i will most likely talk about that ordeal in one of my others. in the meantime i should say that the following is the result of an idea of mine. its hardly a new idea.. just one that i had been reluctant to explore.
writing is a terror in itself, is it not?
i should say, first, that the following is intended and that nothing is wasted.
the narrative, however brief, will follow a man and a woman (by means, mainly, of three pictures). one as they were children and his/her own person. and another time when they are much wiser, older.. its all inspired by a thought and a photograph.
you have my apolgies and regret for what you are about to read this entry is so completely awful. perhaps i'll write it out some other time.
the photograph was an old one, taken in those dark gray years or when colors could not yet be captured by chemicals and emulsion.
a man and woman look into each others eyes. they are seated or they are slanted and in the very corner of a cafe, blocked in by that table and this camera or our silent watching.
just behind and a little above the womans head is the mirror that eventually wraps itself around the entire cafe. it allows us, watching, to see the mans expression.
they are a slanted, seated pair. the man presses his body against hers, his hands gripping steadily, holding her as a dancer holds the woman he loves and dances with. his face is a study in smug determination. in his mind there is no question, now, that what he has wanted is now guaranteed. his eyes savor the color of her lips, a color we are not allowed to see.
the womans body has an answer for every part of the man. he advances, she retreats. his strong grip seems to have the dual ability of holding her up and melting her skin --even from behind her thick wool overcoat.
in the womans one free hand, a small cigarette, and she holds it away from her loving man. he seems to lunge, the certainty of slow-moving honey. she fastens him to her as well as she can, here in this cafe corner. with her other arm and hand resting somewhere at his back she draws him nearer with very little force. or perhaps it is just that he goes willingly toward her, crawling if he could. crawling if she liked, if she asked.
his eyes are still on her lips, her chin, her neck, her skin. his smug mouth twisted into whispering secrets. shes tossed her head back in laughter at them but her eyes have never left his face....
03:27 - Friday, Jun. 24, 2005
Recent entries:
oday.html">the 3 month countdown begins - 05 May 2018
anothrburst.html">another burst - this used to be my playground
newlife.html">begin at the beginning. - 10 April 2008
moody.html">a blanket for a bad mood under the sun. - 25 March 2007
emilludwig.html">...kissing a fool... - 05 December 2006
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