the habit of being

For someone who believes desire to cause suffering, I am desirous of very much:

First, to be a still pool of water, with no knowledge of hydrogen bonding, unaware of adhesion, cohesion, surface tension (It is no one’s fault that the Jesus lizard so rarely sinks beneath the surface and drowns). Then, a white porcelain serving platter, shiny and so clean that running a finger tightly across the surface produces a high pitched tone like an out of tune piccolo. And I’d like to be the symbol for an integral, the thin S shape that is just as sexy as a sand dune, and worthy of nearly as much respect. To be blank and wide open simultaneously, to lose the calendar and symbol system for daily passages.

Or to be gone, with nothing remaining but a single photograph, taken on a day when I was smiling and uninhibited. For everyone to believe that one image to be the sum of me, not to know any better.

Transient or transparent.

- - -

Two virgins, tangled. It is three in the morning, and this is their intercourse, which is not sex, but just as real:

The first, lying on side, makes a capture, a long hand, thin wrist, and pulls in near, smuggling it quickly under all weight, rolling on stomach to keep it near and trapped below. A triumphant smile in the dark.

The second: “That is my hand.” Lying on back, staring at ceiling or wall or darkness, with a smirk.

The first: “It is mine now. I have it.”

“But it is my hand, and my wrist, and my arm. I need them.” And the second tries to regain these treasures from the thief.

The first holds tight, brings the stolen hand close to face, holding, cherishing, possessing. “It is had.”

“You can’t have it. Perhaps it has you. I have you.”

At this, the first rolls over again, close to the second, covering the second, even, weighing down. “I have you. You are had.”

From below, “No, you are had, and you love it.”

“I like to be had.”

“So do I.”

- - -

It is Christmas day, and the air surrounding the volvo station wagon is chilled, even in Georgia. The way I am thinking, as the cement flows a grey river, splitting a marathon of trees giving chase, one after one after one, I may as will be in the shower, drenched in steam. My mother sits beside me, presumably thinking on some other abstract notion.

Previously, we have been to Perry, with the sweet and simple, happy and nonjudgmental relatives of our Ray. There, we are giants, with our long legs and silly ponderings, visible even from the outside, with such comparison. We play endless games of Skip-Bo, and we smile, and we pretend we are not so awkwardly out of place. And we leave, with a sigh of relief, to the silent ocean of the interstate that will take us to Atlanta, to the life we never had. We smile, share an “I know” glance, and I turn on Diana Ross.

We arrive at the Ritz Carlton in the early evening, collect our room keys, deposit our things, and descend to the lounge for drinks. A dry martini for my mother, and curiously good fruit juice for me. She takes out a complementary copy of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, scans the movies playing at Phipp’s Plaza. I stare out the window, this time at outlines of huge buildings, one after one after one, and few motion blurred trees. A woman walks in, wearing a mink coat, tight black sequined dress, that diamond solitaire necklace from the DeBeer’s commercial. Maybe the man with the eyes gave it to her. I smile in her direction, she doesn’t notice.

Maybe we will go see that movie, the one that would never play at home. Perhaps we’ll return to our room, to the mints on our pillows, and order the Caesar salad from room service, with creme brulee for dessert, and the city lights shining in our huge window will welcome us into the fold…

(From an essay I had to write for school, actually, on a “family holiday tradition.”)

- - -

Notes:

metaphase

Ruby

gold coins
kohl + eyes = saucy.

signs of the times
cap and gown

tuxedo. violins.