FA+
Shop
Running Dog/Is this?
18 years ago
Some more writing which I'm not posting on my LJ, so I am posting it here because some of you might like it:
***********************************************
And I find myself here, in dialog with the three of you I call beloved, somewhat surprised. I feel a little as if I have come to a small and fertile alpine valley, the mountains tall and sharp and high around us: and here I am exhausted, hurt, exhilarated, bleeding a bit.
Sitting with you, looking into your eyes. Hello.
So you, you, the first one: what do I say to you? I find it difficult even to start. We have walked alongside one another for so very many years. When I look back to our beginnings, we both seem so much younger…although I don't know that youth is the correct term, not really. We both seem so young now. It is just that, looking back,
there is such a range of peaks and valleys now, so very many miles of trails between where we were then and where we are now and where we seem to be going that I marvel at it, astounded. When did we walk so
far?
You are fierce, the hurt of your alienation and the fear of your anger as powerful as the mystery, the awe of your love, drawing me surely as a compass. The mystery that the intensity and passion of your eyes, the clarity of your perception and your neat and beautiful mind,
is...what? Real? Human? That you're a guy, daka, dear one, you:
that you're here. Actually exist. That these things we experience really happen. And we keep walking these paths as they wind into ever more rarefied air, more remote and exquisite little valleys. We keep
saying that surely this is it, that it can't be better or more
beautiful, that this is summit and pinnacle, but then it happens again. I think that we had better just keep breathing.
And you, my second. Dear lady, graceful, silly. Raiding organic carrots from a garden by moonlight, so overflowing with joy and excitement, the taste of you affixed in my mind with the taste of those carrots, sweet crunchy fresh goodness still with the tang of moist earth clinging lightly to the skin. The beauty of you, my complex and often hidden love, is that this sweet aspect is not false,
not superficial; it is more accurate to say it is like the first few meters of seawater, delightful and real and full of life. Not hiding the depths below, no: but still far from all of it.
Dark lady. Visionary. Frightening, almost. Your eyes that shift to wolf-silver sometimes, in those moments the least human eyes I have ever seen in a woman's face. So serious. I am becoming comfortable with the fact that I may never completely know you, may never really
understand. But I may actually love you. That's the frightening thing. Been your lover three years, took you to me far too quickly, only now realize that I'm barely beginning to know you, and barely coming to the place in myself where I can truly open to you. There's
been too much hurt, but still we seem to be trying. I may not trust you, not yet. Certainly not to trust your wanting me. Still.
And you, third one I permitted myself to love, though actually you held me in my entirety long before. Maybe you were even the first, I don't know. I name you: woman of the new oaks, Seabright. Lovely,
wary and skeptical as any feral thing. As I hold the scraps of cloth you gave me, the cool silk against my cheek echoing at least in my associations to the texture of your skin, I shiver with desire and quiet acceptance of what is, and I consider the aptness of that metaphor. I hold scraps for you, barely, maybe, elusive as a trout skittering out of my hands, a tiny songbird that watches me quickly
and carefully and then, so lightly, is gone. These things are enough for love, apparently, even if I don't understand it.
It bemuses me, how dear these scraps are that lie soft for my careless touch, that I have this collection of symbols that resonate between us that you do not know about...or if you do, then they are secrets, like the rest, that you keep well. The mystery of what you are and want
and what motivates you and how you do or do not feel is as rich and frustrating and confusing and difficult as making a cohesive thing from scraps and oddments of silken cloth. There is no explaining how precious they are.
My pain seems almost beside the point now. It's there, it's enough. Sorrow, I think, adds richness. Path and garden, the flash of a bright feather caught on branches as I climb to places yet unseen and ever more remote. Here I dwell, and it is all of it fluid as the blood right now pouring out of the torn skin below my elbow, still leaking
where a few hours ago it pulsed from me gently with the beating of my heart. What a beautiful wound. I'm appalled. Delighted. Is this, then, what it is to love? This...movement? Really?
***********************************************
And I find myself here, in dialog with the three of you I call beloved, somewhat surprised. I feel a little as if I have come to a small and fertile alpine valley, the mountains tall and sharp and high around us: and here I am exhausted, hurt, exhilarated, bleeding a bit.
Sitting with you, looking into your eyes. Hello.
So you, you, the first one: what do I say to you? I find it difficult even to start. We have walked alongside one another for so very many years. When I look back to our beginnings, we both seem so much younger…although I don't know that youth is the correct term, not really. We both seem so young now. It is just that, looking back,
there is such a range of peaks and valleys now, so very many miles of trails between where we were then and where we are now and where we seem to be going that I marvel at it, astounded. When did we walk so
far?
You are fierce, the hurt of your alienation and the fear of your anger as powerful as the mystery, the awe of your love, drawing me surely as a compass. The mystery that the intensity and passion of your eyes, the clarity of your perception and your neat and beautiful mind,
is...what? Real? Human? That you're a guy, daka, dear one, you:
that you're here. Actually exist. That these things we experience really happen. And we keep walking these paths as they wind into ever more rarefied air, more remote and exquisite little valleys. We keep
saying that surely this is it, that it can't be better or more
beautiful, that this is summit and pinnacle, but then it happens again. I think that we had better just keep breathing.
And you, my second. Dear lady, graceful, silly. Raiding organic carrots from a garden by moonlight, so overflowing with joy and excitement, the taste of you affixed in my mind with the taste of those carrots, sweet crunchy fresh goodness still with the tang of moist earth clinging lightly to the skin. The beauty of you, my complex and often hidden love, is that this sweet aspect is not false,
not superficial; it is more accurate to say it is like the first few meters of seawater, delightful and real and full of life. Not hiding the depths below, no: but still far from all of it.
Dark lady. Visionary. Frightening, almost. Your eyes that shift to wolf-silver sometimes, in those moments the least human eyes I have ever seen in a woman's face. So serious. I am becoming comfortable with the fact that I may never completely know you, may never really
understand. But I may actually love you. That's the frightening thing. Been your lover three years, took you to me far too quickly, only now realize that I'm barely beginning to know you, and barely coming to the place in myself where I can truly open to you. There's
been too much hurt, but still we seem to be trying. I may not trust you, not yet. Certainly not to trust your wanting me. Still.
And you, third one I permitted myself to love, though actually you held me in my entirety long before. Maybe you were even the first, I don't know. I name you: woman of the new oaks, Seabright. Lovely,
wary and skeptical as any feral thing. As I hold the scraps of cloth you gave me, the cool silk against my cheek echoing at least in my associations to the texture of your skin, I shiver with desire and quiet acceptance of what is, and I consider the aptness of that metaphor. I hold scraps for you, barely, maybe, elusive as a trout skittering out of my hands, a tiny songbird that watches me quickly
and carefully and then, so lightly, is gone. These things are enough for love, apparently, even if I don't understand it.
It bemuses me, how dear these scraps are that lie soft for my careless touch, that I have this collection of symbols that resonate between us that you do not know about...or if you do, then they are secrets, like the rest, that you keep well. The mystery of what you are and want
and what motivates you and how you do or do not feel is as rich and frustrating and confusing and difficult as making a cohesive thing from scraps and oddments of silken cloth. There is no explaining how precious they are.
My pain seems almost beside the point now. It's there, it's enough. Sorrow, I think, adds richness. Path and garden, the flash of a bright feather caught on branches as I climb to places yet unseen and ever more remote. Here I dwell, and it is all of it fluid as the blood right now pouring out of the torn skin below my elbow, still leaking
where a few hours ago it pulsed from me gently with the beating of my heart. What a beautiful wound. I'm appalled. Delighted. Is this, then, what it is to love? This...movement? Really?
