Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Goldie

I should write this down before I forget it, completely.

It’s already begun – that fading of detail when the sharpness of the edges goes first and then like burning celluloid, the rest becomes large gaping holes and frayed nothingness in a heavily pregnant head.

But I’m straying, from the richness of the room. Large cushions propping his head and shoulders, draped in rust and gold. Motifs from the Far East and India and I can’t say from where else anymore. It’s just an impression, much like the rest. Much like all of it.

And I really must stop being indulgent. I must resist the urge to get caught in what I feel about the act of ‘putting it down’. That isn’t important. Or at least not important to what occurred.

Right. To business.

Somehow the sibling was involved. It isn’t clear now how. But the sibling had a part to play.

in
Organising.
for a
Visiting dignitary.
here for
Goodwill hunting.

He was visiting from somewhere important. He was important. Spiritually? Politically? Of royal descent? Like a nawab... it isn't clear. I don’t know, I can’t say. I am like the thoughtless princess in fairytales. Things happen to her. That’s just how it is.

And his sole purpose for the visit? To spend a productive night with the most eligible woman in the country. Why? We can’t say. It’s a flawed story.

Somehow it didn’t seem odd. It didn’t seem demeaning. It didn’t seem a whole lot of things it should have. Instead, it was sacred.

Like ghosts they played a part in setting it up. Other people. The room; and everything else that it shut out. The scene. The space. The time. There has to be time and space to mark an event. To limit it. To make it tangible. To slot it in a memory. Because eventually, it is and was and will always be only him and me. Through rocks and water, skin and flesh, blogposts and dreams; through dust and ether and eternity.

Just him.
Just me.

In a tiny room, on a floating boat with one large window overlooking river water and a sprawling bed. Gold rust drapes on the window, on the bed, on the cushions… everywhere.

And she knew she would only ever give herself to him. Completely.

To him. With love. For love. In love. Mixed with semen. Mixed in vagina. Mixed with bits of brain and thought.

In love. For love. Grey green gold white brown black tangle.

***
That night I became pregnant. For nine lifetimes.

6 comments:

houseband00 said...

What a dream, H.

Brilliant post, as usual. =)

Lizza said...

Raw passion in one night of love and lust, in a world with nobody else but the two of you. Man, it can't get any better than that.

B Ditty said...

it can't...unless there's a themepark

H said...

HB, bro, if only the head could tell the difference. :-/

Lizza: Ah. that's a thought. but somehow i'm persuaded to believe that it could...

B Ditty: sweetie, how is it that you always manage to put it in perspective? I'm beginning to think you're 81.

Anjali Sinha said...

hmmm...let's talk

H said...

Anjie, angel. hugs.