Sitting in the terminal at Atlanta listening to my latest CD purchase "The Postal Service" and the music completely drowns out the noise from the constant flow of people running from one flight to another. I suck on a banana flavored LifeSaver and think about the life span of the battery on my laptop. The people are a distraction from my writing, since I am by nature a voyeur. I was in Houston, Texas this morning. I am in Atlanta Georgia this evening, and come midnight I will be in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I feel like a rock star.
I am weary from traveling. I am tired of the constant activity of life. It would be wonderful to take a trip and soak myself in the Caribbean and allow the sun to soak me with its rays. I could languish on the beach while eunuchs attended to my every need like fanning me with large palm leaves, bopping down to the local Ben & Jerry's to fetch a strawberry-banana smoothie for me, or gently misting me with water when the sun was too enthusiastic with its basking.
Actually I do not need the eunuchs, or the palm leaves, and I may be convinced to give up the smoothie as well. What I really need is an overabundance of time and dearth of obligations with which it might be filled. And very soon I will need a plug for my laptop.
The music that drowns out the world and embraces me, seduces me, allows me to bed down and take refuge from life. It is almost as good as a book, and since I have finished two on this trip I have determined that music was the next step.
Freudian slip or not I'd like to slip myself into your Freudian dreams and play the part of your father if you were Electra. Falling away, ever falling away like your clothing in my dreams as you reach your arms back and let your jacket slip from your shoulders. The way the jeans slide down your legs until you are forced to step out of them one leg at a time, and the manner in which your long sleeved shirt dims and fades and disappears. Your bra and panties come unbound at the seams and fall away in tatters until you are standing naked before me, smiling down upon me from such great heights. What can I do but submit? I am obviously incapable of resisting as your hands reach down from what seems like a dizzying height among the clouds to embrace my face. Slowly your fingers slip under my chin and gently lift me up, higher and higher, until I find the clouds swimming around my head and tickling my nose. And everything is white and pure and beautiful and I am weightless and we dance the dance of slow movements as the clouds fall from our bodies leaving cottony tendrils dripping from our outstretched arms. Stars glint around us and I notice that the clouds have dissolved every stitch of clothing from my body. We spin arm in arm faster and faster until our limbs entangle in an undulating pretzel knot of love. The perspiration from our lovemaking falls from our bodies as snowflakes and blankets the hills where great mountain cats prowl and kill and purr loud enough to cause avalanches in nearby snow drifts.
Eye contact is the most basic of sexual actions.
I'm tired and dipping deep into the well and only half-filled buckets are my prize.
Galapagos is the melting pot of misfit species and I feel that the world does not do enough to quantify the feelings that I have for you and the rest of the people on this wet spinning marble hurtling through space at speeds that could peel the skin from your body if the world decided to stop moving at that same speed but the inertia would propel you forward and the friction would cause you to burn to a crisp like a hurtling meteor, or a slab of bacon skipping across the surface of the sun creating sunspots with every bounce. There is all that potential energy awaiting a metamorphosis to the kinetic state. Why do we refer to the potential of those who are not driven, but never refer to the kinesis of those who are hurtling through life at speeds that would consume matter from space in an atmosphere such as ours that is only partially as dense as the people who inhabit that planet? I ask you time and time again what it is that I am trying to say and you look and smile and tell me that there is nothing worth saying, but that my voice is so soothing that I should speak with resolve if not with content. I can't believe that you would tell me that just before the three hundred pound pilot passes me with his luggage in tow. I am a transient in transit. I am a layover rollover. I am devoid of meaning and lacking in plot, substance and other similar inconsequentials. I can't take the constant parading of nomenclature that has wrought its fury upon my path and left it as desolate and barren as the sexual prospects at the convents.
Again I am stunned by the interpretation of my medium when what my determination was intended to yield was far closer to a large. So if I have produced the medium then my large is at large and the small has found refuge in the shadows that plague my corners in the dim light of love in the evening.