Morning in late November, and the words flow. Cat on lap. Coffee, iBook, comfy chair.
Junipur has been coming to me in dreams of late.
Brrrr? Hello kitty-love.
Dawn came with a seductive smear of fuchsia flitting behind the curtain of grey tree fretwork. It promised a rosy day, and I wanted to touch it, kiss it. Dog rolls over and snuggles up, her spine pressing into me from knee to hip. When I next open my eyes, dawn, that tease, has left me a morning dove-soft-grey, pale in the distance and charcoal in the foreground. I search for that yummy, slutty colour, and it’s gone. Only tendrils of it in my minds eye, and a painting I wish would happen. Of course, nothing will happen if I linger in dog and cat dreaming, so up and onward with the morning tasks.
More fully lit now, the morning world is veiled in a light fog, like a breath on a cold day, and it seems caught in the trees, not resting on the ground. You could walk underneath it. I go, out into the cool air, wrapped around by pale cinnamon beech leaves and warm shiny green hollies, and feathers of the loblolly pine. I walk on a rustling carpet of ruddy oak leaves, while their elegant and austere stems arch skyward. A few lime green stars cling to a gum sapling. Dew lines up on a sprig of dark barbed wire. The looping trunks of old vines spiral up from the ground.
I feel the earth yield beneath me, and I step a bit faster. My limbs are springy, and want more. I bounce a little into a slow jog. I have the heart for a bit of endurance now. I can trot for 20-30 minutes and feel some momentum. The animal body, she who was bred on the savannah, a born traveler, awakens.
What a miracle gift, this desires to move, this reawakening. I don’t remember my body at all, from youth when she should have been lively. Well, maybe a little… my white bike Sugar, who I rode like a charger all over the known world, the string and stake fences I leapt like a steeplechaser, down the row of lawns; she who thrust her nose into the deep bells of flowers for a drink of scent; Even in these years I was learning to fear or distrust her. I remember the battles over my nail-biting. Even then I chewed back the tips of my own energy. What was it I really wanted to reach for?
Gym class was a disappointment, but ranging across the playground like a proud young horse was not, and developing a vigilant band of anti-bullies seemed the most natural thing in the world. I became an instigator, leading my little band of warriors, eventually into trouble. I wanted to give them power, and strength, as so I fed them Flintstone vitamins, baby aspirin, and sometimes the magic crystals of rock salt. I got busted, and hauled to the principals office after some poor girl barfed in auditorium and blamed it on my prescription.
A lesson I took away with me was: don’t expect your followers to have their own common sense. They are followers, and they will follow me quite literally. To this day I still find I am disappointed when people in a group don’t think about the group as a whole. But also in there somewhere was another message: to deny the body, to shut her down, not trust in her. She believed that tiny crystal of salt from the earth gave her power, along with that sweet taste of Dino or Pebbles, and a touch of St. Joseph. She got in BIG trouble for that.
She found her body in the horsey play, the feel of hooves, not feet, on the springy earth. She arched her neck and snorted, and pawed the ground, then danced crabwise; tail arching and lifting in a swirl around her magnificent ass. Muscles coiled beneath smooth red-furred skin, strong soft plush with blood from a huge beating heart, that drummed in her, run, free, run, leap run like the wind.
I found my body in those spring fields, watching the ice melt and run in rivulets down the edge of the sidewalk.. I galloped and leapt over the puddles, shaking my mane and feeling the strong limbs, four of them, carrying me through the wind.
Junipur has been coming to me in dreams of late.
Brrrr? Hello kitty-love.
Dawn came with a seductive smear of fuchsia flitting behind the curtain of grey tree fretwork. It promised a rosy day, and I wanted to touch it, kiss it. Dog rolls over and snuggles up, her spine pressing into me from knee to hip. When I next open my eyes, dawn, that tease, has left me a morning dove-soft-grey, pale in the distance and charcoal in the foreground. I search for that yummy, slutty colour, and it’s gone. Only tendrils of it in my minds eye, and a painting I wish would happen. Of course, nothing will happen if I linger in dog and cat dreaming, so up and onward with the morning tasks.
More fully lit now, the morning world is veiled in a light fog, like a breath on a cold day, and it seems caught in the trees, not resting on the ground. You could walk underneath it. I go, out into the cool air, wrapped around by pale cinnamon beech leaves and warm shiny green hollies, and feathers of the loblolly pine. I walk on a rustling carpet of ruddy oak leaves, while their elegant and austere stems arch skyward. A few lime green stars cling to a gum sapling. Dew lines up on a sprig of dark barbed wire. The looping trunks of old vines spiral up from the ground.
I feel the earth yield beneath me, and I step a bit faster. My limbs are springy, and want more. I bounce a little into a slow jog. I have the heart for a bit of endurance now. I can trot for 20-30 minutes and feel some momentum. The animal body, she who was bred on the savannah, a born traveler, awakens.
What a miracle gift, this desires to move, this reawakening. I don’t remember my body at all, from youth when she should have been lively. Well, maybe a little… my white bike Sugar, who I rode like a charger all over the known world, the string and stake fences I leapt like a steeplechaser, down the row of lawns; she who thrust her nose into the deep bells of flowers for a drink of scent; Even in these years I was learning to fear or distrust her. I remember the battles over my nail-biting. Even then I chewed back the tips of my own energy. What was it I really wanted to reach for?
Gym class was a disappointment, but ranging across the playground like a proud young horse was not, and developing a vigilant band of anti-bullies seemed the most natural thing in the world. I became an instigator, leading my little band of warriors, eventually into trouble. I wanted to give them power, and strength, as so I fed them Flintstone vitamins, baby aspirin, and sometimes the magic crystals of rock salt. I got busted, and hauled to the principals office after some poor girl barfed in auditorium and blamed it on my prescription.
A lesson I took away with me was: don’t expect your followers to have their own common sense. They are followers, and they will follow me quite literally. To this day I still find I am disappointed when people in a group don’t think about the group as a whole. But also in there somewhere was another message: to deny the body, to shut her down, not trust in her. She believed that tiny crystal of salt from the earth gave her power, along with that sweet taste of Dino or Pebbles, and a touch of St. Joseph. She got in BIG trouble for that.
She found her body in the horsey play, the feel of hooves, not feet, on the springy earth. She arched her neck and snorted, and pawed the ground, then danced crabwise; tail arching and lifting in a swirl around her magnificent ass. Muscles coiled beneath smooth red-furred skin, strong soft plush with blood from a huge beating heart, that drummed in her, run, free, run, leap run like the wind.
I found my body in those spring fields, watching the ice melt and run in rivulets down the edge of the sidewalk.. I galloped and leapt over the puddles, shaking my mane and feeling the strong limbs, four of them, carrying me through the wind.
posted by Ven at 11:11 AM
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