Because right now, my own life is off blogging limits. Soon, hopefully not. So here’s a little something from an ole diary of yore. Inspired by one of my favourite albums, A Few Small Repairs by Shawn Colvin – particularly a song called If I Were Brave. (Incidentally, the ONLY song probably NOT to make it to YouTube. They were probably busy being overwhelmed by Rick Astley.)
Do it, says the shimmering man.
Your shining, evanescent body flies into the air, wings stretched and cuts through the water.
The angles and planes of you penetrate with scalpel precision.
Such perfect violation and I crush the wet sand in my palm, wanting abrasion, wanting pain.
Lets assume for a minute that I was brave. That I came into this world with the Aura of the Blessed and Shimmering. Humour me a minute. Imagine fiery eyes, ambitions and a mind and body that were fearless. Imagine that.
If I were brave I would dive. My body shining in the moonlight, I would fly; I would glide; I would close my eyes briefly struck by the ecstasy of weightlessness. I would be one with the water. Feel it pounding against my eardrums, rushing into my nostrils, weighing on my lungs. Water, blood and Holy Spirit.
You come bursting through the water, dying to breathe, skin glistening and eyes dazed with daring. A magnificent snapshot for a mind constantly hungering for images of you. Puzzlement is writ large on your face – the puzzlement that is a prelude to the inevitable disappointment. I know the drill. There is my close personal history with disappointment but what’s more distasteful than a living martyr?
I want to be enough. Everything you ever wanted. For once I want to cut the mustard.
Lets go that party. The one where you can regale your friends with the never-boring Anecdote of Us. Love for you is about intangibles you will say. It was the not being able to put your finger on it breathlessness of being with someone. The miracle the miracle. I laugh gaily, shyly. I’m just learning to bask. You gesticulate. You illustrate. You effortlessly captivate your audience. I, your love object, want nothing more than to gladly and repeatedly electrocute myself on your high-voltage Aura of the Blessed and Shimmering till I bleed.
Till I feel blessed and enough.
A great party. Maybe for once I won’t be drinking too much and throwing up in the bushes wishing someone was holding back my hair. Or sitting in an overstuffed chair, thrusting my hands between my already clenched and pale knees talking about Plans. At this party I can pretend I never wanted to die.
Do it, you intone gently. Not wanting to tilt the balance.
Your torso gleams in the eerie night light as if bedecked in shining, salty pearls. A familiar ache swells in me and I feel plump with greed, wanting to taste the salt of you, the damp. I unclench the crushed sand in my palm and focus obsessively on my dirty, bitten nails. Your eyes don’t leave me for a nanosecond as I rise slowly with an exaggerated attempt at elegance.
I want to be that girl.
I want to be that bright arc cutting through the glassy surface into unknown depths. Braving all panic to swim into your arms. Your eyes are warm brown and sparkling in the chilly deep and limbs and lips mingle effortlessly, playfully. Light-bodied and light-headed we giggle bubbles and forget to breathe. Touch is velvet, fluid, more. Suddenly suddenly we are catapulted violently to a fixed bright spot in the watery firmament.
I want to Do It. If I knew how, I would.
Its my fabric, blame it on the fabric. An old friend once talked about the fabric we were made of – strong, stern stuff and all that.
This fabric is flawed; it’s defective. A cosmic weaving error. The universe distractedly patched together some will and spirit but lets face it they did a shoddy job and dropped too many stitches.
Look at me.
I’m not durable polyester. Not Easy Wear or Easy Care.
I am the gauze that gives. Prod holes, leave gaps, cut, tear, rip to shreds. The fabric doesn’t know how to resist. The Easily Crushable variety.
I want to Do It. But I can’t escape the price I pay for a lifetime of Not.
But maybe – just maybe – in the deep, deep in you, I will be absolved, redeemed, baptised and reborn yours.