…. then there was the time she let me place those intricate, flowing lines of self upon the soft contours of her back, the slightly dusked and beige hues of her skin flowing in sync with the subtle nuances of that portion of the world irrevocably tied to the passion of self..
The day is warm, and there is that vivacity in the air around her that cuts through every small parcel of wonderment. In the background, a fan whirs its way, back, forth, splaying the hot air of the room from each corner to each, one wall to another, flowing around us in a near silent movement of breath within breath within breath. Across the bed, are pieces and notations, fragments and collusions of artistic vice and creatively spliced edifices that have been worked upon and blundered into – formed and resolved.
Pieces of paper. Books. A bag.
A camera resting on the softened surface.
I draw, the lines continuing, moving and very near placing themselves of their own accord. I watch a shiver move within her, for all the heat, as I traverse a shoulder blade with the fine edge of the only weapon I will ever wield that will mean a damn.
She’s talking of study, she’s talking of nature. She talking of the things done and things to come and the things that are un-spun within her world. Shocks of brain and teasers of life bundled into a cameo appearance of fragments and pieces.
As the lines continue, there is a word inside. There are too many words. There is that wholly impossible and indescribable babble of voices and reasons, choices and terrifying precipices of knowing.
Another sound bestrides itself across the moment. A television purports its wares and shouts its ways with a soft embrace as images and settings display themselves in succession across its photon infused shield, apart from the moment, apart from the world – the creatures across its view a procession of the new, the old and the curiously weird and wonderfully provisioned familiar.
A final line matches itself, a movement and a small hushed outlet of sound; something reconciles itself within me, and I take nib from surface, a thing not finished, nor ever will be – a thing as final as it could be. The patterns wind their way across and around, but never ceasing to find that very second where they will end – continuing, and in my imaginatory, near-panoramic view I see it spreading, evolving and making itself as it wends its way all across her, to ever corner and every thought, inside, out and as devoutly intimate as only that portion of a hidden fevered feeling could be.
I take the camera, and press. I snapshot a moment, and that is what there is – that moment. A single fragment. A larger whole. A line upon which there is only very little understanding, and little knowing. An encompassing mosaic of hypothesis.
Its there, that second of time – and though only a small portion of it is placed, it is enough to make itself whole.
Afterwards, there is a tentative embrace, arms across and shaped, and the fan takes its passenger of air and wraps itself around us. I hold, without holding. I touch, without touching. There is a breath upon breath upon breath and a laughter covering everything, a mirth that can only be seen from two pairs of eyes. I wonder, if the thoughts impeding upon me are held – I wonder, if as cheek to cheek, eye to eye, breath to breath to breath if that upwelling of something .. other .. is there and that breath upon breath inside breath next to skin on skin holding upon breath upon hold upon skin upon glance inside glance looking eye towards eye upon a breaking breath …
I wonder. I wander inside whilst displaying nothing outside … I wonder and wander across all those things and more. I fail in self understanding, again and again – but the words are there, always beneath the veil of outwards self. The words unspoken and as formless and incomplete as the lines upon her skin, as hypothetical as those subtle nuances of the world I find myself thrust into – and shaped in those words are the wondering of if she understands and knows how such things are like the atoms around us – so vast and incalculable across the universe, and yet as rare as a fragment of life is across the islands of time … precious and so near-never encountered after a lifetime of travelling the pathway of heart and passion, of souls akin and alike..
I feel a shift, and we are apart, and yet in that single second, a macrometer of distance is discarded, and a gulf of time and place is open in the same moment that an incredible distance is covered, light years apart, skeined, meshed and yet as if a fold in a continuum has been smoothed down by the hand of a wondering deity …
Around us, the air moves. A fan in the background cools the surfaces of our skins. Notebooks and sketchbooks and papers and pieces and fragments and edifices and contours join us in a place where neither can enter nor leave, and I feel the words. I know the words. Like a song sung only once, and yet which stays with you for the rest of your days – like the notes beneath, playing themselves out time over time, awaiting only an orchestra of such dissonant distances to form their own concerto…
… the words are there, always beneath the surface. They are as improbable and as impossible as the intricate lines of flowing self upon her skin. There is no speech, and yet the words are not needed within that subtle nuance of a portion of a world that is irrevocably tied to that moment in my minds eye, this time I speak of – and beyond the worlds of words, I know not to move or their dyslexic ambiguity will falter ..
….and yet if I wait, will they form themselves and release themselves from the cage in which they are placed?
Thus it is that I stand here sitting, some distance away, and yet so close I can reach out, so close that I can look into her eyes by merely shutting my own and thinking of that day… I breath…
I breathe, gently, ever so gently, and feel that breath upon breath upon breath upon breath …
I do not move, for fear of waking those words that slumber between us …