Thursday, April 14, 2005
In between a continent so wealthy we barely use anything twice and a nation traditionally so impoverished that the earth itself is burned on the hearth for warmth there is the vast emptiness of this storm-filled ocean and the universe of pale blue above. When I get home I will be welcomed by a silken-black sky filled with millions of stars, a sky I now know is North American in nature, for where we stand tells us what we see.
Later we both drift to sleep in adjoining seats 34H and 34I and sometime while we slumber we cross the continental shelf and salt waves breaking onto cold beaches and the thick megalopolis that is the north-eastern rim of the U.S. and then the dense green of the mountains, more trees concentrated here than all of Europe has seen in three or four centuries and the plane's wheels have touched the concrete at O'Hare before we open our eyes and perhaps I am just slightly embarrassed but she does not appear to be.
I wonder if being open to any adventure really means being closed to another set of possibilities. If being committed means being trapped or simply trusted. If an erection is different in some measurable way when it is linked to love and affection than when simply engorged with frustration sparked by lust. If movement is in any way compatible with constancy. Or freedom with safety.
She puts fingers on my crotch. Leans toward me. Whispers, "a pleasure groping you." Reaches for her bags from the overhead compartment. Slides out of sight in the crowd.
Outside the little window it is raining. Around me people are bringing cellphones to life, dialing loved ones, I imagine, though as many might be business connections or simply rides. I wish that this vehicle was like a subway. I sit in the seat with three thoughts flipping in my head: a candle lit in an 800-year-old cathedral, the smell of the wind slipping onshore over a wall of rocks smoothed by eons of slowly falling rain, and words said with respect and perhaps love that never-the-less dismember me with the sharpness of the swords of long-lost kings. And I wish that this vehicle was like a subway. That I could just stay in the seat and ride the route back the other way, and repeat as necessary. But this is not that path.
Still, I'm the last passenger off the plane. I tell the attendant, "nice flight." She looks at me with recognition and laughs, "yeah." But I'm not smiling, and so she stops.
© 2005 by Ira Socol__________________
Monday, April 04, 2005
A shallow river carved through the dry parts of his brain, lubricating lost sensations, letting a riot of life loose in still pools that gathered on newly black mud, his sight now having rushed beyond her stomach, breasts, neck, face, arms, hair, and found its way to safer places, the way he had driven discretely imagined cars down glorious boulevards that ran in the cracks between classroom floor tiles in order to escape life as a student.
She moaned orgasmically and the combination of her muscle contractions and his decision to relax and then run let him go off as well and he lay there as she sprawled across him and thought only about the old joke about the statue of the famous Russian-Roulette champion: On the pedestal, underneath his name, was his record, "73-1."
Was that really a joke?
On his way back to work he stopped at the Barnes and Noble. Went into the bathroom. Washed his hands and face with antiseptic smelling liquid soap. Bought odd French mints, a container of frighteningly bitter Starbucks coffee, a two-dollar discounted book about the
She took a fast shower, as she always did. Got dressed. Went back to the school she worked in. Spent much of the afternoon flirting with the math teacher who also coached wrestling.
© 2005 by Ira Socol_____________________________