Real life

I am having a difficult time defining this place and time as real life. I don't know how to live outside the conventional constraints most people have in their lives. Theoretically I know they don't apply to me in this moment, but I don't know how to operate outside of them. I have no model for behavior in what i recently learned was the "alternative" lifestyle I'm living. I suppose the beauty of it is that I get to make my own rules, be me own guide, and that is wonderful and beautiful and absolutely terrifying. How does one live fully into all possibilities when you can't even conceive of all the possibilies that lay before you. I don't fully grasp the beauty of living without judgement, and when judgement isn't present possibilities seem endless, they are endless. I just don't know how to being to imagine living into all of them. I'm constantly having to remind myself this isn't just a go-between, this strange period between graduation and starting "real life". This moment too is my real life, I'm living through real events, building real relationships, having real emotions...
I need to learn how to embrace these moments and not let myself hide behind the fact that because I'm scheduled to leave in a year. I have the responsibility to myself to take in everything and give all of myself to this place, time, and people. What am I saving it for? It's not as if I live fully and with all of my being that there won't be any left for the rest of my life. There will always be more of me, my soul is not an expendable resource.
It seems a bit of a crime if I don't figure out how to let it out to roam freely, to explore, find desire, fulfill it, and grow richer for the experience. I'm not actually protecting myself from anything if I refuse to define this as real life, I'm depriving myself of the ever more incredible beauty that could fill myself.

My bed is barely cold and I ache just a bit for someone to fill the space beside me. I am intoxicated with the thought of his desire for me. I want to press the tips of my fingers into his joints as he tells me the stories of the paintings on his body. I want to leave my print there, want him to feel my presence the next time he absent mindedly runs his fingers across his skin. I want him to be drunk with the memory of me, overcome with the need for our skin to touch, for him to draw in my presence with every breath.

And I feel no guilt for this, I think about Him, but feel not guilt for these moments which are honey for my soul. I'm sad that He is more in love with work than me, that He loves the idea of me more than the actual person that I have become. But, I have not ounce of regret for these moments, I want more of them. I'm ready to share my bed with this human being I've found a way to lay open my soul to. I want to continue to let him open me in places that have been locked. I want him to understand how he has created a space for the expansion of my being. I hope he feels the way not just my body relaxes in his presence but the whole of my being is some what at ease. I have no explanation for the comfort, perhaps the lack of judging eyes, perhaps I think he understands me in a way that no one has yet to because he has to gain entry without sight. He has no idea whether or not I'm beautiful, but he feels the lengths of my skin and interprets a beauty that is understood only by him. He hears my raspy voice in the evening and holds it in his ears where others would disregard it. I feel like he guards every ounce of knowledge of me as a treasure he is privledged to possess. He asks about my rings as he remembers the fingers they wrap around, runs his fingers across my collar bone and pulls the image of my pendant through his skin.
I feel like I must feverishly write these things before they escape me.
I am yearning for more.

The Gypsy and the Hippy.

The prince of his world and me the peasant of mine. I perfume my body as I remember the night, trying to smell the way he sees me. Layer upon layer of incense for the temple of my body. Patchouli for my face, ginger for my body, sandalwood oils for the places where my blood sits dangerously close to the surface of my skin. I want to understand the intoxication that these scents, mixed with whatever it is that is the essence of me, have for him. Feel in my being how when he nestles his face into the crook of my neck he drinks in all of me.

He respectfly worships at the alter of this foreign temple. Hymns of love play in the back and the name of Yaweh hangs near the heart of this place. And maybe he isn't a convert yet, but he decides he'd like to visit this place again.

I smile at his pleasure of the sacredness I have created in myself, that the temple which guards my piece of the divine is held in high regard. He has no desire to break down the doors and pillage this place, but rather walk in carefully, cautiously, and respectfully. The manner of a worshipper and pilgrim. One who wants to find the holiest of places through his own exploration, through understanding, through a comprehension of the peace that frequently dwells here and the love and care that is put into the mainanance of the shelter of the divine.

Ho una sacra fuoco. Mi corpo e una posta sacra, sacra e sensuale con perfuma particulare. Perfuma de zenzero e legno sandalo. This perfumed skin of mine rises to meet his hands, hands of the prince, principio de suo vita. I tell him not to fall in love with me as my body is understood to be a guitar, not like that of Italian women. And I muster every ounce of self control and restraint to put a limit on the evening. Io dito "sono una persona multo privato" and he understands, he doesn't push the limit, and I'm content. Content in my borrowed bed, on borrowed time, with a borrowed man. And I don't know how to explain this comfort, the comfort I feel in having una anima nuda. He only knows me this way: as a soul laid open for the viewing, except he can't view it at all. And as we talk about the first time we met I press my fingers into his tattoos, I want to see them the way he does. As our bodies excite at the touch of our skin he tells me of his desire for me when we first met. I let him in on the secret that if he had only seen my pleading eyes I would have let him proceed. I would have let him know the outline of my eyes, the way I sigh as he runs his fingers across my collar bone, I would have let him learn the first chords of this body. But rather than that night we have this night, where the instrument of my body is played after we have made music in front of the fire we've built, and shared this music, our laughter and smiles with those whom we were privledged enough to have in our company. And after this music our music becomes gentle sighs, words hanging delicately in the tiny space between us as we press each other's palms into old wounds. We make our pact "Il futuro non esiste, il passato non esiste, solo questo momento. Speriamo por piu, pero viviamo en solo questo memento." I pretend he's asking alot of me when he tells me to think about this night just a little tomorrow and I drink in his words when he says he will spend the day relishing these moments...
E adesso comincia una bella historia di noi.

Today she would be 54...6 years and I still don't forget for a moment that she isn't here.

He'll never know

Last night I met Mario...
He will never know the way my eyes drunk in the orange of his apartment. He will never understand the knowing glances Francesca and I exchanged over our glasses of wine. But he will know the way our skin feels together as I hand him a piece of bread. He won't know the way my body looks as my hips turn to liquid as we dance to the left over reggae music, but we will remember how he could feel my jeans slide down to rest low on those liquid hips. He can't know that my eyes turn the green of a stormy sea when I get overwhelmed with emotion, but he knows the way I smell when my sandalwood oil mixes with the heat of my body. He doesn't know the way my cheeks flush, but he understands the feel of my damp skin under a thin cotton shirt. He will never know that the red of my shirt matched my cheeks that night or the green of the favorite scarf I was wearing, but he knows how they rest against my exhausted body. He doesn't know how my hair grows more golden with each day in the mountains but he knows how it feels between his fingers and how my head, heavy with sleep, feels upon his shoulder. He didn't see me look at him with the eyes that give him permission to proceed, but he would have felt the shudder in my body and the simultaneous tensing and relaxing of the whole of me. I'm intrigued by this lack of knowledge and the intimacy of the things he does know. I may give him a chance to know more....

Disgust

Today I found a spider crawling on my leg
I looked at it in digust
Tried to quickly brush it off
I wondered if this is what the world thinks of humanity...

On sleeping

My body aches as I curl up under colored cars
In the fetal position
trying to get warm
This body of mine is a black hole
Vacuous
always trying to get smaller
Devouring everything within reach
Super 8 cameras
volleyballs
Jeni's ice creams
and an old friend
All under these cars
my cars