consequential

Consequential, implied, inferred, but not an icepick in the eye. Real. Like death, of which I fear not, but dying a lingering terror; knowing the many ways I could for years and years lay helpless, dependent upon everything and everyone to live.

Curious, and mindful, of turning points, rites of passage/transition, being in somebody's movie, joyous or grievous. I wonder when, how or why did I change? Surrendering. Submitting to the winds, a dust mode upon them, inconsequential, at peace. Helpless again.

Did Gideon toss and turn, finding no peace, in his tent awaiting the verdict; his lambs wool moist or dry? As I did moments ago forgetting I'd slept like the dead, dreamless, for most the past afternoon. Surfacing slowly, with reluctance unknowing and my eyes as if in a sandbox. As the hours slithered past, knowing it best to rest, I could not until I began the therapy of writing. Wringing out thoughts yearning for birth. Relief tendered. I sought one last view for anything Had She Said Yes might send. (in retrospect and rewrite she will hence forth be known as PD or variously P as in like M, P, me)

Oh may!

5 by 5, loud and clear, she might as well have been holding my head to her breast; hand cradling the back of my head. Rarely do I write within email software or comment boxes. Unable to discern punctuation, etc. Preferring to exorcize myself on the big screen in Libre, with dictionary ninth month pregnant with arcana spelled correctly.

Write I did. Without the above aids; in reply to her “smell, touch, taste, embrace.” I used the forum provided by Opera; sending it into ether and quintessential night. Turning to rest tossing where I expected rest and so here I am again. I had been unable to find the quote I wanted to express my simple conclusion: I wish for her the very best of everything exclusive of me, if need be. The following catapulted me from horizontal to vertical: 'I don't love you because I need you, but love you as and because you are you.'

Where M keeps me, more-or-less, at arm's length physically, P (“Had She Said Yes”) said yes . . . oddly merged with me in those words. Words either tell or do. I sense myself cooked through and through, a Christmas Goose plucked biased and on the platter steaming.

In Sex Anonymous, at least one hundred “dates” are suggested/required before folly or fooling around. Ain't misbehaving yet. But with both women, equally beloved--a hairsbreadth less than myself or God—I've equivalency. Times: sad, glad, mad, lunatic, weeping or laughing. Both at the same time.

Central and critical, is the element of trust. Which I now have in all the named characters at play. Could it be The Playwright directing the narrative?

Me thinks I see the Shepard’s Crook, hovering in the curtains shadows, about to jerk me off the/this stage.

To another?

130502 01:05 MDT consequential

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved