derive
“Tell me what you pay attention to and I will tell you who you are.”
Olivieta.
The name of our home where terracotta stone and sandalwood decorate the terrace and small beaded lights hang from the olive trees. I don’t dare walk inside; the exterior is too picturesque. I could sit in the white lawn chairs and listen to the lizards run up the dark red walls until the sun sets. Every minute is tragar pajaro—we watch the swallows dip their wings into beams of light, breaking the clouds.
To be a great writer is to crack open the metaphor.
Indoors, the ceilings are low and white linen lamps dangle from white strings. A gold, orange, and yellow marble table greet us from the center of the room. Green ceramic mugs with a matching teapot are accessorized with heavy plates and bowls. The kitchen is spare yet elegant. A small fridge and stovetop. We eat mussels from a can with olives that taste of anchovies. The white wine I carry with me in a glass bottle with the appearance of a vase. The last drop spilled and I lamented for a moment before digging into the purple plums cooling in the fridge. My hands look bloody and bruised. I want more wine.
I crawl to the bathroom while Neus meditates. There’s a lotion that smells like honey and sand. No—I smell like sand and the balm is honey. I take cold showers to rinse the sleep from my eyes and flick my hair down my back to feel the tears between my shoulder blades. I’ve never liked exposing my vulnerability. Neus understands; she stays up past midnight reading and slips into bed neat as a dry martini. I’m passed out with hair in my mouth, dreaming about slapping my sister across the face.
When I wake up, my pillow sheets are wet and I recall the softness of my kins skin in my palm.
Agony is best kept a secret.
I terrorize myself with theories of dismissal. I could join Neus to meditate by the pool where the flies don’t follow me. Instead, I sit at the low table and drink coffee from the chipped ceramic mug. When my teeth start to jitter and my jaw unlocks, I remember what brought me here.
Wonder and an unflinching desire to dig.
Dinner is always at midnight. We dine on French bread and salads dusted with sprouts and seeds. If there was a question worth asking, it would already be done. We eat in silence and listen to stars crackle. In the wilderness, there is space to witness all that bursts. While one woman mourns a previous lover, the other ponders her lack of boundaries. They are the same.
I wake up at three in the morning when the sky is dark and I expect the pearl. I take small, decisive steps to the pool and slither in, like the worms that bait the birds. Naked, I float in the salts and wait for someone to tell me a story. The voices address themselves by name, each offering clandestine advice. I suffer their wisdom and am a more well-adjusted person for it.
Fantasy is the buoyancy I crave.
Too many events take me down into the trodden earth where mosquitos buzz in the bacteria. I look up to the hard rock that glitters. If sadness is normal, I am the most average. Murder is committed every day, for this, I repent. My only hope is to slice the past free from bone with the tip of Durga’s sword. I used a kitchen knife to peep under my nailbeds as a child. What is the hardness hiding?
I’ve realized that intercourse is more than the physical act of leaving your residue on another body. Sex is the tangible quality of belonging, the insistence of the psyche to create meaning. Unrequited love is the identity crisis of the modern world. An orgasm has less relevance if it goes unwitnessed.
I come to be seen.
The trick is to tape yourself and watch the video later. Examine where you drop the line and fake it. Performing is boring. I’ve seen the same story so many times; the syllables taste like dry peanut butter. If you feel automatic, stop and start over. Or don’t—stay where you are, still as stone. I’ll be bleeding tadpoles in the pool. I’d rather be horny and warted than suffer superficiality.
The only question worth asking is the one you do not want the answer to.
Photo source.
