Impossible

[As a cultural aside–is it just me, or is Kanye West completely insane?  Insane meaning that he has no reasonable conception of the world around him. 

We all view the world from a certain perspective–in that sense, as Nietsczche said, "There are no facts [truths], only interpretations."  Following that, then I would contend that knowing a wider truth, one beyond our own solipist truths, is contingent upon understand a truth that belongs to someone else.  You and I share a widely-held truth when we say two and two equals four; in that sense, and by that fact, we have one of many possible truths that should comprise a reasonable conception of the world around us.

Part of understanding and appreciating the beauty of the world in which we live, the unbelievable, mind-blowing, orgastic beauty of it, is falling in irretrievable love with truth.  As Keats said, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty."  Trite, certainly, but fair to cite and mull and, perhaps, depending upon who you are and your own truths, to take to heart.  And understanding your truths–what you find beautiful–is a vital step into understanding what makes you beautiful.  If I find you beautiful, then–doesn’t that, in turn, make me a little beautiful, too?

Kanye West–who has, by any account, received an absolute drubbing by the press and his artistic peers–has constructed an alternate world in which he’s the only truth–the only real, worthwhile, beautiful entity in existence.  Doesn’t that mean, then, he can’t truly understand the beauty of the world’s?  The beauty of you and me?  The beauty of what we find beautiful, which would, in turn, perhaps make him a little more beautiful, too?

Sad.

As for the work below–it’s corny.  Sorry.  This is always what comes out when I don’t really feel like writing but I feel that I have to–you know, write something to write something.  By "what comes out" I mean sickly-sweet romantic silliness.  Oh well.

Hugs and kisses from Indian Summer Wisconsin,

Mitchy]

I danced around the idling car, hooting and hollering and screaming like a fool.  Get out, get out, I shouted, or I will do this til I die!  You opened the door and chased after me, trying to tackle me, to drag me to the ground, to seal my mouth with your linen-soft hands.  I wanted you to tackle me, but not here, not yet, the woods were getting closer and then homph!

We fell into the autumn pine needles, your shoulder in the small of my back.  I squirmed about beneath you and considered you.  Full breasts pushing against my chest, cleavage popping out, hair like cherry-red iron sheathing your face in something so impossibly bright.  I couldn’t tell where the layers of turning leaves stopped and the layers of curling hair started.  And the smell–goddammit, the smell.  This might belie the earlier tone of what I’m telling you, and I’m not sure it fair or nice or pretty to say it, but I wanted to fuck you so bad.  So very bad.  I wanted to strip you slowly, so very slowly, like donning layers of anticipation until it was too hot and we were sweating before it began and then you lying there and moaning and moaning then screaming and screaming and then…

Instead, you asked me, What are you going to do with your car?  You left it running.  I pretended to consider your question.  First off, if I remember it correctly, you left it running.  I was simply dancing in traffic, minding my own business, and you chased after me.  You bit my shoulder then, and breathed a thin and hot laugh, pressing your hips into mine.  How bout this, young lady.  We vow, here and now, to not return to the car until the gas runs out and we have to walk all the way home.

You gasped.  That’s ten miles from here.  As I stood, I felt you slide down me as I set your feet on the ground, and I was left dumbstruck that anything could be so soft and feminine and warm and oh so…

Ten miles is not impossible, I told you.  In fact, it’s not nearly far enough.  Let’s go.  And you took off running before I could, as if you hoped for and anticipated my remarks.  You made a loping trot, a continuous chassé.  I trotted clumsily after you, the corps de ballet to your prima ballerina.  You disappeared around the path’s elbow, your auburn hair waving and rustling.  If I was a sculptor, I called out to where I thought you might be, I’d do your hair in brass, with silver bells…

You jumped out from behind a white oak, shrieking Boo!  Amazingly enough, you and the universe share a similar sense of humor, and the ground gave and my feet slipped and I was staring straight up at your hysterically laughing face.  Scared you, you managed between deep breaths and racking, silent laughs.  No, you didn’t, I weakly claimed.  I just thought you were a mountain lion–you know, a shaved one, except for the head, and I didn’t want to be eaten alive.

You reached out a hand as you cocked an eyebrow and asked, Eaten alive?  I nodded as you pulled me back to my treacherous feet.  Eaten alive.  You smiled, teeth an ivory fortress protecting an impossible secret.  It disappeared as we made eye contact, and you archly informed me, There are worse things than being devoured alive.  Two seconds of silence, and you brushed the hair out of my face.  Don’t forget to breathe, she advised me, before…

And then you shoved me playfully while the professor droned on, explaining the minutiae of technical wriing.  What are you thinking about? you asked, face brightly inquisitive.

I looked at you, then, silently willing you to keep looking at me.  Don’t worry about it, Tiger–but rest assured, I haven’t thought so hard in years.

[Ugh, I just reread this.  I’m fixing this, dammit, I swear.]