Monday, July 6, 2009

Storm


The storm thunders in on growling winds and lashes the roiling sky with hissing breath and the hot, needling spray of want. I stand on the porch and pull the ozone-laden air deep into my lungs, opening my mouth wide to taste the storm and pull its frenzied chaos deep inside. My skin beads and moisture wells and then runs in rivulets down my cool cheeks and I drink in its breathless being.

Thunder rumbles, a levitation beast crouching in the east and my eyes pull in the darkness which trembles over the horizon and promises a violence I embrace with a wildness long absent. My thin cotton shirt moulds to my small breasts and looking down, I watch, bemused, as nipples peak and harden in the cool rain, their paleness pinkening and darkening against the opaque material.

I taste him on my breath and at the back of my throat, tart and pungent, the remembered scent and feel, so long absent, arousing and comforting, remembered atavistic explosion of thought; between my thighs, I feel myself moisten and swell. My breasts ache and I cup my hands over the rain-dark material of my shirt and feel the throbbing warmth beneath my palms and feel the echo of pain and looking down, I peer down and see, bemused, the bruised mark of his passion blooming dark against the celtic white of my skin.

I feel as if I am awakening, the slumbering essence of self stretching deep inside, sending tentative fingers questioning into my psyche, exploring and probing deep to ascertain if the bleakness which has pervaded my soul still prevails or whether the ridiculous hope which springs eternal in my foolish chest holds sway.

I find the human species fascinating, truly I do!

We are capable of such greatness and such ignominy. There are times I despair of the human race, then suddenly I see or hear or read about something that gives me hope.

Our spirits are so fragile, yet so resilient. So tender yet can withstand blows that you think would destroy.

Most perplexing yet awe-inspiring is the human capacity to dig deep within the complex, complicated mess of emotions each of harbours in our unique mixture of genes and traits and find among the mess, a thin thread of hope. Realities of past experience which have scarred and marked psyches and battered beliefs linger, yet bolstered by that human capacity to dream, we dismiss rational thought and turn our faces to the sky and reach out again and again to grasp hope.

At work now, I watch dawn break and flood the sky with red promise and certitude and stand quiescent at the prison of glass and watch the storm battle with the promise of light.

Looking out over the expanse of water in the distance, whose restless surface undulates beneath an uncertain sky, I feel my heart lift as molten sun spills a golden stream of brilliance through the broiling grey of sky and horizon until my eyes are dazzled and the sky sparks and glows and shines with a brilliance that aches and the day breathes hope and night flees, pulling behind it tattered remnants of cloud, enveloping its dark soul in a cloak of affronted dignity.

Despair has etched scars into my soul that I know cannot be erased through time, but scars though visible, can eventually heal and except for the distant ache of the knowledge of the their former pain, can be incorporated into the reality of existence.

Uncertain, I pause, unbalanced and distraught, wondering if the small, fierce ache in my soul is hope or the foolishness of windmills.

I think I am seeing more clearly now (or think I am – the burden each of us must carry is the knowledge that perceptions are often most distorted when they seem the clearest).

I fear yet the resiliency of the human spirit spurs me to step….

For life itself means the inevitability of change and without change there is an absence of life and the knowledge that pain itself means there is life is a bitter pill yet one pregnant with veracity.

Shall I step?
although truth be told, I think that decision has been made....

7 comments:

Chloe said...

Hi sekie...

This is totally unrelated to this post, but I saw you had commented over on A Kind Dom with a question, and thought maybe here would be the easiest place to answer.

:)

I call Antonio "Daddy" sometimes. It's not the most common name I use for him. (Mostly, in fact, I call him "baby" just because I enjoy putting the moron on oxymoron, I suppose...)

As for my relationship with my own father? My parents were married until I was 18 so nothing tragic there. Dad was a hardworking man, but a bit distant (both mentally and physically) for his efforts - he was traveling a LOT. He had his issues, and we had rough periods in our relationship. But I'm currently living at his house. And while we fight like cats and dogs sometimes (living with a parent when you're 26 is murder, even if it's temporary), he's always there for me and I am there for him. We put family first, even if we're annoyed with one another.

It's not a perfect father-daughter relationship... But it's nothing that would cause a shrink to say I've got "daddy" issues...

I call Antonio: Daddy, Sir, Baby, Master, Love... And a host of other things. (Sometimes it's even "You Soulless Rotten Bastard!") But... I don't *think* I call him Daddy because I had a lacking relationship with my father... I don't *think* I call him Sir or Master because I've got issues with authority... I don't *think* I call him Baby because I'm seeking anything that puts him in the diminutive. I can't say anything with 100% conviction because that would be ridiculous to claim I know all the ins and outs of my own mental processes... But I truly don't THINK so.

I suppose I just think people try to attribute more to the "daddy" stuff in this culture for some reason... As I said in Pygar's blog, they sure don't do it in Hispanic cultures. I could call Antonio "Papi" all day long - and in public! - and no one would bat an eyelash. Maybe I'll start that... Antonio IS half Spanish, after all. Hrm...

I hope that made sense. It's difficult to accurately abbreviate 26 years... :)

You're a wonderful writer, btw. I <3 your blog.

~Chloe

Buffalo said...

Awesomely well written, Selkie. Your ability to forge words together never ceases to amaze me.

Life is what it is. If I read correctly, yours is taking a definite turn for the better.

Gillette said...

Ahhhh, the awakening has begun. Too cool, M'Lady!

Step by step, breath by breath...yes, you are alive. Scars there may be, but sometimes it takes cracking a heart to allow it to open wider than it thought it could.

Those scars and breaks are the places of our greatest (re)awakenings. My guess is that from them you'll fly higher than you thought possible.

Yup...True, that.

Liras said...

It is not that you are lifting up your cute sandal-clad foot and going forward. March march march.

As you get to your destination, joy will overtake your heart.

Very nice post, as always. Brava S!

selkie said...

Chloe - thank you for the explanation! As I said at Pygar's blog, I was truly curious and I appreciate your candour!

Thanks Buff, Gillette and Liras - life is odd, that's for damn sure.

Dante d'Amore said...

Wow. You truly are a gifted writer!

Tallgrass said...

You never disappoint me. Your writing is brilliant.

"I think I am seeing more clearly now (or think I am – the burden each of us must carry is the knowledge that perceptions are often most distorted when they seem the clearest)."

So true.