escapism

February 12 2007
My mind ruminates over the same “issue” every time I am given a pen, asked to think and advised to dive deeper into the folds and crevices of my so called self. It may not seem so tedious, if I were not my own teacher guiding myself through the plagues, discourses and ecstasies that I find myself experiencing daily, moment by moment and innately.

I am convinced that some people do not think; they act when demanded and fetch when they know a game is being provoked. At large, they resemble animals. Their behaviors are routine, expected and mildly grotesque. They think in the confines of what they have to; they wake up, pee, drink water from the toilet bowl, eat the same prepackaged food they have been fed all their lives and lay in the corner sleeping the day away.

But this is fine for them. In fact, this is ideal, because they do not have any other ideas that would challenge them to ask themselves and others for new possibilities—-a higher potential. And maybe that is a reason to be jealous, to envy the normalcy of their lives and to wake up each morning the same as them, eat from my bowl and think, “That was a perfect ten. Always something I can count on.” I wouldn’t think otherwise because I had never known more.

April 24 2007

The truth is I have been following her for days; following her with my eyes up and down her body, finding refuge in the consistency of her being here. It was as if she were coming for me---showing up each day so I could escape into her. I haven’t tried to disguise my gaze either; secure that she was escaping, just as much as I, into the life of another.

And this is where the story of a life and another begins. I had been outside when it suddenly began to pour, the sky was sad and I was too, for it. A long walk from my apartment and nothing there I was obliged to pay my time too, I decided to sit at Café de Flore and wait until the sky was no longer suffering.

It was rather empty and something about all the present states felt emotionally exhausted. I needed a drink to make me full; the taste of bold blackberries and plum flavor hanging heavy on my palate. The aromas of cocoa and anise escaping into my nostrils would make me well again.

Just as I lifted the glass to the flesh of my lip, I saw her. And from that moment on, my senses have wanted nothing more than to taste her distinctive flavors, drink the fluids that rest in her mouth and consume her body, her private temple!

But these feelings were far from familiar. Not that another woman had never ravished me, but never had I been inviting of such feelings towards a woman like her. She was simple and boring; simply beautiful, yet boringly disinterested in everything but a novel by D.H. Lawrence. Her indifference to her surroundings overwhelmed me. What life so enthralling lived between the pages of that novel? If she were so fascinated by the story of another, did that render her own unreadable?

I had to know and I have come here each day to watch her read the life of another. She: watching the text float into visualized scenes. I: reading her expressions as she reacts to the plot. Both: imagining an involvement in another. Together: finding meaning in what began as a mystery.

By sight alone, I know her. She is loyal, devoted and reliable. A single rose rests behind the back of her ear as she reads. When she stops to contextualize or leave for the night, she places the rose between the cleavage of the pages. I wonder what it means. What man shares my passion for her?—and gave her that rose to reveal such desire.

By sight alone, I know her. She is pure, innocent and untouched. Her ivory skin, powdered to perfection. Her satin hair that moves in waves around her shoulders. And her budding cheeks blushed by roses are all attributes I want my fingers to linger over. I wonder how it would feel to discover her body. What our odor would smell of after nights when our bodies favored the other.

By sight alone, I am surprised by her. Just yesterday, I found her capable of mischief. Reading, the rose at rest behind her ear, she untangled her legs and unknowingly exposed the print of her panty. The print of a rose. I wonder what it means. What I could be responsible for if she let me have her; to deflower her, take her under me and in herself let her experience a new world.

Day by day, she was slowly seducing me. I knew it, I knew her. She is the object of a rose and I am the thorn of difficulty trying to overcome such temptation to reach her, Perfection.

Today she holds the final pages of the novel in her right hand. She looks sad to see them go and I feel sad knowing she may not return if she does not have a life she can escape into. By sight alone, I know her, but nothing of her name. I must write a letter asking her. Maybe once she is done reading the novel, she will care to escape with me into the story of Us.

I write in my best cursive, asking her name and tell the waiter to deliver it to the woman with the rose in her book. Opening it upon its return, I read:

“What’s in a name?
That which we call a rose.
By any other word would smell as sweet.”

Looking up and expecting to meet her eye, I see she has left. By sight alone, I knew her; a name was nothing more than a title. She was Rose, a symbol of the time—a time when we both escaped into the life of another.