Tag Archives: wings

“And When I Awoke, I Was Alone: This Bird Had Flown.”

“Do birds ever get caught in a storm?”

Yep.  This is the type of a subject my lover had to suffer through, during my version of a pillow talk, this morning.

Because I’m that type of a girl:  Intense.

And once — but once! — in my life, I’ve entertained getting a tattoo; and the only line that I’ve been able to come up with, to permanently wear on my body is:

“I don’t cut corners.”

(What?  I would’ve translated it into Russian, for the sake of some interesting variety.  But that’s the gist of it:  I don’t cut corners.)

I can’t imagine wearing hearts or flowers, or birds, or bloody butterflies on my ass.  Oh sure, they look pretty on other girls — other birds.  I’ve seen that before.  But I don’t think anyone would take such a tattoo seriously — on my wings.

Because I am that type of a bird:  Intense.

So, what is a lover to do with a line like that, in the presence of his morning hard-on?  Answer it — with all honesty.  I won’t settle for less.

He doesn’t have to be earnest about the whole thing:  We can still laugh our heads off.  (And I am always the first to crack jokes — on the subject of me.)  But truth — is the only way to roll with me (the only way to fly), especially when that rolling happens in between the sheets.

And so he did, god bless him:  My darling man.  In the presence of his morning hard-on, he obeyed my unpredictable interrogation on the subject of birds:

“Of course, they do,” he said.  “Birds get caught in storms all the time.”

“Hmm,” I considered.  “‘Cause I’d think they would know how to sit this one out.”

My lover looked up at me, from his pillow.  I think he was starting to catch on:  He certainly had one intense bird on his hands — and in between his sheets.

“Well.  Migratory birds must fly through storms all the time, I imagine,” he said.

Gotta give it to the man — my darling man:  He was taking this whole thing quite seriously.

By now, I’ve learned a thing or two about great migrations.  I understand the reckless courage it takes to cross the Ocean in pursuit of safer home ground or better statistics for survival; the open-mindedness that it takes to travel long distances, and the gratitude with which one must be perpetually fueled, in order to persevere through storms.  With migratory birds, of course, it’s a matter of their nature.  Their courage must come genetically preprogramed.

My lover was catching on:

“You do have a tremendous talent for getting tangled up in storms,” he joked.

In between the sheets, the air got lighter:  We were about to start laughing our heads off — on the subject of me — to lift off and start flying.  So, he began tickling my wings.

But still, my darling man was right:  In my avian life, I’ve found myself tangled up in a number of storms; and there have been times when I’ve flown into them voluntarily.

Because that’s the type of a bird I am:  I don’t cut corners.

Sometimes, chaos is the only way to learn.  Sometimes, chaos — is the fastest way to the other side.

I’ve watched other birds get in tune with their nature:  To listen up and get the fuck out of the way of a storm that they were unlikely to survive.  “To sit this one out.”  But those birds must not migrate much.  They lead safer lives, lovelier and simpler ones, closer to the ground.  Because in their avian lives, they haven’t lived through a drastic change of a climate, a life-changing current of air.

And sure, those lives look pretty on other birds.  I’ve seen that before.  But I don’t think I could could take such a life seriously — on my wings.

For I am not that type of a bird.

There have been plenty of loves, in my avian life, how ever transitory or fleeting; and they have carried me through a number of great migrations.  Quite a few of them were stormy, life-changing; and I had flown into them, voluntarily.

Because sometimes, chaos — is the fastest way to the other side.

And I just:  Don’t. Cut. Corners.

Perhaps, the only destination in my avian life — has been love itself.  And it must be the only meaning behind my great migration.

“Blame It On: A Simple Twist of Fate.”

She sat on her futon, bare-breasted, with her strong brown legs stretched out before my face; and they clasped the edge of the antique coffee table with her kitty-cat paws — each nail perfectly polished with the color of the Dead Sea; and she read to me, something about angels.

Where the fuck did she come from?  

I knew the details, of course; the original coordinates.  Something about a disheveled family.  Occasionally, she, no longer impressed with herself, would mention the routes she’d taken — “Been there,” — the detours dictated by the whims of her heart.

She would learn to never follow the lead of a man — only of her dreams.

“At least, those — are worth the heartbreak.”

But even with all those words in between us — the words which she did not take seriously because she was no longer impressed, with herself — I could NOT have known the many distances she had gone, in order to arrive.

But where the fuck did she come from?

Never before had I seen a girl who could sit in her brown skin so calmly, wearing nothing but shivers.

Which would make me get up, close the window, fetch her a blanket.

“I’m fine,” she’d wave it off, of course.  For she had gone some very long distances, and she would learn to never follow the lead of a man.

And it surprised me that she could be so mellow while stripped, wearing nothing but shivers over her skin.  Most women would freak out with sudden timidness and cover-up their glorious breasts with silly arm gestures.  The way their breasts would spill out over their forearms or in between their fingers would still be enough to make me want to conquer my fears, in their name:  To make me want to be a man.

She, however, was beyond getting in her own way.  For she gone some long distances — in order to arrive.

“It’s bad enough,” she’d joke, “that I’ve got this brain of mine!”

She was always in on the joke of herself.

But really:  What the fuck did she come from?  And how in the world — was she happening?!

With an erect spine of a disciplined dancer, she had been sitting up, watching me get dressed.  I wondered:  Would she write me into her poetry in the morning?  Would I make it into her stories?  (Dear god!  I always get in my own way!)

On top of her knees that were fuzzy with shivers, she was holding an open book of poetry.  I had just picked it up for her, from a bookstore where she was always finding something to read, about angels.  By now, we had shared many books — and plenty of poetry.  And we would share even more had it not been for one annoying habit of hers:  of always reading the very first and the very last sentence before committing to the rest of the text.

“It’s the perfect test — of everything,” she’d always joke.  So impatient — but always in on the joke of herself.

I’d get irritated, at first:  “I don’t ever want to know the ending!”

But she would already be ahead of me, with her charm and that angelic face.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” I said to her last night, while she sat comfortably in her brown skin.  I wanted to think of myself as poignant, or ironic at least.  I reached out to move her hair out of the way.

Her hair!  I had never seen it this long before.  She would normally lose her patience and chop it off, coming back over the threshold of my house while looking like some French actress, with an angelic face.  And it would fling above me, and it would sway, in passion — that glorious wing of hers! — and I would forget to say a prayer to my memory:

Please, please, please hold on to her!  Just this way:  Riding above me, long beyond my comprehension.  Taunting with her riddles and poetry, never meant to be captured.  Always:  Above!

But instead, I would trip out:  There would be so much of her!  So much to remember.  And I would try to say something poignant, or ironic, at least.  And I would ruin it, of course.  (By god!  I always get in the my own way!)

Her hair!  Last night, it was heavy with sweat and the grime of the city.  I could smell other beings on her, because they would always want a piece of that compassion.  They were entitled to it — that wretched lot of conflicted parasites! — and they would pull her down, down, down with them, by that very same mane of hers.

To keep it out of her face, she would yank her hair back into a bun — with an erect spine and a confident hand of a disciplined dancer.  Or, she would flip it, side to side, as she did last night; and it would stream down — that glorious wing of hers! — and in its waves and long centimeters, I could see the distances she had gone.

But:  Where?!  Where the fuck did she come from?  And how in the world was she happening — to me?!

I didn’t know.  I couldn’t have known the distances she had gone — in order to arrive.  I only knew the privilege of her time and poetry; and instead of getting in the way of myself, this time around, I would let her read to me, about angels.

“and she says

when I defame her 

dream:

you are trying to 

pull me down 

by the wings.”

I shall not do that, not this time, with trying so hard to be poignant, or ironic, at least; with trying so hard — to matter.

Instead, I’ll let her soar above.

Always:

Above!