It’s been a nostalgic kind of time. Everything feels like it is opening up wide, but I can’t see what’s out there cause the light is still in my eyes. I have always loved The Perks of Being a Wallflower (the book, never saw the movie). It was one of the few books I had vivid pictures in my head of. These are not from the book but are just feelings that linger from the space that the book (and perhaps the music of Jewel and a few other things) have created. An impression of what it was to be 15.
We all take the train into the hills and stop to look around. Tiny white flowers bend under the soft wind. The sun descends; quick, quick, slow. Quick. Quick, slow. Gold wheat weeds set aflame, orange to red. Sizzle, crack. The sun slips in between its sheets and the stars poke moth holes in Lady Night’s navy gown.
No one speaks. We lay in the grass and search the stars for ancient wisdom. Warm soil embraces, braces from the chilly breath of darkness. Heads touch, hair entwined. Hearts beat, in rhythmic time. The changing clock is electric.
Skin buzzes, hairs raise. Everything is alive. Time expands out to the farthest reaches of the earth. Edges once imagined drip and peel. Minds strain to push further, go deeper, break free. Small seeds once planted beneath skin blossoming NOW. Blue, purple, red. Burst forth. Everything is epic. Everything is NOW.
Babbling strings of words escape parted lips. Animal sounds ripped from the gut. We leap up and dance in the moonlight. Bathed in the reflection of the sun, we are safe. We are whole. We are infinite.
Dark basement. Scratch that. Dim basement. Lit by a corner lamp. Old. Shielded by a large fancy shade and some silky scarf. Set the mood. Sexy. Not seedy. This party’s going to be the shit.
The kids gather. Not kids exactly. But not adults either. The girls wear tight jeans and soft gypsy skirts. Navels show. The nervous ones pull at the corners of their shirts. Not ready for what a bare midriff means but needing that not to be true. They twirl and flit. Chirp chirp chirping.
The boys stand or rather slouch against the walls and stare. Foot propped on the wall. Arm resting, nonchalantly against a couch, a table, a buddy. Hair flops in the eyes. Stoic, strong.
Everyone gathers in the middle as someone sets the needle on the record. Sinking softly into an old white shag rug. Incense burns. There is a settling, everything moving inward.
A head finds a shoulder. A hand reaches out; met by trembling fingers that find strength in union. She rests her head in his lap. He brushes hair from her face. She looks up, big bright eyes. He leans down, soft sweet kiss. Others move to their posts. You sit still and lonesome, heart crying so soft no one hears. Crack.
Everyone writhes and moans. You stand and dance and she holds you, but not the way you want. Bathed in the glowing lamplight, you are torn. You are broken. And still the moment is infinite.