A Day In The Life

May 6, 2020

Monday Morning, heavy rain in the window. Dee, nude and sleek in the bathroom, brushing her teeth after showering. I enter to ask a question, and she gropes my backside (I’m fully dressed). So I grope her back; end up with a hand full of pussy. Less than two minuets later we’re in the bedroom.

We make love with quiet determination, as if this will be the last time ever. Her mouth tastes of mint toothpaste and violets.

Afterwards, while in each other’s arms, Gabby enters the room. ‘Dirty devils,’ she says, removing her pajama top and climbing on the bed. ‘You’ve been at it without me!’ Her breasts sway as she pushes against me. ‘Move over you, selfish beasts -’

Gabby kisses Dee long and hard on the mouth. I tug Gabby’s purple panties down and gently kiss her backside. She adjusts her position in the bed. I roll round and go down on her. Sometime later, she cums – but not before she’s made Dee cum again with her fingering.

Time can be slowed right down, you know? Just lay in bed and listen to the sound of the falling rain, if you don’t believe me. Just listen and lose yourself in its syncopated rhythm.

During this period of lockdown, the three of us in isolation, our lovemaking has become a necessary affirmation of our love for each other. We make a lovely mess, and tell each other stories – or recite fragments of poetry. We each of us have work to do, but it can wait. We need to be foolish. Lovers never forget the echo of each other’s hearts. It’s that simple; that complex.

Kissing Dee’s breasts tenderly, I quote, ‘I will do today what others won’t, so I can live tomorrow like others can’t.’

‘Good for you,’ she replies. ‘Go down and make more coffee then.’

So, I go to make coffee.

Later, there are telephone calls to make, then I sit working on my PC while Dee sits on the floor in the doorway of my office sketching. The movement of the charcoal in her hand is swift, confident – bold sweeps across her stark white pad.

For our evening meal I roast vegetables: aubergine, cougette, red & yellow peppers, vine tomatoes, corn, sweet potatoes and chick peas, all coated in olive oil and Moroccan spices. Delicious.

Finally, that strange, almost surreal moment at day’s end, when they both start a slow striptease to Gregorian chant in the living room –

As Nietzsche once said, (or maybe it was someone else?): ‘And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.’

Well, I could hear the music – and see the dance! God help me, I’ve not laughed so much in a long time!

And then to bed –

experience becoming

March 29, 2020

November 5, 2006

Dear Xavier High School, and Ms. Lockwood, and Messrs Perin, McFeely, Batten, Maurer and Congiusta:

I thank you for your friendly letters. You sure know how to cheer up a really old geezer (84) in his sunset years. I don’t make public appearances any more because I now resemble nothing so much as an iguana.

What I had to say to you, moreover, would not take long, to wit: Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.

Seriously! I mean starting right now, do art and do it for the rest of your lives. Draw a funny or nice picture of Ms. Lockwood, and give it to her. Dance home after school, and sing in the shower and on and on. Make a face in your mashed potatoes. Pretend you’re Count Dracula.

Here’s an assignment for tonight, and I hope Ms. Lockwood will flunk you if you don’t do it: Write a six line poem, about anything, but rhymed. No fair tennis without a net. Make it as good as you possibly can. But don’t tell anybody what you’re doing. Don’t show it or recite it to anybody, not even your girlfriend or parents or whatever, or Ms. Lockwood. OK?

Tear it up into teeny-weeny pieces, and discard them into widely separated trash receptacles. You will find that you have already been gloriously rewarded for your poem. You have experienced becoming, learned a lot more about what’s inside you, and you have made your soul grow.

God bless you all!

Kurt Vonnegut

Incredibly beautiful vampire

January 28, 2020

Yeah, sure, physically I’m here typing this. But in my head I’m dancing with this incredibly beautiful vampire in a ballroom full of glowing crystal. The music is Bartók, his Transylvanian Dances, of course.

People hypnotised

August 26, 2019

Toe to toe
Dancing very close
Barely breathing
Almost comatose
Wall to wall
People hypnotised
And they’re stepping lightly
Hang each night in Rapture

Debbie Harry

Dancing

February 14, 2019

It was my father taught my mother
how to dance.
I never knew that.
I thought it was the other way.
Ballroom was their style,
a graceful twirling,
curved arms and fancy footwork,
a green-eyed radio.

There is always more than you know.
There are always boxes
put away in the cellar,
worn shoes and cherished pictures,
notes you find later,
sheet music you can’t play.

A woman came on Wednesdays
with tapes of waltzes.
She tried to make him shuffle
around the floor with her.
She said it would be good for him.
He didn’t want to.

Margaret Atwood

Elżbieta Niezgoda

The harp is played by Welsh fairies to an extent unknown in those parts of the world where the harp is less popular among the people. When any instrument is distinctly heard in fairy cymmoedd it is usually the harp. Sometimes it is a fiddle, but then on close examination it will be discovered that it is a captured mortal who is playing it; the Tylwyth Teg prefer the harp. They play the bugle on specially grand occasions, and there is a case or two on record where the drone of the bagpipes was heard; but it is not doubted that the player was some stray fairy from Scotland or elsewhere over the border. On the top of Craig-y-Ddinas thousands of white fairies dance to the music of many harps. In the dingle called Cwm Pergwm, in the Vale of Neath, the Tylwyth Teg make music behind the waterfall, and when they go off over the mountains the sounds of their harps are heard dying away as they recede.

Wirt Sikes

British Goblins: Welsh Folk-lore, Fairy Mythology, Legends and Traditions

close enough to touch

January 4, 2018

She reminded me of the sea; the way she came dancing towards you, wild and beautiful, and just when she was almost close enough to touch she’d rush away again.

Glenda Millard
A Small Kiss in the Dark

Flame dancer

I skipped between the dancers, twirling my skirts. The seated, masked musicians didn’t look up at me as I leaped before them, dancing in place. No chains, no boundaries – just me and the music, dancing and dancing. I wasn’t faerie, but I was a part of this earth, and the earth was a part of me, and I would be content to dance upon it for the rest of my life.

One of the musicians looked up from his fiddling, and I halted.

Sweat gleamed on the strong column of his neck as he rested his chin upon the dark wood of the fiddle. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing the cords of muscle along his forearms. He had once mentioned that he would have liked to be a travelling minstrel if not a warrior or a High Lord – now, hearing him play, I knew he could have made a fortune from it.

“I’m sorry, Tam,” Lucien panted, appearing from nowhere. “I left her alone for a little at one of the food tables, and when I caught up to her, she was drinking the wine, and -”

Tamlin didn’t pause in his playing. His golden hair damp with sweat, he looked marvellously handsome – even though I couldn’t see most of his face. He gave me a feral smile as I began to dance in place before him. “I’ll look after her,” Tamlin murmured above the music, and I glowed, my dancing becoming faster. “Go enjoy yourself.” Lucien fled.

I shouted over the music, “I don’t need a keeper!” I wanted to spin and spin and spin.

“No, you don’t,” Tamlin said, never once stumbling over his playing. How his bow did dance upon the strings, his fingers sturdy and strong, no signs of those claws that I had come to stop fearing … “Dance, Feyre,” he whispered.

So I did.

I was loosened, a top whirling around and around, and I didn’t know who I danced with or what they looked like, only that I had become the music and the fire and the night, and there was nothing that could slow me down.

Through it all, Tamlin and his musicians played such joyous music that I didn’t think the world could contain it all. I sashayed over to him, my faerie lord, my protector and warrior, my friend, and danced before him. He grinned at me, and I didn’t break my dancing as he rose from his seat and knelt before me in the grass, offering up a solo on his fiddle to me.

Sarah J. Maas
A Court of Thorns and Roses

CAKE