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From: o_rofrano@hotmail.com
Subject: The Moly Blooms of Cythera
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Title: The Moly Blooms of Cythera
Author: o_rofrano@hotmail.com
Published: July 16, 1998
*****
YES when he entered me I danced atop the needles head suspended by
some immortal hand until gravity sent me barreling downwards like the
time Rachel and Ingrid and I stepped off an airplane and with arms
linked we soared like baby eagles leaving craggy eyries to discover
flight like Daedalus the ground crashing towards us but it caught us
and we landed light as a feather buoyed by a summers evenings breeze
-- the same kind of breath that made our old porch swing squeak while
Grandfather read me fairy tales not the ones in the movies where
everybody lives happily ever after but the real ones where sometimes
even good people die and if Id weep at what Perrault or Dinesen would
do hed whisper that tears were the secret wellspring of laughter so
it was okay to cry and the very first time I stayed awake all night I
went to sleep eyes misty thinking about what he said and about Thorin
Oakenshields goodbye to Bilbo Baggins that child of the kindly west
and discovered that the Lonely Mountain had turned into a real place
I miss him so very much but my favorite stories were definitely the
ones dad would tell at bedtime about soldiers going to battle with
their stabbing daggers and thrusting swords and firm bayonets their
cannons all firing rifles shooting and cavalry charging headlong to
die so many little deaths but never enough -- no never enough -- the
day mother showed me how to scuba dive I thought I should die because
after that how could I go back to the sandy beach when the warm ocean
beckoned the waves breaking onto the shore an invitation to rapture
-- I was terrified of the water once one summer brother Michael had
pulled me down in the pool and I couldnt breathe and I thought Id
drown but I didnt I havent but I will because I want to I need to I
have to I must -- when junior high history was so boring and we just
had to escape Mrs Muzzlebrain and the slender Egyptian kid who always
raised his hand to answer her dumb questions even the rhetorical ones
and snooty Heidi McConnelly and all the rest my best friend Sarah
from fourth grade who I hadnt really spoken to in months took me to
play hooky at her special spot by the lake and we traded daydreams
there and whittled the afternoon away watching ducks dive and surface
and plunge and sink and plummet and practiced kissing boys with each
other because it was better than using pillows or water balloons at
home -- yes that very skill put to such brilliant use years later
with Bob under the desert moon during our road trip to the Grand
Canyon spring break senior year when he tickled my neck with his lips
and I searched out his tongue and devoured it -- his cum in my throat
and belly like Jonah -- we first met outside the old library with the
sun squatting low on the horizon shining right into my eyes and since
I didnt have my sunglasses on and wasnt paying attention I nearly ran
him over with my mountain bike and while I truly am sorry his
backpack wound up in a mud puddle I still say he almost deserved it
for the vomitous fulminations he uttered afterwards but to make peace
I did buy him dinner that evening and when he didnt laugh even after
I told him that the latest books I had read came off the childrens
shelves I figured he was all right and wound up liking him although
it didnt hurt that he was perishingly cute -- I saw him two more
times before he kissed me at the concert at Morris Hall the orchestra
played Bartok that night but it might as well have been something
horrible by Wagner I didnt care -- before music there was light -- as
we made love on my birthday he stuck his flat tongue seven miles up
my hole and showed me something that no other lover had -- he also
made me laugh and we took those long weekend walks through the woods
with the reds and golds of autumn above us an infinitude of Seurat
dots on the canvas of sky -- better him than another I decided and
let the world begin anew as it hadnt since I first put on glasses in
the eighth grade -- now see his eyes searching mine with a hunting
cats gleam -- hear his resonant basso rumble and the matching sound
of thunder deep within me the mad patter of our hearts like hot rain
falling on parched earth and the syncopation of his balls slapping
against my descending thighs his chest slamming into my hardened
breasts -- feel our undulations and modulations -- the rhythm of sex
is the rhythm of jazz -- mixing memory with desire time loops into
itself slippery and hard as Gordius knot past present future entangle
entwine because before during after the universe collapses merging
this fragment with that this moment with another til all thats left
is joy in perfect ubiquitous blissful congress with itself -- endless
and eternal -- my love is a mountain flower -- I will live in thy
heart and die in thy lap and be buried in thy eyes -- prithee be my
god -- yes yes O Yes.
*****
Author's Notes: As the title and form attest, this piece is informed
by the concluding sentences of ULYSSES. I wanted to see whether my
writing was mature enough to pull off a stream of consciousness
interior monologue. It probably isn't: James Joyce's stream surges
onward, overflowing its banks, drowning -- even as it brings life; at
best, mine trickles along. A few phrases do sing enough for me to
hazard publication and invite criticism, but go read "Penelope" to
visit the dazzling, dizzying heights that language can ascend.
Copyright 1998 by o_rofrano@hotmail.com. Posting of this article on
the newsgroups does not place it in the public domain. This story
may not be sold in any medium, but *unaltered*, *private* distribution
and freely accessible archival storage are permitted. Do not
repost.
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