«To take my whips and cuffs to the starry beach without thinking of the questions. To go with bare feet into the world with traces of burning lashes on my legs, a sign of the love that transcends flesh and invades the central nervous system, where the brain is uncapable of differentiating between pleasure and pain»
The sun is reflected on the Pacific, over 33 miles in, where there aren’t any waves, only storms. But today the sea is calm. The silence of the coming and going of the waves is almost absolute. There, where the battleships are, there I drown.
Femininity, instinct, the need of another’s sweat and of violence are coerced by this mass of indominable water that, away from the metaphoric current, is the politically correct. The social contract becomes useless, lungs, legs become dead weight and arms seem like a bad joke.
I’m not Robinson Crusoe, and I don’t have David Foster Wallace’s vocation.
My muscles are tiny before the ocean. It’s 11:34 am and I need that carnality to keep writing. Javier left. At some unknown point he became aware of the precious dryness of his skin, of the 12 years that separate the ends of the table when he fed me, that I’m younger than his doctorate students, that all Lo Contador would talk about his flawless career and his unpublicised hobby of going out with “little girls”.
The savagery had to be paid with my tears.
The sun fell beyond the horizon. There is an ice breaker in my heart.
On tiptoes to the nocturnal blue of my room I throw myself into the arms of an eternal girl who, while this pain lasts, acts as a kind of cosmic sister: Sylvia Plath tucks me in with the pages of her Complete Diaries. “I’ll always have to write cards that I’ll never be able to send”, for fear of being fired from the social contract that no one asked me if I wanted to sign: is this the sky that you promised me? “deliver crumbs for fear that the public will get fed up with so much apple pie”.
The neo very new inquisition stopped me from telling the architect of my enjoyment from snails and octopuses under my clothes animalists love me, or the intense pleasure of grass under my bare skin the park guards also love me. If I were a man I know that, apart from never wearing underwear, I’d go around with open trousers, especially in the Spring, under the pollen that’s like the semen of plants falling on your face.
Equally as glorious as that cumshot on cleaned cheeks before fixing their shirt and straightening their coat so that when they goes out they feel the forgiveness of my sins. “And I screamed inside myself, thinking: “Ah, I’d give myself to you struggling, resisting!”, as my friend Sylvia wrote when she met Ted Hudges, that love of a poet capable of breaking crystals, but whose infidelity pushed her to close her eyes inside the oven.
In the sigh perhaps, she escaped fear. The inhaling of gas brought redemption, the sleep and the opening of the tunnel towards immensity.1
How I’d like to be put in a car and taken to the mountains, to a wind-swept hut and once there get frantically raped, (…) and resisting, to scream and bite in the violent ecstasy of an orgasm”. To take my whips and cuffs to the starry beach without thinking of the questions. To go with bare feet into the world with traces of burning lashes on my legs, a sign of the love that transcends flesh and invades the central nervous system, where the brain is uncapable of differentiating between pleasure and pain, if the hand is on the piano or on the baking tray.
“Perhaps I’ll never be happy but tonight I’m satisfied”, my stellar lover whispers from the page.
A slap against the sea enters my nose and clears by bronchi when I’m able to understand that in spite of the bible trumpeted by the police of the politically correct for being a woman I’m not a being of light, sacred, untouchable, hardly flesh and bones. Or whoever comes will betray me and I’ll fail him in any routine triviality, because I know I’m my worst rival, although no story worth telling is plain and lineal.
Today “perhaps I need a man. Right now, I only know one thing: I haven’t found him yet”.
Or is it you?
I want to share with you what’s good for me, the spaces in which I’m myself, what’s important. I want you to be with me for as long as it lasts, but, for fear of scaring you I’ll barely be able to say “alright, let’s go out then”.
(1) Sylvia Plath, poet and writer, was married to the poet Ted Hughes and committed suicise putting her head into the oven to get asfixed with gas.
