Passenger of DreamsYou can't see the driver,not even the top of his head or a hand on the wheel. But his style is intimately familiar -- fast, silent, imperative. To keep your balance, you are compelled to press your forehead to the glass as he hurtles through the switchbacks down to the village. Although you think this just might be the time, he doesn't slow down at all. In fact, he accelerates, and the wet streets begin to blur. Here and there, you manage to pick out a face that starts to seem familiar. You pass an outdoor cafe, and beyond the flowerboxes white cups flash in the sun; several heads begin to rise -- but already you're long past. No time to respond. A black dog runs into the path of your car; still no sound, but blood reaches across the windshield. You lift your hand: you want to stop, to say something; but the driver merely flicks on the wipers, and pale blue solvent streaks the glass clear. Now, you are speeding uphill, your shoulders, even the small of your back, flat against the seat. You close your eyes, squeezing tight, and on your lids there begin to flicker the yellow goemetries of impossible regret. Posing for MaplethorpeI pictured myself,arms, legs, neck stretched till they ached, my whole body held, shivering, in one of those geometric poses men see as classical. I would be a tasteful nude, shoulders back, elbows wide, mounted symmetrically, a dead butterfly. But with this man I had it wrong. It isn't art history, and it isn't sex. First thing he says is walk around, get loosened up, are you warm enough? He is, yes, dark, intense, his brown eyes flickering over me as I move; but his voice is soft, encouraging. What do I like to do? Swim, I say. It's the smooth warmth, the weightlessness, the leaving it all behind. Yes, he says, I want you to leave it all behind you. I want you to glide into the present, the right now. And when you get there, rest, feel yourself fill your body. You are a white lilly; you are already perfect. |  |
