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July 2008

Silk
by Brian Michael Barbeito

In the night, before he slept, a wave of exhaustion came over him, and his muscles felt in an instant, infinitely weakened. Now he lay on a couch, with a fan above him, and he felt blessed because he knew, because of outward events, and inward events that had happened in the last few days, that he would dream of her. He did not know exactly what he would dream, or how it worked, or where she would show up or what she would do, but that was fine. When she came in dreams, she was always a representation, or more, as close to a real facsimile as the universe could allow, save for perhaps the visitation of a departed one, bringing a message, an actual ghost.

One of the last times, years back, that she appeared in a dream, she was dressed in tight orange, and made up like a million dollar hooker of some sort, who glided instead of walked. In real life, long before that, she had, after walking through the rain to get back to a dry space, made an offering. Under the covers, and this was the remarkable thing to him, under the covers, before any previous type of physical contact, or even what would be termed, romantic speak, she had lifted her shirt up. She never wore underwear, and she rarely wore a bra, so to be there, all dark eyes and dark hair, and silk white skin, and to look with those eyes, and then with her right hand, to pull the shirt up and reveal the breasts, and look him in the eye. It was, with one gesture, both an offering and a try at communion, a spiritual thing, though nobody would believe it as such.

In the dream, though…there were many people around and many of these people he had known. It was a large hotel somewhere, and he was in a lobby, and then up on a high floor, and then, at some point, in the parking lot, in an underground, beside her in a car. They were speaking, though he did not know what they were saying. Then the try for communion again, which if seen from the outside, told from the outside, in writing, or in any other medium, would only and always appear as a lewd act. However, it was not. On the other hand, it was, but it was something more. She reached her hand and held his hand. Her right hand to his left hand. Then, as if to say, you have not been home in a long, long time, and I know you would like to know what is going on, she pulled his hand over. She placed it on her vagina, and positioned it above; where there would be hair, but where there was no hair, save for the hint of some stubble. It all said that she knew who he was, and that the connection was still there.

Upon awakening, he felt refreshed, though tired from allergies. Allergies and allergens. There was a synchronicity in the universe though, and this, if nothing else he knew. As he tried to note his dream, to codify it, as he thought it an important marker of some sort, or at the least a sip of water from the well springs of the greater goings ons, he had the experience of a television commercial saying ‘allergies,’ as he wrote allergies. He knew to accept such little omens and move on, lest he become the poet maudis that sometimes waited in him. The main thing, though, which he felt upon waking, had nothing to do with the female’s silk breasts, or shaven pussy, or eternally sparkling and dancing eyes. It was instead a feeling about him. He thought that he should remember who he was, his true spirit, which was ready for whatever reality brought, from the nighttime dreams, to the afternoons dreams, to the waking dreams, to the real life, life of life, the sun and the rain and the walks through the drain. The thing seemed to be to eat it up and spit it out, though transformed a bit, framed a bit, if possible, before offering it up on the altar of writing, or the altar of conversation, or the altar of anything. Then he went to get some allergy medication, as his allergies were bothering him. Little bright pink pills, so happy, even with such a larger world out there. Those pink pills really knew how to be. Naturals, they were.