[It would seem there is yet much angst in my happy little bohemian soul. Apologies about the title. I couldn't stop myself.]
I look down
to see, my feet
are not my own.
My fingers are
melting, slowly, dripping
Like candle wax.
Hot puddles on the mosaic.
My eyelids
are heavy, hung
It is so cold.
Drenched in misery and self-loathing,
Who have I become?
I am king, and I am ruler supreme, and my kingdom is mine own to bless or condemn as I see fit. These people, who scurry about like ants in search of food for hoarding, they are my serfs, and all of their toiling would be for naught were it not for my grace and benevolence.
My chariot is of gold, and it shall be hoisted by my men, their supple bodies tan and oiled. Raise me higher, so my people can marvel at my majestic being, at their sovereign. Watch, as they gape in awe, these weaklings, slack-jawed.
Join me tonight; we shall dine at my palace. The table is set for a hundred. Watch now, how these men, these beings of lesser order bow, watch how they grovel before my countenance. None dare be inattentive to my luxuries, for my wrath is not to be made light of. Not for me, your Stoic restraint. I shall have my women as I have my wine - full-bodied and voluptuous, not unlike Rubens' Venus. And they shall love me, these women, and be devoted to my every need, for they shall know no other.
Come now, let us feast.
Bouquets of roses, and
the scent
of your hair - apples,
and wildberries.
Honeyed kisses -
your lips,
your tears.
Sweat, and our bodies
Aching.
[Title sourced from the Counting Crows song of the same name]
She was a little girl in a wild, overgrown garden and the tall grass dwarfed her.
She was five, wearing the green dress with the pretty yellow socks and the white mary-janes. And she was bent over a tiny puddle helping catterpillars cross, and she would marvel at the way they curled around the twig.
She was seven, lying on her back in the grass when she saw the eagle. And he would soar higher with every beat of his wings. And it was beautiful and magnificent and her eyes were large with wonder.
She was ten, with her face raised to the sky, and she could smell the allspice leaf crushed in her palm and she could smell the rain.
She was parting the wispy wayward wildgrass stems and she could see in the endless distance a tall chimney, and the breeze was curling the smoke into fantastic patterns.
She was on her favorite mango tree as high as she could go, and she stood on tiptoe to see what was beyond the sudden drop of road along the slight hill and she saw the silhouette of a lone tree, leafless and wizened and bent against the indigo of the sky, and it made her want to weep.
She was the sun. And the earth belonged to her and she belonged to the earth.
She was a dervish, whirling barefoot on damp soil.
She trips and lands on the mattress, laughing.
Today, I waxed myself for the first time. Which isn't to say that I'd spent the years ensuing the arrival of my adolescence in hairy heaven. It's just that I'd always gotten myself waxed in parlours - those strange smelling places run mostly by women who (for some strange reason) all look like eunuchs.
I am a hairy person. I admit it. (And I urge all ye other lasses similarly afflicted to stand up and be proud. 'Tis nothing to be ashamed of. The era of waxing strips and hair-removal creams is come.) So when I looked down at my legs one day and saw Chewbacca's instead, I felt moved to pick up my (butter) knife.
If someone had told me that I would one day enjoy giving myself pain equivalent to being skinned alive, I would have found the idea snortingly amusing. But oddly enough, I didn't mind it. I even found the pain strangely therapeutic. It was almost as if with each strip of wax I pulled off, I was leaving behind all of my doubt and confusion. I am now a surer and more confident (not to mention hair-free) girl. Since this whole process took above of 2 hours, I also missed dinner, which event will ofcourse render me slimmer and more attractive in the near distant future.
This little episode got me thinking about all of those women (and fewer in number, but prettier - men) the world over who engage in this painful ritual. And I have come to the conclusion that a reasonable method of calculating how close a woman is to suicide is to determine how often she gets rid of her body hair. The hairier she is, the greater her collection of books on the afterlife. Because all of these women (and I keep forgetting - men) who choose to go through Hell (oh, the pain!) are not merely de-furring themselves, they are reaffirming their lust for life.
P.S.: Any of you reading this who think the details of bodily hair removal are gross can go wax a werewolf.
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