Probably my fave book
Dark, delicious poetry.
Between the warmth spilling through the blinds in the window and his racing heart he felt a softness fall on his chest, a feeling that brought him to a time thought to be long gone, buried in wrath and ruin and a version of himself as tangible as the wind. If there were any worries that dampened his soul there was no trace of it, just the warmth and the nostalgic feeling persisting on his chest and down to his lower abdomen. The drunkenness of sleep slowly crept away from him with steady reluctance and suddenly all at once recognizing what could only be fingers lightly clasped around his sharp collarbone, they were thin, boney, but sure and confident as if they had traveled his vessel half a hundred times before. Tenderly those fingers wandered his chest, kneading and massaging almost expecting to feel an unwritten tale under his heavy breath. He felt the blood rushing to his face, a pulse thumping in his neck sporadically as he licked his lips with amused anticipation.
He felt her take him whole with the same familiar confidence that had been emitting from her at the beginning of this strange encounter; it pulled him into an unrecognizable thirst churning within. His hands caressed the back of her neck soon to be lost in thick raven black hair that hid her face. Somehow despite everything, he knew her, from where or how he could not say nor could he focus to search his thoughts. Her talents of tongue erased all logic and reason from the confines of his mind pushing him behind the precipice of the world he knew so well. Tiny beads of perspiration covered his body beneath tensed muscles momentarily sending him off deep into a consciousness warm, white and overwhelming. Here he thought of nothing, no longer could the grief grip his essence or the emptiness that threaten to devour him. He lost himself in bliss stronger than he ever experienced; his release, his little death. The softness, tantalizing but welcoming between his lips brought him back to reality. Her hands cupped his long narrow face and he met warm green eyes that drank him in, accepted him and knew all that he was, perhaps more. She rested her head under his chin and he moved to kiss it. He knew who the person in his arms had been, memories of laughter and challenge flooded his thoughts as the smile painfully slid off his face.
His eyes popped open in a dark room, cold sweat thick on his brow and harshly out of breath. Slowly he raised his hand as if to grab something… or someone but placed it on his stomach regaining his wits. Inhaling deeply he finally caught his breath realizing the warmth was no longer with him, neither was she. He was lost to himself again as he had been so many times before. Melancholy slithered under his skin and he sank deep within himself shifting to his side and pulling the sheets over his shoulder. He thought that if anyone had wished his grief to consume him, for him to wither away gradually, surely this was the way to accomplish just that. Closing his eyes he solemnly prayed the realm of REM would be kinder to him the next time he entered.
The Three Legged Birds- Sanzuwu, Yatagarasu, and Samjok-oAquatint etching 5 inch x 7 inch 2011by Larry Vienneau Jr
So I thought for a time, pinned under the cool breeze of the evening dawn and tried to make some sense of the lost creature kneeling before its master always yearning for something greater than itself. I imagined myself starring into calm eyes and asking what the fuck was the point in demanding the submission of a creature created to be so wild, a creature that knows not of metaphorical shackles and stern words of command, whose thoughts and spirits remain so perfectly unhinged that its wings cut through the sky so cleanly; it was a danger to itself. One would wonder what it was like to be lost in such blinding euphoria, one would surely dream… I look upon such a master with suspicious eyes and a torn heart, that would deny the work of art for what is has no choice to be and consciously doing so. Difficult I find it to get rid of such a bitter taste, difficult I find it to come to terms with such methods of pure torture and unrest.
I don’t think they sell this in Canada (I couldn’t find it listed anywhere on the LCBO) but damn would it be nice to try it. Well, I guess it depends - which three philosophers we talkin’ about? Kripke? Plato? Descartes? Rand? Philippa Foot? Does it taste like great contemplation strolling across the gardens or an ego-blazing power trip shouting “down with collectivism”? Does it taste like I’ve been hit by a train that refuses to call itself anything but a trolley?
The only philosophy-related drink I can find at the LCBO is an Aquinas wine. Aq-wine-us.