Lips tingling from entirely too many alcoholic beverages. I went to a wedding today. It was beautiful. White dress for the bride. Peach dresses for the bridesmaids. Cake. And there was the chicken dance. (I did look for P, naturally upon hearing that.) And Cotton-eyed Joe. The bride was lovely. They really do love each other. How cynical was I to imagine, juxtaposed against this magnificent bounty of love — the other side of it — what are their fights like? — do they fight over money? over jealousy? over freedom? so curious. He’s straight-laced. She’s less so. He’s predictable. She’s no virgin. (she’s been married before.) My mind wandered to his vow of chastity. I wonder how disappointed she’ll be when they consummate this marriage. I hope they’ve already broken his vow. I hope they’ve had sex numerous times, and in numerous positions. I hope it doesn’t become a source of conflict. I’m happy for them. Hope they’re happy for each other.
S and I did dance. I’m not sure We know how to do “wedding dances”. So timid, so restrained they are. Mere xerographic images of what natural dance is for me. Dance is the precursor to sensual exploration of the body. Hot, sweaty, oozing with all the things that everyone would love to touch but can only see, can only smell, can barely feel. Can’t dance like that at a wedding. It’s the bride’s day. And everything must remain restrained. Catholic church says “be fruitful” yet don’t party. So we danced proper at the wedding. We also properly found ourselves in another area away from everyone else, Hot, sweaty and oozing over each other. I will post about that at another time. Promise!!
Laughed a lot. Smiled even more. Rites. They keep things moving steadily forward. People talking about family and their children. Stories abound about suckling infants, midnight crying, particular stories about particular instances of what this baby did and what that child didn’t do. I was quiet. Just skimming the surface of conversation. My job, your job, your job. My love, My heart? Where are you? Gone. In another country or in another world? A world with no phones perhaps?. I miss you, She misses you. I can almost understand your abandonment of me but of your own brand new flesh and blood?
Then after. Irish pub with S’s crew. Good beer. Good company. Good conversation. Open open open. Then after after. My fingers smelled of lingering smoke. Memories of a past lover in particular — his fingers smelled like ashen flesh. He always wanted me to smoke. His fingers tasted like bittermelon. And he was my Lover, if ever I knew one. My mind can smell his hair burning.
Now, in a strange town, crash. Strange enviorment, crash. Strange bed, crash. Bleary. Come back later for a more comprehensive analysis of my experiences today. For at the moment I am a bit “lit up” and S will be getting out of the shower in a few minutes