Under a bruise-purple sky, dawn’s pale green light in optimistic approach despite stars’ exodus in droves, despite disharmony down below, despite the clear echo of the night’s drama. Streets all empty now, except for the usual living fixtures with their omnivident but silent place in the scheme of things. Damned souls in hell’s waiting room, indefinitely on hold because of coverage denial.
To a cosmic investigator, with access to deeper vision, clear traces of the struggle. Footprints of the clash almost still visible in grimy streets, like battlefield ghosts, burn marks in memory of the ground itself. Zero-mortality massacre; psychological slaughter both of boundaries and faith in the state the police the government the system. And utter destruction of status-quo optimism in people’s hearts.
And yet, also throbs of beauty, of community between strangers. Like the sharing of gasmasks and goggles, distribution of bandanas and vinegar-soaked t-shirts. Glimpses of a better way, a different attitude. Like two small women with arms around a blind and bloody fat man, assistance in spite of inevitable arrest. Or the college dropout with his gallon-jug of milk as pepper-spray salve, de facto guardian of a homeless woman’s toddler after her strident arrest.
A new paradigm; all in it together, partnership for betterment of the whole. Like the human chain and the milk-splashers behind them, a throng of spoiled first-worlders resolute and strong, awake and in arms after decades of dormancy. Slough of the spoon-fed, tag-team resistance to ruthless enforcement of a rotten structure. Vague dreams of a new Eden, a global community of mutual assistance instead of dogmatic purity in survival-of-the-fittest attitudes. For all its logic, Darwin’s system just a philosophy cum religion. Not absolute truth. Re-emergence of a global organism, a Gaian outlook.
In the scant warmth of a student-slum apartment, three friends silent in collapse, in contemplation, in grim recollection of the very real smell of their idealistic game.
Numb with experience of state-sponsored Protection and Service, in the adrenal aftermath of a unilateral scuffle, awash in connection to each other, to everyone behind internet streams and video uploads, widespread solidarity and a feeling of rightness, despite the shroud of pure terror and disgust and outrage.
Drips of blood on the student’s shirt, dry and brown. Back against the cupboards on the kitchen floor under the lawyer’s supportive arm, feet against the fridge.
Etch of incredulity and hurt on the student’s forehead, angry tears hot on stubbly cheeks. “Unbelievable. What kind of world…? Unbelievable,” repetition like a mantra, “unbelievable.”
“Here, ice,” cubes in a plastic bag, our hero’s stricken face.
“Unbelievable. Hey, no one dead, right?”
“No.” No one dead. But plenty in the hospital with capsaicin tears; mucus membranes on fire, respiration laborious and painful. Bruises, headaches, broken fingers and wrists. But no fatalities.
“The golden-ticket injury, man. An honorable demonstration of devotion.”
“Not your fucking martyr,” the student’s sudden snarl under the ice.
“Whoa, easy. What up, man?”
“Just…” Anger, accusation, doubt in his eyes. Then softer, “Yeah. Right. Sorry, just traumatic stuff back there—our own appointed guardians. Hey, no one dead though, right?”
“Uh...right,” our hero’s puzzled look at the lawyer.
“Good. What a vicious cycle of history, man. Inevitable and indefinite dark ages after the Fall. Always the same. For me, just one look at a better world, with fairness. Connection to the overall.”
“Heh, one look probably your only entitlement, with your head’s easy intimacy with every nightstick in its path.”
“My poor dome! A date-rape victim on the first night out.”
“Tst, gross, you two”
Ice on his head, the student’s groan of pain and exhaustion, head back, eyes shut. Motrin from the lawyer’s bag, waterglass almost steady. Labored gulp. Shudder. Then, eyes open, apprehensively, “But no fatalities, right?”
Ice in the air, in veins.
Our hero and the lawyer, eyes wide.
“Hey man, hey. You okay?” a frightened croak.
Outside in the street, city-bus rumble, routine wake-up bellyache of a drowsy cityscape.
“Yeah...why?”
Just one look at mismatched pupils.
Concussion.
“Okay, hospital time.”
“No no, all good. Just tired.”
“Yeah, not for a concussion,” the lawyer’s assurance. “Just rest and observation. According to my mom, anyway.” Her mom the ER nurse.
“Fine then, bedtime. No class for you tomorrow. Er...today.”
Morning sun a bright sliver on the couch, the lawyer on her side under a thin afghan, back to the glare. Our hero on a chair, bleary eyes on news feeds and discussion forums, yawny ache between jaw and ears.
“Hey, sleepy time for you too, mister hero,” the lawyer’s sleepy murmur. “Room for two on here.” Nominal scooch as a gesture.
Fingers frozen above the keyboard, chills down spine in a pool of electric tingles in his seat. Nonchalant swallow. “Okay. Thanks.” Distraction from online drivel, all so unbearably interesting, so additive, so galvanizing. Incessant emails and personal messages and forwards—digital organization of life patterns. But nothing compared to this. This offer from his buddy’s old fling, this ravishing and captivating woman, forearm over eyes, splayed hair a fan on the cushion, weak sunlight and dawn shadows on dream-sheen stretch-pants.
Heartbeat in his ears, our hero on the couch slowly, gently. Curious absence of conscience, in spite of the obvious. The lawyer’s jerk awake, fearful flash in her eyes. Anguish in our hero’s heart—obviously too good for truth, her offer one of politeness, or an accident of sleepiness.
But then: “Oh; you.” Her sigh of relief, easy lapse back into sleep. Long debates in our hero’s head, tense and withdrawn, eyes on the spotty ceiling. Until finally his decision. A roll over, arm around her waist, relaxation into the space between them. And delight in her arching response, arms in a hug around his arm. Face in her hair, fantasies wild, a rush of blood to his nether head. Her languid press back against it, somnolent but rhythmic. His hand on her thigh, warm through the fabric and responsive to his touch. In his arms, her twist, one leg over his hip. Handful of hair in his grasp, head back, neck taut. A second’s pause before a kiss full on her mouth, soft and sweet like a ripe mango, jolts of excitement at the thought of her tongue-ring, with its months of sexy torment, glimmery allure a recent affectation in defiance of her former corporate path.
Valiant efforts at soundlessness, with the bedroom adjacent, rustly movement against each other; heavy breath and muffled sighs in necks and ears.
Fingertips on panty line, noses in their traditional awkward dance. The lawyer’s palm on his cheek, light kisses and assent to his move on top, between raised knees, on her back now in a tangle of knit blanket, all soft sighs from collarbone kisses, tanktop straps down her shoulders, small brown nipples hard in the air, shirt around her waist, trails of kisses and nibbles from chin to belly, both atremble from months of tensions, sexual and otherwise.
His fingers along her waistband, teasingly slow. Hips up, pants down, skin hot, gentle slide of a finger into her.
Palms on his ears, firm push toward her lap, a desire for envelopment, for togetherness. With a downward focus. He, hungrily, lips in silent slurpy songs of adoration; she, rhythmically, primally, hips in short gyrations, fingers in his hair. Then hands down his torso, an irresistible draw upward, kisses on his sticky mouth, shirt off, fly and button free, small hand in a cup around his tented underwear.
Ungainly battle with stubborn pants, to the tune of palm-stifled laughter. Finally out, chest to chest, naked on their friend’s couch. And then a yearning trembly arch into her, hot and close and enveloping, a soft high cry behind lip-caught teeth, faint moans through noses, both momentarily motionless, extension of the holy moment, dual revelry in the illicit thrill...and then a rhythm, a giving-in to each other, away from the apartment away from the world away from the revolution from time from any concern other than the rustle of long-awaited passion, the creak of the cheap couch, the too-soon build of an explosion, pinpoints of light in a gathering focus toward their shared center, the slishy, slippery, slick, salty pace; escalation, incapable of delay, gasps and grunts and whimpers and squeaks, mouths together—a pause, tense, suspension, sighs.
And then sleep.
To a cosmic investigator, with access to deeper vision, clear traces of the struggle. Footprints of the clash almost still visible in grimy streets, like battlefield ghosts, burn marks in memory of the ground itself. Zero-mortality massacre; psychological slaughter both of boundaries and faith in the state the police the government the system. And utter destruction of status-quo optimism in people’s hearts.
And yet, also throbs of beauty, of community between strangers. Like the sharing of gasmasks and goggles, distribution of bandanas and vinegar-soaked t-shirts. Glimpses of a better way, a different attitude. Like two small women with arms around a blind and bloody fat man, assistance in spite of inevitable arrest. Or the college dropout with his gallon-jug of milk as pepper-spray salve, de facto guardian of a homeless woman’s toddler after her strident arrest.
A new paradigm; all in it together, partnership for betterment of the whole. Like the human chain and the milk-splashers behind them, a throng of spoiled first-worlders resolute and strong, awake and in arms after decades of dormancy. Slough of the spoon-fed, tag-team resistance to ruthless enforcement of a rotten structure. Vague dreams of a new Eden, a global community of mutual assistance instead of dogmatic purity in survival-of-the-fittest attitudes. For all its logic, Darwin’s system just a philosophy cum religion. Not absolute truth. Re-emergence of a global organism, a Gaian outlook.
In the scant warmth of a student-slum apartment, three friends silent in collapse, in contemplation, in grim recollection of the very real smell of their idealistic game.
Numb with experience of state-sponsored Protection and Service, in the adrenal aftermath of a unilateral scuffle, awash in connection to each other, to everyone behind internet streams and video uploads, widespread solidarity and a feeling of rightness, despite the shroud of pure terror and disgust and outrage.
Drips of blood on the student’s shirt, dry and brown. Back against the cupboards on the kitchen floor under the lawyer’s supportive arm, feet against the fridge.
Etch of incredulity and hurt on the student’s forehead, angry tears hot on stubbly cheeks. “Unbelievable. What kind of world…? Unbelievable,” repetition like a mantra, “unbelievable.”
“Here, ice,” cubes in a plastic bag, our hero’s stricken face.
“Unbelievable. Hey, no one dead, right?”
“No.” No one dead. But plenty in the hospital with capsaicin tears; mucus membranes on fire, respiration laborious and painful. Bruises, headaches, broken fingers and wrists. But no fatalities.
“The golden-ticket injury, man. An honorable demonstration of devotion.”
“Not your fucking martyr,” the student’s sudden snarl under the ice.
“Whoa, easy. What up, man?”
“Just…” Anger, accusation, doubt in his eyes. Then softer, “Yeah. Right. Sorry, just traumatic stuff back there—our own appointed guardians. Hey, no one dead though, right?”
“Uh...right,” our hero’s puzzled look at the lawyer.
“Good. What a vicious cycle of history, man. Inevitable and indefinite dark ages after the Fall. Always the same. For me, just one look at a better world, with fairness. Connection to the overall.”
“Heh, one look probably your only entitlement, with your head’s easy intimacy with every nightstick in its path.”
“My poor dome! A date-rape victim on the first night out.”
“Tst, gross, you two”
Ice on his head, the student’s groan of pain and exhaustion, head back, eyes shut. Motrin from the lawyer’s bag, waterglass almost steady. Labored gulp. Shudder. Then, eyes open, apprehensively, “But no fatalities, right?”
Ice in the air, in veins.
Our hero and the lawyer, eyes wide.
“Hey man, hey. You okay?” a frightened croak.
Outside in the street, city-bus rumble, routine wake-up bellyache of a drowsy cityscape.
“Yeah...why?”
Just one look at mismatched pupils.
Concussion.
“Okay, hospital time.”
“No no, all good. Just tired.”
“Yeah, not for a concussion,” the lawyer’s assurance. “Just rest and observation. According to my mom, anyway.” Her mom the ER nurse.
“Fine then, bedtime. No class for you tomorrow. Er...today.”
Morning sun a bright sliver on the couch, the lawyer on her side under a thin afghan, back to the glare. Our hero on a chair, bleary eyes on news feeds and discussion forums, yawny ache between jaw and ears.
“Hey, sleepy time for you too, mister hero,” the lawyer’s sleepy murmur. “Room for two on here.” Nominal scooch as a gesture.
Fingers frozen above the keyboard, chills down spine in a pool of electric tingles in his seat. Nonchalant swallow. “Okay. Thanks.” Distraction from online drivel, all so unbearably interesting, so additive, so galvanizing. Incessant emails and personal messages and forwards—digital organization of life patterns. But nothing compared to this. This offer from his buddy’s old fling, this ravishing and captivating woman, forearm over eyes, splayed hair a fan on the cushion, weak sunlight and dawn shadows on dream-sheen stretch-pants.
Heartbeat in his ears, our hero on the couch slowly, gently. Curious absence of conscience, in spite of the obvious. The lawyer’s jerk awake, fearful flash in her eyes. Anguish in our hero’s heart—obviously too good for truth, her offer one of politeness, or an accident of sleepiness.
But then: “Oh; you.” Her sigh of relief, easy lapse back into sleep. Long debates in our hero’s head, tense and withdrawn, eyes on the spotty ceiling. Until finally his decision. A roll over, arm around her waist, relaxation into the space between them. And delight in her arching response, arms in a hug around his arm. Face in her hair, fantasies wild, a rush of blood to his nether head. Her languid press back against it, somnolent but rhythmic. His hand on her thigh, warm through the fabric and responsive to his touch. In his arms, her twist, one leg over his hip. Handful of hair in his grasp, head back, neck taut. A second’s pause before a kiss full on her mouth, soft and sweet like a ripe mango, jolts of excitement at the thought of her tongue-ring, with its months of sexy torment, glimmery allure a recent affectation in defiance of her former corporate path.
Valiant efforts at soundlessness, with the bedroom adjacent, rustly movement against each other; heavy breath and muffled sighs in necks and ears.
Fingertips on panty line, noses in their traditional awkward dance. The lawyer’s palm on his cheek, light kisses and assent to his move on top, between raised knees, on her back now in a tangle of knit blanket, all soft sighs from collarbone kisses, tanktop straps down her shoulders, small brown nipples hard in the air, shirt around her waist, trails of kisses and nibbles from chin to belly, both atremble from months of tensions, sexual and otherwise.
His fingers along her waistband, teasingly slow. Hips up, pants down, skin hot, gentle slide of a finger into her.
Palms on his ears, firm push toward her lap, a desire for envelopment, for togetherness. With a downward focus. He, hungrily, lips in silent slurpy songs of adoration; she, rhythmically, primally, hips in short gyrations, fingers in his hair. Then hands down his torso, an irresistible draw upward, kisses on his sticky mouth, shirt off, fly and button free, small hand in a cup around his tented underwear.
Ungainly battle with stubborn pants, to the tune of palm-stifled laughter. Finally out, chest to chest, naked on their friend’s couch. And then a yearning trembly arch into her, hot and close and enveloping, a soft high cry behind lip-caught teeth, faint moans through noses, both momentarily motionless, extension of the holy moment, dual revelry in the illicit thrill...and then a rhythm, a giving-in to each other, away from the apartment away from the world away from the revolution from time from any concern other than the rustle of long-awaited passion, the creak of the cheap couch, the too-soon build of an explosion, pinpoints of light in a gathering focus toward their shared center, the slishy, slippery, slick, salty pace; escalation, incapable of delay, gasps and grunts and whimpers and squeaks, mouths together—a pause, tense, suspension, sighs.
And then sleep.
Posts
