Further grapplings with the concept of «Home». Plus, an homage to that beastly event that lengthened your Auntie’s evening’s commute one drunken, ghastly, delightful hour.
We start with our toes. On the soft fleshy orbs unassumingly yet consistently propelling momentum & fate. As they grip, they release for us the heel’s misguided attempt to ground us several centimetres prior. That locale our eyes & mind intended us to be.
Across the bridge around the ankle and up the shin, we sometimes can feel the world caress our strident legs. In Basel, Spring’s droplets bounce from puddles; Summer’s sidewalks radiate rays.
There are few places in Basel where blades of grass might impart its history upon your Auslander skin. Imbue within you the gentle understanding of its dirt.
There are few places in Basel to even find dirt. The musty kind that smells of cyclical centuries renewed.
«Yes. Things can be a bit regimented here», your local loved ones will say, «but that’s why we like it. That’s how things work so well.»
Yes. Darling. But you’re not a thing …
And so the caress careens your curves up your thigh, along regions jiggly. Magical enclaves wet. Untamed.
Onto that belly. Where, within, a stir awakens you to yearning.
Not the yearning that separates those who have feared living from you.
A central yearning that embraces & warms your undersides. Spreads far & wide. Reaches delightedly through creamy décolletage. Hints at starry, dreamy moments shaded by weeping willows obscuring flesh previously hidden by hair just minuscule moments before your lover whispered upon your skin …
[ … ]
Enervating ears.
To really hear, one must use more than the bones & tissues within one’s head.
To really hear …
Foreign landscapes tattooed within, nostrils enrobe & enrich crevasses long ignored.
Your head (whose inclination is to pull you back) wafts & weaves blissful aromatics stimulating explorations into galaxies perhaps once known. Like fingerprints. Grooved into the unique embodiment of you.
Knowledge — a priori ? a posteriori ? — cuts swaths through briar. Brambles torn asunder awaken sleeping princesses to their dreams.
Not from.
The toes remember. They heed not intention. Rather recalling the time you pricked your finger upon that spinning wheel.
Or was it your wrists ?
Those little delicate things, encasing the sinews that bring your life.
Funny, we use these relics of the past to wave “Hello” to future. Their blood already at the end of its cycle. Necessitating return.
Culminating in fingers who like sirens beckon sweet lips to yours. A kiss that rests gently, assured eternity lies within your soul.
«Home is where your heart is», the friend from last week’s column replied.
Breathe deeply, my love … hear me now ?
XO
AS