A spell for this soft life, enveloping me
My house is meant to be filled with the type of soft pinks and lace curtains fluttering in the breeze of an open window, wind building until occasionally she flys up revealing a glimpse of a green heaven drenched in sunlight, bare and nothing between us.
My house is a taste I've longed for at the edge of my open mouth. Coming true first in the crinkles of pink flowers the size of cabbage, wood that has surely known a grandfather, and a sweetness that laces its fingers through everything, before words can even take shape.
And so I see it spilling out around me, like flowers blooming out onto themselves until they touch their own stems, abounding, abounding. Held by this taste I am spelling out before me. Spell. Spell -- a feeling that spills out by itself, from a knowing of its own. That is my life I am wrapping myself in - a spell rolling straight from my tongue to everything that embraces me now.
I want someone who gives me a deep, knowing glance, someone who chooses me, who is enchanted by me and specifically me in ways that are beyond words, explanation. It just is. Like M in middle school, like Tita and Pedro, like water for chocolate.
Someone to lace my fingers with and meet eyes with a soft smile, a landing place, as expansive as the sky, as steady as the earth, and as deep as the roots between them. I want to be known.
I want to spend all day talking, and not. And still there is not enough time. Speaking in a knowing that is beyond words, certainly living beyond those gridded sticks of English. His eyes, his eyes. A galaxy.
A poet, a dreamer, a cowboy, a son of the land, a man like a flower, like the clay after rain, a blessing to all he touches. I want someone who is deeply brilliant -- in how sharply he can sense his own edges, in how much he notices the particular beauty of that petal at this time of day, in how much his heart feels the other's pain, in how much he can carry the weight of his own self, in how accountable he is to his heart, however brave, however trusting down unpaved country roads that needs him to be.
I want someone who questions. I want someone who cares. And could do anything, but throws it all away to do this -- what is of heart, of truth, of self and other, of land, of love. I love you already. Thank you.
I want a man whose brilliance is not how much he can mold to the ropes and grids, climb for himself, no. But how much he learns the language of his own dirt, finds his way to it through uncharted land, ear to the ground, just searching for his own heartbeat. A whole new world through his brilliance, his own way back to this utterly same world his brilliance.
We lay down on cane cots under the stars. At midnight, at 4. Enamored, enamored, with each other, with the moon. And never less enamored, never less in awe of this beauty. And this is our job, to love in awe. The jasmine flowers growing on either side of us. And everyone from inside the house, with jobs, with duties, caught in the "important" things, will call us crazy. Laugh at our stupidity. And we will laugh too. That under the curtain of madness, we can do whatever we want. All day, and all night. Just this. Just this. And love. Yes, this.
"I wish xxxx xxxx xxxxxxxx = xxxxx- xxxx -xxxxx I could do what-ever I liked - behind the curtain of "madness". Then: I'd arrange flowers, all day long, I'd paint, pain, love and tenderness, I'd laugh as much as I feel like at the stupidity. of others, and they would all say: poor thing! she's crazy. (above all I'd laugh at my own stupidity) I'd build my world which while I lived, would be = in agreement = with all the worlds. The day, or the hour, or the minute, that I lived would be mine and everyone else's - My madness would not be an escape from 'work' " - Frida, Frida Kahlo's Diary