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Another quiet evening, listening to music and drifting.
I have one more melancholy snippet, unrelated to the first. This one has a little rainbow somewhere off stage. Not sure there'll be more, but maybe. Actually I jotted down the notes to a bit of porny boy stuff earlier when I couldn't get to a computer, but I'm all tranquil now and have to post those another time.
Oh, and Gale Dumont is writing a timeshift story that is luscious.
Kaelie's Birthday made me walk around work in a daze after I read it at lunch. I can't do her justice with words in my current mood, so I'll just say that if I could write like she does, I might never stop.
~
shifting sand,
by stungunbilly
The sand had gotten into every crevice of the house. It was a grainy pattern across the floor, and looked pretty in dark swirls with sparkles around the drain of the shower. It was in his aging CD player, and Justin’s new song wouldn’t play anymore, only strange beeps and clicks that seemed like a machine’s language to JC.
The bed was full of the stuff, and it scraped roughly over his skin when he tossed and turned. The heat battered him, and the sand stuck to his sweaty flanks through the dark, hot nights. He gave up masturbation when he’d almost scraped himself raw once.
Things had seemed wonderful in L.A. not long ago, except for the eternal presence of Nelly and the interminable conversations in ghetto speech that JC couldn’t understand. Justin had thrown him a party, and wrapped his legs around JC’s waist with enthusiasm. There’d been a silicon sculpture of a man with his hands full of steel flowers, and Justin had said it made him think of the things JC created.
Now sand blows in through the window, and JC thinks the wind is growing fiercer. He dances by himself in the silence, making a rhythm with the roar of the wind and the slap of his bare feet on the sandy floor. His chest aches and salty tears drip down his cheeks, leaving a gritty trail in their wake.
Justin was going to meet him for the week, and it was enlightening that his call hadn’t come as a surprise. JC could picture him while they were speaking, red-eyed from sleeplessness and sore-boned from pacing all night. Sadder than JC, and foolish, and choosing for himself a golden path, a hope for immortality in the music halls of fame.
His feet kicked up the piles forming, and JC sang softly, counterpoint to the roar of the wind and the muted rush of the ocean. He’d seen sand paintings in Arizona, red and blue in Navajo patterns. His own patterns kept getting knocked aside by his dancing feet when he was lost in the music.
The sun shone on the beach outside, and he walked out into the wind when he’d finished crying. There was a lot of sand, and he had time to play. Maybe he could design something pretty that would last a little while.
~
Night.
I have one more melancholy snippet, unrelated to the first. This one has a little rainbow somewhere off stage. Not sure there'll be more, but maybe. Actually I jotted down the notes to a bit of porny boy stuff earlier when I couldn't get to a computer, but I'm all tranquil now and have to post those another time.
Oh, and Gale Dumont is writing a timeshift story that is luscious.
Kaelie's Birthday made me walk around work in a daze after I read it at lunch. I can't do her justice with words in my current mood, so I'll just say that if I could write like she does, I might never stop.
~
shifting sand,
by stungunbilly
The sand had gotten into every crevice of the house. It was a grainy pattern across the floor, and looked pretty in dark swirls with sparkles around the drain of the shower. It was in his aging CD player, and Justin’s new song wouldn’t play anymore, only strange beeps and clicks that seemed like a machine’s language to JC.
The bed was full of the stuff, and it scraped roughly over his skin when he tossed and turned. The heat battered him, and the sand stuck to his sweaty flanks through the dark, hot nights. He gave up masturbation when he’d almost scraped himself raw once.
Things had seemed wonderful in L.A. not long ago, except for the eternal presence of Nelly and the interminable conversations in ghetto speech that JC couldn’t understand. Justin had thrown him a party, and wrapped his legs around JC’s waist with enthusiasm. There’d been a silicon sculpture of a man with his hands full of steel flowers, and Justin had said it made him think of the things JC created.
Now sand blows in through the window, and JC thinks the wind is growing fiercer. He dances by himself in the silence, making a rhythm with the roar of the wind and the slap of his bare feet on the sandy floor. His chest aches and salty tears drip down his cheeks, leaving a gritty trail in their wake.
Justin was going to meet him for the week, and it was enlightening that his call hadn’t come as a surprise. JC could picture him while they were speaking, red-eyed from sleeplessness and sore-boned from pacing all night. Sadder than JC, and foolish, and choosing for himself a golden path, a hope for immortality in the music halls of fame.
His feet kicked up the piles forming, and JC sang softly, counterpoint to the roar of the wind and the muted rush of the ocean. He’d seen sand paintings in Arizona, red and blue in Navajo patterns. His own patterns kept getting knocked aside by his dancing feet when he was lost in the music.
The sun shone on the beach outside, and he walked out into the wind when he’d finished crying. There was a lot of sand, and he had time to play. Maybe he could design something pretty that would last a little while.
~
Night.
