There you are, my sexy little homeless-looking Hollywood starlet…
David Cross. Never has neoliberal malcontent been so sexy…
Her lithe, naked body was stretched out along the length of the chaise in the dim lit study. Propping her toweled head up on her hand, her loaded elbow creased the burgundy brocade pillow below. She appeared to be perusing some very heavy, leather-bound reading material–heavy in that it would hurt if she hurled at him, so he was sure to keep his head clear of the potential missile’s trajectory, yet his eyes on her every move.
He had caught sight of her by mistake as he walked by her ground level apartment on his way home from work. Always scanning the interior of the brick townhouses he passed by, he was never emoted to come to a halt by anything he saw. This included things as salacious as a pair helplessly pumping away at one another, the hastily drawn shades not quite fully drawn. Old hat in this end of town…
But today, today he found himself immediately mesmerized by a Hellenic silhouette framed in the distant yellow-gold glow of the bathroom light. For a moment, he’d seriously considered that he was peering in on some newly installed mid-city shrine for an Amazonian divinity. He came to his senses when the icon traipsed into the golden light of the rest of the apartment. Mortality notwithstanding, she was truly divine.
Perfectly proportioned, amber-hued, and dark-haired–he swore that he had never seen such an elegant creature in all his life. He was overwhelmed with the happy thought that he had so luckily skipped busing it home and passed by this particular building on this particular day at this particular time. What divine providence!
He wanted nothing more than to look at her the whole night long, wanted to look into her assuredly magnetic eyes–were they deep brown mountain ridges, green Scottish moors, slate grey slabs of stone, or hazel discs of myriad earthly tones? What kind of woman was he falling in love with here? He had to know, had to see those eyes!
He approached the windowsill without hesitation and lightly but purposefully tapped the pane of glass. As he withdrew his hand she quickly turned her toweled head over her shoulder and looked at the window. He worried for a moment that she would scream, but some part of him knew that would not be her style, not this one. Book flinging perhaps, but not a scream.
Unabashed by her nakedness, she let the towel fall from her dark brown hair and fell back on both elbows, one perfect B-cup breast following the other and then resting levelly on her chest. She gazed unflinchingly at the window. She must have known he was there–had to know! And her knowing made her all the more brazen a beauty to behold. Through the pale chiffon curtain he could see her eyes were just as he’d imagined: sensual, glinting, black almonds, peering from dark depths into the darker depths outside. He held them for just a moment and before her eyes would adjust, he was off again into the night.
His black goddess, his Kali-Ma…
Inspirationally speaking of course.
Peter Murphy, the Welsh bard of the Isle of Absecon, said to me once that while there was still time, I must create an expansive body of work while inspiration still welled forth unbidden during the blossom of my youth.
Well, I am shamed to admit that I failed to create that inspired body of work you so many a year ago suggested, Bard Peter. However, I am glad to say that I still feel the flick’ring tongue of inspiration’s fire from time to time, so perhaps its not yet too late..
The dangers of a guised earnestness as emulated by Kafka’s “Confidence Trickster” aside, an earnest face is perhaps one of the most pleasurable things I know of in my dealings with strangers. An earnest-vulnerable face to be more specific.
Note to self: I worry that I take such pleasure in the earnest-vulnerable face because I seek power over it. I think, however, that the value I place on the earnest-vulnerable face is really just that I know what I’m dealing with–no tricks, no guises, no hidden weapons.
Vulnerability, however, is but one of many facets of the wide-open visage that one can delight in viewing. Some other things I like to see or find fascinating in an earnest face:
Revulsion: This one will be very well demonstrated when you get into a disfiguring accident one day–you’ll know it’s true revulsion when the pupils dilate and the jaw hangs agape in dumbfounded silence. (See Palahniuk’s Invisible Monsters to get the inside scoop on the first-hand sensation of disfigurement.)
Amnesty/Clemency/Absolution: The serene look on someone’s face when they are granting you clemency for something done wrong (intentional or no) is also a marvel. (See Hugo’s Les Miserables’ climactic engagement between Valjean and Javert for the granted absolution I speak of. Hugo himself also made note of the mark of eternal & infinite virtue envisaged, terming it “venerable radiance” as follows: “The honest, pitiless joy [in the face] of a fanatic in the full flood of his atrocity preserves a certain lugubriously venerable radiance… Nothing could be so poignant and so terrible as this face…”).
Trepidation: A face truly full of fear is probably likenable unto seeing an oasis halfway through a 1,000-mile desert for a serial killer. The vulnerability factor comes into play again here, but the fear is what sets it apart. This is power-play at its best. (See James Taggart’s face when he realizes what it means that he’s ready to throw the switch on Galt in Atlas Shrugged.)
Delighted Surprise: And finally, a face full of fun, or “eyes like bouquets”, as I once described a young Michael Meola. You can actually see this quite often if you have good friends, but one can never see enough of happy faces, can one?
So, seeing how in all other instances aside from the last that one doesn’t often get the opportunity to see those aspects played out on faces of those we encounter, it’s always a gratifying moment to bear witness to those rare emotional states as they pass over the patinas we are all wont to expose to the world.
So I’m a little torn at the moment–on whether to buy a small condo just for lil ole me or a full size 6 bedroom house on the outskirts of the Atlantic City ghetto. The house, believe it or not, would actually be cheaper…
The reasons for a 6-bedroom house first:
1: It has enough rooms to accomodate my entire family if they need to come live with me
2: It has an attic I can live in
3: It’s close to work
4: It’s cheap
The reasons for a 1 to 2 bedroom condo:
1: I worry about the condo and nothing else
2: They tend to be newer, more up to date
3: Not in the ghetto
4: Can get one with a view of the ocean
Most people underestimate the imporance I put upon the family thing. It’s very very important to me that I be available for my family. I would be quite griefstricken if the family lost the house and I had no place for them to go. I would not be able to abide it–I would lose my own belongings before my mother was out on the street.
On a separate note, I really wish I could play the piano. I love pianistry–I wish I had the leisure of learning and playing in my free time. Blessed are they whose families were able to train their children in this art; while they may not have understood what the fruits of their labor would one day be, I’m sure many of them came to the realization after their entry into the adult world.
The same thing for braces. That’s something you have to be thankful for, you children of privelege. Be grateful!