Caellum Matthews/Jamie Madrox (caelrox) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-03-15 16:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | frodo baggins, multiple man |
Who: Chetan and Caellum
What: Flying a kite
Where: The Park
When: Near Valentine's Day
Rating/Warning: None
Status: Complete
Rising to greet each other, more than friends we have become. A new fascination is found in the press of hip against hip. Large blue eyes, peering into brown. Waiting for the right moment to reach out and clasp him. His fingers run up and under the back of my shirt, aching for more than just a gentle touch. My breath catches in my lungs aching for release, it strains, through slightly pouted lips, which trembling with desire, begs for a small taste. The taste of gold, in the afternoon sun, the taste of power, and the forbidden taste of greed.
The sun shines in the park. Clouds drift over and perform their steps for those that can see it. Tendrils reach one for another, linger, caress and then slowly disappear or perhaps stop for a moment as the winds shifts forming a cloud that slowly drifts into a shape. Twin pair of eyes gazes upward from bodies in the grass. One lays north and south. The other, his head buffered by the first, lies east and west. The tail of a kite floats and performs a dance in the sky its dance woven from two sets of hands resting upon separate strings.
A bird flies near, but is suddenly startled away by voices that lie speaking..
"What do you see when you look at the clouds?"
A slow smile shows upon my face as I watch yet another shape merge from the clouds. A unicorn forms this time its body a pale ghost standing in an ocean of bluebonnets as seas foam and waves crash against its ankles. Another cloud forms another shape.
A unicorn with satin hues
A ship that sails on river blues
A knight in armor, horse shoes
A gentle winds and a cloud woos
Another spirit?
Or a quiet fuse?
"How different are the muses that fuel our hearts?"
Do you marvel at the formation of the clouds? Or do you see the colors that make them up? The dove gray that may herald the rain storm? Or the streams of pink that streak across the evening sky with the coming of evening. Do you see the colors or the shapes? Do you feel the caresses as the wind blows across those two and they twine into one? My hand catches a strand of hair or two and it weaves its way through my fingers. Or do your hands ache, as do mine, to grasp the tool of your muse and use him until he is left shuddering and spent in the grass.
"I know what the poet sees and feels, what does the artist?"
For I am greedy. For his time.
For his energy. For his needs
And for what else, I can share with him.
~~~
I looked up at the sky, long and hard. Nobody has ever asked me the questions he asked. I have always been the cardboard one, the party denizen, the perpetually wasted. It’s a one note song, at least in the eyes of others, and perhaps I have kept it that way on purpose, sharing nothing of my inner thoughts, almost to the point of forgetting I have them. I studied the sky again, letting go of the image.
“Movement. Most of the clouds follow each other, they don’t shift or push for the lead. They are simply content to follow the crowd. I like the loners, the smaller ones that hang on the outside. Some are just puffs, strays. They have left the group, and they have a movement all their own.” I can feel the sun caressing my skin. I look over at those brown eyes that have held me as much more than I know I am. I want him to know me.
“The little cloud will eventually meet another, and they will combine, and they will be stronger as a pair.” I know how to draw an analogy. “That cloud will create the next storm, and it will be heard.” I know that he is smiling, and I reach up to touch his face. Perhaps I am an artist after all. I doubt myself too much.
Artist and Poet,
Wolf and hawk,
Two clouds creating thunder and lightning,
Completely captivating it’s audience
with a magnificent crescendo.
~~~
“Most definitely, once combined they won’t just slip away without warning. They have far too much to do. Rain possibly, perhaps finding a mountain and burying the top in a glacial snow. Or just rise in the morning like a warm spring fog.” I thread my fingers through the soft blond strands, and grinned at his expression, so serious for a rare moment. As though he wanted to me to know more about him. The kites tail whips furiously, forgotten for a moment ,before we both tug on our respective strings and straighten it’s flight out once more.
The tenderness of like muses, finally seeing colors as more than words. The soft brush of lips like the touch of a butterfly's wing. I feel it lingering for a moment then floating softly away. Like your eyelashes that brush against my chest as we lay, sharing moments of stolen caresses. The jester and the fool trading forbidden embraces, giving in to the emotion that should not exist. Yet does. Small fingers stained with paint catch the light in small patterns of colors and meet fingers stained with the black of ink. Poet meets artist in a median of the heart.
Colors blend, old to news
A Hawks flight, a kite's bemuse
Tracks among grasses, coyotes muse
Fickle sunshine, cloud subdues
Poetry, song?
Or fateful ruse?
~~~
My head gravitates toward the offered hand as I pull the string, righting our bird, a fledgeling, helping it fly. It takes both of our efforts, sometimes separately, sometimes together, a lot like this life. I marvel at how quickly I have come to understand this. While we push and pull, it is to create a harmony in perfect tune. We blend what is vastly different into a perfectly woven fabric, or at least I hope that is what it will be.
“The clouds understand that slipping away would undermine their existence. What would be the purpose of growing strong, just to wither away into nothing? They will do all they can, infuse the earth with life along the way, drink in that fog, and move along to do it all again.
They have their own purpose, worthy of making a big noise.” I return the smile, pleased with the summation. My heart is content being exposed, picking up an extra beat at his touch.
Colors fade over time,
Blues becomes gray,
Reds bleed,
Perhaps symbolic of life shared.
Is it a symbol of the end,
Or of the unity of time,
This joining of opposites.
~~~
Brown earth, blue skies the kite left one and sought the other. It's ribboned tail caressing a branch pausing for a gentle moment and then continuing its travels. The bright colors of red and yellow drifting like poppies floating above a field of cornflowers. This fanciful dance of earth and sky, bound to the earth by thin strands of cotton cord, barely seen now as it streams upward. It's a simpler lesson of life, love, and freedom. A lesson taught by the flow of the kite's color and the sound of the clouds moving through the sky.
“The silence broken only by distance and electricity. A slow rumble at first, strength gathering with the storm. You only know it brings the circling winds, when they arrive at your door and batter against it. The music of the winds playing through seams in the windows, causing leaves to perform a whirling dance of debris. Leaving behind a gateway in the sky when it opens again.” I smile at the words and images that he shares with me. I have seen him change in the past few weeks, growing with each surprising question that I slip upon him whether we are digging in the desert or lying in a city park, flying a kite. The music will find it’s way out, eventually and blend into a song for him.
A smoke escapes from fireplace flues
Butterfly, tracks, found in tattoos
Raindrops portray, the cloud taboos
A silent song,
finally debuts?
OOC: Authors’ note - This log was written in the 1st person, reflecting the thoughts of each from their own perspective. It was originally something that we were experimenting with, but it’s such a great piece, so here it is.