After a moment she closed the drawer…slowly, gingerly.  She laid out her things on top of the dresser.  Then she bent forward, stretching to put on her stockings.

I closed my eyes and listened as she put on her clothes.  When I looked again she was standing in an evening gown, taller than I had ever seen her, her hair swept back.  Diamonds sparkled from her clavicles, her ears, her wrists.

She placed her phone in a pocketbook on top of the dresser. She snapped the pocketbook closed and turned around.

“Go back to sleep,” she said.

(Back Door:  Enter “Exquisite Stillness” into the search bar.)



I woke up, in a bed high above the floor.  A ladder led down from the bed, into deeper darkness.  The sound of a passing car came to me from across the room.  A grid of golden line segments moved at a diagonal path across the narrow band of wall before me.  I looked across the room.  I could smell dust.  There was a large window, shuttered.  The shutter’s ventilation holes let through hundreds of tiny ovals of golden light.

Where was I?

Was it morning?  Afternoon?

Rooms I had slept in flashed through my mind.  A foam mattress on a damp wood floor in a tenement in New Brunswick, New Jersey.  A cheap hotel in the red light district of Frankfurt.  A motel room rented as an apartment in Sacramento, California.

No.  No.  No.

None of them.

Then I heard a woman’s voice.  Calm.  Sensual.

“…you okay?”

It was my lover’s voice.

And this part is important:  It was sound which oriented me.  Not sight.  But a human voice.  I heard two words from her and I was home.  In an instant.  In the current year.

How long had I slept, I wondered.

“It’s the morning,” she said.  “I went down to start some water but I got worried and came back up.  You were starting to sit up, but it was weird.  You looked like something was wrong.”

I laid my head down again.  I looked at her.  She saw something in my eyes.

“I feel crazy.”

“Go back to sleep,” she said.

I closed my eyes, listened to her voice…

She told me about how it can happen, sometimes, during a time of change…

…A person’s short and long term memory will come to stand at equal distance. A single thought of here and now will have even odds with thoughts of all other places, all other moments.  In this state, a person will dream his way through his own biography, sorting everything…  Whatever his dream, it will correspond to a moment in his life, to the smell of a room, the warmth of a sunbeam, the glow of dust in the air.  His imagination will prepare him to waken in that room.  The feeling of that room will occupy his mind at dawn, at the instant he opens his eyes.  But the preparation will be false.  He will feel one thing, and see another.  And he will not know where he is.

This was how she explained it to me.

I wanted to right myself.  “Can I just go back to sleep?” I asked, “Are you gonna be here?”

“Yes,” she said, “You need rest.”

“I know…  I had a dream,” I said, my eyes still closed, “that I asked you something…You didn’t answer, and I asked again.”

She nodded.

“…and there was this bird, a crow, I think…”

I didn’t finish.

Sailor brushed the backs of her fingers across the side of my cheek.  Then she disappeared down the ladder, into deeper darkness.  I heard the roil of water on the stove.  I was not confused by this.  It is a sound I love.

By the time she was gone, I was asleep.


(Back Door:  Go to the tab above marked Entrances and choose your door.)

(Front Door: Enter Sideways or Then again I was screaming into the search bar.)

rated x, part three

…the moment when I am with you…and we lose track of time and space; we rotate and tumble; we become each other; we are sweat and skin; we are liquid; we are ether…

until again we materialize…propel ourselves deeper into the dark, whirling corridors of eyes…

…so that when we sit on the cement grit of my stoop on the other side of that reality…when we drink our coffee, and smoke our cigarettes, me in my jeans and you in fresh cotton…(when the “morning is cold, and bright, like we need it”…)

…when we look up into the sky and watch a skiff of gray cloud…and shiver in the air that sweeps our skin before light rain sprinkles the fabric of our sleeves…

…we know we’ve been somewhere.

(Back Door:  Enter rated x, part two into the search bar.)

(Please note: the quote above is from the music of David Eugene Edwards and Woven Hand,  whose lyrics can be heard in the Wim Vandeykeybus/Ultima Vez dance film entitled Blush.)










Falling Forward

I stared into the rectangle of light.  It was too bright, and I shut my eyes.

The Yogi was gone, but I could hear his voice.  He spoke quietly in my head.

“Falling of this kind,” he said, “is a physical sensation that occurs within the body.  There are people who call upon redemption to explain it…although this is misperception.  When you’re ready to clear your heart…you’ll want to fall forward.  There will be no obstacle.  It will feel good to you to fall forward into space, and you’ll want to fall forward, as if your sternum could open, like a sail.  This feeling will come over you like a wave.  Surrender is one of the names for it.  And if you want it, if you say, ‘I surrender’, it will never be.  It will happen to you.  It will surprise you.  But don’t begin believing things because of it.  Only remember it is true.”

Still the bright light of the street yielded no detail.  I only knew of the time when I had been in Sailor’s kitchen, and knelt down on her floor, and felt a fool.

(Back Door:  Enter “Reflection” into the search bar.)

Talking Heart

We sat in Sailor’s kitchen.  My eyes were still closed.  She’d laid her hands on my shoulders, my neck…and my life raced helter skelter through my head.

“You’ve been talking now for hours,” she said.  She didn’t criticize; it was soothing, the way she said it.

She was right, too. I couldn’t stop.  I couldn’t stop talking.  I had to blurt out every story, every meaningless anecdote from my life.  I tried to stop for a moment, to see what made me so afraid…

Afraid because that was what it was: my mouth had come unmoored from my heart, and I could not stop it.  Or perhaps it was the opposite: my mouth was roped up to my heart, inextricably intertwined, bound and knotted, connected up to this blood engine in my chest that was pumping, beating so fast for her I couldn’t shut up.

Stupid boy.

I closed my lips and looked into her eyes.  I was terrified.  I breathed.

She stroked my hair so softly I thought I would cry.

“Just sit still,” she said, “and it will come.”

I’d never experienced this.  It’d never been like this.  God fucking damn it.  And now cursing!  Fuck! Narc, you emotional child!  Stop yourself!

And now…here…with Sailor, I couldn’t shut up…an impossible deluge of information about my life had just poured out of me…as if I were a child, returning to the safety of a parent.  But what was this?  What was the one thing I actually had to say?

I sat still.  Sailor and I stared.

“I’m feeling a bit nauseous,” I said.

A tiny pea of a thing

Later, in her apartment, years later, we’d sat together at her low wood table and had coffee.

The sunshine had streamed in, filtered through the plants she’d trained up the glass, which warmed in the light, and let the brightness through, so that it lit the metal sink to a blur behind her head.

We’d spoken about grief…

A friend of mine had died within the year; his brain had been eaten away, and I’d held his arm while he lay on life support, and shouted his name, just belted it, at the top of my lungs, so that the whole fucking ICU could hear me, my voice bouncing off the vinyl curtains and hospital tiles, resolving into soft beeps of an EKG and the sound of perfectly closing elevator doors in the polished corridor; all this because I’d had to get it out, because if he’d died without my shouting, I’d never have forgiven myself for not trying to call him back.  I had to.  I knew it was insane, but couldn’t help it.

Sailor poured me more coffee and said that all anxiety, all anger, reduced to grief.  She suggested the anger I felt was there because I thought he’d been unfairly taken, a thought I had before I realized any battle with the gods was a fixed match…

As if a man, tiny pea of a thing, could swing his microscopic fists at a Nebula, and achieve something more than an angry dance.

I’d wanted to kill after he died.

And there was no aggressor whose death would avenge him…only the targetless ether.

He was dead, and I’d become furious, but abstracted, spinning, trancelike, like a dervish.

I told her that grief really is some form of narcissism.  My drama couldn’t possibly have been about him…he’d already gone.

As I explained this to Sailor she took down her hair and put it back up again, adjusting the little band in the back.  Then she turned toward the window, and asked me whether she should draw the blinds, whether it was too bright.   I told her no, it was okay.

Later, after the sun passed, and the room was cool and dim, I said that I thought no, everything didn’t reduce to grief.  Grief, in its purest form, I’d told her, is floating.  It’s a kind of light-headedness, a feeling of suspension, of dizziness, almost.  It’s a loss of weight, as if one’s blood could grow thinner, lighter, as if one’s body could undergo some sort of alchemy, a kind of refining, a way of turning into air, the only way of approaching the realm of spirit.