Thursday 21 June 2007

Seabirds

I called out to the seabirds ‘take me now, I’m no longer afraid to die’.
(David McComb/The Triffids – “The Seabirds” - Born Sandy Devotional)

I look up at the sun. His breathing is audible, kind of amplified with the sound of the water. This is the truth. He was there, once, and smiling, and unafraid. This may not have taken place in the way I might describe, but it was perfect, wherever it was. And wherever it was, he used my name and he spoke to me in whispers. I asked him to lie down there, next to me, at this place, a beach, a lake, a river, and just stay around for a while. I didn’t expect promises. I didn’t expect anything. I just wanted to feel somebody, specifically him, next to me. So, in this story, it will be a warm day and it will take place near a body of water. A river on the edge of town, let’s say. I prefer this to a crowded beach. Yes, somewhere quiet, with a hint of melancholy. He and I decide to bring songs we’ve written and to play them to each other, one at a time, what we have made. He brings his guitar like he always does. All my songs are about him. He knows that. His songs are almost about me but are ambiguous enough for me to imagine that they could all have been written with me in mind. He tells me (in song form) that he thought of me all the time when he was with that girl. He tells me I am ‘three’, as in the third person, always there, even when he’s with someone else. Usually a girl. I am, therefore, a boyfriend of sorts. A boyfriend on the edge. Border boyfriend, that’s me. And to me he is here, and that’s what counts. He brings food and we eat like a couple who’ve taken a picnic lunch, as if this might happen every week, when the sun is out. Let’s go for a picnic, honey, I might say. Good idea, sweetheart, I’ll bring my guitar, he might reply. He doesn’t drink alcohol so I will be spared my own drunken decline in the afternoon heat. We will take photographs of the swans on the water. He will take one of me standing near some reeds. I even think he’d like it if I took off my clothes, or perhaps that’s what I’d like to do. Show him everything. There’s no-one else around, not that I can see. The odd jogger, maybe someone behind the bushes, but I don’t care. I could die happy today, he’s here and I’m feeling good. I could easily be attacked by the crazy person behind the bushes and feel ok, feel content that my work here is done. Because I’m with him and he’s not leaving. At least not for a while. This is a happy moment, man behind the bushes! Don’t spoil it now. But I think my potential attacker can see this too and, well, it’s probably too strong a scene to penetrate, too strong so as to make any intruder turn their gaze elsewhere, somewhere else, to someone else, perhaps even to that young woman across the river who looks lost. Today I am a glad I am not her. I am glad that’s not me, looking all alone on a Sunday afternoon, unsure of where I am meant to be, wandering through the backstreets, ending up there, on the trail by the river, in a city so quiet, under the watchful eye of a lunatic behind the bushes. No. That’s not me. I’m not her. I’m with him, my guitar playing man and he’s looking at me, today, like he wants to kiss me or at the very least hold me and not let me go. He might not say it, but he’s in love. I can hear the birds, they are screeching a little too strongly for my taste. I prefer the wind through the grass. The shadows that play on the trunks of trees. That kind of thing. How the light changes and it gets a bit colder. It has been hours. We’ve not moved from this spot and, yes, I’m still alive and I still feel like this is happening, for real. I observe: he has not left. It is a protective situation, maybe, but I’ve always looked for a daddy. I’m much older but always become infantile by desire. I like to be taken, to not be top, to be led. Where did the day go? Who cares. We decide to walk, he and I - and I notice there are no more joggers and certainly no sign of that lost girl across the river. Someone must have found her and picked her up. I hope she makes it home tonight. As for me, I’m following his lead and he’s taking me to a garden. I just smile and follow. It’s easier that way. Often, I would lean a little closer to him and brush my arm against his. And of course, I want to kiss him still but he once told me that to kiss me would be like kissing his father. So, not being comfortable with the daddy role, I decline and am satisfied with my role as son, as student, as follower. No-one said to achieve this kind of contentment was unhealthy. There is nothing that states happiness must appear normal. And so I grab him from behind and give him a great big bear hug and tackle him to the ground. He throws me off and I fall backwards and I hit my head on the ground but that’s kind of sexy cos it hurts. It’s dark under these trees, I might say, looking up from the ground, a little stunned. Stay down there, he might reply. He’s here to save me, I think to myself. He has this spiritual side and he tells me to close my eyes. I do it immediately. I can feel his hands, not touching my skin, just above it, the heat of his hands near my forehead, that’s there, it’s close enough. Moving across my body. Held there at points. Again, his breathing, but no water now, just the slight movement of leaves and branches. He calls this reiki. I call it sexual by default. I can hear cars from some road nearby. There is a bird making sounds above me in the dark of the tree, a dull and muffled sound. Are you trying to tell me something, small mumbling bird? What kind of message is that you send? Speak up! Sounds like your mouth is full of feathers, little bird. Spit it out! Has someone sent you here, with a message wrapped around your leg? Have you flown across oceans and fields to deliver this now? To send me a sign? A tiny ring of paper that contains the answer that I need? I tell you, bird, it’s not such a good time. But still you make that sound above me, like a cry or a moan. Do not be appalled, small bird, as you witness this grown man, eyes closed, being seduced by this reiki, under this tall tree, flat and dumb on the grass, hypnotised by this man who claims to hold you dear to his heart. Do not tell me that what you see before you is a pathetic scene of a cruel master luring his dog into a trap. It is not true! You’ve got it all wrong. Come down here, birdy! Flap your wings and fly down here, now, close to my face and see for yourself that I am, at this very moment, in a silent and blissful state and then tell me – in your beautiful bird-like way - that this love is not wrong.

JASON

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