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Paint On Our Bodies Never Dries Before The Next Color Comes
Paint On Our Bodies Never Dries Before The Next Color Comes
They come to him because he has convinced them he has the whole world to tell.
He is a revealer.
Shows them themselves. Who they really are in a way they otherwise could never know themselves.
It's his hands. Therein lies his secret.
He has hands that might have been made for a blind man. He tells them he only paints what he sees, but that's the hook. He sees everything. First with his eyes, but then, then with his hands. And that's when things form, start to mean something. His hands-tough and hard in a way that a handshake tells you he's touched places. But still smooth so that you know he's been a lover more times than not. He laughs, tells folks painting is my side gig, but I'm a full-time lover.
He takes her hands into his, his are always larger, so that they cover up her's. Invites her to sit. They almost always accept right off, the shy ones come around rather quickly, afraid to disappoint this tall, long man.
He is a conjurer.
Makes them feel liberated in their restraints. He means it when he tells them you ain't gotta do nothing you don't want to. But they want to. Oh, do they. But he grins off their advances, he sits them down again, they will sit for him for hours, tells them to smile or not smile cuz it's all the same truth, laughs that deep laugh of his, the laugh of a man who's lived as long as God and knows it.
The paints got a mind of their own, he says. Which is the messenger's way of absolution. Really, what he means to say is that his hands are for digging. Unearth what's deep. Tells secrets lips never could.
He is a manipulator.
Colors acquiesce under his fingers, show their true selves. Blue has never been bluer than when in his hands. And Red cannot help but blush. Her, the canvas, the way she feels beneath the weight of his palms and his eyes. Each time more different from the last. Somehow better. More urgent. It is a love affair. A rush. But not that of fleshly complexion. More. Much. More. A soul bare all. It is a flirting catharsis that never comes.
There is the matter of where to go for privacy. The your place or mine issue of home field advantage v. if need arise, having your place to escape to. But this is a question easily resolved. I don't really have a place, he explains, kind of here and there, that's the way its always been. She smiles, knows she's it, his last stop. Thus, location settled, she darts from room to room, end to end, opening and closing windows, doors, reapplying her rouge, wishing she'd worn a better pair of undergarments, wondering if she still has time to do something about it. But time has a way of slipping, she knows this now more than ever. The candle she's lit will fade before night's end. It will take their shadows along with it.
He slides off his suspenders, pushes them away, they fall off broad shoulders. Kisses her forehead as if a parting gift, though their time has just begun.
Tonight, he's not sure which night, just that it is nipping at the heels of a summer in full tilt. Night's just getting comfortable, the stars are starting to settle in, the moon yawning over the city, stretching its body like a night watchman for whom dusk has come too soon.
Her panty hose hang from the fifth story window in her walk-up apartment. He's not sure how many rooms there are, counts four doors (at least one could be a closet), he graciously declined the tour, which she appreciates, she didn't expect company much less this strange man. But still there is something about him that makes her want to show him everything. Everything there is see about her. His boots, chapped and aged, are squarely on the welcome mat that sidles the threshold, await his departure. There are two glasses, one a pale blue tint, the other a narrow-necked wine glass, on the table next to the record player. Both are near empty, the grainy remains of whiskey do circles at their bottoms. She sees him looking at the player, and then at the stacks of albums on the floor.
You want me to put something on, she says. Starts to move towards the records.
No, s'ok, he says. Just keep talking.
What do you want to talk about? Her name is Marie. She's a thick something, which means little to him, he's not heavy on preferences. Just s'long as they're nice, honest, too. Not much more can be expected out of anybody. 'Cept maybe if they can cook. Throw down in the kitchen, that's a plus.
I dunno. You can ask me questions if you like. If there's anything you're curious 'bout.
Anything? Her eyes widen.
Yeah, he laughs. Well, most anything. This makes them more comfortable, that he too feels awkward, a bit clumsy and unsure.
When did you first start painting? This is the typical first question.
He shakes his head as if struggling to recall a day so long ago. I dunno. Guess when I was just a lil boy, cept I didn't have no money for brushes and paint, so I used to just make do with whatever was lying round the house. Some dye. Momma's makeup when she wasn't looking.
They like this. His reference to his mother humanizes this miracle of man.
Paintings never amounted to much back then, he says. 'Cept maybe a good whooping from Momma's switch.
He is a man of discipline, they think.
He saves her face for last, squinting to show the strain involved, the earnestness of his efforts, wants none of her to be lost, overlooked. Shades her lips. Outlines the slender ridges of her nose. Swirls the flecks in her eyes just so. They want to peek now.
How long has it been, she says, innuendo implied.
Since?
She smiles. Since we've been sitting here?
He looks up at her. Almost long enough.
This painting will give him room and board for weeks.
Have you seen those daguer-daguerro?
Daguerreotypes, he says.
Yes. Those.
Yeah, I've seen them.
And? What do you think?
He stares down at the canvas, down at her face. Jury's still out.
She is happy at his indecisiveness, is leery of anyone definitive. I know what you mean. Kind of spooky if you ask me. I've heard talk about it being witchcraft.
He shrugs, and she is afraid she's said too much, the wrong thing in her efforts to impress him with her worldliness. She looks across the room, past him, the candle is near dead.
There's just something about it, he finally says. Something inhuman. Something that maybe God ain't intend we see in ourselves.
She nods. Frowns then similes, then frowns then smiles. They sit in silence. He is comfortable there, there in the quiet. But he is accommodating, is used to being the exception.
Turning to the albums, he says, you want me to put something on now?
She is standing. She is moving toward him. No, she says, now I want you to take something off.
He adjusts the lights almost without thinking, then as if letting them in on a joke, confides don't need light to see what you got. She is breathing heavy. Sometimes the night ends with them in love, but then morning comes, and well, he knows it was never about love. It was never to be a constant. Moments. That's why he's there. And that's why he leaves.
--------------------
Yes, I do believe in LOVE on third sight.
Help me count the times that I've dreamed you. 1...2...3
They come to him because he has convinced them he has the whole world to tell.
He is a revealer.
Shows them themselves. Who they really are in a way they otherwise could never know themselves.
It's his hands. Therein lies his secret.
He has hands that might have been made for a blind man. He tells them he only paints what he sees, but that's the hook. He sees everything. First with his eyes, but then, then with his hands. And that's when things form, start to mean something. His hands-tough and hard in a way that a handshake tells you he's touched places. But still smooth so that you know he's been a lover more times than not. He laughs, tells folks painting is my side gig, but I'm a full-time lover.
He takes her hands into his, his are always larger, so that they cover up her's. Invites her to sit. They almost always accept right off, the shy ones come around rather quickly, afraid to disappoint this tall, long man.
He is a conjurer.
Makes them feel liberated in their restraints. He means it when he tells them you ain't gotta do nothing you don't want to. But they want to. Oh, do they. But he grins off their advances, he sits them down again, they will sit for him for hours, tells them to smile or not smile cuz it's all the same truth, laughs that deep laugh of his, the laugh of a man who's lived as long as God and knows it.
The paints got a mind of their own, he says. Which is the messenger's way of absolution. Really, what he means to say is that his hands are for digging. Unearth what's deep. Tells secrets lips never could.
He is a manipulator.
Colors acquiesce under his fingers, show their true selves. Blue has never been bluer than when in his hands. And Red cannot help but blush. Her, the canvas, the way she feels beneath the weight of his palms and his eyes. Each time more different from the last. Somehow better. More urgent. It is a love affair. A rush. But not that of fleshly complexion. More. Much. More. A soul bare all. It is a flirting catharsis that never comes.
There is the matter of where to go for privacy. The your place or mine issue of home field advantage v. if need arise, having your place to escape to. But this is a question easily resolved. I don't really have a place, he explains, kind of here and there, that's the way its always been. She smiles, knows she's it, his last stop. Thus, location settled, she darts from room to room, end to end, opening and closing windows, doors, reapplying her rouge, wishing she'd worn a better pair of undergarments, wondering if she still has time to do something about it. But time has a way of slipping, she knows this now more than ever. The candle she's lit will fade before night's end. It will take their shadows along with it.
He slides off his suspenders, pushes them away, they fall off broad shoulders. Kisses her forehead as if a parting gift, though their time has just begun.
Tonight, he's not sure which night, just that it is nipping at the heels of a summer in full tilt. Night's just getting comfortable, the stars are starting to settle in, the moon yawning over the city, stretching its body like a night watchman for whom dusk has come too soon.
Her panty hose hang from the fifth story window in her walk-up apartment. He's not sure how many rooms there are, counts four doors (at least one could be a closet), he graciously declined the tour, which she appreciates, she didn't expect company much less this strange man. But still there is something about him that makes her want to show him everything. Everything there is see about her. His boots, chapped and aged, are squarely on the welcome mat that sidles the threshold, await his departure. There are two glasses, one a pale blue tint, the other a narrow-necked wine glass, on the table next to the record player. Both are near empty, the grainy remains of whiskey do circles at their bottoms. She sees him looking at the player, and then at the stacks of albums on the floor.
You want me to put something on, she says. Starts to move towards the records.
No, s'ok, he says. Just keep talking.
What do you want to talk about? Her name is Marie. She's a thick something, which means little to him, he's not heavy on preferences. Just s'long as they're nice, honest, too. Not much more can be expected out of anybody. 'Cept maybe if they can cook. Throw down in the kitchen, that's a plus.
I dunno. You can ask me questions if you like. If there's anything you're curious 'bout.
Anything? Her eyes widen.
Yeah, he laughs. Well, most anything. This makes them more comfortable, that he too feels awkward, a bit clumsy and unsure.
When did you first start painting? This is the typical first question.
He shakes his head as if struggling to recall a day so long ago. I dunno. Guess when I was just a lil boy, cept I didn't have no money for brushes and paint, so I used to just make do with whatever was lying round the house. Some dye. Momma's makeup when she wasn't looking.
They like this. His reference to his mother humanizes this miracle of man.
Paintings never amounted to much back then, he says. 'Cept maybe a good whooping from Momma's switch.
He is a man of discipline, they think.
He saves her face for last, squinting to show the strain involved, the earnestness of his efforts, wants none of her to be lost, overlooked. Shades her lips. Outlines the slender ridges of her nose. Swirls the flecks in her eyes just so. They want to peek now.
How long has it been, she says, innuendo implied.
Since?
She smiles. Since we've been sitting here?
He looks up at her. Almost long enough.
This painting will give him room and board for weeks.
Have you seen those daguer-daguerro?
Daguerreotypes, he says.
Yes. Those.
Yeah, I've seen them.
And? What do you think?
He stares down at the canvas, down at her face. Jury's still out.
She is happy at his indecisiveness, is leery of anyone definitive. I know what you mean. Kind of spooky if you ask me. I've heard talk about it being witchcraft.
He shrugs, and she is afraid she's said too much, the wrong thing in her efforts to impress him with her worldliness. She looks across the room, past him, the candle is near dead.
There's just something about it, he finally says. Something inhuman. Something that maybe God ain't intend we see in ourselves.
She nods. Frowns then similes, then frowns then smiles. They sit in silence. He is comfortable there, there in the quiet. But he is accommodating, is used to being the exception.
Turning to the albums, he says, you want me to put something on now?
She is standing. She is moving toward him. No, she says, now I want you to take something off.
He adjusts the lights almost without thinking, then as if letting them in on a joke, confides don't need light to see what you got. She is breathing heavy. Sometimes the night ends with them in love, but then morning comes, and well, he knows it was never about love. It was never to be a constant. Moments. That's why he's there. And that's why he leaves.
--------------------
Yes, I do believe in LOVE on third sight.
Help me count the times that I've dreamed you. 1...2...3
Views: 6
Replies to This Discussion
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Permalink Reply by Angel on
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Hey Storm....GET OFF THIS SITE AND GET YOUR BOOK WRITTEN! You are missing your calling woman! I enjoyed this! Seriously, have you published anything???
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Permalink Reply by Shawtie Forbidden Sayntz SC Prez on
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WOW THIS IS A GREAT PIECE... I AGREE WITH ANGEL!!
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