Archive for December, 2010

String Theory

Posted: December 22, 2010 by zacharyandgillian in December 2010

Sometimes, it feels like our whole world is dangling by a thread.  We’ve got the world on a string, and yet we constantly crave something with no strings attached.  Everything we hold dear is defined by a twine tied to our pinky finger.  And we always, always, feel like we’re at the end of our rope.

At the end of George’s rope was a reminder.  Keep breathing.  Every day, in every second, keep breathing and be happy.  He had made it a ritual.  Every morning he would get up, and he would take a deep breath.  As he locked his door to leave for work, he would take a deep breath.  Before he did the dishes, a deep breath.  And George always, always, took a deep breath in those special moments.  And then he would smile.

George put his cup down carefully.  He had to do everything carefully now.  It’s not that he was sick.  His bones were not brittle.  His blood pumped like every other living thing on the planet.  His muscles flexed, his joints moved, and his cells grew.  His stomach gurgled when he had too much to drink, and grumbled when he’d had too little to eat.  Physically he was fine.

Where George’s life had become something worth care was internally.  Now, George had reason to watch over his every movement.  Because his mind had been changed.  He didn’t know when, and he didn’t even know why or how.  But he had long accepted that those answers didn’t matter.  (It was a strange thing, to know that an unknown answer had no power over him.  He recommended it to others, even though they didn’t seem to listen).  Now his mind was dedicated to being alive.

George was like a secret agent; hidden inside his normal, every-day body and every-day life, his mind was a trained negotiator, mediator, investigator and law bringer.  And it took a lot of gentle action and subtle nuance to keep the disguise.  Every day he carried on just before he had changed.  He didn’t join a monastery in Tibet.  He didn’t start going to church.  He didn’t buy a new expensive car, or reconnect with a long-lost relative.  George woke up, the very first day of the rest of his life, and did exactly as he had done for the previous 30-something years.

Or so it seemed.

But now, every action was sacred.  When he got up, he was aware of himself waking up.  It wasn’t a matter of corporeal security, but of spiritual satisfaction.  When he got dressed, he felt the clothes wrap around his skin in a silent sort of worship.  George’s soul was not secure, and it never would be.  There are, with life, ups and downs and turn-it-arounds.  And one day, he would die.  But for now, he wasn’t, and his spirit was free.  And so, George treated every moment with a reverence worthy of existence.  Especially the mundane ones.

George was perfectly happy.

No one suspected a thing.

Photo:  Gillian Berger
Writing:  Zachary Webster

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A Lover’s Crescendo

Posted: December 8, 2010 by zacharyandgillian in December 2010

Though it was the first thing he touched to guide her to him, her neck seemed something of an afterthought.  The way that his fingers would worship the sinews of her precious form, was like the evocative grace of a dancer that never bothered to consider the floor.  Deftly, those callused tips divided the madness of her moan into a melody of meaning.  The vibration of his seduction echoed down throughout her body, to produce a slow burning desire. 

Often it was then that he would stop.  It was not his intention to tease, though that was all she could think – that and a subtle frustration left where once his attention had promised to be.  But it was not for malign purpose that he forestalled her privately promised ecstasy.  No, he was driven to perfection by her.  She slowed a part of him that in all other things charged on.  Instead, with her, he would turn his entire focus and ensure that she was ready.

She slowed him, and so, he slowed her.  Eye to eye, he met her gaze with a concentrated smile.  She was always tense with pleasure, the tightly wound anticipation of her lover’s libation.  He would calm her, loosen her, with the careful ministrations of his intoxicating intent.  All the while he admired the glimmer in her eye.

And then again with a slight and sudden twist he would wind her up again.  He’d play back and forth her moods, tending to the delicate yearnings of her several chakras.  Helping them to align with the dedication of a soul’s masseuse.  He would listen to her heart for signs that his foreplay was complete, and that time had come for him to truly perform.

His hands caressed her body with the confidence of familiar lust.  He would pull her close, feeling the contours of her body against his.  They were art together, two forms of fantasia.  It was then that she knew, and waited with bated breath.  As he brought his hand down to her most familiar place, she shuddered; a stringy gasp.  And with his stroke, the orchestration took her.  In those climactic moments, at the top of her lungs, she made music

Epilogue:  When it was over, his handling was polite; a gentleman in the refrain.  He would lay her down to rest across an untouched plane.  And, like all good lovers who in post-bliss claimed, after she calmed and the moment waned, she longed to play again.

Photograph: Gillian Berger
Writing: Zachary Webster