Tuesday, March 10, 2009

596 Minutes

Nine days in and my body has undergone dramatic transformations, and not via starving myself or a lack of nutrition (This is the healthiest I've ever been in reshaping, and it feels so good, I really don't want to stop) It is happening even while the seizures have returned, and the cancer treatment has caused some nasty infections to my legs (which have healed, but now it appears I'll have scarring and discoloration to live with, but I'm fine with that) I slept little last week and yet here I am, in nine days, with 596 minutes of intense afro-brasilian dancing in that time (An hour a day of this in spite of everything else, aside from other training, hospital visits, an overnight stay or two, and my job) You have to understand that this kind of dancing has no artistic merit whatsoever. It's not choreography, or a specific thought being expressed, but pure sensuality and desire and joy, and really, maybe that is ultimately all that matters. I am thinking about kissing someone wild, and I know she is thinking of me in a similiar fashion, and I am content with not having that kiss at the moment, 'cause there definitely is more work to do (but that work will take me to her, or at least her to my doorstep, I am sure (perhaps?) It seems whether it's scar tissue on the brain, or scars upon my legs, or scars of the heart being revealed, I'm fine with all of them, because the end result is a man who can now afford this piece of run-down property on the Mile End (I don't have to buy it just yet, and if I lose it, there are others to take it's place) and a show starting on April 9th. If silly little girls wish to be silent, men will move forward, and on, and though bone is on bone in my left knee, I can still move in a way that some cannot. A gallery will put up some art by a man indirectly related to this narrative, and a girl will drink a little wine, and look at the door, waiting for me to walk in (Thank you for that inside bit of information, you know who you are) The reality is, in the 596 minutes of the last nine days of dancing (and trust, I've been physical in other ways beyond that, and will continue to be so) I seem to have found my core desire, and lost that selfishness. We don't have to fuck, but I know now you wouldn't mind lying in a bed with me for a long while, and have us devour each other's mouths until the sun rises. You don't have to take your clothes off, or show me more of your body, but I'd like to hear what you have to say, and more of what you feel than even how (in the literal) you feel. Maybe we can take a long walk and you can tell me about what you dream of, instead of my simply wanting to taste your sex (which I won't lie, I want to, but I don't have to do it now) Maybe I should just remember that though it feels like spring, it's not spring yet, and that I can wait for the season to turn, and start enjoying more the days leading up to it, rather than the actual event.

You can proceed with chemotherapy, and the potential brain surgery. The reality is, even with all of my many sins and perversions and the things I lack, I'm now fine.