Wednesday, January 5, 2011


Unexposed Nude Woman in the Bathtub... - Peter Stackpole


Slinking into the white porcelain basin beneath the velvet blanket of wetness my skin slides until the top of my breasts are visible. From outer reaches beyond the white-wash of the bathroom door there’s the loud sounds of a television. It’s irrelevant what the sounds are in reference to as I count.

In. Out. One by one they escape my nose and mouth like bastard children sprang from passionate moments. One preceding one after another. Each sounds like an inverted rush of wind. Pushing in. Rushing out. There’s no battle but the force can be felt within.

The top of my feet are exposed enough for my toenails to be seen. My eyes pick apart visible red upon pink cracked paint hiding bare simplicity as I reach 35. I think I counted 25 the minute before last after the soapy wetness begins to evaporate into anything but still water.

Up. Down. My chest lifts. Rises to the rhythm of air. A moment longer and I’m counting to 40. Chest tightens quickly. And I’m thinking that somewhere I read that this is not normal before I sink further into the tub to listen.

Head remains partially submerged to the ears.

The distant vibration of the television’s din remains until all sound becomes quiet.

The same warmth of wetness surrounds my bare skin. My eyes look around in the same wonder and feel instead of listen. The cool air upon the red and pink brilliance awakens my skin into electricity. The gooseflesh runs up both legs wrapped inside the velvet blanket.

Beneath the blanket there’s no more numbers. No thoughts of measure. Nameless without their count. Air held tightly in cavities inside. My mind pregnant with thought. Thinking that there are dozens of them waiting to become once again. Released.

Trapped within. A feeling that seems ancestral grows. Without rise or fall it becomes.

In the vacuum of nothing. The feeling slowly becomes noise that is recognized. Familiar like an old memory. The sound of my heart fills the silence. Pounding. A moving rhythm in my ears. The beating of life continues without the movement of breathing. Listening to every beat without count. Needless to be counted. Known to themselves without identity.  Slowly the feeling in my chest lessens as the pulsation of blood begins to slow.

Deep within the white basin lies a feeling more than sound becomes audible without measure.

400. Breathe. Deep. Counted. Slow. There’s nothing like taking it all in occasionally. Ever do that? Lay in the tub and listen. Try it. Even without water. Take it all in. The sounds outside and inside of the room. The house. The streets. Silence and yet it’s not. Even your pulse has a sound. Anyhow… there is something older on the cusp of release. It was to be kept back… for reasons that seem quite foreign to me now. Like the air I breathe… it shall be released. Enjoy. Kisses. m.

No comments:

Post a Comment