Pumps a-Dangle

Posted: November 11, 2013 in Visions

I am a sensualist. Admittedly, when I hear a guy say how sensual he is, it sounds either creepy, slightly gay, or both. That’s not, strictly speaking, what I’m saying.

What I mean is that my attention can be arrested, distracted, derailed by any one sense over another. The sight of a perfect curve, a slant of light, a color palette I’ve never seen before or in that specific context, the unbroken perfection of the line leading from toe, across ankle, over knee and across thigh and torso and neck and smile and silhouetted profile: all of these visions and many more can halt me in my tracks or thoughts and stimulate pure appreciation of the moment.

Likewise an unusual sound, or a familiar one in a new context, can give me pause while I decipher its source or familiarity. A faint throb of music I should recognize but can’t without stopping and damming all other inputs, temporarily; a late night eighteen wheeler bleeding its brakes three streets over, its only competition my own boot heels on my own abandoned way, listening as its gears climb back to full speed; a sigh of contentment or of passion from one that I love, reverberating forever down to my future self, now and for all time the measure I use for all such encounters.

Smell, too, can do it. The hollow of her collar bone, (or is it from her hair’s passage there?), or piles of fall leaves, or home cooking – mine or another’s – or snow. Its memory as evocative or more as the others; it once stopped me in a crowded airport, sure that I’d see her near, and that the spicy fragrance I’d just passed through had to be hers…

Touch can vary at least as greatly as its mates. Feathery light, walking through a spider web, her touch tracing unseen ley lines across my skin. Gripped tightly, in anger, in urgency, in heat. Smacked hard against the rail or into my fist when a favorite loud song crashes against me, stinging high five after a score or an encore that won’t be forgotten, ever, until the next one.

And taste – impossible to forget. The bite of sriracha, the soothing cool of clear water on a warm day, her unclothed heat, varying along with its tastes depending on where its sampled, the strawberry’s sweet tang and the peach’s thick, nectary sublimity.

Knowing I’m not the only person to appreciate such alerts, such natural notifications and pop ups, but fancying that I can and do appreciate them more intensely and more frequently than the average. Kidding myself that such is one of the many signs that prove my artistic nature, well hidden though it may sometimes be.

Nothing confirms all of that for me, or better represents such sensibilities, as noticing a woman’s shoe penduluming precariously on the end of her foot, metronoming a rhythym only she can hear, the shiny high heeled piece of functional art forever seeming like it has to fall at any moment, but always swinging back into place, defying physics at the same time it affirms the simple beauty of the curvilinear – both alive and not. The shape of the shoe mirroring that of her foot itself, no straight line to mar either curve’s perfection.

Perhaps what makes it so achingly, distractingly beautiful to me is the sheer unconsciousness of its grace. Will she ever know the effect such a simple, thoughtless gesture can have?

Whether or not intentional, conscious on un-, such a perfect, sensual image – bright or dark pumps a-dangle beneath the desk or table or just my gaze – will stay with me, and will become my new barometer for incidental beauty and art and grace. Until the next time.

Advertisements
Comments
  1. Trysh says:

    Wow. What a gift you have and I so love and miss reading your words, and how you craft them.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s