Bow Necklace On Sonny With A Chance Inquiry.

Concerning my journal, aniccata writes:

The wind blew the door back on its hinges as she entered the book store, making her pull it closed behind her. She pushed her glasses up with a long finger, the nail bitten short and ragged, and with her other hand unzipped her corduroy jacket. She grabbed a copy of French Vogue from the magazine rack and sat at a little table by the window.

Of course he had been watching her since the second she opened the door, absently shifting his pencil from hand to hand and scrawling words into his notebook. As she took off her jacket and hung it on the chair, he gazed at her neck just where it met the green sweater that was almost a little too small, exposing her slender, pale wrists. He took a sip of his coffee, already turning cold, and sighed. Why must it always be so difficult for him?

She seemed bored with Vogue, or so he thought, and he considered himself the savior of young beautiful bored girls in book stores. He cleared his throat and stood, slowly moving toward her table. She looked at her thick, utilitarian silver watch, glanced out the window and then turned a page. When she looked up, he was standing next to her.

\h and the gum stuck to the bottom of historical shoe, how Would she smile and tilt her head to the left as she listened thoughtfully, how she Would Reach out a hand to adjust historical necklace, how historical Would accidentally touch her foot under the leg table and She Would not move away. Already Had I imagined her going home with him to historical drafty apartment with mismatched furniture, where 'Would she take off her brown shoes inside the front door, Revealing striped socks match That Did What She Was Wearing. Already Had I imagined how she Would peek inside the book I Kept next to His bed while I WAS getting a glass of water from the kitchen, how Would she want to read more But Would put the book back as she Suddenly Heard in the historical footsteps hallway.

Imagining He is so busy and I's notxactly sure how he came to be sitting next to her at the table. She talks and laughs, her delicate hands animated like birds, playing with her earring and touching the magazine from time to time. He does most of the talking, though. He tells her of traveling to the ocean, of staying in a hotel where the beach ran up to his door and the palm trees cast shadows intended only for his benefit, about finding abandoned sand castles along the shore and picking up a tiny shell shaped like a carrot that he carried in his pocket for days, about feeling the sand between his toes and hearing the voices of children in the distance. He talked about reading The Seducer's Diary as he sat in a chair, the bright sun warming him as he turned the pages, and he said, smiling, \



aniccata


,

Thank you for restoring my faith in the preciseness of human intuition.

Love,

A book store predator.

Sealing Travertine Shower A tragedy of waves and stone. Two Bodies crushed to a single flour.

y lids and they would slowly drift back to their royal slumber of fanning palms, perfumed linens, of fat juicy grapes lowered into wanton mouths in the pacific hiss and lull of your white-froth whisperings. The little boys and girls romped in the shallows and unknowingly did enter and exit their parents' afternoon dreams, the old haunts, as their guardians torpidly slipped in and out of that sad adult sleep. The children had once been pleasant notions jetting inside those dreams, figments of a forgotten dreamscape of the makers, darling wonders captured and carnalized.

A few of the smaller children held back; they were timid, reluctant to play with you. They thought you a strange new bully, one with delightfully wild and fun intentions, but one that was also unaware of its own hulking size and careless might. You didn't know it, then, but you played too rough sometimes, and one wrong move could prove disastrous. A force of nature, they feared! They clutched their plastic shovels and pails to their hearts and sat with their feet buried in mounds of patted sand, wiggling their toes in the cool, deep in. They watched intently as the others played gaily with you and each other, with the keenest of squinting eyes, lightly frowning, but daring never to enter. Oh, but your presence was enough to nurture possibility and promote freedom, and their self-imposed restrictions would cause their lonely minds to privately boil and to harness your energy, to rub and spark an imaginative wildfire and perpetrate some amusements of their own. Most of them would get antsy, runaround in circles, kick a ball around, toss a frisbee; Some artistic Would catch the bug to create and take to the ground to fashion works of sand, like Tortoise, Sandman, Hamlets, castles with Moats. Would They Themselves busy, like mad scientists, with ephemeral sculpting miniature worlds and fantasies, Which out of the sand you'd make malleable, Dampener by your kiss.

Had I come to stand Before your edge, Being under the impression That you've always winked at me from afar and I Were anxious to Receive. Here I waver, to burning spec, wretched clothes and stiff like Scabs, irritable sand in the shoes I Never Thought to remove, at the very end of the land Which Had held me erect in space for All These Years and proceeded to unroll and remove into you. I wish to Surreavy of body and maybe I stuck out in odd places That I Could not see myself.

You unleashed your gaze upon me as a shock of streams, a rush of charging nuzzlings, from all sides, Thousands of gentle licks per second as a single force of savage matter, and the quick, thick liquid embrace of the living surprised me , surround and Conquered my skin, the tiny hairs tingle on my legs That, Partly submerged, now with your Swayed Changing Every Thought. The wind Gasper with me as I Was flanked at the calves and knees by the encompassing clutch of your coldness. You were freezing me this evening, Would Be Worse But the moments you'd recede, the Shivering intervals without you! I walk into you, nonetheless, thirsting to float in the mystic warmth of your focus. On the path, the ground dissolved in chunks and you softened the sand beneath my feet. I sunk a few inches with every step, in which I rose in and out of you, in-out, up and down, on your trail of grainy pudding, on your pavement of veils, as I paced and pulled towards your hidden chambers. Closer and closer, closing in, with such growing inconsistencies at foot, my balance grew more and more skewed, and lines, rules, borders, gravity, all thankfully conceded to your motions. It is in such a way that my mind reels, my stomach sinks, and my heart loses its earthly configurations for an ineffably divine auto-pilot, in the presence of love.

You were much too much.

I couldn't wait. I knelt to have you; a small part of the whole, but a formidable portion, yet. You covered me, slapped me, stole my breath, closed my eyes, tempered me with treatments of ice and withdrawal, while roughly accomodating my sunken groove of a nest. You pulled away rhythmically and plundered continuously, powered by the bosom of planets.

I became numb with this new foreign pleasure. My senses were bared and consumed by you and your actions. My ears were taxed with loud frenzied sounds that came and left. I opened my salty eyes to a bright and blurred world and my nose inhaled wetness, breathed in the stinging marine. This was a lovely encapsulated bliss and a return to exquisite fragility; I hardly knew it. What seemed like a bunch of raw discomforts, I felt, ultimately, as an excessively good and perfect way of being, one that could not be denied, perhaps having indefwn, and in danger of being forgotten.

You were still washing over me when you flashed your stormy adieux. I felt you lingering all around, dripping from every exposed part of me. The bad weather had struck beyond my control, and miserably, I was forced to retreat. I stood up with a few old burdens strapped still to my spine, some that I intended to leave behind, and you lapped frolicsome at the knees and heels of my sad departure. You flow unceasingly without me and I become dry as a husk in recollection ... but I remain your noble loving trespasser.


It's been weeks, you realize! You want me to write about you, and in the context of SOLELY YOU, but you gotta understand ... I like to write with a large degree of presence still intact, when the wave has just beaten me and pulls me in deeper, when my head is submerged and shaken with seawater, perfectly conquered and infiltrated! See, the story would begin to take shape as I withdraw from the whole, a bit on the shore, as I fall back, confidently, on our moist bed of shifting sand, and there, the exhausted poet-in-me's final ruminations will struggle to procure a fit ending, the tide still sweetly at my sides!

Here's the short entry I promised you. I made you an ocean.