1 Juice

Of course, I think, for a moment, he didn’t actually say that, I just heard that, I just imagined him saying that, I just made that up, because I think it would be interesting. Or would it?

I realise I need to press pause. But he looks at me with this frankness, still, with this openness. If only I could remember meeting me then, then it might make more sense for him to be saying he imagines himself meeting me now. Or was it a joke? I don’t remember being much given to jokes. I don’t think I was humourless, though I was, undoubtedly, earnest.

I need to press pause, metaphorically, on these ‘proceedings’ (they’re not really going anywhere fast) and allow myself to remember what mattered. And what didn’t. Before I say anything more. But can I leave him just hanging there, here right in front of me? I can’t. Can I just ignore what he’d said as if he hadn’t said it and I had just imagined him saying it? I could, but that might be rude, and rudeness is unacceptable, therefore I can’t. Can I ask him if he really meant that, if he actually knows who I am? Well, I can, but say he doesn’t know who I am, say it was just a throwaway remark, say it was just me being a little bit clever, a tiny tad ‘interesting’, at the age of twenty, twenty-one, then how do I explain to him what I mean, without disturbing his own reality? Is his reality not already disturbed? Mine certainly is. But then I also realise I’m suddenly rather enjoying this. Up until almost this precise moment I had been greatly discomfited, not in a profoundly stressed or let alone panicked manner, just really, really unsure of what on earth was going on, but now, maybe jolted by his answer, I feel I’ve just come up for air. I can float in this sea of uncertainty now. Accept it for what it is, even not knowing what it is. That, it strikes me as suddenly obvious, will have to somehow become my new state of being, for quite some time.

I give him a smile that says ‘I do understand’, although clearly I don’t, and enquire just a nudge further: ‘I mean in life, what do you see yourself doing?’

His skin is incredibly smooth. I don’t recall touching my skin when it was that smooth, that soft. I don’t feel like touching it now though I do wish I could hold him, just to make him feel safe. Then again, I have rarely if ever not felt safe at that age and seeing that this is me not some stranger – although for all I know about him or of him, he might as well be an alien – I just look at him, look at me. ‘You’re a writer.’ I say not questioning, stating.

‘I am,’ he says, happy, it seems, that this is so clear; though: ‘how did you guess?’

Ah. That turns everything round once again. He doesn’t know who I am. How could he, in his life I don’t yet exist, other than perhaps in his imagination but then I remember that at his age I was certain – not vaguely inclined to believe, but convinced – that I would never make it to forty. I had said so, to my best friend, Patricia: she was appalled. ‘How can you say a thing like that?’ she’d exclaimed upon my assertion, aged nineteen or twenty, that I would not make it to forty. But I saw no reason to be scandalised: for me, aged nineteen or twenty, the idea alone of ever being as ancient as forty was simply absurd. Surely everything, anything, worthwhile experiencing, doing, saying or, for that matter, writing, would have been experienced, done, said and most certainly written by then.

I have already outlived my early target by some ten years and I know now of course that he can’t know who I am because he doesn’t believe that I will ever exist. Not because he’s being obstreperous or deliberately controversial or simply obtuse, but because he can’t actually imagine it.

This is my chance, this is my opportunity for a pause: if I can make him think then I’ll get the time to think too. There must be, there must be a link between him and me.

‘I saw your notepad and pen,’ I say, playing the I’m an observer card.

He now for the second time does something that moves me, he shows me the pad. I take that, before I can think it through, as a signal of trust. And I read. As I read, I remember well having written those words. I have my pause button. I have a clasp on my heart. I have left the dimensions I was travelling through to get here. I can, at last, reconcile.


i should point out
that i’m not real

that courses through my body
is not
by ordinary means

i want to know how things happen.
i want to know how it happens that you see somebody
not even meet them
see somebody
from a distance
enter a room, for example
and think
you don’t
think, you go
that’s him
the one

(even though
it will turn out
it isn’t)

how does this happen
it’s ludicrous
you don’t even know him:
it is

undress him in my mind, imagine him
i don’t do this immediately
it’s not something i
jump to
like a conclusion
it’s something i resist for a moment
then for another
and for another
until enough moments have passed
an hour or so later, maybe two (sometimes
a whole day or more may pass before i feel it is
before i feel ready) to imagine him
naked. i
his body in my mind, his
chest, my
extended fingers spread, gently, run
over the mound of his biceps:
other hand now cups around his waist, just above his
and draws him a little closer, close enough that i can
when i lower my head
just a little
the scent of his
musk with a warm sweet sweat of

zonk out of it
just in time: i don’t want him
there yet
not yet we have not even yet said

One thought on “1 Juice”

  1. I know of someone who just wanted to get to forty and not be taken by Hiv
    I know of a friend who says I can go on living if …..There are an an enormous infinitesimal expressions of sexuality
    I have seduced in sensuality and have been seduced but not wanted by the other
    When one as a man has no way to express in words
    I have had to abandon my home
    I have no where to go
    I am fleeing terror
    One kisses and clutches the other Some men say hello this way; some to barter sexual attention for saftey
    Witness the silent ballet of sensuality at the heath pure sensuality Love in a moment or an addiction ? It’s on a spectrum
    I lived this
    Is a fetish at the horizon of all male desire ?
    Agape or erotic A mixture of the two on the spectrum
    And then words to conceal ,to distance Or to order a person a group ,or a nation for good or ill.

    Words can eliminate the object
    Can one not know what one wants ?
    Words can make the object disappear

    Liked by 1 person

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 )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ 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 )


Connecting to %s