P. G. López Ilich

Viajando a China desnudo y sin salir de casa (V)

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Choke me with your twilight legs

A grey cloud of pollution covers the Beijing skyline, and from this apartment in a 31st floor I can see nothing but a grey coat that matches my grey trousers and polo. I wish I had a gun that would shoot darkness. The pollution almost seems to disappear when the moon is up there, and it’s your intuition, imagination, intrepidness that act as guides. At night, you can fully focus in the few stimuli, and actually start seeing something aside from the grey dome. This past month my schedule has been subject to daytime, and experienced darkness very little - which I regret infinitely. Most of my conversations with her have been at night, giving up sleep for them, and in this perfectly illuminated room, city and life, it is her that I miss.
   I almost dared to make the h in her a capital letter, a clear reference to blood-thirsty Kali, ‘the Dark One’. However, aside from the fact Kali’s Indian, there are strong reasons not to idealise someone. What about the Chinese boddhisattva of compassion Guanyin? I know compassion can be expressed destructively, and I know destruction can be expressed compassionately. Is she Guanyin, or is she Kali? I remember how Wiccans, Pagans and Goddess worshippers stress the importance of not mixing two opposite ritual objects, sacred foods, and deities. Maybe they’re wrong. Needless to say Kali and Guanyin are two of the goddesses I’m pledged to.

   Like Buk, she told us:
“Don’t try.” Not good enough, no
indulgence. Do it.

   In normal circumstances I would put this story in context: extreme exhaustion, deep emotional processing, severe sleep deprivation. It may be necessary, but I’m going to make it unnecessary. Or, rather, my own context. What is the difference? Is there one? Can I write with absolute self-detachment? I’ve upfront rejected the label of artist, and have recently started to discard writer and creator as well. What I’m truly happy with is messenger. Is this a wishful perception, an unconscious disguise or a… reality?

   “Hey, let’s go sit on the couch.”
She leaves the lightbulb she had been playing with
with everyone else.
I rest my head on her shoulder.
She laughs. I do too.
We talk.
Everyone else is metres away, unaware,
By the lightbulb.
“I was happy you brought up you still want me to read to you.”
“Of course. Let’s go to my room.”

   I never got to read to her, but she’s got what I would consider is much better. No one, ever, has had a story only for her. Is this my story for her or her story? She doesn’t need nicely sounding words. She needs what words carry. She doesn’t need sleep, she needs rest. She doesn’t need me, she needs what I can, and hope to, offer. Can you conceive one without the other? Can I conceive a story without me? Can she conceive me without my stories? Can I stop talking about me?
   She needs support, and understanding, and tools for it. She has faith: a faith as dark as the inside of a forgotten Chinese civil war bunker, a faith as sunny as the Heaven whose title was granted to Chinese emperors throughout history. She has faith someone will come, making their way between Heaven and Hell, to take her hand.

   “I adore when you whisper softly in my ear. It’s so hot.”
“I had been waiting for this with you for so long”
“I will be forever with you, until tomorrow morning.”
Her warm breath on my cheek,
her twists out of pure pleasure,
her ass pressing against my dick.

   She has dared to tell me what either people perceive of me and don’t say or straightaway can’t even see what, to me, is obvious. Yes, (some of?) my relationships are self-centred in a varying degree, which goes hand in hand with my one-directional approach to handle them. I dwell in feelings, rejoice in and because of them. Is expressing my feelings for her what she wants and needs or just a re-expression of my self-centredness? Should I trim the I completely? I would love to see the others as self-centred and one-directional as I am. Maybe I’m completely off the point, but where does expressing yourself end and self-centredness start? Is attitude the key?

   “I love to feel the pressure of your body against mine.”
“I love when you hold hands with me. Tighter
“I love how handsome you are

   She told me that all writers (duh- but she may be right) suffer from the same self-centred attitude. Is it writing, then, and not autobiography? Would trying, and for once in a while genuinely challenge myself, writing fiction help? I’ve always firmly held the work cannot be separated from the creator, almost posing the question of both being almost the same. She, on the other side, focuses on the beauty aspect of art, deeming the socio-political not useful. I wonder, then, if to understand her, or for her self-understanding, we should leave out the social and go straight in. There is beauty to find. Plenty of beauty. Timeless beauty.

   There are 1, 18 and 1 reasons to like her:

1. She’s wholehearted.

1. She’s ruthless.
2. She cares about people.
3. She’s equally sensitive and insensitive.
4. She’s a daring traveller.
5. She can translate pretty well.
6. She’s honest.
7. She can let go.
8. She can let go of you.
9. She is fiercely critical.
10. She has a full grasp of voice tones, body posture and diction to be an effective communicator.
11. She’s resilient.
12. She will knowingly hurt you if you need to be hurt in order to better yourself.
13. She can and does draw, write, photograph… and much more.
14. She will hug, kiss, hold hands with you, then tear you to pieces and reconstruct you with genuine caring, warmth and compassion. She will say they are the sides of the same coin.
15. She’s not afraid.
16. She can read people and act on that.
17. She’s true to herself.
18. She can hide all these things and camouflage herself if needed.

1. She will touch you in a lifelong manner.

  Have it been in my language and not hers, it would have been 1, 19 and 1 reasons to like her. Can you see why? I have surrendered to myself by writing this. Is she just a narrative device in my own writing scheme or am I really writing for her?

She speaks about my writing self
and my non-writing self.
She speaks about true love,
it being selflessness caring and generosity.
She SPEAKS when speaking,
and we
should listen.

  I have feelings for her, I have feelings regarding our common experiences, and I have feelings that are mine but set in motion by her. I want to express them all, but I think I’ve recently started to deeply realise the difference between wanting and needing. Where should I place the boundary of self-centredness? Maybe I should even write self-centeredness: she speaks American, not British English, my English. “Don’t try, do it, better yourself” drills my ears, and I’ve started to think it was a demand for me as well as a reminder for herself.

   She turned the bedroom’s lights off, leaving the bathroom’s on.
It was almost 1am when we first tasted each other’s lips.
What I see right now is
Her caramel face,
Surrounded by an aura of black hair.
The light comes from her back.
My hands hug her breasts,
fingers playing with her hard nipples.
She looks down at me,
holding my head with one hand,
and with the other pushing her hair back.
“This feels so good.”
“O mnow, oht meels mo ghoon morh me too”
Three seconds pass.
Keep going,
I’m just going to slide up and down
even faster.

   To be honest, I had known what she told me for a while. However, you sometimes just need someone to tell you to take action on it. One thing she said was that my attitude may work really well for some people, but not for her. This is important.
   I commit, publicly, here and now, to push my adaptability even more: I should be able to identify the best attitude for someone, and choose accordingly.
   I commit, publicly, here and now, to challenge myself and write fiction: I should be able to abandon myself and my life, stepping out of my comfort zone.
   I commit, publicly, here and now, to do, to stop trying.  

   “Stop being so self-indulgent.”
After all,
I was brought up Catholic.
Is this, right now,
another act of self-indulgence?
Therefore, am I my own God and Devil?

  When I first read to her, that was, Kyrie Eleison, weeks ago, she needed three seconds after I ended to say she felt blessed. She then proceeded to point out my lack of universality and originality, that my message is doomed to be lost in time.
   I left her room after that last night with her feeling deactivated. It’s nice to linger in the self-awareness of transparency, but it’s different when people actively identify your not-so-nice side and tell you to better it - after making love to you.

  “You’re telling me, then, I’ve never experienced love?”
“Well, yes. That’s what it seems.”
I remain silent. Love does not belong to her.
But then, I realise it does not belong to me either.
Love, love, love.
We are slaves of love.
Can I stop making this about myself?

   A side of me is asking me to pay attention to how grateful I am to have met her, to have connected with her so deeply, for having the opportunity of her wanting me to remain in her life. But I don’t need it. I may want it, but not need it. Honestly, it would be easy for me to say this story is for and about her, but unfortunately I would be lying. I think.
   What I hope, though, is that you’ve got a picture of her not because of me, but through me.
   Consider this a prologue, not an account of our night together. This is a prologue for my doing, in all senses. A prologue, specially, for her development.
   I would like (but need?) to add, also: a prologue for our development?

   I look at the time: 04:48.
I stumble through reception to my own room.
I feel my guts manually twisted, played with, poked.
  She lies on her bed, in her underwear.
She touches the area where I had been sitting.
She sighs.
Or is this all an exercise of
my imagination, an attempt?
  Her pussy felt good in my mouth, really good.
Hours later, the unpleasant aftertaste of it reminds me of love:

My love.
I mean: my conception of it.

Hit yourself in the head, self­-amputate both feet, throw yourself either from a 31st floor overlooking the Beijing Olympic Park or from your local bridge. The grey cloud will protect you, the grey cloud will surround you, the grey cloud will accept you as a true sibling. Then, you will be danced to darkness. Prepare for it. Embrace it. Let it through.
   Good luck, te aprecio mucho, zhōngxīn de gānxiè. I will see you in about a year time. When I consulted the I Ching about the most fruitful way to approach our relationship, the 3,000-years-old book advised me to refrain from impulses and be patient.
   Last thing she said to me was:
   “I will figure it out.”
   I replied:
   “Of course we’ll figure it out. You will figure it out.”

   This is for the rider of darkness,
the queen of light,
the embodiment of twilight.


Publicado la semana 31. 05/08/2018
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