2003-10-10 @ 2:13 p.m. | How inadequate, my words

Song in my head: Revelation by Spock's Beard

Mood: see below

Current book: Undying Love


This mood I'm in, I can't even tell you.

Last night after yoga class I walked down 18th Street to 7th Avenue to catch the uptown 1/9 train (how I love Manhattan for this reason: this automatic ability to place yourself, a point on a grid) and instead of my usual frantic dash for the train I sauntered, yes, that's the word for it. I felt feline, languid; fluid and liquid and absolutely self-possessed and even perhaps a touch self-satisfied, a half smile playing on my lips ready to burst forth in full bloom. And I have been feeling like this ever since, even today in my slightly disheveled state from the usual madcap dash out the door half-asleep and only my sunglasses perched on my head to keep my hair from my eyes.

I feel pregnant with possibility and this odd drifting eroticism - it has no target, no anchor, no one person in mind - but I am taken with it nonetheless, this feeling of ripe anticipation. I feel like a luscious peach, bursting on the branch, ready for the plucking. I am slow like honey; delectable and thick like melted dark chocolate on your tongue.

This use of food is no accident: I am to be savored, a banquet. A feast.

The blouse that I am wearing today shows the expanse of my neck, a hint of my shoulders, and my hair has grown just long enough to occasionally brush against my exposed skin and I give a little shiver at the stimulation each time. (My imaginings: a hand sweeping my hair back; pointed kisses like punctuation placed on my collarbone with great care and reverence. The air thick with anticipation and strained silence.) I feel like crackling electricity, a live wire, awash in sensation: the weight of my clothes against my skin, the currents of air from my window gliding past me, gravity itself - none are lost, faint, faded. I feel it all.

This mood, I can't even tell you.

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