Date: Tue, 19 Oct 2010 16:15:10 -0700 (PDT) From: Thomas-Alexander Kind Subject: Sasanka [ M/b] Disclaimer: You are here, reading this. I can not stop you, nor would I. You will do as you choose... as did I. * Taking flight.... * Talking too much on the drive to the airport, why can I not get a hold of my tongue? Always the fear, always the silent pain. Another flight, another run for the border for me. Check-in and the irritating security-checks. This is another year when I wanted to not spend so much time in planes. Well not much success with that, another flight and it will be more than 60,000 km. Another year where I round the world and more, at least in km of air-travel. No wonder I have only pennies to my name. The new Espresso-machine is going with me on this trip. Maybe I will actually learn to use it. Maybe I will actually switch to tea for good this time. ******************************************************************* Sasanka smiles, as he takes the teacup from my hand. Old wicker chairs on the veranda of the bungalow in the tropics. We are full of rice-and-curry. So are the boys, who now pad, chattering like monkeys, off to the kitchen. Almost dark already, the hurried dowsing of bright light that has made us sweat all day. Sunil's laugh brings a smile to my friends face. Having visitors that stay the night is a treat. We are fortunate in a way not easily explained to anyone outside of our world. The palm trees are dark against the sky. Bats are erratically diving, darting about. Sanaka's skin is milk chocolate against the white of his school-shirt. He is sitting on the armrest of my chair, leaning against me making it hard to concentrate on the words from my friend's mouth. Mouth, skin, eyes of green-brown under a mop of dark, almost black hair. There is a hint of Portuguese ancestry in his face. He is so beautiful. He is so shy. ******************************************************************** My bag is checked again, that tin of cookies I guess. X-ray machine hic-ups at the sight of them. My watch and bangle set the detector gate chirping. At least I do not have to take off my shoes. Do they really think I will give myself away as the terrorist I am? A terrorist in the moral majority jungle. A sleeper-cell of one, that awakens at the sound of boy's voices. Too old now, but still dangerous. Will take your sons and play wicked games with them, that they like so much. Walk out into the night naked with them. Count shooting stars and make them shoot and see stars. Will make them wonder if all you taught them was a lie. Departure gate waiting area. I can't believe I will do it again. Walk into that metal bird and pretend I am ok. I don't have to be told where 13 E is. I am on automatic pilot already. Coat in the bin, belt around my hips as I slide into the seat. Bag under the seat [not in front of me, need that space for my feet.!] and Take out the Kleenex and chewing gum. Head hums. Hard of hearing. Hearing loss. Lost in hearing my own blood pulse in my ears. Ears that will spend hours listening for any change in jet-engine noise, wondering if it will mean something. ************************************************************ Sasanka's ears are small, delicate and my fingers are drawn to them. He giggles and hides them in his small hands. At 11 he is a little boy with small feet, bare and stuffed under my thigh at the moment. Perched on the armrest of my chair, wiggling from my creepy-crawly fingers. I give it a rest and he does against my chest in my arm. The wide armrest on the other side of him holds my teacup, my ciggy's and matches. Darkness now has pulled a blanket of comfort and liberty around us. The kitchen light is on, but shines dimly only, out through the living room onto the veranda. The sounds, always, the sounds of insects. Somewhere a monkey is scampering across a tiled roof. I hope they will stay away tonight. Want to stay in bed tonight my arms around the little boy beside me. My hand is slowly stroking his bare thigh up and under his blue school-shorts. My mali, younger brother, son, boy, my love. Which he runs away from still. But tonight Sunil, my friend's little fisher-boy-friend has begged for company from him. So they have supped with us. Had cool drinks and play. Sunil even sneaking a few drags of my friend's cigarette. Sasanka frowns. I kiss his ear. He grabs a fistful of my hair. Holds my head away from his and tries to look angry. Hold me, Sasanka, hold me tight, my hair, my head, my heart. **************************************************************************** We are well on our way west. I am reading the free newspaper, as the film is a waste like the food. Cold, pasty pasta. Brrr.! I should have ordered some wine. I know it will be soon, that the shakes will start. Always does. Even at 36,000 feet, the Jet-Stream bends us as we head closer to the mountains. I used to be able to write, compose with unparalleled ease up here. Feeling above the clouds in many ways. Reading whole books between continents. * Clouds Blue Like the eyes of every new born child In countries where the skin is light Light Sky Suit On the boy as he stands by the well, Milk Chocolate brown. Sparkling with wet Water drops Making rainbows in the clouds below As we glide above My hands on his skin as I soap his legs Tracing lines of half-developed muscles To his chest Trailing across his belly Vapor-trails spanning continents, I write words on virgin matter * Seems like it is taking a long time to get to the coast this time but maybe it just feels that way. Now we are warned of bounce. I tighten the belt, tighten my grip on the book I am pretending to read. Feel the cold hand of Charon gripping mine. Looking into myself................Ohm mane pad me hum. Silent chanting, as I struggle for even breaths. Have I had all the lives I was given yet, my gods.? I wish for another kiss from Daniel. Just hold me, Daniel, when it is done. Please do not let me go between without knowing you still are, Mihai. I am scared again like when you looked at me Michael, in Paris in that crumby hotel with the red plush carpet, when you told me it was over. How can it be over, I was 19 and you were only 15.! It wasn't, you are living in Berlin now, pretending to be only 50. The plane drops 200 feet. Freefall. Why do I like Roller coasters, but die a thousand deaths in planes.? ******************************************************************************** Conversation is slowing, last ciggy before bed. Sending the boys into the bathroom, my friend and I speak of the morning. Brushing teeth, washing hands and face. Sasanka is in bed. Fully dressed. I roll him close, unbutton shirt. Slip it off him. He pretends to be asleep. I lower the zip on his little blue shorts. Tug them off his hips. A gasp. He is hard underneath. ********************************************************************************I am gasping for breath as we rock and roll in a light f@#$ing turbulence. I want some wine or whatever. Want some end or what ever. Breathe.... breathe whatever you do breathe, where is my inhaler.?! My stomach muscles are twitching from the strain. Even Tchaikovsky in my ears does not help. I know we are above the mountains. White peaks of hard beauty. Can we please get to the coast...please.? I close my eyes, fidget in my seat. Stretch, wiggle my toes. Pack away the paper, unpack my book. Pack the book and take out an un-read section of the paper. Get sucked into watching drivel on the TV screen and notice that the bounce has stopped. Bing, seatbelt sign off.!!!!! The guy beside me gets up to go to the washroom. I run after him. Feel like a nervous boy standing in front of the bowl. Relief. ****************************************************************************** Sasanka is asleep in my arm. Tension gone from his body, from him. Nothing hard any longer. We took care of that. Now all is soft snuggle. Just a sheet to cover us from brush of air, as the fan slowly whirls overhead. I drift off to sleep as well, knowing that the monks will wake us with their chants from the temple next door at 4 am. And my little one will wake, stretch, snuggle for a few minutes, then get up and slip on his clothes. Smile at me in the half-light of the early morning, slink out the door, pad through the living-room and run along the garden to his house. I will not see him again until evening, when he comes with the trays of food for us, which his mother helps cook. And I will ask again, if he will stay for supper... and the night. ******************************************************************************** I can feel the shift in speed, the decent, before the announcement is made. Will be on the ground soon. Will be ok. Will wait for my luggage with hundreds of others. Will feel like a cigarette, which I gave up some month' ago. Will feel like I have walked across fire. The soles of my feet are ok, but my heart is on fire. Missing all. Falling forward into the past. TAK