Tuesday, January 26, 2010

the beautiful book

Beautiful Book by Jack Smith, 2001 after 1962

all a man really wants is for it to not be too hot. for his shoes not to get wet in puddles on his way to work, so his socks are wet and each step he takes makes an odd noise. it's nice to find a parking space, it's nice to afford the gas, it's nice when it switches gears easy. just that. to sleep easy, rise peacefully, and lay down again at the end of the day in one piece. nice to be woken with kisses. nice to sleep in someone's chest. nice when you get the softest pillow. the isle seat. when there's lots of previews, when you're not expecting a call so you have no problem switching to silent. all a man really wants is some silence. scratch that, lots of silence. cartons of it. spools of it, unrolling from hour to hour, just some time to hear your muscles contract and your nerves twitch, like sitting in a garden and watching grass twitch and trees ebb and flow. and beautiful women, everywhere, who smile back peacefully. those amazing ones - with blond hair in the wind like the halo of a meteor. who you stare at out of cars unable to look straight ahead because... she resembles a youthfulness. skin something too perfect to be touched. feet sculpted out of god's smile when she walks the grass grows erect. ___and sunday. not always, but, it's nice to have a few sundays in the card deck to let off some steam. to do laundry so that when you get in bed on sunday night it smells like sun and wind and detergent. haircuts when they're due and bills that leave something over for flowers you don't need but want in the house and, bookshelves. large, sprawling bookshelves that spread like embers of colour and fascination so that when you look around there are little families of colourful spines and covers and bookmarks living as satellite colonies under coffee tables and on office desks and kitchen counters. vitamin water. clean glasses. green pens left on your table for you by someone who knows you like green pens. things that are bright red and remind you of fire-trucks and 1965 mustangs and super hero outfits. to playfight with children and scratch behind the ears of dogs and under the chins of cats. to read under trees and sit under trees and walk in the company of trees and for the night to let you be. for night to be just night. for there to be a breeze. a man just wants his keys to be where he left them. his shower to be hot. his bed to be warm with someone else's body. just that. he wants his memories hung in worthy frames, and his nostalgia drank with warm tea and dates. for there not to be spam in his inbox. for his candidate to win, and for there to be enough hugs to go around. a man just wants first kisses all the time, even when it's your third or fiftieth to nudge back and think 'my god, today's you is newest and most beautiful of them all' and she to say 'oh i know what you're thinking, you wanna get in my pants mister' and for everyone to then end up in each others' pants laughing and dreaming their way out of their tiny apartments with dishes in the sink and vacuums in living rooms everyone tripping over them. not too much is it? for fathers to find peace and mothers to find something to be proud of and sisters to... fly to a world where legs and spines and crooked eyes and pimples and urinary tract infections don't mean a thing. where meaning is a thing. a man just wants a clean, clear, fast wi-fi signal to go with his macbook. his muffin warmed. his delivery only a few days late, and i know what life's about, i don't need to be the best, really - just get me over the line i'll take it and thank my way giggling and humming all the way back to the next time we meet. some men like lamps. lights that come with dimmers. showering together. being met at the airport with a sleepy smile that says 'who cares if it's 5am, as if i wouldn't come'. (and then for your luggage to be there too). couple more things, just a few... ___the ties of his grandfathers around his neck. to know something to have faith in, __and to feel found at the end of feeling lost.

to laugh and whisper while making love and watching television and to die a man who was born only a possibility.

1 comment:

Bailie said...

This is one of the warmest things I've read in a long time. I smiled throughout it all. Thank you.