A woman’s body is not a thing, claimed, it cannot be. It is more than a concept; it is a situation. A woman’s body is her grasp on the world, a sketch of her project. This project is her vessel. For what is valued is internal. Exactly why women are the true representation of the world, not men. While men value our external pieces. Men fall short at valuing what we can hold; women see the value of what is in the glass, not the glass itself.
An odd warm March Friday night, I drifted into 18th street lounge. Five floors and several rooms, a maze-like setting. My feet barely touch the ground as I walk in; the smoky loud room is elevating the sativa whiskey mix in my system. One of the few places you can smoke inside in DC. I slowly canvass each room. Not dancing, not walking, like water on an old leaning table. I roll to each edge, and corner of every room. Cigarette in hand, people watching. My courage to ask a girl for a dance is as small as a mustard seed. I look, and sip, puff then move onto the next room.
This insane habit of going out and not talking is one of my favorite past times. However, this night seemed different. The city of dank and corruption has been ablaze with Trump’s tweets, scandals, and plain lack of intellect. The week, unlike the
How I got to the top floor is beyond me. Retracing my steps under the influence is a futile effort. I lost my drink and have to slither my way back to the bar. Something about thirst on a Friday night. It is always an evasive feeling. My stomach and heart are inline, the twist and tremor of a refreshing sight. A tall glass of water. Twisting her hair, the bite of her bottom lip, she caught my gaze.
“Jameson, double, no rocks, and iced tea.”
I spoke up loud and clear, with a jolt of lust adding bass to my voice. I kept my eyes pointed at the glass that would later be in my hand. The bartender quickly pouring the ice she put in my glass out. A bottle flip and pour. My heart was now solely beating to the rhythm of hope. Quick, furious and constant. Like a drummer rattling on a snare, my glare still focused downward. I was thirsty, but not for what was in the glass in my hand.
I gathered myself to dare, I look back over, and she began to sway. It is easier to remain in blind bondage ablaze than to work for
I remember walking over.
I do not remember what I said first, nor do I think she heard over the music. I do not remember what she said first, nor could I really hear. The energy from our spirits knew all too well. Words are ablaze spells
How? I know nothing, the bastard of Jon Snow haunts me. This world is not the work of men. No two people see the sun from the same angle. The light that I see her in, she will not understand, nor is it even true. She is an instrument, and the pianist in me only wanted to play her tune. My concern is that she would only see herself as my instrument for me to play with, manipulate, and dispose of once my will is exerted. Every woman is worth more than this. I did not want her to subject herself to me, serve me. I am not the one who has, and she adversely lacking.
Still her mystery, imagery and all the possible fantasies drew me into her. What I said next does not matter. Her hand was in mine, the dance awkward and assuming. I did not have command; willingly she gave, or another assumption? Every time I drew near to the truth, it vanished, like a mirage. To hold something so close but to not understand it. Without true knowledge of the situation, or guarantee how it might conclude, I began to feel as if I had to courage to fight for what I held. I hold though I do not possess. I knew she was something I could not let go.
What do I do in this situation?
This glass of water in my hand, she knew all too well what she possessed. I, instead of investing carry her like a treasure chest, thinking I have a magic key. Women are a vessel of time worthy of investment. Time, like water is subject to its container and our perception of it. How long is a minute, or a second? How long is 50 years? Is 50 years ago a long time ago? Hours, days, years. How do we accurately measure? When her body is only my perception of her glass, not the truth, how do I know her value?
I will never know.
I am only holding on to her current project to the world. It is merely a current situation, not a permanent. She will only continue to grow, with or without me.
To give what you know or have without no knowledge of what you will receive or if you will receive anything at all. I knew she had everything I needed, and I no longer needed to search for another. Therefore, instead of sipping from the glass I pour my intellect in. Instead of taking, I am giving completely without any guarantee of return. She is not a treasure chest; she is in fact so much more. Not because I made her this way, she a universe before I entered her realm.
Only by giving completely, I found her cup ran over. I was not drowning, really refreshed. Seventy percent of me is the water she provides. The essence of my life and being. It makes me think how woman can be from the rib of man. Seventy percent of me is what she possesses and she has so much more. A rib, she revealed she was so much more. All I had to do was give.
I did not see her as my second. Unequal in anyway. In fact, I admired the beauty in her power. The limitless depth. She never concluded. How could I not see her as equal?
She was a woman, and that made her more.