Or “In Which The Jiu-Jitsu Wanderer Shows Some Of His Non-Blog Writing Work”
Greetings, my audience. This week’s entry is not about Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, our Gentle Art. If you only come to this blog to read about my opinions regarding Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, you may turn around now. Please come back next week, though. ‘Cause I’ll miss you.
Those of you who know me a little better, know that I am an aspiring writer. I write about my life, the things that happen it, the strange, episodic adventures which happen in the lyrical night, under the holy moon. One of these episodes took place along the order of four months ago, or thereabouts. For some time, I had been kicking around the idea of writing a story about this particular episode, with this particular woman, but I hadn’t the faintest idea where it was supposed to go. Then this past Saturday, late at night, I was struck with inspiration. And while I don’t think I will post the whole story on the blog (it’s not done, anyway), I will share with you the very first page.1
Working Title: The Portrait of a Woman
Blue eyes, straight hair
Blue eyes burned into memory
Scene I: Tension
Delilah was standing at my doorstep, red wine on her breath. She was a vision, haloed by the streetlight behind her. Those sapphire eyes framed, hugged, surrounded as they were by that lukewarm auburn light pierced me all the more. Little black dress, big black boots, purple belt, my Midnight Angel had come to see me. She flew away from her boyfriend because I needed help with something, something important enough to change the trajectory of my life. The subtle points on grammar and the questions on word usage, however, both dissolved as soon as I opened the door.
“I’m not quite finished yet,” I said, as we walked to my room. I had written, read, rewritten, and reread the definitive report on Dwayne Johnson at least five times over a racking, frantic, near-sleepless seventy-two hours.
Running her hand down her olive thigh, Delilah sat down on my bed and took off one boot. I sighed in anguish, cursed to languish away as I forced myself to continue to hack away at the goddamn keyboard. This is what it is to be a writer. Other boot now off, she laid down on my bed and began to stretch the way a lifelong dancer would. I felt pangs. I felt longing. The months of longing. The months of oh-dear-god-please longing over drives home whist conversing in holy tones – fifteen minutes of peace shared together at the end of deafening, calamitous nights spent at the bar spilling whiskey and levying threats against The Obnoxiously Drunk. Fifteen minutes of porcelain sublimity shared a hundred times. And now there she was…within arms reach.
I finished, and we traded places. She jumped on the computer, and began to read what I had just written. A mile away, I was laying down on the bed, staring absently at the horizontal bars supporting the top bunk, hoping to Science some improbable accident would reduce the frame above to a twisted pile of flaming steel directly atop of me, wishing to just be put out of my misery. Life is so sad sometimes.
“Do you see anything wrong with it?” I asked. It was quiet in my house.
“No,” she replied. The half-reason, half-excuse we used to justify her visit had now expired.
Returning to the bed, she laid down and looked toward me, this time with a sigh of her own. Sad brown eyes touched ocean eyes. More. Sleepy eyes washed, pained, lingered over her olive skin, skin rent and broken and laid bare a thousand times by Life’s too-raw hammer blows. She hid these scars with a seamstress’s touch, and a smile simply too immaculate to be believed by any thinking person. But you could still see them, these scars, if you knew where to look.
Long, thin hair was splashed on the pillow and blankets between us, a little spilled on my arm. Her hands were shaking. Her hands always shook when I was around. My tongue and intestines were knotted by churning, emotive tidal forces, but my brain was racing. How is this supposed to start, then? How were any of these fucking endless complications even relevant when life, precious life, our single warm moment before cold rest, is too short to spend it not kissing someone with the courage to look at you the way you looked at them? And what? If not now, then when?
“Not tonight, Justin.”
“What?” I asked with honest confusion. I worked up enough courage to lean in, only to be met with rejection?
“You can have me tomorrow.”
Okay. But life is so sad sometimes.
There are at least two more scenes. Maybe one more after that. Well, my audience, that’s a glimpse into the kind of writing I do while not yammering away about “cucumbers tasting better pickled” on the blog…and while not putting people in kimuras. Thanks for reading.