you underestimated the value of passivity, which is not the art of pleasing but of placing oneself. being in the right place at the right time requires accepting moments of boredom, passed in gray spaces.


after being the locus of my fantasy for nearly 67 days, the lion appeared barefoot in my living room on a monday afternoon. a weekday apparition with no apologies, just his outlandishly long fingers running through his hair as he said, i kinda went crazy.

calasso writes that the vedic spoke of the self as the atman vs. the i. the one that acts, and the one that observes. the one that speaks, and the one that listens. where any action or speech is imperfect as it is a finite approximation of an infinite intention.

in this version, the lion is the liar. the one that speaks, acts and i am the one who listens, observes. by stepping into the locus of his own image, the lion’s edges bleed out and left is a hazy ring where he and i practice a kind of sad pugilism.

he was nervous and talkative and i fed him easy questions. i didn’t listen to much of what was being said, he was trying to explain a quantum processor (i know what it is), i just nodded and took in how wide his eyes got, the thick lace of his lashes, his fine fingers. i even liked his pointed dutch chin. he has the face of a painted doll and soft down hair. it’s been a long time since the visage of a man has moved me.

he smelled like copper, bear and aftershave. the tips of the fingers were nicotine stained. i smoked a lot of cigarettes even though i’ve quit smoking and tried my best to put him at ease. but i think he could tell i was letting him win. it all grew a little weary as the night waned on. and when he left, i was at peace with never seeing him again.

a week later, he was again in my living room. black socks, blue jeans and plain white t shirt. he sat on the sofa, elbows on thighs and we watched the new game of thrones episode. from time to time, i sucked on his neck. in this version, he smelled like clouds and baby bathwater and his fair skin. i was dying on the vine kissing him.

it was a strange night. we finished a bottle of wine and he told me about his adolescence in detroit; fist fights; a shotgun in his face; the memorial he went to for his friend this past weekend. his eyes began to water, and i didn’t know what to do, rapt to the fact that there was a weeping lion in my living room. he was worn down i realized, tired and sad, alone in los angeles and totally broke. his friend was only 34 and left behind a wife when he drove off a cliff.

we fucked in silence. afterwards, i crawled into his lap and chastely kissed the mole to the right of his right eye. he pulled away and gave me a look i hadn’t seen in half a decade, even though i’ve only known him for 3 months. it split me in two. he asked me point blank what i wanted. i was so terrified and startled, i sprang from his lap and laughed.

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