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Cold Siren
By BJ Garrett
I always told myself that should an idea come along that I cannot express, I would admit there is a God.
You walked in, looking a little lost, unsure, and something else I can't define. I started going to shul again that Saturday.
Of course, you were good-looking. That goes without saying, but it's pretty much all I can say. Young, handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed--these are measurable, definable, physical things. If I say these facts, everyone knows what I mean. Not that I ever say them. Not that I ever will.
It's like hot and cold--one knows what these are. Concepts of heat and lack thereof. One can express them, put a name to them. Contain and control them.
You walked in, and it was like you called me without a word. Tried to draw me to you. You were unaware, innocent. Such a child.
So unsuited to this life, but so willing to do the work you'd been convinced to do. Maybe what sang to me from your nervous posture was your desire for him. To console him, please him, be closer to him. One more reason I can't ever say...this thing I can't express anyway.
I'd like to put a sticker on my mental picture of you, so I know what I'm in for every time I see you. So I can prepare myself for that jolt of energy that zings off you in every direction. Those sparking, yet soothing eyes. A blue that seduces, yet freezes.
Yes, labels are for food, but aren't human beings just food for a predator not yet evolved? So I label you: unattainable. You label me: unpredictable. I suppose it's true. If I let myself be predictable, you might find patterns in my behaviour towards you. You might get that feeling of being watched, and you might attribute it to me.
Because, of course, I'm a watchful guy. I do that. How else do you think I survived this long?
Maybe we're food for the indescribable. Maybe it eats us to not name things. Wasn't man given dominion over the earth? To tame and to call each creature by name? In my humble opinion, we've failed miserably.
Look at me, a slave to my attraction. I haven't tamed it, and I cannot name it. Me, with all my words and facts and figures, speechless.
At a loss to describe why I want you, why I need to--
I can't even say that much. There aren't any words for what I need. It's not sex, it's not power. Well, okay, it is, but it's other things too.
In my senior linguistics course, Professor Rothman said, "The more languages a human learns fluently, the closer that human's thinking gets to pure thought."
So maybe that's all I can do. Think about it. And if the moment ever came, when you were open to hearing what I haven't got the words to say, it would go past, and we'd fall back into this. You calling to me without knowing it, and me dying on the rocks below, able to do nothing but moan and claw at my own inadequacy.
You up there on your barren island, wind-torn, rain-lashed, storm-rent, chained to the rock, grinning that smile of challenge at the sky. Asking to be a martyr to the cause. You know, angst-ridden.
I'm just a poor sailor, I'm just trying to get by. All I want is to be left alone to work and see my candidate win once in a while. That's all I'm asking for.
The call begs for comfort. You are wounded, somehow, hurt, angry, defensive. But your eyes, the way you give your back up to any attempts at reconciliation--cold. You draw in and drive away.
Hey, maybe I'm just bitter. That's probably it.
Toby Ziegler, the great speechwriter, incapable of structuring a statement of desire.
The poet said, "Everything is attainable, given every human's ability to distinguish between right and wrong, but the expression of beauty is a cold siren that poisons all artists with her song."
I can think of worse ways to go.
The End.
Cold Siren
By BJ Garrett
I always told myself that should an idea come along that I cannot express, I would admit there is a God.
You walked in, looking a little lost, unsure, and something else I can't define. I started going to shul again that Saturday.
Of course, you were good-looking. That goes without saying, but it's pretty much all I can say. Young, handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed--these are measurable, definable, physical things. If I say these facts, everyone knows what I mean. Not that I ever say them. Not that I ever will.
It's like hot and cold--one knows what these are. Concepts of heat and lack thereof. One can express them, put a name to them. Contain and control them.
You walked in, and it was like you called me without a word. Tried to draw me to you. You were unaware, innocent. Such a child.
So unsuited to this life, but so willing to do the work you'd been convinced to do. Maybe what sang to me from your nervous posture was your desire for him. To console him, please him, be closer to him. One more reason I can't ever say...this thing I can't express anyway.
I'd like to put a sticker on my mental picture of you, so I know what I'm in for every time I see you. So I can prepare myself for that jolt of energy that zings off you in every direction. Those sparking, yet soothing eyes. A blue that seduces, yet freezes.
Yes, labels are for food, but aren't human beings just food for a predator not yet evolved? So I label you: unattainable. You label me: unpredictable. I suppose it's true. If I let myself be predictable, you might find patterns in my behaviour towards you. You might get that feeling of being watched, and you might attribute it to me.
Because, of course, I'm a watchful guy. I do that. How else do you think I survived this long?
Maybe we're food for the indescribable. Maybe it eats us to not name things. Wasn't man given dominion over the earth? To tame and to call each creature by name? In my humble opinion, we've failed miserably.
Look at me, a slave to my attraction. I haven't tamed it, and I cannot name it. Me, with all my words and facts and figures, speechless.
At a loss to describe why I want you, why I need to--
I can't even say that much. There aren't any words for what I need. It's not sex, it's not power. Well, okay, it is, but it's other things too.
In my senior linguistics course, Professor Rothman said, "The more languages a human learns fluently, the closer that human's thinking gets to pure thought."
So maybe that's all I can do. Think about it. And if the moment ever came, when you were open to hearing what I haven't got the words to say, it would go past, and we'd fall back into this. You calling to me without knowing it, and me dying on the rocks below, able to do nothing but moan and claw at my own inadequacy.
You up there on your barren island, wind-torn, rain-lashed, storm-rent, chained to the rock, grinning that smile of challenge at the sky. Asking to be a martyr to the cause. You know, angst-ridden.
I'm just a poor sailor, I'm just trying to get by. All I want is to be left alone to work and see my candidate win once in a while. That's all I'm asking for.
The call begs for comfort. You are wounded, somehow, hurt, angry, defensive. But your eyes, the way you give your back up to any attempts at reconciliation--cold. You draw in and drive away.
Hey, maybe I'm just bitter. That's probably it.
Toby Ziegler, the great speechwriter, incapable of structuring a statement of desire.
The poet said, "Everything is attainable, given every human's ability to distinguish between right and wrong, but the expression of beauty is a cold siren that poisons all artists with her song."
I can think of worse ways to go.
The End.