kalischild

I'm tasting one of my favorite emotions again.

That sensation of desire decanted after a long season of aging. It's strange how the mention of a city's name, can draw out memories of a certain girl's smile, her laughter, and her skin.

I remember Oceanside.

A name that summons up memories of bonfires, and drinking cervezas on golden sand, salt and tequila on velvet-soft lips, and brown skin in the firelight, dancing and burning beneath the horns of a titanic silver moon.

And I remember the night that Oceanside told me that I had I saved her soul, a long time ago, by reminding her of what she deserved, and what was beneath her, and what she should never look down and see.

I call her Oceanside. Or Monterrey. Or Austin.

Sometimes I call her London.

Throughout my life, I've loved almost all of the women whose beds and skin and taste I've shared. There have been times when lust was stronger than desire, when bodies met without consideration of mind, but those have been few. I've been the most wild, and the most decadent, with my long-term lovers, the ones Ive known for months and years. And honestly? I'm glad to have had those experiences as well. The roaring burn of flesh and instinct can be as healthy and as holy as any other form of love.

And I genuine believe that if you disagree its because during puberty, you couldnt get laid on a Saturday night in Newark with a hit of Ecstacy and a hammer.

So keep your Ho comments to yoself.

But my thoughts, and rants are running more towards the deeps than the shallows. Not the brief false starts and sparks and failures, but the true ignition, when the engine of desire truly reaches towards redline; The times when passion and fire were one and you knew youd never forget this persons name, face, or soul. I think of the women that I've loved, and that Ive been a lover to; And I remember watching them as they drifted off beyond the veils of their own unseen futures, and I know that I still love them, and miss them, and sometimes pine for them just a little as I see them occasionally in the distance, having become:

Lawyers. Designers. Doctors. Wives. Casualties. Statistics.

When I was younger, I traveled California, and America, and Europe. I'd fly five thousand miles, or ride a motorcycle five hundred, to leave flowers and a note on a lover's door. I slept on trains and in greyhound stations, head curled onto a knapsack, to have coffee with a girl from Reno Id met the week before.

( And This is the truth of me. And I have to tell you: I'd like to hear yours before you call me a whore.)

I know that I've loved almost all of the women I've been with, or inside, or above, or behind; And that love has often been both physical and spiritual. It may be different than yours, but when did your god send you the email that your spirituality is gold-plated and bulletproof?

We who walk far from the center are few and far between. We are uncommon, and strange, even to one another. Sometimes all we have in common is our passion. We meet, we share, we walk on.

We do not cling to each other in the darkness like drowning children. We swim in the sea of dreams. Sometimes we chat, sometimes we fuck. If we hurt you, its not out of cruelty, it because, knowing that you can swim, we cant understand why you choose to drown.

I've loved almost all my lovers, and often, I still do. I love the dead ones, the dying, and the lost. In my heart, I still love them all; The writers, the poets, the dancers, the junkies, the sirens, the suicides, and the ones who were whores like me, in the eyes of those that see these things in such terms.

And sometimes, usually in winter, when the skies are gray, and the rains come. I write a list of their names, and our histories, their thoughts, their tastes. Lately I do it on paper, and with a pen, although my lists used to be written with razors, on skin.

"A Rosary Of Shells" is actually the story of three of my angels, one dead, one dying, one lost..

And when it comes down to it, after all is said and done, and we stand at the end of ourselves, I hope that all I have to say then is all I have to say now:

Blood and love and sweat and come, it's certainly been a life.

And I hope you can say the same.

Because I love the lovers. I love the fighters.

But the judgmental people, I can certainly do without.

I just want it to be known, that when some loveless bitch or bastard elects to call me a whore, I simply think back on my lovers. And I have had many. I came from a broken house in a twisted, desperate town, during a very strange time; the mad children that I ran with cared very little for their parent's values, or any at all, for that matter. We were damaged and rough and we lived, loved, and fucked that way too; Id apologize for not hewing to your value systems, but old habits still die hard even in their dying fall.

So when someone comes out of left field and decides that the time is opportune to dump a pile of their own issues in my lap in the form of insults, and adolescent name-calling, I simply think of my lovers, and they are with and around and inside me. And suddenly, theres not much to say to the yammering meatpuppet in front of me.

My silence may make me appear to be an easy target. Especially when I pull on the gauntlets that they throw down, and wear them as armor:

Whoreslutdramaplayeremobitch.

Yeah. I call myself those things. Some African-Americans still call themselves _____.

(I didnt even have to fill in the blank, and you know what I mean.)

Words, words, words. But its different when you hear it from a friend.

It was like that in high school, too; I seem to remember a tribe of jerks who found strength in numbers there, too. I guess some of us really never change.

Sticks and stones. But to let you know, I've never really walked alone.

I have half a hundred stories in my head, half a hundred songs in my blood, and I have the knowing that I've earned the trust of the most elegant angels, stubborn fighters, and consistently beautiful losers anyone could ever know.

The only reason I'm ever writing this is because sometimes I'm not entirely prepared when one of us turns out to be one of them.

Here's to Oceanside.