To my love there is no end
Field notes on Venusian psychology
Only one rule seems to govern your interaction with the others : your instinctive sympathies and antipathies, your immediate attractions and repulsions, the power of seduction that people have over you and that you have over them
In the summer, fanning myself in a warm, tropical room. The notes of my perfume and sweat mingling with everyone else’s into an atmosphere of breath, and thus life, thus desire. The only question of importance is whose salt, whose garden, do our noses follow.
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Every morning that I press concealer onto select areas of my face — a light layer under my eyes to brighten the gaze, a dab on dark spots where a wound used to be, another on a budding pimple turning pink — whom do I do it for? The upturned flick of my eyeliner, the satin finish of my lipstick the color of merlot, the barely-there blush on my cheekbones. Something akin to armor, I think; occasionally, a kind of enchantment. On myself, yes, but also on any stranger on the road whose gaze I, for a second, hold.
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Left still, water turns foul. Energy — the unseen that runs through all of us, that binds us in a mysterious, undeniable web — is the same. At least, this is what I believe. Between all life is the necessity of flow, so when love has been given, it must be passed on. To a heartbroken friend or a sick relative, of course, but also — especially — to strangers, the lost, the hurting, the indecipherable. What they return I breathe in, an inevitable gesture as dangerous as it is beautiful. And my spell, a constant practice, is to meet them not where they are, but where I can best be. This porosity, once my shame, is now my magic. I take in what I need; what is not meant for me, what is undesirable, I wring out. Set free. It passes through me, transformed.
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You like above all to smell, to palpate, to feel, to touch, to experience, to caress beings and objects
When I was 23, already a woman yet barely, I spent more than what was wise on the tiniest vial of perfume. Locally made, aged for six months, a handwritten label, sans phthalates and parabens. Rolled across my collarbone and on my wrists, the fragrance ensnared my attention in brief episodes throughout the day. A whiff of benzoin and citrus as I walked across the dusty parking lot, then, at my office desk, notes of jasmine and ylang-ylang bloomed out of nowhere like a remembered dream. In this mix of essences, absolutes, and tinctures is a vision of an electric encounter. Like seeing God in the sound of the breath of another. Evanescent, unforgettable.
A simple, elusive truth: The clothes I wear the most are those that my skin can bear. In the bristling heat, in joy and loneliness. With this realization, I have pivoted my approach to thrifting clothes. In lieu of sight, sensation: I curve my hand, fingers softly flexed, and plunge it wrist-deep into the sea of fabric hanging on the rack. Walking forward slowly, my touch discerns for me in a glissando of garments. Waves of polyester, creamy spandex, soft, worn-out cotton, the occasional wool blend, flashes of silk. Anything made with purely natural fibers — determined by learned feel and confirmed by a glimpse of the tag — immediately makes the shortlist. Then, the deliberation: How often do I see myself wearing this piece? In how many ways, approximately, can I style it? Does the cut or color suit my skin and figure? If I wear it, who do I become? Do I want to become her?
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Awareness of my literacy happened on the day the signs along the streets suddenly made sense. Store names, road signs, slogans on vandalized election posters. Den-den S-t-o-r-e. City of M-a-n-d-a-l-u-y-o-n-g. Bawal u-m-i-h-i dito. Ravenously my eyes traced the strokes of the letters, wondrous they were to me (and remain to be). Looking out the window of a moving vehicle, the kaleidoscopic view of the world it offered, teased at the seemingly endless configuration of shapes, colors, and images I have never read, all the witty advertisement one-liners, the city markers, the neon jeepney route sign boards, the hidden puns on storefronts. Even now I like to meet the world through the printed word. To chew the sound and shape of language, even as I hear them. Could you spell your name for me? Is there a brochure? I’d like subtitles, yes. Like a child, I must take each word in my mouth to know it.
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Spontaneous, you give free rein to the expression of your joyful and greedy moods, of your immediate desires
The offer: novelty, a chance to prove myself, the probability of expansion, a worthy challenge, terra incognita. And growth, certainly, quite steep. Everything else, details. The answer has always been yes.
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The right time for conversation is almost always now. Why ache longer than we have to? Between all life is the necessity of flow, so when hurt is inflicted, where does it go?
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We shake snow globes for a reason. In my life I like to cause a stir.
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Under the gauzy glow of the stoplight at the intersection of the main road and home, minutes before midnight, a first kiss. Who is in the driver’s seat, who sits in the passenger’s? The timer keeps counting down but I don’t.
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Excerpts in italics lifted from The Venusian psychological profile by Richard Pellard (trans. Julien Rouger)
In case you missed it: my poem “First Confession” was published on Infrarrealista Review last month. I would love for you to give it a read!
The birds have begun to come back. Another winter has gone by, though I had the fortune of spending a month of it in the Philippines. There is much I want to say about my recent visit, but for now, while it is still February, allow me this small corner of romance as, like everyone else, I grapple with questions of justice and responsibility in a world too big for my arms. I hope we can figure it out together. I suspect it is the only way.
Amazing read, and timely too!
I suspect it is the only way too! :) Love this :D