Control

It's control. All these things arise from one difficulty: control. For the first time it was inside, do you see. The control is put inside. No more need to suffer passively under 'outside forces' — to veer into any wind.

(p30, Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon.)

Now for a talc stain rant. Okay, not really a rant, just too much time spent staring at a wall advertising the allure of something "transatlantic," but since I can't go there I'll change it into something else. Not a bad way (but perhaps not the best either) to kill too much time on my hands, or on my brain, but at least my ears are plugged with music to block out the drone of a small human's wail. I turn back to Pynchon's pages, because his lists have a tendency to pull at me, his description of surfaces and temperature and distortions of thought process fill the space around my head, and his uncleness has hooked into the part of me always longing.

I can always find subtext exactly where I look last. In spite of or in cahoots with what he's written, context is always mine. Control is taken, once again, and again, never a permanent thing, never a given, but given and taken simultaneously, repeatedly. The relief of having it, of giving in, of replacing it, the ownership of control, of the controlled.

I see you before me, having left a world of haphazard and passive control to enter an existence where my external force of control can penetrate you actively, specifically.

Spiraling closer with every step I take around you as you stand in the center of the room, exposed, bare and vulnerable, stripped of any semblance of the control you thought you wore when you entered my perimeter.

I'll feed you new gravity, your center now low, knees where feet have been, soles upturned facing a ceiling that would be your sky, palms down, your new soles, palms leading kneesteps towards my boot tips that wait for a chaste kiss. Say hello to where you belong.