Gone the Tides of Earth

Court had one hers bare, fair-skinned legs propped up, my jacket as blanket merely covering body. I sat on the grassy floor, neck hyperextended back, head rested on the edge to look up at her. Her soft fingers, she played through my hair, whilst puffing slow drags on a cigarette taken from the folder offerings.

‘I’m dead.’

‘I think I’m pregnant.’

‘Gotten that way already?’

‘Too much virility. Too toxic hypermasculine.’

‘We’ll hope it is a she, then.’

‘I’ve always liked the names: Audrey, Bella, Violet.’

We had lit a few of the mountain-post candles with zippo, placed them beneath the side cots create soft light. The tent’s flaps did not tie down all the way, strong gusts caused the lower portion to flutter in a bit. Feet we saw scurry past within the rows, the voices: drunk, loud, shouting. Modest privacy precarious, curious if at any time betrayed.

‘I wonder what time it is.’

‘It’s late.’

‘What are the others doing do you think?’

‘Alethea and Cian, same as us. Alci though all bets are off.’

‘Alci is Jung to your Freud.’

‘He’s a good buddy. We have fine times.’

‘If there’s ever a ceremony, would he be the best man?’

‘Guess so. What about you?’

‘Alethea or Eleni.’

We endured a moment of silence, easing into calm. Idly, I looked up at the dimmed lantern; soon from behind, atop the cot a weight shifted, then her tender belly pressed against my head. I turned, faced her, supple skin rubbing against shaven face, delicate hands caressing beside mine eyes. Fingertips softened over stubble of five-o’clock-shadow. I got lost in kind, for good score, revelling her all-round beauty.

She was most lovely - before long fell asleep. After I went in my journals, light enough from under the beds to read the pages. I stretched out on a side cot, tilted body to the side to allow best visibility. Desiring more, I reached beneath cot, set zippo burn congealed wax; flame kept from tapering. What I wrote those small hours was what came to mind, non-linear ideas, ideals, which needn’t go together:

The fairytale in no way reflects reality; prince would spend remaining years in psych-ward after facing down dragon, princess cooped up in battered women’s shelter, twice-weekly therapy visits. Such sentiments well accounted for; incubated within romantic collective, embryonic fetuses never borne. Perpetrators of every atrocity throughout history: people, and on the other side of events, those forced to overcome: still human(s). Always there have been two great truths: the chaos and peace. We had waited too long for a world to wake up; if never enough why else dance alone in the dark for each other. When we accept mind is lost, realize it is only ego who operates in permanent measures. Strange balance to know true nature yet to have remind self that human. Emotional significance might be the only worthwhile barometer - it is impossible to live truly when even a small part wants to destroy itself. Alarmists and whistleblowers, like back then there were, blaring million sirens, no one coming. The most we could ever know someone’s truth is by their omissions: thus we never know - some who truly look might see. Religion teaches perverse comprehension of Creation, Creator; beggars’ desperation and imagined plea bargains to the point of comic irony. Certain happenstances man incontrovertibly happens to miss when deprived: sex, war - not relish nor desire - drawn to like chains bound. A phenomenon we should not fight each other, and that we should at all: souls do not keep enemies. Until all have some, each will have none. Prison holds penance naught overpowers of the mind. For someone to have committed great sin, they must not have been themselves much at all - for only the good suffer. Blasphemous that supposed to do nothing except help each other and none seem to care. Mother instructed me never to hold to blankets or pillows other than ones slept with. Disorder is like concrete; resist and it solidifies - must never put up a fight so that mind can become slippery, sediment carried downstream long before it hardens. You are protected and beloved, not merely because we desire to be. Greatest pain is to cause another suffering. Must not let fear detain us from doing what is right; it is possible to rise like flame still becoming water, from ashes the fiery phoenix is woken, reborn, its tears heal all ailment. Force causes resistance, acceptance cultivates surrender, peace brings love. Darkly blue, storm-choked with grey smoke clouds of winter, black bodices of nighttime trees and stepping off from the precipice like an electrocution of thunderbolts. Resurrection of inner violet flame; beauty forged by purgation. Embers breathing; fire into the future.

Thinking depleted, I lay back and rest, doze in and out through the night. The air is warm enough, becoming cool, breezy as the darkest beat on. Each time coming out of inertia, sound of the party was dimmer. Soon, any noise from the field fell silent. I wondered if at the brink of twilight, we were, here in civilized Greece.

The dawn certainly was nigh when I heard the others get back. Asleep I must not have been for long, upon the last time fading. They were standing outside of the tent, Alethea there with them. Alci sounded quiet, tired, Cian still slightly crapulous. Relaxed and with peace, I did not reveal myself to be awake.

‘Always sex tensions,’ Cian said. ‘Alci and coven of platonic concubines. Take him they wish they could. Given interval at any consent - taken anytime.’

‘Shh. People are sleeping.’ Alethea peeked in. ‘Courtney’s in there. I will take this one, sneak him into hospital and find a bed.’

‘Wonderful. Farewell, wise Henry. Goodnight, Alci - you feline charmer.’

They went away: Cian stammering, gait quickened and speech fast faded away, whistle of the wind steady undercurrent. Alcibiades reeked of liquor when he came in. Shirt undone, the white tanktop underneath soaked with sweat and booze. He for a moment lingered, whereby I felt him hovering in the center of the tent.

‘My good boy was up late journaling again,’ he whispered to himself.

Shortly after that, I opened my eyes to see his silhouette. Looked at Alci, pacing and as he crouched down slightly past me, faced towards Court at the backend of the tent. As he stole a glimpse at her hand, the left arm suspended off the bed.

‘Beautiful ring,’ he said. ‘A lovely bride and groom to boot.’

There was a protracted moment in which the young Albanian-Greek pensively remained where he was. Next, I watched him climb atop his own cot, pull the uniform jacket over both legs. He did not go to sleep right away, rather staying up fiddling with the amethyst that his mother had once gifted him.