Saturday, June 30, 2007

feed your belly, feed your soul

feed your belly, feed your soul
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

Original photos: one thing impossible and Ally.

feed the belly, feed the soul

Aquí muy dentro de mi corazón
hay un árbol floreciendo.
Aquí muy dentro, de este tonto corazón

So, goes one of my favorite songs, a Spanish song about love, about the pangs of passion that ring true deep down in the well of one’s soul, when you are with someone and they make you want to scream and shout with utter joy, to exclaim that overwhelming feeling of glee and truth and being. When you feel that deep down inside there is something growing, flourishing, floreciendo, much as the song says.

The last 24 hours, mas o menos, have been like that for me. We made love on the roof, against the wall, on a table, on the sofa and of course, in my bed. Amazing, fabulous, wonderful—all these words cannot describe the sweat, the rush of endorphins, the never-ending laughter, the exhaustion, the happiness, the joy.

For the last half-hour I’ve been sending-serenading Spanish songs of love and lust and loss to her through my bedroom window—the window by which the glorious morning sun enters each day, the window with the broken screen— to the wall across the courtyard and bouncing them back into and through the window of the other room she is in at the other end of my apartment; these songs are the songs of my life, the songs of my childhood and adolescence and adulthood that have and will always guide and inspire me to live life brimming with the best intentions, with optimism, with love—

despertaste tu, casi dormida,
tu me querías decir, no se cosa
pero callé tu boca con mis besos
y así pasaron muchas, muchas horas

you woke up, half-asleep
you wanted to tell me, I’m not sure what
but I, I kept you quiet with my kisses
and this, this is how many hours passed.

We ate a sumptuous meal this early afternoon at the taquería next door: quesadilla and tamale and a heavenly dish of camarones diablas, perfectly sautéed shrimp in garlic, onions and chipotle peppers; sending it all down with two smooth glasses of horchata. The food tasted really good, really-really good.

Then we took a slow-slow walk in Central Park, first lying half in the sun and half in the shade for a while when first arriving; there, from afar, we mutually admired a good-looking girl crossing the street with her friend, from a safe distance by which we might impart fantasies of what she was really like up-close and personal.

We climbed the hill up to the plateau, where after a sip of fountain water we found that our fantasy-friend was playing badminton with her real friend. We walked over to watch her, she noticed us watching from where we were, on the rock, only a bad-badminton swat away, and to our utter delight she put on a little show for us, bending over in suggestive positions, folding down the waistband of her already short-shorts, so that we could see the peak of cleavage parting her youthful buttocks. We both became a bit dizzy, we both laughed with utter joy in defense of our conspicuous demonstrations of desire, we both burned in the hot sun with a pressing need to continue ogling her and expressing our admiration if only from not-so-afar, like two young school girls giggling over Adrian, the resident junior-high hunk.

After the Brazilian badminton-menina left with her jealous girlfriend, we continued walking—over and down the other side of the hill in search of more water.

Half way down the hill we came upon a lady with her pet chicken of no-particular pet name. We asked her about how and why and when, and she essentially said that she loved her pet chicken, which made the most exquisite sibilant cooing-wooing sounds; she seemed genuinely happy with her whimsical choice to save a chicken from its fate at the butcher shop.

Eventually, we came to an ice cream man; he didn’t want to bargain with us though, so we had to buy a bottle of water for two dollars.

On the way home, we spontaneously stopped by the local market where I bought a lot of fruit: mango, peach, strawberries, watermelon, limes, avocados and pomegranate juice.

Albeit she wanted to be transported home, I dragged her to Christina’s place, where I not only hoped to say hi and goodbye, as Christina was moving out, but I also wanted to introduce her to the red-haired girl she fawned over so much in the photos of superman being surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women.

Eventually we arrived home, climbed five New York flights of stairs (64 steps) and I began writing another entry in my ode to Rose and Olive.

I love Rose and Olive, why not? Love a stranger, live life as if it is nothing less than wonderful—because it is.

Thank you for the inspiration,

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