Restless with the full moon
Feb. 24th, 2005 02:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeanvieveI can feel it through the walls, beating in my blood. I want the moon tonight. Want the wildness, the gasping, the panting moan. This is the night echoed in history when men have run mad, and women have needed that madness to stoke the fires that burn in their bellies. When too much is not enough, and it is all you can do to feel every sensation on your skin. A kiss of air. A rustle of cloth. A too tight binding of elastic or buttons.
I fear May Day to come. Hundreds of years of tradition, more powerful than midsummer for it is a time of new beginnings. Of youth and age, of innocence and desires, of contrasts and opposites that will meld together in a storm of need and now. I have given up many such days. I don't think I can give up too many more in good conscience for taking care of all the parts of me.
Whitman is right. We are large. We contain multitudes. What does it matter then if there are contradictions? We have conscience. But we also have passion. Maybe each part of us weaves around the pole in the dance until the flimsy ribbons become something sturdy. Proud, and strong. And maybe we're not supposed to deny what we think and feel and want. Maybe our sole responsibility is to make sure that the wild children that still live in us all do not thoughtlessly hurt one another. For we are such tender things, even though we wear a stout looking shell for the world to see.
So how do you let loose the childish Pan and not shoot arrows into another with promise in your eyes? Perhaps it is in moments like these that the identities of the angels and demons on our shoulders shift. Perhaps in the standard day we are adults, plodding through work and social obligations while our wild children sit on our shoulder whispering to us of our needs. But then, on nights of the full moon, it is the wild children that can run free and barefoot in the grass, and it is the more sober angel of experience that cautions lest we run too far or trod on one another where we have taken a moment to lie down.
Let us not our feet be clumsy, or our hands thrust too firmly in the heartstrings of friends.
Thank you, Mr. Sills.
Goodnight, Gracie.
I fear May Day to come. Hundreds of years of tradition, more powerful than midsummer for it is a time of new beginnings. Of youth and age, of innocence and desires, of contrasts and opposites that will meld together in a storm of need and now. I have given up many such days. I don't think I can give up too many more in good conscience for taking care of all the parts of me.
Whitman is right. We are large. We contain multitudes. What does it matter then if there are contradictions? We have conscience. But we also have passion. Maybe each part of us weaves around the pole in the dance until the flimsy ribbons become something sturdy. Proud, and strong. And maybe we're not supposed to deny what we think and feel and want. Maybe our sole responsibility is to make sure that the wild children that still live in us all do not thoughtlessly hurt one another. For we are such tender things, even though we wear a stout looking shell for the world to see.
So how do you let loose the childish Pan and not shoot arrows into another with promise in your eyes? Perhaps it is in moments like these that the identities of the angels and demons on our shoulders shift. Perhaps in the standard day we are adults, plodding through work and social obligations while our wild children sit on our shoulder whispering to us of our needs. But then, on nights of the full moon, it is the wild children that can run free and barefoot in the grass, and it is the more sober angel of experience that cautions lest we run too far or trod on one another where we have taken a moment to lie down.
Let us not our feet be clumsy, or our hands thrust too firmly in the heartstrings of friends.
Thank you, Mr. Sills.
Goodnight, Gracie.
