A New York Minute

“Maybe I’m a Narcissist,” she laughs.
I split from my body, observing the night sky from a point just above my head. Moonbeams stream through the atmosphere with intent, as if sent by a deliberate celestial presence — a feminine entity, whose pale desire compels dense clouds to part, exposing the Earth. Under her intimate gaze, vast areas of forest glisten, and sparkle, and erupt. Moments pass, grey sky melts into itself, wisps of lunar electricity fade away into nothingness… but a memory lingers, a memory that alludes to forgotten promises, whispers unspoken suggestions, and dilutes the translucent boundary between reality and the imagined. My line of sight lowers to ground level, of its own accord, and I take in the immediate vicinity: a clearing in the woods. Oxygen saturates the clearing, impregnating sentient fauna with lucid, illusory textures — as if perceiving Far-Eastern scenery through fleeting glances and glass — while millions of microscopic pollen particles hang suspended mid-air, trembling with the uninhibited scents of a late-summers night. Lengthily breaths soothe hot throats, and nourish desolate hearts, leaving just the faintest taste of peppermint to tingle tongue tips — a nostalgic taste, conjuring distant memories that glow like meteors falling through the sky. The meteors disintegrate in a flash, sending white-hot specks of spacedust crashing down onto my bare skin, purging my psyche of the mundane with blinding sensations of pain. Midnight thickens, and though the environment appears calm, the stillness shimmers with hidden vitality: orchestras of organic articulation bellow from pools of shadow, producing a cacophonous swell that swallows all attempt at thought; its weaving chorus reverberates down into our cells till our Souls synchronise with the primordial echo and all is instantly silent. Perceptions shift inside the clearing, though the temperature remains the same. Felt from within, the forests breathless exhalations pass us like recollections, imparting only impressions; reminisces of a lover, lost. Imperceptible bodily motions send the delicate hairs on her supple skin and exposed limbs rippling through the ether, as if Wild Green Stones had been cast into a blue lake frozen in time. Soundlessly shattering material norms, the stones displace mountainous waves that sail like cosmic fever dreams across frictionless infinities in 3.14 dimensions — obliterating all preconceptions and calm and unleashing a geometric design so trigonometrically sublime logic ceases to explain🔺Only primal and violent urges and emotions tessellating in seminal ecstasy can genomicaly reanimatheoryalate conjungle déjà-visions of the cerebradelic psilopsychequation that will still Haunt me: M=Marie A=Ann: M🔺A = 1 + 10000 x 24 hrs

Her hut lies alone in the centre of the clearing: a plain wooden structure with an open veranda, raised on metre high stilts. Directly below my viewpoint, a tall, athletic man – me – sits on the wooden veranda, legs and bare feet dangling over the edge. A white cotton hammock hangs between the support columns of the veranda. It floats in front of him at chest height. The hammock is currently mid-swing. From my dissociated vantage point I make further observations.
He wears a black sleeveless shirt, and dark blue cargo shorts. Broad chest tapers into a svelte waist, with muscled arms and long lean legs – the body of an athlete. Dark blond hair slicked back, Viking style. Face covered with a wild, rusty beard. The cargo shorts have a well-worn look, like they’ve only ever been washed with rainwater, or in the sea.
My viewpoint shifts. I am now situated in the space between the man and the hammock, facing him, as if looking at my reflection in a large mirror. The change was instantaneous, like a camera shutter clicking. Of course, I did not consciously choose this new position. Neither did I choose the previous position. I was there, now I am here. That is all there is.
Piercing blue eyes stare straight at me – straight through me. Although I am directly in his line of sight, he is unable to see me, or detect my presence in any way. I am simply floating consciousness. A spiritual voyeur. Undetectable by the senses. His outstretched arms pass by on either side, rocking the hammock. Magnificent watercolour tattoos adorn the arms stretching past me: awesome waves and shooting stars and sea monsters and more, bright colours popping off his bone white skin like comic book panels. Each tattoo is imbued with profound meaning. Each was acquired after an experience of extreme hardship, or unrequited love. He wears them with immense pride, and longing, and sorrow.
I zoom in. His head fills my entire field of vision. From cheek to cheek, and forehead to chin, I make note of all the details. His blue eyes change shade dramatically, depending on the amount of sunlight absorbed throughout the day. A mysterious liquid mist churns in the pupils, like oceans of evaporated mercury. One pupil is heavily dilated – the other a pinprick. A mess of large, raw scars cruelly brands his left eyebrow. Lumpy, oddly thickened ears. He carries a tremendous amount of soft tissue damage for a man living alone in a rainforest on the far side of the world.
Rich red lips throb sensuously, and when drawn back white teeth flash and words of power and command burst forth, laughter sudden and loud as an explosion. He towers over most men in height, and towers over the rest with his presence. Many women have felt his rough touch, and grasped at his perfectly soft skin, whilst in the throes a powerful orgasm. Laying in bed afterwards, they often ask about the meaning behind his tattoos… but he never answers. Other times they ask what moisturiser he uses to keep his skin so soft, but his one word response is always, “none.” Then he sleeps.
The lean, muscled man sitting casually on the edge of the veranda in front of me looks like he cares more about his health than his image; looks like his relationships with women are intensely passionate – and violently unstable; looks like he would pick up a weapon to defend his country – looks like he would enjoy picking up a weapon to defend his country. The wild energy, the booming laughter and the joyous capacity for violence mark him as a man of the mountains, a two-legged beast obeying only the unspoken laws of nature – never the written laws of man.
The camera shutter clicks. My viewpoint now floats directly above the hammock, about 1 metre in the air. Her entire body is laid out below me. I can see her from head to toe without moving. Lying face up, she is reminiscent of a fairytale sleeping beauty. An image of crystalline perfection. Everything in the periphery of my vision begins to fade to black. She becomes the sole focus of my attention. I observe her for some time.
Magnificent burnt auburn hair borders her refined facial features, spilling over her shoulders and chest in a living, breathing flood of molten emotion containing every shade between red and brown imaginable.
Ghostly light catches her face at an angle, providing a depth of shadow, and highlighting flawless skin, and lending a continental European elegance to the Brooklyn born and bred way in which she composes herself.
Those green-grey eyes often gaze up and away towards the stars, as if being called to a faraway place, in another time, another dimension. Now, though, her attentions are focused at ground level, in the heat of the moment, and the thrill of the night.
Her gorgeous mouth is drawn back into a wide smile, and as she giggles at her little joke a subtle dance of light and shadow takes place, suffusing her skin with gentle silver flushes – a shifting array that illuminates the eyes of all men with an otherworldly fire.
Her slender body is layered from the chest down down in wafer-thin sheets of black satin and silk. Bare shoulders lead down slender arms to delicate hands that are clasped on top of her stomach as if in prayer. Her wrists are adorned with simple black and purple bands. Her beauty is physically painful to behold. Yet behold her beauty he does not. He stares straight over the hammock, across the clearing, and into the black forest beyond. His body is utterly still – he does not flinch, or twitch, or move at all. He does not laugh, he does not recognise her laughter. In fact, he does not display any sign of life whatsoever – just continues staring vacantly into the empty darkness.
As pure point of view I look down upon them. I can see everything with crystal clarity; I can sense the unspoken emotions in the air; I can even understand sensory experience like taste and smell. It is truly an Olympian vantage point. The only thing I do not fully understand, is how I ended up as pure point of view.

Continue reading the rest of A New York Minute below!

The majority of her tender, feminine bodyweight rests in the centre of the hammock. Although pushing the hammock from its centre of gravity would be the most logical thing to do, he never pushes the hammock from its centre of gravity. That would mean pushing against the weight of her body. Instead, he spreads his arms wide like the conductor of an orchestra and pushes the ends of the hammock. The only pressure she ever feels from his hands is through the ropes at the extremities of her body, like her shoulder and ankle area, or maybe her kneecap. These are very non-intimate body parts. You might say they are very ‘friendly’ body parts.
Maintaining this ‘conductor’ pose requires that he keep his body poised in a somewhat… frustrating position. He is never fully at ease in her presence. He can never quite get comfortable. He is never able to relax. His touch is cautious: open palms, fingers splayed. Careful not to let a single fingertip slip through the gaps in the rope. The white ropes feel satisfyingly coarse, like scratching stubble. As I take in this scene from above, a strange thought begins to take form in the field of my consciousness. The thought is this: there seems to be an invisible, intangible ‘thing’ preventing the two of them from becoming intimate in each others presence — as if a wafer-thin sheet of glass separates them, presenting an insurmountable physical barrier.
But there is a real emotional warmth between the man and the woman. They are comfortable in each others presence — that much is obvious. While the no-touching nature of their relationship may seem odd at first, it is truly the perfect fit for both of them. Neither of them would have it any other way. The simple reason for the physical distance is that they both decided on the very first date that it was the best course of action for the future of their relationship. After discussing the devastating heart-break both had recently suffered, and after factoring into account their personal life circumstances, it came as no surprise that they choose not to engage with each other on a physical level. Which is okay, because they still function as a perfectly loving couple. They support each other, they care for each other, they have each others back. And they do make physical contact from time to time. He hugs her briefly when he sees her; she places her hands on his hipbones for stability when they ride the motorbike together; he even tucks her into bed at night. After making sure she is safe and sound under the duvet, he turns out the light, exits her bedroom and soundlessly closes the front door, leaving her to drift off into gentle mysterious dreams, alone.
All things considered, the distance between them is very slight. Almost not even there, like a disagreement on where to eat for dinner. And, although he is a man, with all of the supposed ‘needs’ of a man, their private arrangement suits him perfectly. He is wise enough to know that True Energetic Connection, like they obviously share, is so rare in the modern world, that patriarchal relationship standards such as physical intimacy and five-year age differences fade into the distant background, for Love conquers all. So, in this unconventional and somewhat awkward situation, occurring between a man and a woman sitting on the porch of a hut in a land beyond borders, time progresses, the forcefield perpetuates, and the gentle swaying motion of the hammock is the only movement detectable.

*

On the afternoon of our very first date we were sitting beside each other in a beautiful café, with friendly staff, talking for a little while over hot drinks, and sharing a slice of cake that tasted far too sweet, like a pile of vanilla foam. She was dressed like a hippie witch — lots of flowing black clothing, with plenty of skin showing. I was wearing a white muscle-hugging t-shirt, and my de facto blue-stained shorts. Indoors, we were both barefoot.
“Listen,” she commanded, “I’m not going to have sex with you. I’m letting you know now that I’m not here for that, and I’m not interested in it. I just ended a long-term relationship with an incredible man, and I came to this village on holiday for deeply personal reasons. That means I’m not at a point in my life where I’m ready to physically engage with you, or anyone else,” she told me straight, out of nowhere.
“I understand, no problem,” I replied. I should have stood up and walked out immediately. But there was nothing else going on in my life. I made polite conversation until our drinks were finished, then picked up the cheque and headed for the exit. Gripping the vertical metal handle of the glass front door with my left hand, I pulled the door open wide, and stepped from the air-conditioned café interior into the scorching midday heat. I found myself on the side of a road in a South East Asian countryside shantytown. A dry and dusty place, but full of charm, like an antique store run by an eccentric young spinster. Running along both sides of the road was a continuous stream of alternating 1 and 2 story buildings made of old wood, with corrugated iron roofs, and awnings. A few locals were walking up and down the road, holding black umbrellas to protect from the sunlight.
The sun was directly over head, beating down onto the black asphalt. Bright light reflected off parked cars, causing glare. After the chill interior of the air-conditioned café, my lungs felt filled with empty heat. A dry heat, like brown paper being baked in an oven. The high-pitched whine of a motorbike engine blared somewhere nearby, mellowing to a deeper rumble as it accelerated further away into the distance. Squinting through a curtain of eyelashes, I took a step, and then another, until I was strolling down the empty road towards my blue motorbike. I gazed down at my feet while walking, to avoid the glare of the sun. There was almost no shadow. My sandals slapped gently on the asphalt. I reached into my pocket, wrapped my fingers around the familiar shape of my motorbike key, then glanced upwards and sunlight flashed off the exhaust pipe of my motorbike, blinding me. I stopped for a second to catch my breath, then resumed my stroll, quicker this time. The sound of the distant motorbike engine rumbled off in the mountains, like a pressure headache.
When I reached my motorbike, I turned around to say goodbye and suddenly we were looking right into each others eyes. She was smiling wide. So was I. Her slim, athletic figure stood in stark contrast to the hazy surroundings, like a sun-kissed tan indoors. Bare legs and healthy thighs supported a taut, well-formed waist, with an ample chest her crowning feature. Our bodies were slowly drawing closer together. The distance between us seemed ready to combust. Any lingering traces of negativity from the conversation inside the café were instantly forgotten. That one lengthily moment of eye contact had reminded me of the blatantly obvious: we were two wild and sexy city-born country-called old-Souls with nothing to do and nowhere to be other than exploring this tropical mountain paradise in each others company, and so, with that thought in mind I jumped on my bike and kicked the stand and turned the key in the ignition, then she jumped on the back and placed her hands on my waist to let me know she was ready to go, at which point I smoothly accelerated out of there. No helmets, never. Nothing to hold us back, ever.

*

An engorged Sun hung just over the horizon, heavily, its light sinking slowly into the unseen distance. A fan in the corner of the veranda traced lazy arcs back and forth, casting effortless currents of cool air that soothed our gently toasted skin, and repelled stray mosquitos, ensuring the space between us was kept completely clear — a space where compassion could emerge. Haunting music began to flow from my portable speaker: Thievery Corporations’ “Lebanese Blonde.” The music rose suggestively into the space between twilight and dusk, enveloping me in its intoxicating rhythm like a sultry smoker exhaling thin streams of jasmine and spice scented cigarette smoke vis-à-vis a supremely composed corporate executive, while sitting over Manhattans in a hazy vintage speakeasy.
Late-evenings failing light lent her profile a fadeaway softness; which presented a compelling illusion when juxtaposed against her impersonal demeanour. Infinitely deep shades of burnt red and auburn brown hair bordered her lovely face like theatre curtains, cascading down her slender shoulders like a black-hole supernova. Sitting on the porch in her wooden chair, adorned in black flowing garments and surrounded on all sides by dense wilderness, she seemed to be both part of the woods, and of the shadows.
We had spent a long day together; climbing waterfalls barefoot, eating in exotic open-air restaurants, and driving at screaming high speeds all across the countryside. Now though, we rested in wooden chairs, at opposite ends of the porch, wordlessly gazing past each other into the trees, comforted by the knowledge that we shared equally broken hearts. A cloud of insects drifted across the clearing, and seemed to hang on the border of the forest for an eternity, before being absorbed by the trees, and their numberless leaves. We exchanged shy glances, and made fleeting eye-contact from time to time, before turning our attentions back to the clearing, and into the dark forest beyond. A profound need for deep conversation and intimate human connection was growing inside the two of us like hunger. She was probably waiting for me to make the first move. Patience. The shadows on the porch grew longer. The gloom deepened. In that darkness our Souls found a place for self-expression. And the conversation began.
I broke the silence by telling her a little nonsense about myself, before turning the conversational spotlight back on her, so I could gather more intel about her personal circumstances. She must have been lonely and vulnerable, because when she began speaking it was to tell me about her ex-boyfriend Winston, and the wondrous relationship they had shared together. They had spent many magical years together, building a carefully constructed relationship based on mutual values of trust and respect, but they decided to part ways last Summer, when they felt their growth as individuals taper off. Once upon a time they had travelled to this homely village together on a holiday. All these years later she had returned alone, to find herself in the aftermath of their breakup.
All of that emotional baggage was why she wasn’t looking for another relationship, she related — and definitely nothing physical, she reiterated — but she really enjoyed the time we spent together, confessed to feeling an intense energetic connection with me, and admitted that at another time there might have been something ‘more’ between us… but she was only on holiday for three more weeks, so there wouldn’t be. A hard silence hung in the air. She sat in her chair without moving, or speaking, or blinking, staring straight at me. Straight through me. The blunt acknowledgement of sexual rejection set over me like depression. I began ruminating on the fine memories of all the beautiful women I had conquered since my separation.
Many women had fallen for my charms in the last year: dark-skinned women, large-breasted women, CrossFitters etc. Like a well-oiled machine I would spot a target, initiate small talk, and shortly afterwards acquire a phone number. In the following days I would bring my sexy new fling out to a high-class restaurant for a smoking hot date. The same restaurant every time, down by the beach. Over the course of a pleasant evening me and my new date would get to know one another, whilst eating spicy chicken noodles, and drinking a little beer, or wine. A piano would be playing softly in the background, as the refreshing scent of the tide at the end of a hot day enveloped our table. Other couples would be dining together, quietly, the gentle clink of cutlery slicing into freshly baked fish complementing the piano, and the ocean. After getting drunk, the girls usually wanted to go back to my place, and I generally granted their wish. In my villa there would always be more alcohol, and kissing, groping, stripping, fingering. Then we would climb into bed together. But it never went any further than that, because for some reason I couldn’t seal the deal. I couldn’t fuck them. It was humiliating. No matter how many tactics I tried, nor how much I thought about it, I couldn’t figure out what was going wrong. Lies.

*

The last remnants of day were dragged from the Earth. Half the sky was black, the other half dark blue and deep purple, like thick bruising. Billions of silver white candlelights provided just enough light to see by. In gloom, the mood diffused like blood in water, and the conversation continued. With my heart cracking, and my voice steady, I began telling her about my previous relationship: how special it had been, how it had also ended one year prior, and how I felt exactly the same way about my former partner as she did about hers. She sat regally in her chair, never breaking eye-contact, gesturing for me to continue with small motions of her hand. Since breaking up with the love of my life I had thrown myself headfirst into my work. My career had taken off, leading me to the biggest stages in the world, but leaving me half-dead in the process. Broken in body, mind and Soul I began to travel, in search of something ‘more,’ something greater than myself. While on the road, I was sitting in a restaurant eating some chicken noodle soup when I met some backpackers floating around the Banana-Pancake trail. We got talking, and I went down to the river to help them fix their paddle boat. Before they left to set sail down the river they mentioned a hidden village set deep in the mountains to the North of the country. A place virtually untouched by civilization. A place that couldn’t be found on Google Maps inhabited only by Spirit Travelers, Vegans, and the laid-back locals — who spoke good English!

“I was wondering how you found this place,” she said.

“International Man Of Mystery,” I responded, slickly. Chicks love that shit.

Her lip curled very slightly-almost imperceptibly-as if trying to hide a smirk. But I see everything.

I continued with my tale.

“The backpackers gave me a map with the directions, but warned me about the road leading through the mountains to get to the village. They said the road was long and dangerous, and many people had died over the years trying to navigate it. I thought they were bullshitting, because of the beer-cans in their hands, and the fact that they were hippies, but they were right. I didn’t know a road could be that dangerous. I nearly crashed multiple times, and slid out twice.”

I held out both of my arms in front of me, and turned my palms upwards to show my still scraped up forearms, then shifted position in my chair and presented a long shiny burn scar on the side of my calf, where my leg got trapped between the exhaust pipe and the road.

“Ohh, that looks painful,” she cooed sympathetically — but she was grinning devilishly.

Offended by her lack of empathy — not — I asked her how she arrived.

“I took a minivan,” she told me. “Everyone knows minivans are the safest way to get through the mountains… and the smartest,” she added sarcastically. “The same driver brought me and Winston last time. But it did take most of the day to get here,” she admitted, “and I felt a bit car-sick as well.”

“Seriously,” I responded. “It took me three hours to get here. Max.”

She threw her head back and laughed delightedly. Still smiling, she wiped tears of mirth from her eyes with her two little fingers. Making bright eye-contact with me from across the porch, she gestured with her hand for me to continue.

“Since arriving in Paradise,” I told her, “I had basically spent the last 30 days lying on a mattress in my hut, only leaving to pick up street food. A hot date. One day I was just feeling a little better, walked into town for the first time, saw you — and the rest is history,” I added romantically. I told her that I thought our day together had been incredible, and that I also felt the same intense energetic connection between us, but I made it explicitly clear that I was interested in her not just as a friend, but also sexually.

She didn’t flinch. Her eyes betrayed nothing; delicate hands rested casually on the arms of her wooden chair. She moved her gaze over my shoulder, observing that dark forest with an unreadable expression. We talked for a little while longer. She reiterated her previous standpoint. I reiterated mine. The conversation continued on in this fashion for some time. Inevitably however, out conversation came to its natural conclusion, at which point she asked me straight, “are you sure you’re comfortable spending the next three weeks together, after everything I just told you, and knowing one hundred percent that we will just be friends?”

I sat erect in my chair, head poised like an animal sensing threat, carefully considering all my options and counter-options with a sense of doomed inevitability.

“It’ll be hard not being your boyfriend, because I think you’re really beautiful, and I do like you in that way,” at which point I paused — and the moment last a very long time — “but I appreciate your honesty, I completely understand things from your perspective, and I’m genuinely happy just being your friend.” I would have said anything to do something with somebody.

*

Shortly after our conversation on the porch concluded, we decided to go for a drive. While I searched my keys, she packed her Fire Dart, some fuel and a lighter into a black drawstring bag. Then she passed the bag to me, to put under the seat of the motorbike. Once everything was secure I climbed on the bike, kicked the stand, and turned the key in the ignition, then she jumped on the back and put her hands on my waist to let me know she was ready to go, at which point I smoothly accelerated out of the clearing, and onto a path straight through the forest. Giving directions from the backseat, she led me down dark roads. Ancient trees closed in on all sides. The white headlight illuminated the dirt trail directly ahead of us. We ducked out heads to avoid overhanging branches. The headlight beam shuddered whenever we drove over bumps in the road, casting mad shadows into the wilderness. Her grip on my hips tightened every time this happened. How long we rode for I will never know, but after many miles the dense foliage began to thin, until we left the forest and the road behind, and found ourselves driving straight across a large, grassy field. It was in the centre of this field that she showed me what a woman becomes, when she becomes Wild.

*

We lay in the field after she finished burning, a little distance from her equipment. The Universe spread out before us. A perfectly still night. Uncounted stars shone above, speckled across the night sky. Springy grass carried a chill, and the addictive smell of kerosene wafted from her hair. Her loud breathing was all I could hear.

“That was beyond belief,” I said, “unlike anything I’ve ever seen or experienced.”

She turned her head and looked at me, smiling dreamily. A sheen of perspiration coated her forehead, and long dark strands of red hair lay pasted across her face. Dry blades of grass brushed at her cheek.

“Thank you, I feel so alive here. Back home there’s nowhere to burn. Anything to do with ‘fire’ is totally illegal in the city, there’s laws against everything, and the neighbours will call the cops for any dumb mothafuckin’ reason. So what me and my friends do is, every month, we go camping Upstate, and spend a weekend burning, getting stoned, and, of course, tripping on mushrooms,” she said with a sexy smile.

As she spoke, time began to slow, then ceased altogether. I concentrated on her soft mouth and lips parting and closing as she enunciated each individual syllable in those seductive Brooklyn tones. I didn’t want to miss a word. I wanted to remember everything she said, forever.

“But here it’s different. I can burn wherever I want… just find an open space, light a match and go. There’s no cops, no laws, no rules… my Soul finally feels free and I’m just in flow.”

As she released that final word, her body visibly relaxed, taut muscles melting into the earth.

“Actually, I was on my way back from a fireshow when you asked me out for coffee that first time. By the way, thank you for all the kind words, I’m really flattered. Did you really mean everything you said?”

Her voice gave out a little as she asked the question, as if she was scared of what I might say.

“I couldn’t lie even if I wanted to,” I replied, “the way you burn is everything and more and more than that again. It’s like your spirit rose to the surface before my very eyes, and each individual movement was a self-contained perfection. The fire seemed to be a natural extension of your limbs, and you were alive in a way I’ve rarely seen in anyone ever. Whether you possessed the fire, or the fire possessed you, I still can’t tell. Either way I couldn’t believe what was happening before of my eyes. It was mind-blowing. You’re really amazing. Did you practise that routine? It was spectacular! I just want to see it again. When’s your next fireshow?”

She let out a tinkling little giggle, and the night sky seemed to vibrate and shimmer. I felt my skin grow very sensitive; fuzzy hairs like billions of little lightning rods capturing all of her playful energy and shooting it straight to my heart.

“No I don’t practise, I just go where the music takes me. I barely remember anything when I’m burning, I’m just in flow,” she related. “Of course you can come and watch me perform. I’d love if you did that… and afterwards, could you give me more of your words? You really have a way with them.” She rolled onto her shoulder. Her hands rested under her ear, as if in prayer. Casual strands of red hair fell across her cheek and nose down to the grass. Smiling prettily, she removed her hand from beneath her head, tucked the loose hair behind her ear with the tips of her two front fingers, then replaced her hand and lay her head back down.

“Of course I’ll come and watch you perform,” I responded in a smooth, deep tone of voice.

She smiled at me with genuine excitement.

There was silence for a little while.

“It’s weird,” she ventured, “me and my ex were together for years, but he never saw me the way you do. We only met a few hours ago, but you already see how important burning is to me. You understand.”

“Of course I understand. Burning is who you are at your most fundamental level. It’s as obvious as night and day. How could I not see it?”

She stared quietly into the stars.

“When’s the next fireshow?” I asked.

“There’s two fireshows in town. Carnival is up in the mountains, that’s where I go.”

“What’s the other one called?”

“Paradiso.”

“Where’s that?”

“On the other side of town.”

“Hey wait a second, I think I ended up there last week by accident. I was driving around on my motorbike and somehow I ended up in a commune full of backpackers and vegans at a poetry and live-music jam. After the jam I was wandering around the compound and came across a load of people dressed in black all burning just like you, but with different fire toys. I only saw the last two minutes of their performance, but it looked pretty impressive.”

“Whatever,” she cut across me impatiently. Her Brooklyn accent thickened whenever this happened. I found that very attractive. “They practise as a group a few times a week,” she continued, “and they do the same routine every time they perform. I burned with them a few times,” she said, “but it’s too contained, there’s no freedom, there’s no flow.”

Her lip drew back on one side in mild contempt, showing a canine, and a few side teeth. I found that very attractive as well.

“To be fair,” I laughed, “after watching how you burn, I don’t think anyone within ten metres would be safe! Honestly though, Paradiso sounds more like my type of show. I enjoy the technical aspect of my sport, practising the movements and making them perfect. Getting the basics down, then adding the theatrics and so on. Paradiso sounds more like my style.”

“Well you’re more than welcome to go there, but I’ll be at Carnival.”

She turned her head and rolled away from me.

“Fair enough, fuck Paradiso” I conceded with a wry smile. Daddys girl. “When is Carnival on next?”

“Friday.”

“What day is it today?”

“Time’s an illusion,” she responded, seriously.

“Fair enough,” I laughed.

She rolled to face me again, gazing into my eyes from close range.

“So how about more of your words?” she inquired.

“Well… you could convince me to shower you with an unending stream of glorious adulation,” I said, “or you could burn again, and I could be inspired.”

“Deal.”

She had that look in her eye.

*

Our magical first date had seamlessly blended into a second, and then a third, without any apparent break in the rhythm. Every day brought new adventures, the meals were mouthwatering, and our laughter was endless. As the sun set, night fell, and we would go to secret places. Places no light could enter, places we could never find again. In the heart of that darkness her fire would burn brightest, then burn no more, and she would lay spent amidst the silence, the glass kerosene containers and the constellations. Yet even then her black majick was fast at work, inspiring me, possessing me.
With my eyes on fire, and Soul in flow, our hearts would touch, and the love would grow… and grow and grow until glorious words of affirmation poured from my open mouth like honey in the month of May. Shifting slightly, her breath would come heavy, and her skin would flush, effeminate scents rising from her naked limbs in provocative waves. In those private moments my senses would reach such heightened states of arousal I could almost hear her thoughts — thoughts that were surely of me. Me.
When, finally I had finished speaking, and the only sound was the sound of silence filling our ears like white puffs of cotton, her soft lips would slowly part and say sweet things like, “I love it when you talk to me like that David. It is known among the women who run with wolves that the Universe waits for no-one, and when the planets eventually re-align there will be a long season of love and fortune, and hope and calm. Thank you David for everything you do for me. Thank for your generosity, and your honesty and your kindness, and thank you for just being here with me David.” Finally her green-grey eyes would open. And stare into mine. Straight in.
She would then rise, phoenix-like, amidst the ashes of our love, and the night would light once more.
With midnight fast approaching, we would return to the safety of the porch, and stay awake until unimaginably late hours, while she swayed back and forth in the hammock like a feather. I even told my mom about us on the phone…
Long dormant feelings were stirring in the very depths of me, as if monstrous leviathans had been roused from an ancient slumber. Every time she burned the beasts would surface to feel her heat, and the empty night sky would resonate with their cry — a Soul-wrenching lament that spoke of the longing and the pain and the passion in the deepest recesses of my heart and Soul, and when all was calm, and silence had finally descended, she would smile, and tell me that my words of praise were “inspiring,” before insisting on more.
The tender memories of our timeless nights on the porch would survive eternity — those noble liaisons, where I ensured she was perpetually amused, while I rocked the hammock endlessly through the night, and made sure every inch of her skin was covered by blankets, as she listened to her music on my speaker, and ate all the snacks I brought, before I went home alone.
The great honour of being her personal chauffeur, paying for all of the food on our ‘dates’, and rocking her in the hammock long past the point of physical exhaustion was almost more than I could bear.
Finding this broken-hearted beauty wandering through the mountains of a foreign land had been the sweetest blessing, because now I had a virginal thirty-something year old to adore while I longed for the single embrace I needed so badly in return — but my needs didn’t matter, because she had been wholeheartedly open about her boundaries since the beginning, and I had such respect for her agency that I had willingly chosen to meet all of her material and emotional needs in return for nothing; I had willingly chosen to exist in a state of constant physical rejection, as she told me over and over again that “no one could ever compare” to her “incredible ex;” I had willingly chosen to lie under the blankets beside her, and have to wait hours for my erections to subside before I could stand up, go home alone, and masturbate; I had willingly chosen to swallow every humiliation without a fight because I enjoyed having beautiful company and I enjoyed people staring at us together and I enjoyed the attention she gave me and… I wanted her body. Hadn’t learned my fucking lesson yet. Whatever, those were my thoughts. Agendas. What about her? What was she thinking? Everything seemed to have fallen just a bit too perfectly into place for Little Miss Innocence. Maybe she wasn’t so innocent after all. Maybe this was just a game. Maybe she knows.

*

I plunge back down into my skull, like an anchor to the sea floor. Observing the scene from behind blue eyes, I’m confronted by a sick and twisted display. Our clearing is full of misshapen objects, with strangely fractured edges and surfaces corrupted by an unforgiving light — emanating from within. Encased in the hammock her body contorts like a dying spider, her giggles mutate to a shrill cackle, and her beautiful face twists into a ghoulish mask. The tension in my jaw releases, and my head turns to the right of its own accord, leaving me staring vacantly at the end of the hammock, and into the space beyond. A very terrible inner-silence comes to pass in the cavernous void where my ‘safe place’ used to reside. As the third second since she first made her little “Narcissist” joke reaches its conclusion, my sense of reality has come into question, and I realise that she caused this to happen. She fucked with my mind.

“No.”

Emerging as a guttural moan from deep inside my chest the single syllable “no” extends on and on and rises all the while attaining its zenith as a strangled cry halfway between a choke and a squeal that penetrates straight through the base of my skull thereafter endlessly oscillating through the darkened empty corridors of my mind like trauma. My eyes violently shut, and bright colours swirl in the darkness, as I drown in my own consciousness.

***

Dear reader, to describe the feeling of what occurred inside my mind over the next 15–25 minutes I would have to use the written word — by definition an inadequate tool to convey an experience. Because what is a word but a photograph of an idea. But, just because the reader was not there, in the moment, does not mean that he or she cannot not attempt to feel what the experience originally felt like, or that it is an unworthy venture. In fact reading could be seen as a unique experience in and of itself, especially as the author goes to great lengths to convey the experience. Describing an emotion might seem fruitless at first, or make seem it like a ghost experience. A hollow empty shell. But it’s not, because reading is an experience of it’s own. It’s an appreciation of a moment of emotional beauty. It’s art. The artistic experience is in and of itself an experience. Unique. Wholesome. And worth feeling.

***

The winding mountain road passes quickly, rising and falling in disorientating ways. Dark trees grasp at the night sky on both sides of the road. Their branches spread wide, creating a canopy of leaves that totally blocks out the sky. The black tarmacadam is illuminated only by the headlight of my motorbike. The yellow centre line of the road is a constant in the small pool of light. As I drive through this ocean of shadow, shades of the most profound black overwhelm my eyes, leaving me without point of reference or perception of depth — only the yellow centre line of the road rushing by keeps me from floating out of my own skull, and smashing into the abyss.
In the solitude of the countryside, the high-pitched full-speed whirr of the motorbikes engine is an alien sound. As I drive around bends, my headlight beam swoops across the trees standing guard at the side of the road. Focusing my attention on this beam of light — as I subconsciously manoeuvre the bike with the weight of my body — numberless silhouettes draw into focus to fall away, like a portrait continually revealing its beauty, leading me ever closer to truth.
The journey back to my hut continues. The road straightens. The driving becomes smoother. After some time, I begin to notice an ethereal, gossamer resin adhering to the tips of the leaves brushing past my cheeks — a ghostly substance, loaded with the promise of otherworldly happenings. This phantom illumination becomes more pronounced as I drive, sticking to everything all around me like a glittering quicksilver membrane — sticking to my hands, and my motorbike, and the loose strands of hair hanging in front of my eyes. I continue driving, top speed. Suddenly the canopy of leaves and branches disappears, and I leave the mountain and the forest behind. A clear night sky bears down upon my journey once more. The season is still late-summer, but the night air contains a distinct something other. Fields pass by on either side. The road extends straight for many miles. The date could be tomorrow, or yesterday. The wind buffets past my head, deafeningly loud — but I can’t hear the noise, or feel the wind, or even remember which country I’m in. But I’m nearly home. It’s time to sleep. My mind is washed, and my body is wired, and directly above me, almost filling the sky, the Moon shines brighter than she ever has before.

— —— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

🔺Get Your Kindle Copy Of A New York Minute, And Read Wherever You Are Travelling: https://www.amazon.co.uk/New-York-Minute-David-Carthy-ebook/dp/B0BSP3C648🔺

✍🏻🔥Introducing SOUL FLOW, the Digital Communiverse of “A New York Minute”🔥

✨A place to Celebrate the Divine Feminine in all her Forms.✨

💕Explore Love without Forms, Shapeless, Eternal and Neverending and Know that You’re never alone💕

🌬🤍Because We are all One🤍