Ephemeral Ecstasy

In the night, when your loins burn a fiery passion, it sears every fibre of your self; within it courses through the veins and arteries like a demon seeking satiation from without. I am consumed by this eidolon; every waking moment of my life I am consumed by ephemeral ecstasy.

I touch my self and run my hands ever lower, ever deeper into that volatile state of combustion. Just one more voice... one more mouth... one more hand. One more... always just that... another Other igniting a furnace of their own to warm my face.

I hate it. I detest myself. I am everything that I loathe. Yet... yet it's the same. Every night my body haunts me; taunts me with lascivious yearnings that whisper promises of fulfillment. Promises that waft in the air like old, aristocratic perfume, rich with the scent of flowers and spices.

Come thither... the boys hear me; the men leer at me; the old envy me; the weak possess me. Come thither again... the boys desire always; the men thrash my body; the old salivate and pay; the weak become strong.

A moan... moaning... and the clock chimes within. The spell is broken. All that was is lost. Take your mouth from me! Your nauseating perfume is poisonous to breathe. Who are you? Why are you here? He heaves like a beast and wraps his sticky arms around you. The hair on his chest, no longer tickling, scratches like briers against chaffed skin. I unwrap myself from the stench of his desperate release - from my own desperate release.

I turn my head with my back against his silhouette. I offer a brief, heartless smile and said, "thanks". I run to the bathroom and scour my body in hot water. I scrub every inch, afraid of being contaminated. Where's the disinfectant? Never mind. You dirty little bitch. Water caresses my face like acid rain. It feels good. I'm being cleansed by fire.

I sleep. I wake.. I dream... and darkness comes again.

In the night, when your loins burn a fiery passion, it sears every fibre of your self; within it courses through the veins and arteries like a demon seeking satiation from without. I am consumed by this eidolon; every waking moment of my life I am consumed by ephemeral ecstasy.

Rome

Russell and I have taken a journey around Europe. Today we are in Barcelona and yesterday we were in Rome. We are both extremely exhausted from this journey but the sights have been amazing to say the least.

Rome was not my cup of tea. Perhaps it was because we had only two days to tour the entire city and there was just so much to engulf. The capital of Italy was ravished by historical monuments and by tourists from the four corners of the world. Again, just as it was in Venice, gargantuan palaces, piazzas and tableux of gods and mortal sins aligned every wall and pillar. Sculptures of lions and gargoyles rested claws on the precipice of belled towers and turrets that announced their spendour and incomprehensibility to all except historians of the old civilisation. As awed as we were to the mighty city of the Roman empire, we were also suffocated by its grandeur.

It was around 7pm when we were travelling to the Spanish Steps. Tourists and locals walked with religious zeal and commitment to another antiquated monument. For the first time in my life, I felt insignificant. From an aerial view, we were nothing more than a massive clutter of bodiless heads; we were floating debris along the canal of cobbled stones. As the ageless, parapet of steps loomed closer, the debris of heads materialised like small automatons onto grey, cracked stairs. Teenagers ambulated into a tiny corner to avoid the updraft of winter wind, grandmothers and grandfathers resigned to the cries of swollen feet and just sat, while the committed tourists - such as ourselves - drove upward until the we could see the veins of the city tangled with tourists infected with nostalgic fever.

Bright lights from street lamps to oppulent designer boutiques faught against the sleepy, encumbering night. A force of adrenaline washed over every person and forced even the disabled to hobble onward; always onward through the heady madness of Rome. Blistered ankles and toes bled through the Via Del Corso, which silently and indignantly supported the signposts of Salvatore Ferragamo, Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Prada and Giorgio Armani. Small coffee shops and restaurants snuggled into the cornerstones of ancient buildings, always ready to make space for commercialism. Then you would see, in small alleyways, tourists taking a break and watching the slow migration of the masses with a cappucino in hand. While satiating parched throats and comforting sore legs, these tourists were detached and watched with humour at the herd of faceless and mindless folks.

We went back to (presumably) one of the most famous cafes in the world that opened just around the corner of the also most famous monument called The Pantheon. Symbolically, I ended the journey of Rome with a cafe de la creme. We sat along one of the countless arteries of the Roman city and I tasted an exceptionally expensive 6 Euro drink that Russell bought. That one coffee had so much flavour condensed into a cup, one simply had to swallow it in a gulp.

Venice

On the marble steps and cobbled plaza of St. Marco, pigeons flew everywhere. Small insignificant tourists and locals crowded around the colony of birds hovering, jumping, landing, perching and pecking on the very heart of Venice.

Russell and I arrived in Venice yesterday and are about to depart tomorrow evening. Time is short and we consumed the city ravenously. The veins of the antiquated, dilapidated city converged into the South Eastern region of the map. From the delightful hotel of Antiche Figure we passed through bridge to Chieza Degli Scatzi where the friars were, and still are, known to be the bare-footed priests. Through many convoluted alleys along Canal Grande and across 9 bridges, we made it to the scintillating St. Marco Piazza enveloped like a lover by the Procuratie Nuove, the Chiesa St. Marco and the Palazzo Ducale.

Venice, unlike any other city, relishes in excess, paradoxes and gloats in its carnivesque history. In the past of this very square, plague doctors, virginal whores, transvestite courtesans, impoverished kings and harlequins wore bird masks and porcelaine faces as they anonymously paraded the grounds. In antiquity, the stones of St Marco Piazza welcomed the fools of nature as every trumpet and shout, every gleeful scream and lascivious laughter reverberated the stones of each pillar and walkway. In the City of Masks and endless carnival, Venice epitomised the force of creation, livery and madness.

In our headiness we found a seat on the endless steps of the plaza. Mozart played in the distance as the violin and cello hummed to blue skies and enchanted tourists. The Church of St. Marco bathed below warm sun as its gold plated, fresco walls pulsed to the heart beat of Venice. Children delighted at the bold and hungry pigeons that swarmed their little fairy feet. Wives and husbands, old folks and couples of every kind cupped hands and stole little kisses within the grand barricade of gold and dilapidated plaster. My eyes were spellbound to this one moment in time.

I have fallen deeply and incongrously into the trap of romanticism. I know. I know. But there is that part of me that is steeped within the facetiousness of Europe; that fantasy of utter abandonment to un-reality; this one carnivalesque place that has edged the contours of my spirit forever. I am magically embodied in Venice. Here I will stay always.