if you wish for me to keep writing here.
I have now four blogs. With so many it is difficult to give my best writing to all.
So, I look and I see this is not so many people visit. I will stop writing here for now.
Please, tell me if you wish for me keep writing here then I will.
Thank you for reading what I write here before. Maybe we meet here again.
If you wish you may also email me – prettyyumi@gmail.com
Yumi xxxx
(Still writing Yumi’s Loft and Sweet Butterfly in Sky)
Early Monday morning. My lover has left before the light of the day has come into our bedroom. Six-thirty am. Breakfast meeting. Urgent. Her lips on mine then gone. Perfume. Kenzo. Flowers. Pretty.
The door of our apartment. Click. Locked.
Return to my dream.
Gliding in the sky. I float on my back. It is morningtime and all of the clouds are fluffy and white and the light is soft on my body. Far below is the end of the city. The forest begins here. Trees are tall and dark green like swaying giants with the breeze. But even they are far below and small under the limitless sky of pale and pretty blue.
I breathe. Even and low. My mind is empty of thought and my eyes are filled with the beauty of the vast azure umbrella above. Winds, so light, move me up and down. I am an infant carried in tender arms, stroked all over first by tiny wafts then sudden flurries and the feintest of caresses.
This feeling of freedom without limit, carried without fear or care, brings many different sensations all at once. I glide deeper into sleep while my body feels excited. Tears roll along and down my face now that I understand truly what wonder is like. Now I understand what perfection feels like. I cry as I float so high above the forest. It is not a cry of joy or pain or sadness. It is all of these and more that I cannot give words to. I gasp for breath in the arms of the most beauty I have ever known. I grow hot. My whole body flushes. And I cry. If this is paradise then I want it to be with me forever. It must never end.
This is a mixture. A little of the feeling I have when I look into my Toshiko’s eyes. A little of the feeling of my favorite ice cream on my tongue. A tiny bit of the feeling I have when I pee, that thrill and tickle. A little of the feeling of standing on a mountain with the world spread out below. It is so many things this feeling. It is a thing you cannot say. You can only feel it. And when you do you will cry too.
When I wake the light in the room is stronger. Only thirty minutes have passed. It feels like I was flying for many hours or many days. Time was not there in the sky of my dream. No covers are on the bed now. I am a little sweaty, just a very little. One hand is across my belly and the other lies, fingers wet and tired, upon my kitty.
So beautiful dream is sad to end. I stayed there and I did not move for many minutes more. I did not sleep again but I closed my eyes and saw a little of that glorious blue. Tonight I will seek that blue once more.
(Thank you V. again. You find beautiful words in English for my own not so good words. I must study harder. *kisses*)
(Thank you V for your beautiful translation of my ordinary English – kisses)
A field. Not endless but vast. It has been raining but it has stopped. I kneel on the grass and the smell of wetness in the soil makes my senses fill.
Far away from tall buildings and horns and sirens and voices shouting this field is my whole world for now.
A stone, not very small but not so big either, lies less than a meter away. I reach out and touch it. It is a little wet. Damp. But warm with the morning air. My hand moves slowly over the stone. It is not smooth as stones can be. It is not rough as stones can be. It is both together. My skin moves slowly over the stone. It glides and then it catches for a fraction of a moment then it glides free once more. The stone is gentle under my hand. But. It has strength. If I rub my hand hard across its face and fast, my skin will grow hot and it will tear and bleed. It is like a lover in this way. A touch too long or too fast or too hard can bring sadness to the skin.
A tongue too long or too hard stops being silken and tears like the tongue of a cat.
This field and this stone and this damp grass are like the gentle lover who stays a short time at one place, not long enough to tear.
A shower of rain falls. The drops are big but soft. The pat pat pat of drops collide with the earth and explode in cool smaller showers over the grass and the wet soil and my body and hair. Tiny slow streams run down my face, down my breasts and gather at my nipples, then drop through space to wash across my kneeling thighs.
Naked in a vast field, showered with cold drops that shock so slightly with first contact from the sky so far above, I am not a kneeling woman anymore. I am a stone, standing in nature and slowly wearing away with the years as they slowly, piece by piece take me back into the earth to be one with all that surrounds me.
I tilt my head back and open my mouth. The drops bounce off my lips and my teeth and break up and flow slowly inside to nourish and refresh me. And then I let myself fall back onto the wet wet grass. I lie flat with my arms and legs wide and I feel the cold drops patter patter patter over my body. Surrendering to the rain and the cooler and cooler breeze, now a wind, the world of artificial things disappears. Everything is concentrated on my body as a part of all nature around me. The tapping of the rain on my body is like some giant massaging hand, fingers tap tap tapping up and down my skin. Then I am at the peak of the mountain and hot liquid seems to burn through my body, under the skin, deep inside.
Beyond the peace and the beauty of this vast field nature has drawn me into itself and given my body the most sublime pleasure. Everything after this will be seeking. This beauty inside of me will drive me through this life to be close to nature once more when its wetness and mine combine in bliss.
The vast field is forever now inside.
It was a tiny dream only one or two minute maybe.
I am walking in a field far out in the countryside. The sun is shining. It is not hot and it is not cold. In the field there is some crop. Long and tall and green the plants can reach my waist almost. My hands are passing through them. They are so soft like air.
Then. They are silk hanging all around me. The patterns are flowers pastel color and small. My hand is by my side. The soft silk drifting towards me to feel the caress. They are alive in the gentle way of love if love was something you can touch.
The breath from me is faster a little bit. It is exciting. Gentle and exciting. The silk dress I wear shares the pattern of the silk. I am naked under it. And then the hanging and sweeping silk become less and then less. Then. Only one or two long soft pieces of silk sweep over my body then low and between my knees. They have the gentle touch almost no touch. My hands reach to hold them so they may not escape.
And. Then. The silk has changed once more. Now it is hair. It is light and brown and soft hair. It is the hair of a woman I feel I know. But. I cannot see her face. Her face is hiding under my silk dress. Only her hair is in my hands.
Then. The woman’s mouth touches me. I breathe once in so fast. And then I am awake.
A garden. Of course flowers. Would it be a garden without flowers? Yes, it could be. But. This garden has flowers. Many flowers. You can walk about and see the flowers. You can brush your hand over them. They are beautiful. Go on, try to touch one. Oh? You can’t? They shrink away from your touch? Why?
It is a special garden. A certain kind of garden. It is a garden of youth, of innocence. It contains you and others as you and they were. It is a garden whose flowers smile with real faces as sunshine smiled when the world was a place full of wonder.
In this garden lives your innocence. Here virginity nestles. Yellow flowers longing for sunshine and copying the sunshine. Pink flowers, the pretty and simple things you thought the opening door to adulthood would bring. Hiding and dark the blood red flowers whose rawness lies so often behind innocence. In this garden innocence easily overpowers the dark rawness. Light even makes the darkness lighten.
A garden such as this is wise. It knows what lurks. But. It ignores it. Reality has its place as it must. But. Not here. Here is a place of gentleness and pleasing metaphor where all things contain the sensuality of touch and smell and sight and taste and sound. Let words be something more than letters. Let words be things that play. If they bring innocent wonder. It is perfect. If they bring arousal in you. It is perfect.
Long ago my flower came to live in this garden. Here it is as bright as it was long ago. Shining and pale purple. It is a pretty flower.
Is yours here? Look around. It may be here. Gaze upon it. Feel its radiance. It is pure beauty.
