musings on muss
The problem with this storyline is that I’m working from really old notes and even older memories and they were all stuff I locked away and wrote off a long time ago but not so much with words as with lies I tried so hard to tell myself. Because I thought I could unclaim some of these experiences and now I can’t even remember why I wanted to, why I thought is was so important and I want them back as pieces of the whole me but I don’t want to break any of the pieces off that might have brittled with age even though they were once real and whole and movable parts that functioned in ways within my heart. And then of course there’s that pesky present tense I had to go and start writing it all in and it just adds to the already slightly overwhelming confusion and there might even be a hint of the shade of shame mixed in the hue. Not to mention that parts of the story that are critical to tell as context and such are really interesting but so far out there in truth no-one will ever believe they’re not fiction and I don’t want them to diminish the authencity of why I’m telling but it still seems wrong to leave out good juicy details just in the name of believability when who really cares because I’m not writing it to sell my soul out or seal any deal other than my own with myself, anyway. Anyway…
I loved those guys and they’re not easy to write.
sigh and hurumph.
fingers & toes
Midi was African born (Congolese, I think). Whisked away mysteriously shortly after his birth for adoption by a wealthy older Australian couple under circumstances never completely explained. Apparently, there had been several failed family trips to Africa when he was a small child - maybe in hopes of some kind of cultural exchange? I don’t really understand any of his early childhood experiences and I guess I feel, as I believe he does, that I just won’t ever really be able to understand. So we leave it at that.
When he was seven or eight (I can only suppose the couple had reached the limit of their patience for cross-cultural adoptive parenthood) he was sent to an all boys boarding school in the US. Where he lived and studied and grew until he finished high school and decided to remain here, on his own. I truly cannot imagine these so-called parent-people of his in flesh and blood, nor fathom what they were thinking with regard to him. But as it all turned out so well for Midi, I try not to give it much thought.
His voice is deep and resonant, slow and relaxed in cadence but without any kind of accent other than neat measured American English. Which is good. Because with his gorgeous, striking appearance, Midi needs nothing else special about him to draw or captivate the attention.
He is very tall at six foot four inches. His shoulders are proportional to his height but so incredibly leanly muscled and his limbs are long and tight and too full of ropy sinewy strength to ever be considered slight. Best of all, is his skin. Luscious dark dark candy-coating skin. Skin so dark and smooth, flawlessly absorbing light in an array of colors ranging across blues and blacks and the deepest almost purple somethings sometimes. He has magical midnight skin, my dear friend, Midi.
Midi’s large strong hands have big-boned, long, elegant fingers. One of the best photos I ever took of them, Midi and Russ (it hangs above their dining room table, now) is a captivating close-up of Midi’s long black perfect fingers laced through and slinked between Russ’s oh-so-white Irish toes.
It was on a rock-climbing shoot and we had just wrapped it up and Russ was exhausted and cranky and his calf was cramping. Midi was calmly pained and sweetly determined to relieve his lover’s distress. While his facial expression was not captured in the tight frame, somehow Midi’s intense, genuine concern was clearly apparent, unmistakable in the grip of those exquisite lanky fingers wrapped around and through the agonized white foot with its wisps of strawberry blond hair across the toes.