Autopsy of Desire

1 Desire draws them together. Their young bodies intermittently graze as they walk. Do they know their steps are syncopated? The smooth, sleek, outer side of their hands, like the belly of a fish, lightly tapping? Their upper arms and shoulders, because he stands not much taller than she, lean inwards. Their cheeks look rosy, as they snake along the path through the park, their voices lifting. Her occasional shrieks crack the twilight as his contact, finally, becomes a push towards the tall soggy grass beside the pond, towards the muddy pools whose shallow water runs red, yellow, and violet with the sunset. At sixteen, they exist conflicted, told not to touch, told to fight the force, pretend the magnet of desire does not pull, sublimate this power that screams for consummation. And at last, nature triumphs once again, as the two round that corner between the hardwoods, a place public but out of view, and the boy pulls the girl into an awkward embrace. 2 He would arrive back home from fishing with his friends, and the quiet, stern man had transformed into a giggling prankster. The joke was on her. His desire fed on crass jokes, fueled on demon alcohol, and freed through a day spent in the great outdoors. He would walk in unconsciously incognito. Perhaps he greeted the children for a moment, the boy and the girl, but his attention burned on her. Chase her through the house, catch her on a turn, tickle her, pummel her, eventually, turn her upside down by her feet. Her shrieks of protest were short lived for this is how its done. No sweet entreaties, nibbles on the ears, velvet caresses, or kisses that steal the breath. His role model never existed or stumbled to find his way in the dark of desire as well. Damn those fairy tales where the man played a very different role! In the real world, men chase down, twirl around, subdue through domination until they slip it in. He laughed over her shrieks of protest. She laughed too, however weakly, and then surrendered, dreaming of a mating dance with a handsome recording star or film screen idol. 3 When she walked into what once was a Buddhist temple, the tears began to flow. No sound accompanied them. The faucet turned on and would not shut off. She felt ashamed, like she was a child among adults more experienced and capable of processing the past. Cut. It. Up. Examine the parts to understand at last. The shaman called them forth one by one. They must sit with him and tell him their intent. Why did they travel here? What was it they hoped to gain? What part of them did they have in mind to heal? Her turn came and she sat beside this artist shaman from the jungles of Peru. The soft, salty tears continued to fall, as she told him her intent. The others in the room listened. She stuttered as she told how she came there to let go of the shame and humiliation that distorted her desire. Don Agustas Rivas, or Papa, as the

shaman was called, picked up a small polished, dark wooded wand, and with a flick, captured a tear from her cheek on a little metal chain. He studied that tear in the dim but focused light. Tomorrow you will know why you came, he kindly said through the translator. During the ceremony, I want you to throw up. I want you to purge over and over all youve held so deep within. Let it come up. Let it go out. Let it go now. Let it go. 4 They poured the dark brown liquid tobacco into a small blue funnel which drained into her nose, her throat, the well. Ayahuasca, also known as the death vine, she drank from a small white paper cup. Given properties by the creating force, this jungle plant transports those who ingest her to places deep within to find what needs to be mined. The plant brew ran syrupy in texture, brown in color, like the tobacco but thicker. Soon they placed themselves against the temple walls and waited. After a short time, Papa began choreographing the journey within with percussive instruments. The journey without began as participants including her began to hurl. Hours went by as they dozed, reflected, sobbed and screamed in the dark, candles casting shadows of forms huddled, crouched, sprawled and Papa tapping, pounding, skittering various beats to not just keep them awake but draw them further in. For so long she saw only darkness inward and a nonsensical reel of images past and present. But suddenly a story spooled in black and white before her inner eyes. Him giggling and red faced chasing her mother through rooms of the house. She giggling too but already tired of the game. Where were the soft whispers of endearment? The small nuzzled kisses on the neck? The caresses smooth but urgent over the contours of her form? Where werethe words growled, purred, or whispered that adored, encouraged her to open and abandon hesitation? In black and white, the images paraded as intermittently she retched, groaned and cried. So this was why she stood in garbage in her fantasies. Why she crumbled from orders that beat her down. Why she carried shame and humiliation like a bag of broken rocks around her neck. She retched more deeply. 5 The sun sinks, the reflections stretch, the colors fade as the blushing, flustered teen age girl pulls away from the panting boy. He fights her resistance as her playful, shrieks shoot through the twilight. Grasping one arm behind her back, he subdues her then pretends once more to push her into the soggy grass, into the stinking muddy pool. There comes a moment when they simply disentangle and look each other in the eyes, their toes licking at the edge of dark liquid. In this moment the possibility arises. His eyes soften and for a moment, just one, she feels the security to unveil, reveal the soft, moist center of her being, take him into her and together become one. Instead, his eyes turn to the ground and he begins to run. She chases, catches up, taps lightly

against him with her side. They begin to walk together again in that syncopated step. A small but significant distance lurks between them.