We also see churches, and crosses dressed up with circles, crosses encircled by the sun; and even though I look at them every day I am still surprised to see such symbols of conviction and belief, I am still amazed by these little shapes that point to such a long story, that carry so much meaning while at the same time none at all. Brands of assurance and loyalty. They used to be above it all, but now we are higher than them, at the top of skyscrapers built on principles of rationality. We stand tall on steady levels of concrete coherently stacked together, we place our trust in their structure, their soundness, their ability to sustain the weight of our experimentations, our trials and leaps of faith. And because everything looks so small from here, the city becomes a maze of business as much as it does a blank slate. It is so easy, from such a high position, to invent, to redefine, to re-create. And the sky—the sky is limitless and untamed, onto which we feel free to project our dreams, our doubts and our hesitations, never-ending and inexhaustible. Unrelenting, obstinate. Yet sadly uncared for. They recognize one another in sympathy and they mate, they unite in clouds of neglect, and the more we ignore them the stronger they get, as they morph into new shapes to begin their crushing descent on us; earthquakes, heat waves, floods, pandemics and cyclonic storms, ready and willing to crash and submerge us until we stop pretending that they are merely natural.
We talk a lot, Mark and I, we exchange a lot of ideas, we never run out, and we meet up in laughter, every night. We also choose soundtracks for our romantic divagations; after a few glasses of wine the people walking through the automatic doors of a supermarket down below and the mere presence of a crane in the frame look like a shot out of Koyaanisqatsi. We are so scared and so comfortable together in the absurdity of it all. Comfortable only because we are together.
I wouldn’t change it for anything. Offer me a mountain or a forest and I will still choose the city. I can stare at it for minutes, hours, depending on the weather. When I need a break, I go to Mark’s summer house by the sea. But this is my nest now, my urban pad, my sanctuary. From my own zenith and protected by my lover’s arms, I see people, I imagine their lives, their stories. I am happy. Mark says I am both a misanthrope and a lover of humanity at exactly the same time. I love him, I think. And I don’t love easily, but when I do it’s to absolute pieces. But that’s another question. I wonder about the doctor, I wonder if I would recognize him, walking around with his head slightly tilted to the right.
We share wonderful nights. My insomnias keep me up so I can admire him lose consciousness, his head rested on the pillow, he is so tired, his hands stop moving on my skin but he still smiles at me, because he knows that I will be looking after him in his sleep, I will be caressing his face to soothe him when he becomes agitated. I will make sure he stays asleep for as long as I remain awake. Love making. Making love can be divine. Sometimes we unite in dreams or blend in conversation, we become other people, or we fight to be ourselves. On occasion my doctor joins us, and I drown myself in men, in skin, I grab at glimpses of souls, I search for hands to hold to stay afloat. Like a cat demanding caresses under the chin, I reach out for the touch of another man, I am deluded but I can’t help it, I crave him, so I cheat. But not every night. Most nights only. Stolen kisses.
Except where stated, all material copyright © Emmanuelle Dauplay.