Even now, it is the small things. The first sight of a germinating seed. A forming bud. The first glances of a new flower. A bee’s caress.
In the conversations, we talk about objects. About heritage. About loss and destruction. About return. What was named beautiful. What was made beautiful. Yet this beauty was not that beauty, and aesthetics comes in many tongues. Did this please those who needed to be pleased. And did the rain fall. And did the rivers swell. And did the crocodiles eat.
Can I say I was afraid of the term beauty? Afraid of what I would find if I swallowed it with my eyes? Afraid to name the shapes that held me? The patterns that enthralled? The arrhythmia that stopped me. I was. Sometimes, I still am. Perhaps it was the sense that beauty needed to overtake the senses, saturate the atmosphere so that nothing else remained except the sensation of being suspended in the world it created. I could only fail at that. Fail to be moved.
In the film, she is asked about the power of orgasms and says she only feels little tingles but nothing beyond that. The world does not move for her like it does for others. Little tingles. And she is told to seek the floods and volcanoes. I have returned to little tingles. The slow and unexpected and surprising. A gasp of delight escapes. Something warm spreads in the blush of the season’s turn. A warm breeze sings. A sentence unfurls to find itself surprised by itself.