Beginning somewhere at the end. The end is who I am now. I am in that liminal space--I am being and becoming. I should be coming and going, flowing from bank to bank, stone to stone, wave crest to wave crest. I will find a way to the abyss at the bottom of the oceans of the world. I will find the sacred dome and sing the song of creation with an abysinian maid. I will play the dulcimer while she plays the lyre spouting the lost words of the tenth muse--the only woman to sing of bodies and their pleasures to the first philosopher.

"I Am Woman," she sings. She whispers words of passion and compassion and wild exstatic abandon in the ears of women once clothed in lamb's skin. She wears flowers in her hair and she twines mine on long fingers. She stands at the altar as the pleides rise over a horizon I can't see.

Beware, beware, her flashing eyes, her floating hair
Weave a circle round her thrice
For she on honeydew hath fed and drunk the milk of paradise.

With him, I abandon myself and he finds the soul in my body--that which gives and recieves pleasure. He and she stare at each other over my limbs laid out as an altar stone before them. Fragrant with night kisses and blessed with stardust and sunshine. I glow at the bottom of the abyss and they find space for me between their experience of the world. I am a flower in their garden--brought in by the flow of water over sunken earth or from a fish sacred to Aphrodite. I am a temple of body. Full and fat with communal pleasure. My spaces and places are sacred to philosophers and poets. I aspire to find my reflection in the eyes of the moon in the curve of the earth's breast, in the starry mantle of Innana's fullness.

It's a terrible thing to fill a blank page. To write pleasures and pain on the white expanse of possibilities. A terrible thing to splurge black ink over a tender, loving whiteness. I think all pages must be submissives and all pens dominants. To lay passive and recieve the pleasure of a gliding fountain pen. To scurry frantically across the expanse of alternate ideals. To Inscribe. The page wins though. The page keeps its pleasures while the pen loses itself. The page is self and other. The pen is lost to itself.