The startlingly deep prick releasing the velvety warmth of deep iron-scented blood made the muscles in my jaw quiver and tighten. Through pursed lips and slippery skin I exhaled and begin to stitch the vestal sutures on my scarlet A. Long before this reckless perforation, I had carefully studied and selected the object of my design. For years, I had contemplated his beauty, his strong clean lines and hard pulsating edges pushed asunder by the jolting slash streaking across his center which caused all symmetry to be tossed out into a hidden world that was filled with conflicting emotions.
Covetousness and loathing were the foundation of my handiwork long before the needle was carefully run through with the deception of silky fragile floss. In the best of times the object of one’s design is well thought out, chosen for sound and logical reasons. Designs that are dependable, easy to work, logical, and above all meet the expectations of the society who is always judging your end result. No, my design was more happenstance a result of wanting what someone else once had tasted. A leftovers design – still palatable but once bitten into reveals a residue of unsavory crustiness formed around the edges. At first I had a grave distaste at the sinewy toughness, and yet I kept chewing away like a crazed heroin addict until I discovered the deep warm center filled with a dichotomy of honeyed goodness and salty bile. Deep endless pools of salty and sweet boiling hot and ready to be poured upon the pristine white linens of my young eager heart.
To most the A seems an innocuous creature but I discerned that beneath his barnacle-like façade lived a deep old soul. The A’s suppressed finely tuned intellect filled me with a yearning to be wrapped up within its strong unwavering lines. Instinct screamed for caution in working with this rough-hewn design. This needle would be sharp and capricious; the cloth unyielding and coarse, and the silken threads that would weave us together would break and cut without notice at my heart and strike at my pride. Seemingly a caricature of the place and time, the A took no notice of my ministrations. When my hand first caressed the generous fabric of youth, the A seemed surprised at being the object of attention and when realizing that a fissure was revealed set his opposing axis firm to keep my intrusions at bay. Sadly the A would never fully realize that I understood and honored the slash within his hard rigid lines.
The designer sometimes makes the critical blunder of thinking he can control the development of his project. I made this mistake with the A. At times I would be driven to throw all caution to the wind and sew until each stitch became hardened with sweat, tears and the gristle of poor timing. The A always beckoned, an unfinished project that offered no rewards for completion, no satisfaction, no prize to proudly hang and admire. The beauty of this project was in the uncompleted stitches, in the anticipation of a strangeness that was all too familiar to the touch. The A called to me and for over 15 years I answered with silken strands tightly binding my heart. As time passes and life becomes messier and messier, the simple joy of the first letter of your alphabet becomes too complicated to revel in. Years of pricks, cuts and roughness had dulled the shimmering glimmer that had led me to the A. It was a design that too many others would carelessly caress without ever taking the time to look beneath the Herculean shell. Never detecting the rich combating lava of sensitivities that threatened to spill forth from the A’s magnificent slash. The never yielding A just crouched behind his brass-knuckled hardness and let the steaming lava burn and tear within his gut. My project was folly so I stuffed it far away from my sentiments and sensitivities. The complexity of the human spirit and the geography of life set our compasses to point in opposite ends of the earth.
Isn’t it funny how rose colored the past becomes, how sharp edges become tattered flannel and aching sorrows transform into downy cotton filled blankets of dulled emotions. The fiery A I burned onto my breast, a place where I impaled my hopes and dreams upon it's sharp crown has become one of those gossamer dreams from my youth. There was no lesson learned from my designs, no great moral to give close to my unsinkable stitching. The branded scars fade and the great healer named Time vanquished the dull aches. As it does for all of us, the beat goes on…. And the A, you ask, what became of my most precious A. In my mind the A remains unchanging, an impenetrable force of life, love, hate and death. He stands tall and blazing red in the hot skies of my mind’s eye but if you were to stop, really stop and be still and look very closely at the A you will see the smoldering trail of honey and salt pouring forth from his wounds of time.
