Sunday, April 8, 2012

The Dark Shine


I have spent hours looking at this butcher knife.  It is a favorite of mine to use when slicing tomatoes, peaches and the like.  It has a shine, brilliance unmatched by any other tool.  Held up to the sunlight, my knife reflects a dazzling array of spectrums.  Sometimes, I can detect slight hues as a ray of light bounces off of other objects.  It has an ethereal quality, transcending its intended purpose.  The butcher knife offers the potential for life as it allows for the preparation of food.  It also allows for death when used differently.  This simple tool, perfect in design, has the power to encourage life or to destroy it.  Babies, innocent and free of prejudice, are intuitively aware the covert power a knife possesses.  It holds power because it is the most primitive form of power. 

The butcher knife, unlike the serrated knife, respects the essence of the objects it is imposed upon.  The serrated knife pierces the skin with a vicious, jagged tear, ripping the pulp without regard to the fruit.  It attacks the fruit, compromising nothing to achieve its goal.  When doing this, it denied the fruit the opportunity to offer gifts of itself, to come to terms with its fate, possibly its destiny.  An ordinary butcher knife, when honed to perfection, caresses the skin as a lover might; gently, softly, smoothly.  Its blade glides across the skin of the fruit as it slowly enters deeper and deeper until the skin gives way, welcoming it into the soft, firm, moist walls that are at the center of the fruits existence.  The fruit may then burst forth with a fine spray of liquid, as if in reward for the gentleness of penetration.  Indeed, the fruit even tastes better.  The butcher knife did not defile the fruit as is the nature of the serrated knife.  The taste, the experience of the fruit is upheld so that when I place the fruit upon my lips I can experience the texture as it was meant to be.  First, moist walls press tenderly upon my lower lip.  The moisture of the fruit has remained within the pulp so that it oozes out slowly, allowing my taste sensations to receive and treasure the cool, sweet nectar. Then and only then will the moment be mine to behold; the first bite, the best bite of the fruit.  As my teeth break the integrity of the fruit, it forces a sudden spray of nectar to explode within my mouth.  This is the sensual beauty a butcher knife brings forth.

Other fascinations grip me with respect to this multifaceted instrument.  The fascination is compelling to the point if a hypnotic state, a trance.  That knife, that beautiful, primitive metal which is beholden to all that is internal has the ability to affect many more senses than that of touch.  I lie in bed alone as I contemplate the promises my knife has yet to explore.

As I see the knife caressing the fruit, does it also, could it also caress my skin in the same manner?  I feel the sharp edge of the knife against my skin.  It is cool and pleasing to the touch.  As I draw it against my skin, there is gentleness as it splays apart the first tiny layer of my wrist.  Like a lover gently exploring the layers of my soul, the knife descends deeper into my flesh.  There is an air of arousal, of excitement, and yes, fear.  I feel no pain.  Slowly the blade is drawn against my arm and the blade continues its journey to open that which lies within.  I feel the beginnings of pain; sharp, yet somehow muted.  The layers of my skin unfold as a flower exposing its bud.  As the knife strokes deeper, the pain does not intensify but a small, warm release of blood seeps from beneath my skin.  It is strangely comforting, this blood spilling from me.  I am becoming disconnected with my sense of self, no longer associating my blood and I as one entity.  I watch calmly, as the layers of skin are revealed, pulling back from the tissue.  I see the vessels cleanly cut.  The vessel disappears instantly as the blood gushes forth from my vein.  There is a release.  There is a blessed release.  Is it the fluids rushing from my body or the endorphins coursing through my system?  The pain intensifies, but my spirit does not recognize this as pain.  The pain is outside of myself.  It is no longer a part of my primary experience.  A throbbing begins at the site.  It is my heart, now audible, pumping life to me only to have it drain as the strokes delve deeper.  My breathing increases, my heart pounds harder and faster.  The blood is flowing at a greater pace.  The loss of my blood is purposeful, as I further feel the distance which grows between my body and my spirit. 

I watch as my blood trickles down my wrist to meet the precipice of my hand, where it forms a droplet.  The droplet hangs there, momentarily, before gravity lures it into a freefall.  As it hits the floor, a crown of blood arises, only to be drawn quickly into a small puddle.  That droplet, no longer separate and unique from other droplets, has lost its momentary individuality.  As the drops of blood lose their independence, my spirit too, is seeking independence from my body.

I begin to fly.  It is here that I feel a sense of euphoria.  The pain, fear insecurity and alas, even the terror I have felt in my life is draining from me as with my blood.  I do not want to die; it would be an error to associate this with death.  What is happening to my body and the prospect of death are two separate issues.  Reluctantly, the knife is withdrawn.

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