(5) SAADI'S QUEST: Vision Quest - Part I

VISION QUEST - Part I

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She held her breath as she knocked on the door.  You had to knock loudly, since there was no outside intercom at the building.  Her breath came quicker, more shallow and rapid.  She stepped back and looked up through the door windows.  Her heart began beating faster now, her pulse increased.

I feel like I’m up on a ledge, a platform, a stage, a slave dock, up for review.  Courage girl, just look natural.

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Up at the top of the stairs a head appeared as long locs escaped, spilling, falling out into the hallway.  She caught her breath and felt her body respond.

There he is.  Oh please be glad that I’ve come.  If only I could see his eyes then I would know.  See them before a mask of second-handed politeness and pleasantness appears.  Calm down you can’t do anything about that.  He’s smiling and, oh my gosh, he’s coming down the stairs.

Even though it was Fall…why did they say “Fall,” did it descend from the high place of Summer, down through Fall into Winter, only to Spring once again to the heights of the Summer Sun’s warm return?  Is that what the Egyptians thought?  How can my mind be wandering like this?  Stop, Stop NOW!

Even though it was Fall he was wearing what she called the muscle man or wife beater T-shirt, the one that shows his shoulders and biceps.

“Sister Saadi, Greetings.”

“Greetings Brother Malik I came by to …” 

Whatever she said, it was an excuse.  She came to be around him, to smell him and feel his energy, or better said, to feel her energy when around him.  As he turned to go up the stairs she noticed the curve in the small of his back, a curve like the one in the back of the archer horseman, Sagittarius.  It curved into muscular hips, the hips of an athlete, of a man in touch with his body.

In touch with your body, in touch with your soul. 

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There was a layer of sweat glistening all over his body.  The dampened T-shirt showed his muscles even more distinctly.  He turned and began walking back up the steep narrow stairs.  Saadi followed.

“I just came from running.  It was good.  It always helps to clear my head.  It sharpens my mind.”

As he spoke he scooped his locs that fell deep down his back, up onto his head.  His maneuver captured and entwined them simultaneously, the locs serving as the holder and the held.  Saadi as always stayed back at the foyer.

I must wait until he invites me in.  A man’s apartment, girl you are too much!

Even though she likened herself a “Renaissance Woman” strict southern upbringing periodically caught her off guard, especially when dealing with behavior under the heading of “lady like.” Here she was still rooted in the foyer by the door, all conflicted in roles, but she sure wasn’t going to back away, not now.

“Come in Sista, come on in,” Malik called from somewhere deep in the apartment.

As Saadi entered the room she saw artwork all over the floor.  Some huge pieces as tall as six feet and taller rested against the walls.  Pieces of the sea were all around her.  It felt like a haven.  For so long she had felt the absence of art and artists, people who, like herself, look at life using art as one of their primary lenses.  Whether with visual artists, performing artists, writers, creative creators, when she was among them she felt more at ease.  That was how she felt with Malik.  When she was around him she felt more at ease and at the same time more invigorated.

Saadi finally spoke, “So you have been working again.  These pieces are wonderful.”

"Nappy Locs" painting by Gwendolyn Frazier   

As Malik walked back into the room he began to talk about the difficulties and frustrations he was having with his work.  He wanted it to be seen by more people.  He wanted to make a living from  his love, his art, his calling.  He wanted to give up his regular job on the sea and have his art be his sole income. In fact he had recently quit his seaman’s job with that intention but his work was not selling. People were not willing to pay what he felt his work was worth. On top of that he was having what a writer would call “writer’s block”.  He brushed past her.  She felt an electric spark.  No, it was more of a wave, an invisible ripple that spread through her body, followed by a sensation like mint.  Mint on the edge of her senses, delicious.  

Oh gosh! I’m moist.  I wonder if he can smell it. Does he have any idea of the changes I go through just being around him?  I wish I could talk to him about this but I don’t know what to say or to ask.  Is this spiritual, sexual, just an emotional flush, or a sexual fantasy? Gurl, all women probably feel like this around him and as fine as he is probably some men do too!  Just look around him.  There’s always a line of drippin’ females.  Am I just another “bitch” in heat?

To be continued...