Have you ever watched a movie where some important, fast paced action is rendered in slow motion, such as a person walking by a hidden assassin as he draws his bow, knife, gun, or garrote. Slow motion is what hit me today.

I was walking through a crowded mall today, looking for a particular store. The crowds passed in a vague blur as I searched the wall advertisements for the store I was looking for. Occasionally, someone would not be watching where they were going – nor care – and I would be obliged to step out of their way. Once, this elderly India woman stopped abruptly in front of me and drew my attention down from the store signs. Then, as if someone turned on the slow motion, there She was just several feet in front of me walking across my field of view.

Of course, I followed discretely. Her delicate steps took minutes to be placed, her hair undulated in the crowd whipped breeze, her skirt danced in tune with her hair, my heart smashed against my ribs and I struggled to breathe regularly. Lengthy seconds ticked slowly by as the Angel nimbly drifted around a toddler wobbling away from his mother. Her skirt fluttered and swirled about her thighs as if to invite me to kiss Her in utter worship.

I thought to her mother, sexy in her own right, but I asked myself, whom would I rather kiss if so granted such a wish? I replied to myself that the question was a silly one.

That twirl of fabric caressing Her tiny legs dragged my tattered past from the dungeon of my memories and I recalled how intensely I had become addicted to my young lover from so many years ago where She had worn the same skirt style. I had fallen, back then, into an inescapable pit of lust for Her, but I had fallen happily so, all those years ago. I had kissed soft, warm skin from ankle to places best not written about here. I had brushed Her skirt’s soft cotton drapery from my face, revealing Her in all Her splendor and I, I was rapturous with the realization that She had permitted it. Then, once there, oh to mingle the intimate pleasure acquired by Her worshipping lover with the intimate pleasure given Her, the Worshipped. How can such feeble tools that mere words are, ever come close to conveying to anyone just how forceful such passionate love is?

In the mall once again, behind the gorgeous angel floating on a cloud just several feet in front of my riveted eyes, how could Her mother ever imagine just how strong a lust is at all possible for someone such as her Child? And, in this, my daydream like interlude, could I survive a proposal to worship Her? Would I continue to have a heartbeat, should I be permitted to kiss such an altar? Would I die in the midst of such an act of reverence?

I watched, frozen in my own step, as She bounced and swayed, flipping her skirts in an astonishing grant of a meager wish half formulated in my bewildered mind. The wind-wizard then surprised me even more by assisting a twirl and twist caused the rise of the altar’s curtain and demonstrate how only god could create such artwork, such godwork, in one little female child, a goddess in Her own right. A thigh became more cotton, veiling a paradise only angels possess. Yet I continued to live.

Our 20 second encounter persisted for 20 minutes and I engraved as much as I could into my memory, willing the wind gods to smile on me once again. They did not. But, neither god nor calendar will ever be able to wrestle my treasury of images from me should I be deemed unworthy of such reminiscences of the magnificence I had the immense pleasure of witnessing today.




Regarding this post and every post I write about myself describing my past, be advised that I was tried, convicted, sentenced to a very long time in prison, and I served the complete sentence. Be further advised that I am no longer practicing illegal activities today and that I refrain from doing so by my own choice, not from fear of legal entanglements or society's outrage. I remain crime free because I choose to.