I pulled out some paper and a pen. I wrote "My wildest desire" at the top. And then I started writing and tried not to resist the prompt. But I did resist it. I do. Wildest. It's the superlative that made this so hard. I do experience desire as wild. Desire is untamed and difficult to control and defies rationality. As I sit here just thinking about desire, I can feel something in my chest tugging forward towards I don't even know what. The desire that is not wild is something else. It's aspiration or hope instead. Desire pushes me in random directions, and most often, it seems, away from my best self. But the wildest?
Here's where I started with the writing (as opposed to this, the writing about the writing).
When I started hanging around with J, he told me he was trying to rid himself of fear and desire. Some kind of Buddhist notion. Fear I understood wanting to be rid of. But desire? No way. I was waist deep in desire. Nipple deep. I was in it over my head over TB. The Boy. It was exhilarating and excruciating. And the thing is in the end, the several-years-later end, I'm not sure it meant anything at all beyond some raw animal surges of feeling.Still not writing about my actual wildest desire here, notice. Further in, I try to work my way through real present desires to find my way to the WILDEST. I do not arrive there.
A desire (not the wildest, I admit) that I can name here: to fling my body into and over things, to hurl myself through space, to move in all directions and never get hurt.