The only magic I know is in finger tips. When a mother is feeding her little child, carrying it on her waist with a bowl of rice, dal, or rasam and a lot of ghee, all of that mashed in to dough; the baby is being fed all of this from the mother’s hand. Every Telugu movie, song, or dialogue, about mother almost always makes this reference, of sparks of magic or something like that flying or spreading mother’s affection.
When this kid is older, Freud said it finds pleasure in sucking it’s finger and sometimes it sticks on to the habit for too long.
Then you find a different kind of pleasure from your own fingers and or hands; it’s still very intriguing how one just learns to teach oneself the wonders of the body. The art of pleasuring self feels like practice to learn to be the best for someone else, it sounds dirty.
Finger tips running through the hair and somehow always land across the cheek. Pressing soft tips of your fingers against my stubble, running down to my neck and to under my shirt. Brushing my chest hair and then the fingers rest, running circles.
Now and then craving a finger finds its way around and feed the different kind of hungers I’ve learned or acquired over the years. These hungers buzz in my head, like the chattering lizard in the living room. It eats away the mosquitoes and nobody ever said “kill that thing” so you just let it hang around the wall.