I possess the true Dharma eye, the marvelous mind of Nirvana, the true form of the formless, the subtle [D]harma [G]ate that does not rest on words or letters but is a special transmission outside of the scriptures. This I entrust to Mahākāśyapa.
-Sakyamuni Buddha (Siddhartha Gautama)
I believe the best analogy for the interactions between Brittany and Santana within the Glee group dynamic is that ofdirect prajñā (wisdom) oftathātā (suchness) via silent communication. (The Buddha transmits direct knowledge of the true nature of reality by a silent sermon; In this case, holding a white lotus flower). Where only Mahākāśyapa understands the Buddha’s lesson, Santana is the only one who understands Brittany.
Mrs. Hudson has to move Santana into rooms above Drizzle so drunken customers don’t follow her into the kitchen. The staircase is safely behind the bar that is always guarded by Mrs. Hudson. The rooms are Santana’s first experience with indoor plumbing; Santana is quite sure that heaven is paved in one inch hexagonal white tiles and everyone there has hot and cold taps. The rooms are sparse, as Santana has very little in the way of possessions, and very clean.
good reminder that people want more of the Now I Know universe
#160 in Strong’s Hebrew Dictionary.
Santana scrubbed floors and washed dishes and tried very hard to remain unnoticed. The Hudson’s weren’t nearly as demanding as the Sisters at Sacred Heart, and Santana found it easy enough to earn her keep. Attention, however, she couldn’t seem to avoid. Where Father Dunn smelled of Sacramental Wine, the Husdon’s clientele smelled of whiskey. No amount of hiding in the kitchen seemed to protect her from wandering eyes and hands.
But in my case, it’s also fucking awesome pump-up music for studying.
Silk under my palms, handfuls of the dark.
You let me look you in the eyes, so I see them open up, wide, before I bend to brush my lips over the soft line of your neck where it falls to your shoulder, before I feel the stammer of your breath as I trace your collarbone to its notch. I try to catch each inch of it between my lips as I go. Your fingers dig in a little at my waist and your knees tighten at my hips.
And I try to think how you could have ever not known I love you.
And I try to think if you know it now. Try to feel in the warm puffs of your breath in my hair if there are words there, she loves me, if there are traces of the sweetness I have laced all through my body for you. Stripes of ribbon candy instead of muscle. All of me pulling and melting, all of me saying, yes, I love her, yes, as I pull my fingers through your hair, as I try to think of words that could make you believe all the way through.
But maybe it gets all clear when the answers are the same, over and over, yes, and yes, and love.
Do you feel the sticky-candyness of my muscles as I pull tight around you? As I relax under your hands, your palms molding to my back, your mouth going to my shoulder? My shoulder gets warm, impossibly soft as you stay there, the heat of the sweet dark of your mouth melting me down. My throat tightens but parts of me go soft, still and quiet under your body.
Dark heat, bright heat. I knew you loved me before you did. Now I want to show you all the sweet and the dark inside me, but my words are riddles the second I open my mouth. I want you to know that if we hold still long enough, mouths on each other’s skin, that we can taste dark and love and breath, and that the candy gets soft and spun in loose loops around everything. Your mouth stays on my shoulder and burrows a little deeper. I feel you tunneling for sweetness, I wonder if my love is unraveling on your tongue.
that’s what I’m getting from my dashboard.
Now I can’t stop thinking about Heather dressed as a milkman.
Santana is fifteen minutes early, and sits in her car in the Breadstix parking lot berating herself for being such a spaz. She’s never been late to meet Brittany anywhere, ever. If anything, Brittany will be late, and send her a quick text saying so. Santana will go from sitting in her car in the parking lot like an idiot to sitting in a booth inside like an idiot.
Just enough time to completely regret what you’ve chosen to wear.