Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Before the Storm
Finally it was the lurid rich aroma of the all-pervading honeysuckle that compelled me to pull on my clothes and climb out through the open window. The moon was to blame too, creeping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, even prying its way under the pink linen sheet of my childhood that I attempted to draw up over my head. It showed no embarrassment at its successful intrusion, but paved a sliver sidewalk across the wet grass where my feet could find safe purchase amid the shadows. I felt a brief yearning for one of the many dogs that always followed at my heels in years past, but they had been banished by my mother when we made our move to a more elegant part of town. All of them had been boon companions, big practical working dogs, attuned to my moods, and trailing silently along beside me for the reward of an head scratch or perhaps a bit of leftover dinner. Tonight they would not have understood my journey, and would have howled at being left behind as I got into the car, put it into neutral, and rolled silently out of the driveway.
I turned the engine over, cringing at the noise, and pulled slowly away from the house and my sleeping parents. I turned on the headlights when the car was finally past their bedroom window and tuned the radio to the Chicago station that only came in after all decent people were asleep. If my parents had known about it, they would have forbidden me to listen to the cutting edge music of the day. I don’t remember what was playing that particular night, but I was singing alone, windows down, watching for danger in the form of one of the two police cars that might be patrolling the county. I made it undetected for the mile it took to get to the drive in restaurant where everyone hung out. I scanned the line of cars backed into spaces behind the neon lit burger joint, looking for his aqua and white 57 Chevy. He was sitting there on the front fender, smoking a cigg, surrounded by a crew of other surly teenage rebels. I drove past, pretending not to notice him, and parked my car at the end of the row. I didn’t have to wait long before he opened my door and pulled me out for a kiss. He tasted like tobacco, a singularly masculine flavor to me, and the taste mixed with his aroma, a smell like terry cloth towels just pulled from the clothesline on a hot summer day.
Hand in hand we stroll back to his car, walking the gauntlet of jealous boys whose girlfriends didn’t have the reckless abandon to climb out windows on summer nights. I was proud to be with him for some unknown reason. He is my first real boyfriend, tall and blond, with a body that was all lean muscle from working long hours on the family farm. I had no sense of my own beauty or value, so I believe him when he implies I am lucky to be with him. The exhaust of his engine blends with the other cruisers as we pull out onto the highway in his car. He is driving with one hand, the other around my shoulders, our thighs touching, and my hand resting casually on his leg. We have nothing of any importance to talk about. He dropped out of high school after 9th grade and he knows I am college bound, but he is cunning, clever in the ways of courting innocence, and knows that I am drawn to the danger.
We parked behind the farmer’s co-op store, under the big tipple where giant trucks came to dump the bounty of corn, soybeans, and wheat that grows in the flat fields of black earth that stretched for hundreds of miles in every direction. The engine stops and we are in our usual clinch, his mouth hard and demanding on my own soft lips, his hands already pushing an assault past the last bit of ground he had gained under my clothing on previous dates. We don’t say a word, just kiss while I struggle against the Calvary charge of his demanding hands. The war was not going well for him, and it was time to pull out all stops. He backed away to his side of the car, angry and sullen, and says he is taking me back. I am puzzled and ask what I have done to displease him. He turns in amazement that he has to spell it out for me, the girl who had defied her parents and all social convention to meet him on the sly, but one look at my guileless face and he realized he has underestimated my naivety, and he knows what to say.
“If you really loved me you wouldn’t stop me.” There it was, the oldest line in the annals of male female relationships, but definitely new to me, and he thought I’d fall for it. I knew the right answer though, and it surprised him.
“If you really loved me, you wouldn’t ask when I’m not ready.” We both held our positions on opposite sides of the car, sulking in earnest. He finally gave in, kissed me a little brotherly peck and started the engine. We had been gone long enough for him to brag to his friends, and he is astute enough to know I won’t hold out forever.
The cloying honeysuckle smell seemed to mock me when I slip back into my window, unnoticed by man or beast. Mom should have waited until I went away to college to get rid of those dogs. My dreams that night were not of my boyfriend’s cold grey eyes, but of running through the woods with the big old black and tan hound that had been so loved by my father. I am ten instead of sixteen, and the air is hot, sticky, and smells like rain. I nearly trip over the dog’s enormous feet as he dashes back and forth in front of me, ears flapping, his tongue hanging out in a laughing way. I race to make it back to the shelter of the warm safe barn before the summer storm. I see the sky light up with the flash of lightning, and then I wake with a start at the sudden boom of thunder. It’s only Mom in the kitchen sitting the cast iron skillet on the burner. I am still in my clothes under the covers and have to hurry to change into pajamas and head to the kitchen to help Mom with breakfast. I am setting the table when Dad comes in with a warm good morning, and a kiss on the back of the neck for his busy wife. She pretends not to like it, and twists away, but I suddenly realize she is putting on a farce for my sake. Lightning flashes again in my head as I look at the two of them for the first time.
I turned the engine over, cringing at the noise, and pulled slowly away from the house and my sleeping parents. I turned on the headlights when the car was finally past their bedroom window and tuned the radio to the Chicago station that only came in after all decent people were asleep. If my parents had known about it, they would have forbidden me to listen to the cutting edge music of the day. I don’t remember what was playing that particular night, but I was singing alone, windows down, watching for danger in the form of one of the two police cars that might be patrolling the county. I made it undetected for the mile it took to get to the drive in restaurant where everyone hung out. I scanned the line of cars backed into spaces behind the neon lit burger joint, looking for his aqua and white 57 Chevy. He was sitting there on the front fender, smoking a cigg, surrounded by a crew of other surly teenage rebels. I drove past, pretending not to notice him, and parked my car at the end of the row. I didn’t have to wait long before he opened my door and pulled me out for a kiss. He tasted like tobacco, a singularly masculine flavor to me, and the taste mixed with his aroma, a smell like terry cloth towels just pulled from the clothesline on a hot summer day.
Hand in hand we stroll back to his car, walking the gauntlet of jealous boys whose girlfriends didn’t have the reckless abandon to climb out windows on summer nights. I was proud to be with him for some unknown reason. He is my first real boyfriend, tall and blond, with a body that was all lean muscle from working long hours on the family farm. I had no sense of my own beauty or value, so I believe him when he implies I am lucky to be with him. The exhaust of his engine blends with the other cruisers as we pull out onto the highway in his car. He is driving with one hand, the other around my shoulders, our thighs touching, and my hand resting casually on his leg. We have nothing of any importance to talk about. He dropped out of high school after 9th grade and he knows I am college bound, but he is cunning, clever in the ways of courting innocence, and knows that I am drawn to the danger.
We parked behind the farmer’s co-op store, under the big tipple where giant trucks came to dump the bounty of corn, soybeans, and wheat that grows in the flat fields of black earth that stretched for hundreds of miles in every direction. The engine stops and we are in our usual clinch, his mouth hard and demanding on my own soft lips, his hands already pushing an assault past the last bit of ground he had gained under my clothing on previous dates. We don’t say a word, just kiss while I struggle against the Calvary charge of his demanding hands. The war was not going well for him, and it was time to pull out all stops. He backed away to his side of the car, angry and sullen, and says he is taking me back. I am puzzled and ask what I have done to displease him. He turns in amazement that he has to spell it out for me, the girl who had defied her parents and all social convention to meet him on the sly, but one look at my guileless face and he realized he has underestimated my naivety, and he knows what to say.
“If you really loved me you wouldn’t stop me.” There it was, the oldest line in the annals of male female relationships, but definitely new to me, and he thought I’d fall for it. I knew the right answer though, and it surprised him.
“If you really loved me, you wouldn’t ask when I’m not ready.” We both held our positions on opposite sides of the car, sulking in earnest. He finally gave in, kissed me a little brotherly peck and started the engine. We had been gone long enough for him to brag to his friends, and he is astute enough to know I won’t hold out forever.
The cloying honeysuckle smell seemed to mock me when I slip back into my window, unnoticed by man or beast. Mom should have waited until I went away to college to get rid of those dogs. My dreams that night were not of my boyfriend’s cold grey eyes, but of running through the woods with the big old black and tan hound that had been so loved by my father. I am ten instead of sixteen, and the air is hot, sticky, and smells like rain. I nearly trip over the dog’s enormous feet as he dashes back and forth in front of me, ears flapping, his tongue hanging out in a laughing way. I race to make it back to the shelter of the warm safe barn before the summer storm. I see the sky light up with the flash of lightning, and then I wake with a start at the sudden boom of thunder. It’s only Mom in the kitchen sitting the cast iron skillet on the burner. I am still in my clothes under the covers and have to hurry to change into pajamas and head to the kitchen to help Mom with breakfast. I am setting the table when Dad comes in with a warm good morning, and a kiss on the back of the neck for his busy wife. She pretends not to like it, and twists away, but I suddenly realize she is putting on a farce for my sake. Lightning flashes again in my head as I look at the two of them for the first time.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Uncharted Water
Danger slides in whispers under the bow.
The horizon blends seamlessly with the cold grey ocean.
I search for landmarks
Until my eyes grow weary with the watching.
My craft is tiny and unsuitable, my hands blistered with the task of rowing.
I lift my oar to listen.
Birds perhaps, or just a sounding whale, it makes no difference.
My course is set.
I have determined that any direction is better than none,
even if it leads to perdition.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Naked Almost Always Gets Attention
My daughter really needs a blog of her own, but of course, she’s too busy living life to write about it. Maybe when she slows down a bit, in 40 or 50 years, but I’m not even sure that will be long enough. Our morning phone calls always have very loud intellectual arguments going on in the background, but I did get the dates for her visit home, November 18 to 25.
“Would you book those tickets for me please Mom?” By book she means pay for, but it’s a small fee for the exhilarating whirlwind of her presence for a few days. She fills me in on her exciting life, no time to talk really, must run, but then she mentions casually that she was naked on stage in a London West End theater.
“What” I say, my interest peaked?
“Oh, you know, it was Phil’s show, The Naked Racist. It’s all about peace and love and anti-war protest.” Phil is her former housemate and known to both of us.
“And you were completely naked,” I say in the most non-judgmental mom voice I can summon.
“Yup, aren’t you proud of me Mom”, she jokes.
Our conversation ends all too soon with the usual promise of a really long talk at some mythical time in the future. She hates talking on the phone because for her it’s like being blind. She gets most of what people are telling her from body language and facial expressions. I know that, and I also know my baby is long gone from me. I get off the phone and google the Garrick Theater where Phil is playing. Established in 1889 it says, located at Charing Cross Road near Trafalgar Square, and seats 675. I roll it over in my mind, a sold out house of 675 people. My girl thinks I am beyond being shocked by her antics, but I keep thinking of the first time I saw her naked, lying in a bassinette in the hospital nursery. She had no protest at being plunged from the warm dark womb into a world of light and action. She lay quiet and awestruck, like one who had finally come down where she meant to be. She was the driven one of my three, and had her life planned from cradle to grave by the time she was 9. This London lifestyle and the failure of her struck-by-lightening marriage have put those plans on hold for the duration. I have no shame for her showing off her perfect young body, but her recklessness does take my breath at times. I will say it here, but never to her. She must find her own way home and I must wait, keeping my impatience to myself and loving her unconditionally.
“Would you book those tickets for me please Mom?” By book she means pay for, but it’s a small fee for the exhilarating whirlwind of her presence for a few days. She fills me in on her exciting life, no time to talk really, must run, but then she mentions casually that she was naked on stage in a London West End theater.
“What” I say, my interest peaked?
“Oh, you know, it was Phil’s show, The Naked Racist. It’s all about peace and love and anti-war protest.” Phil is her former housemate and known to both of us.
“And you were completely naked,” I say in the most non-judgmental mom voice I can summon.
“Yup, aren’t you proud of me Mom”, she jokes.
Our conversation ends all too soon with the usual promise of a really long talk at some mythical time in the future. She hates talking on the phone because for her it’s like being blind. She gets most of what people are telling her from body language and facial expressions. I know that, and I also know my baby is long gone from me. I get off the phone and google the Garrick Theater where Phil is playing. Established in 1889 it says, located at Charing Cross Road near Trafalgar Square, and seats 675. I roll it over in my mind, a sold out house of 675 people. My girl thinks I am beyond being shocked by her antics, but I keep thinking of the first time I saw her naked, lying in a bassinette in the hospital nursery. She had no protest at being plunged from the warm dark womb into a world of light and action. She lay quiet and awestruck, like one who had finally come down where she meant to be. She was the driven one of my three, and had her life planned from cradle to grave by the time she was 9. This London lifestyle and the failure of her struck-by-lightening marriage have put those plans on hold for the duration. I have no shame for her showing off her perfect young body, but her recklessness does take my breath at times. I will say it here, but never to her. She must find her own way home and I must wait, keeping my impatience to myself and loving her unconditionally.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Negotiations
And there it was, the surprise move from my husband I never saw coming.
“I sometimes think you should just have an affair.”
Of all the things he has said and done to bind me, this is the one that took my breath. I had been freezing cold when I woke after several hours sleep on Sunday morning. He was coming down the hall to bed, book in hand, when I met him. Through chattering teeth I asked him if it was cold in the house, a stupid question I know, but we are not often of the same mind on the subject. He looked at the thermostat and said,
“Well, let’s turn the heat on.” I can’t imagine how cold it actually was if he was making that concession, and I also realized the big old barn we lived in was going to take a while to respond to his tweaking. I followed him down the hall to the bedroom and crawled in beside him to warm up for a minute. He had been trout fishing all day with his best friend and was exhausted from the climbing on banks and over downed trees to keep up with his chum, and he immediately started making excuses about his energy level. I told him quickly that I just wanted to get warm and he gratefully gathered me in his arms, although the idea that anyone else can be cold when he is comfortable always seems to surprise him. We talk about nothing for a few minutes and I gradually begin to stop shaking. I know it’s not fair, but I realize this may be the best moment to talk about our issues, here in the bed we have shared, the scene of the crime as it were. I let the conversation drift gradually past the mundane into the danger zone. I tell him again about freedom, excitement, control, all the things I need. I have been dry eyed through our conversations for many months, but unexpectedly I hear tears choke my voice and my words hit the ground like a grenade.
“I don’t know why I was never enough for you. Why did you choose the alcohol over me for all these years?” He says nothing for a long time but holds me closely while I sob. That’s when the words roll off his tongue, “affair”. I’m not sure I’m hearing correctly. I try to think what I want to say, what he wants to hear. He continues.
“I know your sex drive has always been much stronger than mine. If that’s what you need I understand.” I dance around it, admitting nothing as he reminds me of a friend from some years ago who took a lover while she cared for a compromised husband. The whole thing turned into a melodrama because of her poor judgment. It was not her most shinning moment. He warns me,
“I assume you know it would have to be extremely discrete and that I don’t want to know anything.” It lies there on the table for a while, and finally my voice says,
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
“I sometimes think you should just have an affair.”
Of all the things he has said and done to bind me, this is the one that took my breath. I had been freezing cold when I woke after several hours sleep on Sunday morning. He was coming down the hall to bed, book in hand, when I met him. Through chattering teeth I asked him if it was cold in the house, a stupid question I know, but we are not often of the same mind on the subject. He looked at the thermostat and said,
“Well, let’s turn the heat on.” I can’t imagine how cold it actually was if he was making that concession, and I also realized the big old barn we lived in was going to take a while to respond to his tweaking. I followed him down the hall to the bedroom and crawled in beside him to warm up for a minute. He had been trout fishing all day with his best friend and was exhausted from the climbing on banks and over downed trees to keep up with his chum, and he immediately started making excuses about his energy level. I told him quickly that I just wanted to get warm and he gratefully gathered me in his arms, although the idea that anyone else can be cold when he is comfortable always seems to surprise him. We talk about nothing for a few minutes and I gradually begin to stop shaking. I know it’s not fair, but I realize this may be the best moment to talk about our issues, here in the bed we have shared, the scene of the crime as it were. I let the conversation drift gradually past the mundane into the danger zone. I tell him again about freedom, excitement, control, all the things I need. I have been dry eyed through our conversations for many months, but unexpectedly I hear tears choke my voice and my words hit the ground like a grenade.
“I don’t know why I was never enough for you. Why did you choose the alcohol over me for all these years?” He says nothing for a long time but holds me closely while I sob. That’s when the words roll off his tongue, “affair”. I’m not sure I’m hearing correctly. I try to think what I want to say, what he wants to hear. He continues.
“I know your sex drive has always been much stronger than mine. If that’s what you need I understand.” I dance around it, admitting nothing as he reminds me of a friend from some years ago who took a lover while she cared for a compromised husband. The whole thing turned into a melodrama because of her poor judgment. It was not her most shinning moment. He warns me,
“I assume you know it would have to be extremely discrete and that I don’t want to know anything.” It lies there on the table for a while, and finally my voice says,
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
“What do atheist yell when they come?”
I’m sure you’re familiar 
with that great Bill Hicks line. It’s one of my favorites even though I actually know the answer from personal experience. Those who are carefully brought up from childhood to put their trust in the mystical teachings of Jesus often fall back on his or his father’s name in moments of passion, even if they have long ago turned all the crosses in the house upside down. It puzzles me because neither God nor Jesus seem like an entity you would want to welcome at such times, especially if the deed is a bit illicit. I will note that Jews are not above converting to Christianity in moments of congress with Wasps, which surprised the hell out of me the first time I heard it. Yesterday I found myself intrigued with foreign affairs, like those of Buddhist, Muslims, Hindus, Taoist, even Voodooist. I wish I could do a survey to find out what name believers and non believers of these sects invoke in their quasi spiritual moments. Any of you who have something to contribute to my survey feel free to help me out here. Don’t bother asking why I was thinking about this particular subject.
with that great Bill Hicks line. It’s one of my favorites even though I actually know the answer from personal experience. Those who are carefully brought up from childhood to put their trust in the mystical teachings of Jesus often fall back on his or his father’s name in moments of passion, even if they have long ago turned all the crosses in the house upside down. It puzzles me because neither God nor Jesus seem like an entity you would want to welcome at such times, especially if the deed is a bit illicit. I will note that Jews are not above converting to Christianity in moments of congress with Wasps, which surprised the hell out of me the first time I heard it. Yesterday I found myself intrigued with foreign affairs, like those of Buddhist, Muslims, Hindus, Taoist, even Voodooist. I wish I could do a survey to find out what name believers and non believers of these sects invoke in their quasi spiritual moments. Any of you who have something to contribute to my survey feel free to help me out here. Don’t bother asking why I was thinking about this particular subject.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Ain't No Mercy In My Smiling
I am an action junkie. Few people guess this about me until it’s too late. I don’t like roller coasters or amusement park rides so much, because even though they can be quite terrifying, I don’t like the control for my terror to be in the hands of the seventeen year old boy pushing the buttons, because we all know what he’s thinking about every 8 seconds and it isn’t my safety. I will take any leap into danger, eyes wide open, but I have never been able to pass the psychological trust test, falling backward into somebody’s arms without looking. I gained a lot of anxious fears when I married the second time, but I am shedding them like snakeskin as I eagerly anticipate a new day. My mind has been independently coming up with ideas to indulge my risk taking side, each more outrageous and death defying than the next. In the meantime, I am the ever constant in my duties at work and home, but always poised for the next Walter Middy type adventure in my head. Today it became a bit more real.
My workplace is always going all out for team building and friendly competition, and as much as I try to ignore the buzz over new games, I always reluctantly agree to participate. The game today was hitting a target with a dart gun that shoots soft suction cup tipped projectiles. The number of shots you get is based on floor stats. I protest that since I am doing training, my numbers aren’t all that high. I try to beg off because of lousy eye hand coordination, but in the end I line up, my back to the window, steady my arm with the other grasped on my forearm, aim, and shoot. All 11 of my shots landed within the 50 or 100-point circles, and I was high scorer when I left at 7. As I hand the gun back I am modestly talking about luck, but inside I am gleeful. I have a pocketbook full of cards for various restaurant, gas stations and movie theaters that go unredeemed from previous competitions. My manager came to me after and asked if I would be interested in a little challenge we had received from the IT department, a paintball game. I felt my endorphin level rising. I tried to sound casual when I answered in the affirmative, but my friend standing nearby heard the too quick and excited response and laughed with me. It should be fun playing with all the young Turks, slipping in under their radar in my middle age stealth mode. They’ll never know what hit them.
My workplace is always going all out for team building and friendly competition, and as much as I try to ignore the buzz over new games, I always reluctantly agree to participate. The game today was hitting a target with a dart gun that shoots soft suction cup tipped projectiles. The number of shots you get is based on floor stats. I protest that since I am doing training, my numbers aren’t all that high. I try to beg off because of lousy eye hand coordination, but in the end I line up, my back to the window, steady my arm with the other grasped on my forearm, aim, and shoot. All 11 of my shots landed within the 50 or 100-point circles, and I was high scorer when I left at 7. As I hand the gun back I am modestly talking about luck, but inside I am gleeful. I have a pocketbook full of cards for various restaurant, gas stations and movie theaters that go unredeemed from previous competitions. My manager came to me after and asked if I would be interested in a little challenge we had received from the IT department, a paintball game. I felt my endorphin level rising. I tried to sound casual when I answered in the affirmative, but my friend standing nearby heard the too quick and excited response and laughed with me. It should be fun playing with all the young Turks, slipping in under their radar in my middle age stealth mode. They’ll never know what hit them.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
My life, the musical
I replaced the sliver of lavender soap in my bathroom with a new clear lemon chamomile bar Saturday morning, now all my fantasies have a sweet citrus flavor. My Friday off was a day of secret delights and revelations, some wonderful, some dreadful, some puzzling, but I breathed them all in like the scent of the soapy bubbles falling in cascades off my skin. I slip into the jeans I struggled to fasten last weekend, now freshly washed and easily buttoned while standing up. I am inordinately pleased with myself over such a simple act. I ignore the urge to seek solutions for other people as I drive through the damp and deserted streets of early morning on my way to work. The CD I picked is softer than my usual, the poetry of Towns Van Zandt, “To live is to fly, both low and high. So shake the dust off of your wings and the sleep out of your eyes”. I don’t know exactly when my feet left the ground, but I realize I have begun my flight. Looking down, terrified and exhilarated, I drop another bit of the ballast that has held me emotionally and physically to this unhealthy place. I turn my face upward, toward the horizon, strangely content with my trepidation.
Friday, October 06, 2006
OH, SISTER
As the weight comes off I begin to remember how I used to walk. Years ago a jealous female housemate made a catty comment to me about leading with my mons pubis when I stepped out, although I don’t recall her using those exact words. I realized she was right when she said it, because I tended to suck in my stomach, square off my shoulders, and lean back slightly, taking long confident strides. I also held my head up, noticing other people instead of where my feet were going, or worrying about what I looked like. A more supportive female coworker, and of course, one whose man wasn’t trying to hit on me, recently told me that I sure was looking sexy lately, and asked how much weight had I lost. I beamed and thanked her. In the ensuing conversation that was joined in by three other women, I shared my weight loss tips. They were disappointed that my success was based on eating practically nothing and burning that off by exercise, creating a negative calorie balance. I know they wanted magic, but still they rallied to my side hoping some of my motivation would rub off on them. They are all big beautiful black women who walk with a natural confidence regardless of their size, and I am blessed to have them around. Now I am still 50 pounds away from a place where I truly feel comfortable with that old walk, but I could feel it coming back as I stepped out into the parking lot on the way to my car. I saw a few heads turn to watch me go by, and I choose to believe they were attracted by my increasing self-assurance about my appearance. I realize I am humming my favorite song from The Near Misses, “This is Your Day”. The words ring true, “I may not be where I want to be, but I’m on my way”. I square my shoulders and lean back into the cool autumn air, smiling.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Dreams (visual per your request)
In dreams I spoke,
and the words flowed so achingly sweet and clear,
that angels waited by my side with their soft mouths open,
their terrifying eyes focused most dreadfully on my face.
I woke from the nightmare with a start, alone.
I spoke, talking to myself,
my voice a pale shadow of that remembered brilliance
And though a million words could not suffice to tell even one from my dream,
clumsy, halting, with all my soul laid bare
the words course on
telling tales from heaven and hell and all the strange lands in between
and all the joys that mortals still can share.
and the words flowed so achingly sweet and clear,
that angels waited by my side with their soft mouths open,
their terrifying eyes focused most dreadfully on my face.
I woke from the nightmare with a start, alone.
I spoke, talking to myself,
my voice a pale shadow of that remembered brilliance
And though a million words could not suffice to tell even one from my dream,
clumsy, halting, with all my soul laid bare
the words course on
telling tales from heaven and hell and all the strange lands in between
and all the joys that mortals still can share.
THAT GIRL
She looks a little blurry, standing there beside a guy she’d just as soon forget. No, you can’t see him, but trust me, you’re not missing anything. I’ll just call him “the stalker”. He and his kind were the ones who sent me scurrying for safety from the storm and into the arms of what seemed reasonable, safe, and sane. I know I’ll never have her back again, but I think that’s just as well. I have the best of her still inside me, even though the package is a bit frayed, it’s improving daily. I haven’t felt this alive and engaged in years, which is why I wish I hadn’t done a personal horoscope for the very hour and day I was born. I’m just going to throw it out here for you to read and hopefully, someone will tell me it’s total crap and I should go on about my business.You are attracted to crisis, those transition times in life when people are tested, when their social masks do not matter anymore, and the true person is revealed. You may feel most alive and most yourself in life and death situations, whether you are involved in saving lives (as a doctor or healer), in destroying them (as in war), or simply by seeking out dangerous situations and dangerous companions. Often you will create your own crisis (especially in the arena of your close personal relationships) in order to pit yourself against the challenge. Other people may view this as a self-destructive urge in you, a masochistic (or sadistic) streak. The truth is you would rather feel pain, than to feel nothing at all. You want to be fully immersed in it, deeply and passionately involved. (Life for you is not a spectator sport).
Coincidence, right, enough monkeys and enough typewriters, stopped clock, etc? Tell me now because blurry girl and I need to know if there’s another stalker in my future.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
OCTOBER AND STILL HOT
I was lying on my bed sideways, my feet on the railing, which brought my knees up level with my head. I held my breath in anticipation as my hands grasped the button of my jeans, and suddenly, oh my god, I got them fastened!! That’s three sized down from where I started two months ago, and I couldn’t be more turned on by the changes. Still a way to go, but getting ready to go out felt like the good old days when I was bad, well, just bad enough to have fun anyway. I decided it might be a good strategy to focus attention away from my still too padded middle by drawing the eye upward to a location I do not normally expose. The sheer camisole top and almost not there undergarments were not so much covered as framed by a brown jacket, and the girls did not go unnoticed. I added a newly purchased pair of brown high heel boots to the outfit and felt good enough that I would have added a picture to this post if my freaking digital camera wasn’t in a pout about something or other right now, batteries maybe, who knows.
What a great night it was. The crowd was mostly younger and the whole bar reeked of sex. My girls sang their hearts out, but everyone was too busy making connections to appreciate them sufficiently. I wanted to get up and make an announcement, “Guys, talented poets up here with voices like angels, shut up and listen!” By the time the next act came on everybody had leaned in close and were paying attention. He was awesome and had the crowd with him most of the time, except for some rowdies in the back. My son would not trade places with me, so I had to flirt across him with the really, really adorable guy who kept trying to buy me an Irish Car Bomb. Even though he was polishing one off every 20 minutes or so there for a while, I knew I was the DD and declined. Sober is also good and keeps things real, at least for me. Jason got sucked into the next act, the hot girl with long red hair and the too electric guitar, but was disappointed at the end of the evening when a man came up and slapped her territorially on the ass. At least he got distracted from protecting me.
I had a wonderful chat with my favorite of all Ben’s exes, an amazing, beautiful, and talented woman, another child of my heart who has grown into a friend. We found we had a lot to share and it felt very good being able to do so. We look forward to more talks in the future. I gave her this blog address and want to welcome her to comment or not as she likes. Thanks sweetie for being non-judgemental, compassionate, and making me laugh. I still think drunk John was disappointed that he couldn’t get in on a threesome with us. Note to girls out there: if you want to get a guy’s attention, just wonder outside and try to have a private conversation. All kidding aside, every time I tell the tale I have a few private tears, and go away stronger. I am replacing the grief that I release with courage, as I replace the lies with truth.
What a great night it was. The crowd was mostly younger and the whole bar reeked of sex. My girls sang their hearts out, but everyone was too busy making connections to appreciate them sufficiently. I wanted to get up and make an announcement, “Guys, talented poets up here with voices like angels, shut up and listen!” By the time the next act came on everybody had leaned in close and were paying attention. He was awesome and had the crowd with him most of the time, except for some rowdies in the back. My son would not trade places with me, so I had to flirt across him with the really, really adorable guy who kept trying to buy me an Irish Car Bomb. Even though he was polishing one off every 20 minutes or so there for a while, I knew I was the DD and declined. Sober is also good and keeps things real, at least for me. Jason got sucked into the next act, the hot girl with long red hair and the too electric guitar, but was disappointed at the end of the evening when a man came up and slapped her territorially on the ass. At least he got distracted from protecting me.
I had a wonderful chat with my favorite of all Ben’s exes, an amazing, beautiful, and talented woman, another child of my heart who has grown into a friend. We found we had a lot to share and it felt very good being able to do so. We look forward to more talks in the future. I gave her this blog address and want to welcome her to comment or not as she likes. Thanks sweetie for being non-judgemental, compassionate, and making me laugh. I still think drunk John was disappointed that he couldn’t get in on a threesome with us. Note to girls out there: if you want to get a guy’s attention, just wonder outside and try to have a private conversation. All kidding aside, every time I tell the tale I have a few private tears, and go away stronger. I am replacing the grief that I release with courage, as I replace the lies with truth.
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