29 years ago my roommate and I drove from Lansing to Birmingham to see the play "Do Black Patent Leather Shoes Really Reflect Up?" It was a musical, parody that poked fun at growing up going to Catholic schools. I went to public school. Mary was Episcopalian but apparently that was close enough for her to relate to the show.
I've not thought of that show in decades, literally. Frankly, the fact that I can say I've not thought of the show in decades is frightening in and of itself.
Recently from deep within the grey matter came roaring a song title from the show. I can't remember all the lyrics. I can remember the character. Standing in her pleated skirt with her ankle socks and plain leather Mary Janes. The little girl was often shunned by her classmates. Her solo song - "Does God love little fat girls too?"
I was scanning old family photos this weekend. I scanned my favorite photo of myself. It was taken when I was twelve. I looked older. Not to be egotistical, but it's a very beautiful photo. I was a very beautiful girl. Yet, like so many tweens and teen girls, I thought of myself as hideous and extremely fat. Looking at that picture I can't understand how I could've possibly perceived of myself as fat.
Then I realize it wasn't originally my obsession. It came from my parents. My mom had gone through a phase as a young girl where she was chubby. I did too. In the second and third grade I stopped growing tall and grew round. And, I started developing just before the fourth grade. I also shot up about 4 inches and the chubby parts migrated to my chest and hips. I was no longer chubby. I was certainly NOT fat. I was, however, curvy with breasts while the great majority of the girls my age were shorter, had no hips, and no breasts until well into Jr. High or High School. That, in my mind translated into me being fat. And my parents started obsessing. Putting me on this or that diet. Always monitoring what went on my plate and beyond.
Their obsession became my shame. Now that I'm an adult I can see this. I've seen and understood this for years. So, why is it that I can't conquer this. Why have I let it conquer me? Why is it that over the years I've become what has been projected upon me? Why is it that I can be some damned stubborn about so many things, focusing so hard and being so determined that I achieve more than I had ever thought possible yet, I still ride the roller coaster of weight loss that I've been riding since college?
Sometimes I wonder if God loves little fat girls too? Sometimes I wonder if I love the little fat girl that lives inside me?
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Allow me
"If he would wash it, or brush it, or use it during lovemaking, than it would have made more sense to keep it long."
The look in your eyes was...well, resignation I guess. Something distant and sad. Disappointment in those young idealistic expectations of what a relationship between a man and a woman would hold. Twenty two years later the reality still hurts, still makes you sad. You can see it, somewhere deep inside, if you are watching with a keen eye and a sensitivity to or affiliation with your feelings. It's obvious.
Most people probably don't see it. They too have resigned themselves to the won't happens, never, not in a million years. It just wasn't realistic. I mean we were young and naive. Our mothers never told us of this. But, their mothers didn't either.
It's as if wanting romance is foolish. Just a silly woman's thing. "That's not what marriage is about dear."
"You shouldn't expect things."
"The honeymoon can't last forever."
If you want someone to wash your hair, their fingers massaging your scalp as water cascades down both of your naked badies, warm, sensuous. Droplets on your eyelashes. Tasting the water that runs down the tip of your nose, mingles in your kiss... it should be.
If you want to stand on the cold tile floor, lost in the misty, steamy air, a big thirsty towel drinking the moisture from your skin, your hair. Looking into each other's eyes, wrapped in each other's arms, touching, caressing, breathing in the clean, musky, smell of soap, shampoo and damp, warm, flesh...it should be.
If you want to feel the scratchy tips of a brush run across your scalp, down through your honey, amber hair tousled and tangled by lovemaking while you sit between your lover's knees, legs entwined, sleepy satisfaction closing your eyes, stroke, stroke, stroke, slowly falling asleep, bodies falling into one another...it should be.
Allow me.
The look in your eyes was...well, resignation I guess. Something distant and sad. Disappointment in those young idealistic expectations of what a relationship between a man and a woman would hold. Twenty two years later the reality still hurts, still makes you sad. You can see it, somewhere deep inside, if you are watching with a keen eye and a sensitivity to or affiliation with your feelings. It's obvious.
Most people probably don't see it. They too have resigned themselves to the won't happens, never, not in a million years. It just wasn't realistic. I mean we were young and naive. Our mothers never told us of this. But, their mothers didn't either.
It's as if wanting romance is foolish. Just a silly woman's thing. "That's not what marriage is about dear."
"You shouldn't expect things."
"The honeymoon can't last forever."
If you want someone to wash your hair, their fingers massaging your scalp as water cascades down both of your naked badies, warm, sensuous. Droplets on your eyelashes. Tasting the water that runs down the tip of your nose, mingles in your kiss... it should be.
If you want to stand on the cold tile floor, lost in the misty, steamy air, a big thirsty towel drinking the moisture from your skin, your hair. Looking into each other's eyes, wrapped in each other's arms, touching, caressing, breathing in the clean, musky, smell of soap, shampoo and damp, warm, flesh...it should be.
If you want to feel the scratchy tips of a brush run across your scalp, down through your honey, amber hair tousled and tangled by lovemaking while you sit between your lover's knees, legs entwined, sleepy satisfaction closing your eyes, stroke, stroke, stroke, slowly falling asleep, bodies falling into one another...it should be.
Allow me.
Marionette
Like a marionette, I respond to the strings that you unknowingly control. My every move a result of you.
Unable to speak, a smile painted upon my face, I dance around for your pleasure.
My actions are awkward. My thoughts are concealed. Would the strings disappear if my thoughts were revealed?
Like a sorcerer you cast your spell. My reverie becomes fantasy. Visions consume me.
Enchanted by an apparition that takes it's shape like you, I'm fascinated by this mystery.
My actions still awkward. My thoughts still concealed. Would the magic disappear if my thoughts were revealed?
Unable to speak, a smile painted upon my face, I dance around for your pleasure.
My actions are awkward. My thoughts are concealed. Would the strings disappear if my thoughts were revealed?
Like a sorcerer you cast your spell. My reverie becomes fantasy. Visions consume me.
Enchanted by an apparition that takes it's shape like you, I'm fascinated by this mystery.
My actions still awkward. My thoughts still concealed. Would the magic disappear if my thoughts were revealed?
Sunday
I wonder if you know how drawn to you I am. Could you tell yesterday at breakfast?
I wanted everything to be perfect for you and then I kept burning the pancakes. Getting all flustered inside because I couldn't get my timing down or figure out how to regulate the heat on the gas burner.
It was nice watching you though. You moved around my kitchen preparing coffee as if you prepared coffee in my kitchen every day. Perhaps I kept burning the pancakes because I would get so distracted watching you. It felt nice to have someone there moving about me. Someone who felt comfortable opening the cupboards, the refrigerator, getting what you needed. No pretenses. No formality. It was easy to fantasize that we were an old couple doing our Sunday thing. Me cooking. You making coffee, heating the pancake syrup, leaning against the counter sharing small talk. How was the concert last night? What's on the agenda for today? It was easy to forget that we weren't alone and that I had two other guests for breakfast.
And when I finally finished burning most of the pancakes, I sat down at the table and picked up my coffee mug. It was the one you had given me. You had picked it out of the cupboard just for me. I noticed. It was such a little thing yet not. I looked over at you and smiled.
You smiled back.
Could we start every Sunday like this?
I wanted everything to be perfect for you and then I kept burning the pancakes. Getting all flustered inside because I couldn't get my timing down or figure out how to regulate the heat on the gas burner.
It was nice watching you though. You moved around my kitchen preparing coffee as if you prepared coffee in my kitchen every day. Perhaps I kept burning the pancakes because I would get so distracted watching you. It felt nice to have someone there moving about me. Someone who felt comfortable opening the cupboards, the refrigerator, getting what you needed. No pretenses. No formality. It was easy to fantasize that we were an old couple doing our Sunday thing. Me cooking. You making coffee, heating the pancake syrup, leaning against the counter sharing small talk. How was the concert last night? What's on the agenda for today? It was easy to forget that we weren't alone and that I had two other guests for breakfast.
And when I finally finished burning most of the pancakes, I sat down at the table and picked up my coffee mug. It was the one you had given me. You had picked it out of the cupboard just for me. I noticed. It was such a little thing yet not. I looked over at you and smiled.
You smiled back.
Could we start every Sunday like this?
Cello
Black lace, elegant, alluring. Your dress, buttoned loosely shows the soft skin of your shoulders and back. A curl falls gently in your eyes as you concentrate, trying to stay focused on the music. Your ear is pressed against the scroll of your cello. Your bow glides gracefully across the strings. You close your eyes and sway just a bit, moved. The curve of your body becomes the curve of the wood, one into the other and out again. Elegant. Sensuous. The deep voice of your cello, your flesh through the lace, the light casting a warm glow around you and I'm being drawn toward you. Leaving my body in the audience surrounded by strangers I move down the aisle, climb the stairs, cross the stage and I am behind you. I place my hands on your shoulders and move them across your skin, down your arms. I bury my face in your hair drawing in your scent. I kiss the softness behind your ear, under your chin. I feel the vibrations of the bow across the strings and into my soul and I become a part of the music, low, resonant, crying out with passion and desire.
Still more...
The reflected light of the street lamps casts a subtle, bluish glow on your face drawing you out from the deeper blue, blackness of the unlit room. You were staring at nothing. Lost somewhere in your thoughts. The silence wasn't uncomfortable yet it was obviously silent. I fought an urge to ask you where you were, what you were thinking about. It would have sounded trite. My voice would have broken the silence like a hammer upon glass. So I sat and watched you.
Your head was tilted slightly downward, your hands clasped in your lap, elbows balancing on the arms of the chair. You rocked, ever so slightly, back and forth. A natural movement, a comforting one. Your hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail revealing the spot where your neck flows into your shoulder. The soft blue light crept around your back highlighting your shoulders, pooling in the place of soft, tender skin where my eyes stopped to rest.
I wanted to step over to you, kneel down beside you, lean in and breathe the smell of you. Perfume, soap and shampoo. I wanted to brush my lips against your neck and taste the salty surface. I wanted to travel down to your throat nibbling along the way. Kisses. Caresses. Eyelashes against your cheek. Lips to chin. Lips to nose. Lips to lips. I wanted to cradle your face in my hands as I explored your mouth with mine. I wanted to feel the smooth surface of your teeth, the warm softness of your tongue. I wanted my touches and caresses to speak my emotions and explain my love but I continued to sit and watch.
Eventually the cat walked by, breaking your concentration, drawing you back to the here and now. You rocked back in the chair, looked over at me and smiled. "May I kiss you," my mind was asking. I smiled back. We began to talk. A continued conversation, picking up where we had left off, leaving me to wonder where you had just been, what you had been thinking. Knowing where I had been and how I could only be there in the silent confines of my mind.
Your head was tilted slightly downward, your hands clasped in your lap, elbows balancing on the arms of the chair. You rocked, ever so slightly, back and forth. A natural movement, a comforting one. Your hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail revealing the spot where your neck flows into your shoulder. The soft blue light crept around your back highlighting your shoulders, pooling in the place of soft, tender skin where my eyes stopped to rest.
I wanted to step over to you, kneel down beside you, lean in and breathe the smell of you. Perfume, soap and shampoo. I wanted to brush my lips against your neck and taste the salty surface. I wanted to travel down to your throat nibbling along the way. Kisses. Caresses. Eyelashes against your cheek. Lips to chin. Lips to nose. Lips to lips. I wanted to cradle your face in my hands as I explored your mouth with mine. I wanted to feel the smooth surface of your teeth, the warm softness of your tongue. I wanted my touches and caresses to speak my emotions and explain my love but I continued to sit and watch.
Eventually the cat walked by, breaking your concentration, drawing you back to the here and now. You rocked back in the chair, looked over at me and smiled. "May I kiss you," my mind was asking. I smiled back. We began to talk. A continued conversation, picking up where we had left off, leaving me to wonder where you had just been, what you had been thinking. Knowing where I had been and how I could only be there in the silent confines of my mind.
Conversations in my head
Once more I find myself wanting to write. The subject, of course, being you.
You see I walk around all day long having conversations in my head. I'm not sure that others do this, but continually from the moment I awake to long after I go to bed the voices are there, talking, confessing, expressing, saying things that aren't easy to say outside of the confines of my mind.
You're there, in my mind and I talk with you. You don't answer. Fuel for debate. What would she think if I really told her this? How would she respond? Would this change the way she is around me? Will she think I'm foolish, young, over the edge?
So I continue speaking with my mouth closed, in silence as I go about my daily routine; driving to work, doing the dishes, shopping, laundry.
And often when the words have become too many and my mind begins to feel burdened, I'll sit down and open the gates and let the words flow from my mind to paper. I clear the way for more conversations. I let it out. I write it down and I fold the papers and quietly file them away.
Sometimes when I'm feeling brave and not too vulnerable, I let others read them. I let them in on those private conversations between my selves and I sit nervously, silently, waiting. What do they think? How will they respond? Will they behave differently around me? Will they think I'm foolish, young, over the edge?
Many have asked if you know how I feel. "Of course not," I tell them. I wouldn't know where to begin. I think I'd open my mouth and nothing would happen. I speak best in my mind. Somehow the thoughts don't translate into words. A strange disorder that causes the meaning to change once out of thought and vocalized.
They tell me to share. You might appreciate knowing how much I care for you, how I hold you in such high regard and how much I'll miss you when you're gone. Of course I've thought about taking their advice. Actually I've had long discussions into the wee hours of the night, in my head, about this. Yet there we'll be lingering over a glass of wine and no words come out even though I'm saying so much. You can't hear me.
When I look at you I'm telling you how beautiful you are, how I enjoy your laughter, your smile. I tell you how comfortable I feel when I'm around you, how special you make me feel. I'm telling you how I'd do anything for you and that you can trust me, I'll always be around when you need me. I'm telling you how much I want to feel your arms around me, how much I want to hold your hand and kiss you. Can't you hear it in my smile? In my eyes?
You don't hear it in my silence but I hear it all, all the time, night and day, conversations in my head.
You see I walk around all day long having conversations in my head. I'm not sure that others do this, but continually from the moment I awake to long after I go to bed the voices are there, talking, confessing, expressing, saying things that aren't easy to say outside of the confines of my mind.
You're there, in my mind and I talk with you. You don't answer. Fuel for debate. What would she think if I really told her this? How would she respond? Would this change the way she is around me? Will she think I'm foolish, young, over the edge?
So I continue speaking with my mouth closed, in silence as I go about my daily routine; driving to work, doing the dishes, shopping, laundry.
And often when the words have become too many and my mind begins to feel burdened, I'll sit down and open the gates and let the words flow from my mind to paper. I clear the way for more conversations. I let it out. I write it down and I fold the papers and quietly file them away.
Sometimes when I'm feeling brave and not too vulnerable, I let others read them. I let them in on those private conversations between my selves and I sit nervously, silently, waiting. What do they think? How will they respond? Will they behave differently around me? Will they think I'm foolish, young, over the edge?
Many have asked if you know how I feel. "Of course not," I tell them. I wouldn't know where to begin. I think I'd open my mouth and nothing would happen. I speak best in my mind. Somehow the thoughts don't translate into words. A strange disorder that causes the meaning to change once out of thought and vocalized.
They tell me to share. You might appreciate knowing how much I care for you, how I hold you in such high regard and how much I'll miss you when you're gone. Of course I've thought about taking their advice. Actually I've had long discussions into the wee hours of the night, in my head, about this. Yet there we'll be lingering over a glass of wine and no words come out even though I'm saying so much. You can't hear me.
When I look at you I'm telling you how beautiful you are, how I enjoy your laughter, your smile. I tell you how comfortable I feel when I'm around you, how special you make me feel. I'm telling you how I'd do anything for you and that you can trust me, I'll always be around when you need me. I'm telling you how much I want to feel your arms around me, how much I want to hold your hand and kiss you. Can't you hear it in my smile? In my eyes?
You don't hear it in my silence but I hear it all, all the time, night and day, conversations in my head.
Wandering
Staring ahead pointed somewhere. Moving around in the world. Around in my mind. I'm unsettled. The music is a buffer between me and the outside. I hear it - not really. I'm not listening but it's there. Fuzzy. Surrounding me.
So are the images. Other cars. People standing on the corner. Walking down the street. Buildings. Trees. Traffic lights. I drive by. They in their world. Me in mine. Patterns of colors. Blurs. Streaks.
I'm talking to myself. Inside. A debate. An argument. I don't really know. I get confused. It seems as if there are so many mes and each is different and wanting and none knows where they are going or how to get there or where there is.
A perpetual journey to nowhere.
I drive.
I have no destination. Not physical anyway. Perhaps I seek a destination. A time. A place. A feeling. My car won't get me there, yet I always get in my car and start it up and drive as if I am going somewhere. As if driving down some road north, than east, then north again will bring me to a place where it will happen. Where my mind stops wandering. Where the voices are silenced. Where stillness brings about a sense of having arrived at the place. The place of peace and understanding and belonging.
I'm an explorer. I explore the physical and fight through the maze of the spiritual. The further I drive, the longer the journey, the more I discover, the more I need to search. Explore. Never finding. Never concluding. Always moving. I'm so tired. I want to stop - or to not stop. Not come back but keep driving onward and onward and onward until I pass the horizon and just disappear.
So are the images. Other cars. People standing on the corner. Walking down the street. Buildings. Trees. Traffic lights. I drive by. They in their world. Me in mine. Patterns of colors. Blurs. Streaks.
I'm talking to myself. Inside. A debate. An argument. I don't really know. I get confused. It seems as if there are so many mes and each is different and wanting and none knows where they are going or how to get there or where there is.
A perpetual journey to nowhere.
I drive.
I have no destination. Not physical anyway. Perhaps I seek a destination. A time. A place. A feeling. My car won't get me there, yet I always get in my car and start it up and drive as if I am going somewhere. As if driving down some road north, than east, then north again will bring me to a place where it will happen. Where my mind stops wandering. Where the voices are silenced. Where stillness brings about a sense of having arrived at the place. The place of peace and understanding and belonging.
I'm an explorer. I explore the physical and fight through the maze of the spiritual. The further I drive, the longer the journey, the more I discover, the more I need to search. Explore. Never finding. Never concluding. Always moving. I'm so tired. I want to stop - or to not stop. Not come back but keep driving onward and onward and onward until I pass the horizon and just disappear.
More
We sat together at the table. Candlelight painted the room a soft apricot. Tiny flames danced in your eyes. You were looking down. Your fork sat motionless in one hand. The other twirled the stem of your wine glass.
You didn't say anything. I watched you. I wondered what you were thinking. Sometimes when we're together I feel as if there are no other people on earth except you and me. Sometimes I feel as if I'm not really there. At that moment I felt invisible. You were in your own space, your own world. One I couldn't enter.
I too was lost in thought as my eyes traveled from your eyes to your nose, your lips, across the curve of your neck and shoulders down your arms to your fingers which now rested upon the base of the wine glass. I thought of reaching out and taking your hand in mine. I thought of drawing your hand to my lips, kissing it softly and pressing it to my cheek.
You looked up, gave me a sad smile and told me how delicious the meal was. You then added softly, "I don't know what I'm going to cook for John. I would love this but he would hate it."
You were again looking down. Again in that world of yours. I wanted so badly to be able to find a response to your statement. But I didn't really have one. I was silent. I wondered if you were really asking "Why am I moving? Will I be OK? Am I doing the right thing?"
I didn't have the answers.
I wanted to ask you if you were scared. I wanted to tell you it would be alright, but how could I when I wasn't really sure.
We finished dinner. I suggested a movie. You mulled it over, going through your agenda making sure that you could afford to do nothing for a few more hours. There was so much to do, so much to take care of and time was running out.
We went to the store, picked out a movie, came back and headed up to the TV room to watch it. You sat in the rocker. I was disappointed. I wanted you to sit next to me just in case I decided to take your hand as I had thought of doing earlier during dinner.
You watched the movie. I watched you. You seemed tired. You seemed sad. You tried to get the cat to come sit on your lap and when he chose mine, I felt guilty. I wanted to whisper in his ear, "Go to her, Bud. She needs you right now." He kneaded my thigh, walked around and settled in. You turned back toward the TV screen.
At one point you went to the bathroom. I stopped the movie. When you returned, you sat down beside me. This made me happy. You pet the cat and we continued watching the movie. I continued watching you.
You had your hand upon the back of your neck, giving yourself a massage. Your head was tilted back and your eyes were closed. "Tired?" I asked. My voice seemed so loud in the quiet room. "Yes," you looked at me with those grey, blue eyes. I reached over and rubbed your back. You gave me a small smile as if even that was an effort. "Now would be a good time for an ice cream break."
"I'll go get it," I replied as I headed down the stairs. I scooped out the rich dark chocolate, grabbed two spoons and headed back up. I gave you a bowl and sat down a little closer to you. I turned toward you and told you how good the ice cream was. You had made it at my request. You had made ice cream for our last dinner too. Who'll make me ice cream when you're gone?
You didn't say anything. I watched you. I wondered what you were thinking. Sometimes when we're together I feel as if there are no other people on earth except you and me. Sometimes I feel as if I'm not really there. At that moment I felt invisible. You were in your own space, your own world. One I couldn't enter.
I too was lost in thought as my eyes traveled from your eyes to your nose, your lips, across the curve of your neck and shoulders down your arms to your fingers which now rested upon the base of the wine glass. I thought of reaching out and taking your hand in mine. I thought of drawing your hand to my lips, kissing it softly and pressing it to my cheek.
You looked up, gave me a sad smile and told me how delicious the meal was. You then added softly, "I don't know what I'm going to cook for John. I would love this but he would hate it."
You were again looking down. Again in that world of yours. I wanted so badly to be able to find a response to your statement. But I didn't really have one. I was silent. I wondered if you were really asking "Why am I moving? Will I be OK? Am I doing the right thing?"
I didn't have the answers.
I wanted to ask you if you were scared. I wanted to tell you it would be alright, but how could I when I wasn't really sure.
We finished dinner. I suggested a movie. You mulled it over, going through your agenda making sure that you could afford to do nothing for a few more hours. There was so much to do, so much to take care of and time was running out.
We went to the store, picked out a movie, came back and headed up to the TV room to watch it. You sat in the rocker. I was disappointed. I wanted you to sit next to me just in case I decided to take your hand as I had thought of doing earlier during dinner.
You watched the movie. I watched you. You seemed tired. You seemed sad. You tried to get the cat to come sit on your lap and when he chose mine, I felt guilty. I wanted to whisper in his ear, "Go to her, Bud. She needs you right now." He kneaded my thigh, walked around and settled in. You turned back toward the TV screen.
At one point you went to the bathroom. I stopped the movie. When you returned, you sat down beside me. This made me happy. You pet the cat and we continued watching the movie. I continued watching you.
You had your hand upon the back of your neck, giving yourself a massage. Your head was tilted back and your eyes were closed. "Tired?" I asked. My voice seemed so loud in the quiet room. "Yes," you looked at me with those grey, blue eyes. I reached over and rubbed your back. You gave me a small smile as if even that was an effort. "Now would be a good time for an ice cream break."
"I'll go get it," I replied as I headed down the stairs. I scooped out the rich dark chocolate, grabbed two spoons and headed back up. I gave you a bowl and sat down a little closer to you. I turned toward you and told you how good the ice cream was. You had made it at my request. You had made ice cream for our last dinner too. Who'll make me ice cream when you're gone?
The movie ended. It ran a little longer than either of us had expected. You stretched and turned toward me. It was the cat you were after. Or was it? You bent down and whispered into his ears. You scratched his head and caressed him. "Secret messages, Bud. I'm jealous." You looked up at me as you tenderly kissed his whiskers, his nose. Some of your hair fell softly in your eyes, I reached out and brushed it back and then stroked your cheek.
The movie stopped rewinding and we got up. You picked up the empty ice cream bowls and headed downstairs as I put the tape back in its case. I followed you to the kitchen. "Thanks for dinner," you said.
"Thanks for having dinner with me," I responded as I put my arms around you. We hugged. We hugged tightly. I wanted to kiss you. We held each other loosely as I looked into your eyes. I couldn't say anything. I couldn't do anything. You looked at me expecting me to say something. I just smiled. We headed toward the door.
I stood on the porch as you got into your car. I waved as you drove away then I stepped inside and slowly closed the door.
Old Writings
I could barely breathe as we lay together on the floor in the darkness, the silence. My head was spinning and my limbs were numb. I felt as if I didn't control my thoughts, couldn't control my movements. I was reaching out for your hand yet my hand stayed still paralyzed by doubts.
I wanted to say something but I had no words. I had no voice. So I looked at you as you looked at me and I smiled and looked away.
I pet the dog. You pet the dog. We caressed each other's hands as we both pet the dog. I couldn't just take your hand. You didn't just take mine. Was the dog an excuse, a way to touch without risk? Without having to reveal what we were thinking or wanting? Was I the only one wanting?
I didn't want to leave. It was getting late. I wanted the night to continue. I wanted to lay on the floor, touching your hand, listening to you breathe quietly in the darkness. I wanted to continue gazing upon you, searching the soft lights and shadows cast upon your face, your arms, the dip of your waist and the rise of your hips. I wanted to remain as we were forever. But we slowly got up. Still silent. We looked at each other in the darkness. We found each others eyes and both quickly glanced away. Perhaps we didn't want to see what we thought the other felt. Perhaps it was too real. What would we do if we saw something there that we weren't yet ready to handle?
So you walked me to my car. We spoke in hushed tones. I put my packages on the passenger seat, closed the door and turned to you. We embraced. Your arms slowly wrapped around my middle and you drew me tightly to you. I pulled you to me. And for fear of losing the night I pulled you in some more. You were turned toward me, your chin upon my shoulder, your face partially buried in the nape of my neck. I traced you neck with my lips and whispered in your ear, "I so enjoy being with you." You squeezed me a bit more tightly and whispered, "I will really miss you when I'm gone." I let out a slow, uneven sigh, stumbling over my thoughts, my desire. I ached to kiss you. I let my fingers run through your hair and neither of us let go. Time froze for a moment that lasted forever and only a second and I looked into your eyes, still holding on and said nothing.
Gradually our arms grew slack and slowly fell to our sides and we said good night. I got into my car and drove away watching you as you watched me, thinking that as long as I could still see you, I would still be there with you even though I wasn't.
I wanted to say something but I had no words. I had no voice. So I looked at you as you looked at me and I smiled and looked away.
I pet the dog. You pet the dog. We caressed each other's hands as we both pet the dog. I couldn't just take your hand. You didn't just take mine. Was the dog an excuse, a way to touch without risk? Without having to reveal what we were thinking or wanting? Was I the only one wanting?
I didn't want to leave. It was getting late. I wanted the night to continue. I wanted to lay on the floor, touching your hand, listening to you breathe quietly in the darkness. I wanted to continue gazing upon you, searching the soft lights and shadows cast upon your face, your arms, the dip of your waist and the rise of your hips. I wanted to remain as we were forever. But we slowly got up. Still silent. We looked at each other in the darkness. We found each others eyes and both quickly glanced away. Perhaps we didn't want to see what we thought the other felt. Perhaps it was too real. What would we do if we saw something there that we weren't yet ready to handle?
So you walked me to my car. We spoke in hushed tones. I put my packages on the passenger seat, closed the door and turned to you. We embraced. Your arms slowly wrapped around my middle and you drew me tightly to you. I pulled you to me. And for fear of losing the night I pulled you in some more. You were turned toward me, your chin upon my shoulder, your face partially buried in the nape of my neck. I traced you neck with my lips and whispered in your ear, "I so enjoy being with you." You squeezed me a bit more tightly and whispered, "I will really miss you when I'm gone." I let out a slow, uneven sigh, stumbling over my thoughts, my desire. I ached to kiss you. I let my fingers run through your hair and neither of us let go. Time froze for a moment that lasted forever and only a second and I looked into your eyes, still holding on and said nothing.
Gradually our arms grew slack and slowly fell to our sides and we said good night. I got into my car and drove away watching you as you watched me, thinking that as long as I could still see you, I would still be there with you even though I wasn't.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Channeling Joan Baez
"Our breath comes out white clouds mingles and hangs in the air."
Today it is bitter, bitter cold. I think that the white cloud of my breath actually froze in mid-air.
Today it is bitter, bitter cold. I think that the white cloud of my breath actually froze in mid-air.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Silence
I think one of the most frustrating and confusing things to experience is someone choosing not to talk with you. Especially when you don't completely understand why. There is no recourse. You can't improve upon or change the situation if you don't know what the situation is.
The unknown leaves you wondering. What did I say? What did I do? You begin to question all your actions. You begin to second guess your motivations. It's a confusing place to be.
I don't believe in the silent treatment. It resolves nothing. If there is a situation where space is needed then request the space. "I need time to heal." "I need time to sort things out." "I need to take a break."
Silence is more than deafening.
The unknown leaves you wondering. What did I say? What did I do? You begin to question all your actions. You begin to second guess your motivations. It's a confusing place to be.
I don't believe in the silent treatment. It resolves nothing. If there is a situation where space is needed then request the space. "I need time to heal." "I need time to sort things out." "I need to take a break."
Silence is more than deafening.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Today
Today I am again proud of my country. It's been a struggle these past 8 years watching as we lost standing in the world. Feeling helpless as our leaders pushed forward in their arrogance with little regard to our history, our constitution, our integrity. Today I watched the video stream into my cube and listened to the speeches and saw the hundreds of thousands of people who so passionately look forward to reclaiming our country.
In my head I heard the lyrics of You've Got to Be Carefully Taught, from South Pacific and I realized that we can teach something different. We can teach that all are equal. That all are to be respected for what we bring to this nation, this world. That together we can accompish more than we can alone.
I'm finding my optimism growing and my cynisism diminishing. Know hope.
In my head I heard the lyrics of You've Got to Be Carefully Taught, from South Pacific and I realized that we can teach something different. We can teach that all are equal. That all are to be respected for what we bring to this nation, this world. That together we can accompish more than we can alone.
I'm finding my optimism growing and my cynisism diminishing. Know hope.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Meandering
This morning the sun painted the sky with impressionist hues of soft glowing orange, peach, pink, yellow, lavendar, blue, green. It made me think of Monet's haystacks in winter.
There was also a snowbow frozen in the cloudless sky. I think that minute crystals of ice were blowing around near the ground reflecting the sun through billions of tiny prisms.
Today I had a meeting and had to venture out. The snow crystals were blowing catching the sun and twinkling like stars. I felt like I was in a snow globe that someone had just shaken.
It's cold. Bitter cold but the sky is popsicle blue and the sun orange. It's really quite stunning. The trees are outlined in purple on the snow below.
The snow crunches when you walk on it. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Tonight my friend Lisa is getting married. It was a short romance. She loves to stage things. They'll be married in a small wooden church. A horse and sleigh will pick them up and take them to their little cabin in the woods. I imagine a roaring fire.
There was also a snowbow frozen in the cloudless sky. I think that minute crystals of ice were blowing around near the ground reflecting the sun through billions of tiny prisms.
Today I had a meeting and had to venture out. The snow crystals were blowing catching the sun and twinkling like stars. I felt like I was in a snow globe that someone had just shaken.
It's cold. Bitter cold but the sky is popsicle blue and the sun orange. It's really quite stunning. The trees are outlined in purple on the snow below.
The snow crunches when you walk on it. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Tonight my friend Lisa is getting married. It was a short romance. She loves to stage things. They'll be married in a small wooden church. A horse and sleigh will pick them up and take them to their little cabin in the woods. I imagine a roaring fire.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Ebb and flow
It's been an interesting week of emotional tides. I'm feeling a little bit more at ease today. Paxil and conversation the prescriptions.
I can be as protective as a mama bear when I see someone with little power being taken advantage of or hurt in any way. That's the way I've been feeling about my B. She is not nor has she ever been a "miserable kid." Rather, I think someone's own feelings of miserableness are projected onto B. We can't choose the family into which we are born. The only good thing to come out of my sister's marriage is this child who fills my heart completely.
Today she is ice skating with Aunti Loli. They had to call be to tell me what they were up to as I had taken B skating when I was in MA for Christmas. No one's fallen yet! Hearing her sweet little voice cheers me. My favorite part of arriving home for a visit is seeing her there waiting for me. Since she was a little toddler and could walk, out she'd come with her arms stretched. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to catch her when she comes down the street at a full run and jumps up into my arms, but you can bet, I'll do my damndest to make those moments last as long as I can.
Little man Oliver called me this morning too. He read to me from his new library book. He's three and a half. I don't think I read until the third grade! Mila, she just giggles until she has the phone in her possession and then all goes silent. It's the kids that make the world go around.
Sometimes my mind goes on overload. I think about too many things at one time causing my blood pressure to go up and the anxiety to surface. Makes me cranky when I don't realize that I'm about to run out of my happy pills and then miss a day or two. I'll cry at commercials or worry about all the world's problems. I have to remind myself that I can't solve them all. I've got to focus on the ones at hand.
Next week I go to the orthopeadic clinic and begin PT for my three disk issue. Hopefull my S1 nerve root will begin to behave. Sleep is a good thing and I'm looking forward to a full and comfortable night.
Focus...that's what I need to do. I think that will be my theme for 2009. Focus.
I can be as protective as a mama bear when I see someone with little power being taken advantage of or hurt in any way. That's the way I've been feeling about my B. She is not nor has she ever been a "miserable kid." Rather, I think someone's own feelings of miserableness are projected onto B. We can't choose the family into which we are born. The only good thing to come out of my sister's marriage is this child who fills my heart completely.
Today she is ice skating with Aunti Loli. They had to call be to tell me what they were up to as I had taken B skating when I was in MA for Christmas. No one's fallen yet! Hearing her sweet little voice cheers me. My favorite part of arriving home for a visit is seeing her there waiting for me. Since she was a little toddler and could walk, out she'd come with her arms stretched. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to catch her when she comes down the street at a full run and jumps up into my arms, but you can bet, I'll do my damndest to make those moments last as long as I can.
Little man Oliver called me this morning too. He read to me from his new library book. He's three and a half. I don't think I read until the third grade! Mila, she just giggles until she has the phone in her possession and then all goes silent. It's the kids that make the world go around.
Sometimes my mind goes on overload. I think about too many things at one time causing my blood pressure to go up and the anxiety to surface. Makes me cranky when I don't realize that I'm about to run out of my happy pills and then miss a day or two. I'll cry at commercials or worry about all the world's problems. I have to remind myself that I can't solve them all. I've got to focus on the ones at hand.
Next week I go to the orthopeadic clinic and begin PT for my three disk issue. Hopefull my S1 nerve root will begin to behave. Sleep is a good thing and I'm looking forward to a full and comfortable night.
Focus...that's what I need to do. I think that will be my theme for 2009. Focus.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Out of my League
Today I feel out of my league. I've been working to address an issue and find resources based on training I had 24 years ago when I was in grad school and in a completely different field than the one I'm in now.
All I can say is there is a beautiful, loving, good-hearted, 8-year-old who is the love of my life and she needs an advocate and I'm determined to do everything in my power to show her that there are adults in her life who have their shit together and who can provide her the support she needs.
There is nothing I want more than to see that child grow up to be a healthy, happy adult. Lately, I feel that dream is at great risk.
Today, I began taking giant steps to help.
Makes me think of those ads that the Ad Counsil ran last year featuring situations in which people almost helped, but didn't.
All I can say is there is a beautiful, loving, good-hearted, 8-year-old who is the love of my life and she needs an advocate and I'm determined to do everything in my power to show her that there are adults in her life who have their shit together and who can provide her the support she needs.
There is nothing I want more than to see that child grow up to be a healthy, happy adult. Lately, I feel that dream is at great risk.
Today, I began taking giant steps to help.
Makes me think of those ads that the Ad Counsil ran last year featuring situations in which people almost helped, but didn't.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
My Phillips Screwdriver
I think I've actually come up with my AHA idea that will make me a millionaire. Of course I can't tell you about it in order to protect my potential patentable idea.
Hmmm. I seriously think I'm going to research this a bit. I mean products often come from simple ideas, right. Think about it...the Boppy pillow. How many baby showers have you attended lately that hasen't included at least one Boppy. All that a Boppy is is a moon shaped pillow. But quite a lucrative one.
Or what about the person who created those baby bottles with the hole in the middle to make it easier for the baby to hold their own bottle?
Or, I think this one is fantastic, heated windshield washer fluid. Brilliant.
Off I go to make my millions.
Hmmm. I seriously think I'm going to research this a bit. I mean products often come from simple ideas, right. Think about it...the Boppy pillow. How many baby showers have you attended lately that hasen't included at least one Boppy. All that a Boppy is is a moon shaped pillow. But quite a lucrative one.
Or what about the person who created those baby bottles with the hole in the middle to make it easier for the baby to hold their own bottle?
Or, I think this one is fantastic, heated windshield washer fluid. Brilliant.
Off I go to make my millions.
Crankiness
I'm cranky today. I know why. It's constantly dealing with the pain a disk in my back putting pressure on my S1 nerve root causes. This has been going on for three plus months. A constant burning that radiates down my right leg and cramps up the bottom of my right foot.
The worst thing you can do for this particular disk/root combo is sit on your behind, which I do most of the day in my cube at work. I get up frequently to stretch, walk around, and often to grab an ice pack out of the freezer. So here I sit freezing my arse off (well, technically my lower back off, but it's very close) hoping to numb the pain.
I go to the chiropractor. I do my back stretches and exercises using a big blue ball and a little yellow ball. I try not to do the things I've been told not to do. Vacuuming, for instance. You have no idea how hard that is when you've been raised in an anal retentive household that never had a spider web or dustball. I finally broke down and hired someone to shovel my walk and drive.
I've tried a little machine that shoots electrical impulses to the same general nerve area. I think the idea behind this is similar to accupuncture. You create so many nerve impulses at a high enough frequency that your brain is unable to process them all so you actually don't feel the pain. Nice thought. It didn't work but it sure felt weird.
I know I've been popping way too many Ibuprofens. I always think about how trying to address one health issue can actually create another. Heck...every night on TV we're bombarded with drug adds where the disclaimer is as long or longer than the supposed attributes of the drug being hawked. If I keep Ibuprofening at this rate my stomach or liver or something will rott.
I've been online reading about this issue. Apparently surgery, at least the most common one used, just transfers the stress from one area to another area of the spine. Not ideal.
At times I feel like a big baby. The pain isn't debilitating, it's just a chronic sense of significant discomfort. At times I stand up at my desk, put my keyboard on a brown box and try working that way. Driving or sitting on an airplane really aggravate the situation.
Spine problems run in the family. I've got degenerative and disk disease. So do my parents. In the words of my dad "you're screwed." Fun. Speaking of "screw"ing, I'll bet some aspects of that probably aggravate the disk/nerve as well. So, I'll try to focus on the positive and be thankful that there seems to be a lull in that area of my life right now.
Maybe meditation will help.
Half full, half full, half full, half full....
The worst thing you can do for this particular disk/root combo is sit on your behind, which I do most of the day in my cube at work. I get up frequently to stretch, walk around, and often to grab an ice pack out of the freezer. So here I sit freezing my arse off (well, technically my lower back off, but it's very close) hoping to numb the pain.
I go to the chiropractor. I do my back stretches and exercises using a big blue ball and a little yellow ball. I try not to do the things I've been told not to do. Vacuuming, for instance. You have no idea how hard that is when you've been raised in an anal retentive household that never had a spider web or dustball. I finally broke down and hired someone to shovel my walk and drive.
I've tried a little machine that shoots electrical impulses to the same general nerve area. I think the idea behind this is similar to accupuncture. You create so many nerve impulses at a high enough frequency that your brain is unable to process them all so you actually don't feel the pain. Nice thought. It didn't work but it sure felt weird.
I know I've been popping way too many Ibuprofens. I always think about how trying to address one health issue can actually create another. Heck...every night on TV we're bombarded with drug adds where the disclaimer is as long or longer than the supposed attributes of the drug being hawked. If I keep Ibuprofening at this rate my stomach or liver or something will rott.
I've been online reading about this issue. Apparently surgery, at least the most common one used, just transfers the stress from one area to another area of the spine. Not ideal.
At times I feel like a big baby. The pain isn't debilitating, it's just a chronic sense of significant discomfort. At times I stand up at my desk, put my keyboard on a brown box and try working that way. Driving or sitting on an airplane really aggravate the situation.
Spine problems run in the family. I've got degenerative and disk disease. So do my parents. In the words of my dad "you're screwed." Fun. Speaking of "screw"ing, I'll bet some aspects of that probably aggravate the disk/nerve as well. So, I'll try to focus on the positive and be thankful that there seems to be a lull in that area of my life right now.
Maybe meditation will help.
Half full, half full, half full, half full....
Marilyn Monroe
According to a Facebook quiz I just took, that's who I was in a past life.
OMG - I have no idea why that never dawned on me before. I mean, the resemblance is astounding! Don't you think?
;-)
OMG - I have no idea why that never dawned on me before. I mean, the resemblance is astounding! Don't you think?
;-)
Monday, January 5, 2009
A music intervention...
I seriously need a music intervention. Now my head is singing..."tell me when will you be mine. Tell me condo, condo, condo...."
I surely hope this condo comes to fruition!
I surely hope this condo comes to fruition!
Channeling Boy George
"Do you really wanna hurt me?"
I've actually been blocked as a friend on Facebook. Ouch! What a way to treat the "love of your life."
I've actually been blocked as a friend on Facebook. Ouch! What a way to treat the "love of your life."
Turn, turn, turn
I remember when Prince's 1999 came out it seemed that 1999 was so far away. Now here we are ten years past. Kinda blows my mind.
I often think in songs. Just now my head said "time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin' into the future..." It does. And I often have a hard time wrapping my head around that.
When I was a kid I remember my mother often saying upon my declaring "I'm bored!" - "Enjoy your time now because the older you get the quicker it goes." I had no idea what she was talking about. Now I find myself channeling my mother when my niece declares her boredom.
In the past few years time slipping has made itself apparent in who the heavens reclaim. My Uncle Hank and Auntie Pat. Dr. and Mrs. Sonbay. Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Smolenski...
And I hear the clock ticking incessantly like the heart in Telltale Heart...It's not my own demise that causes concern, it's the day I lose my parents. I dread that day. I'm very close to my crazy family, especially my mom and dad.
I've reached the age where my friends are dealing with issues such as their parents alzheimers or broken hips. Topics of conversation include assisted living and long-term-care and nursing homes and senior meals.
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'...
I've reached the age where I long to be in a condo so that I don't have to spend my weekends investing sweat equity in my old house. Ideally I'd like to get into that new condo and plan to take one fabulous out of the country vacation each year. I worry that I started saving for retirement so late. Not because I wasn't thinking about it, but because I was making so little I wasn't even covering my monthly expenses. I had a master's degree and was making less than $20,000. I didn't get a "big girl job" until I was in my late 30s and then as a 39th birthday present, my position was eliminated and I was unemployed for more than two years. I have a feeling I'll be working until I'm in my 80s!
The other day I received my Social Security summary. When I was 16 I made just under a $1,000 in my first official job. Each year thereafter is represented with a new number. Some years the number would grow. Others it would stay the same. Some years the number would shrink or there would be no number at all.
If I work until I'm 67 at this current salary level, I'll get $1,300 a month in benefits. That's scary. But at least I'll get $1,300. I could be getting nothing.
I haven't seen the Benjamin Button film yet. But in some ways I think it would be more interesting to live your life backwards. Someone once forwarded me an email with that scenario. You're born with a lifetime of knowledge and wisdom and you die as a result of an orgasm. What a way to go!
I often think in songs. Just now my head said "time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin' into the future..." It does. And I often have a hard time wrapping my head around that.
When I was a kid I remember my mother often saying upon my declaring "I'm bored!" - "Enjoy your time now because the older you get the quicker it goes." I had no idea what she was talking about. Now I find myself channeling my mother when my niece declares her boredom.
In the past few years time slipping has made itself apparent in who the heavens reclaim. My Uncle Hank and Auntie Pat. Dr. and Mrs. Sonbay. Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Smolenski...
And I hear the clock ticking incessantly like the heart in Telltale Heart...It's not my own demise that causes concern, it's the day I lose my parents. I dread that day. I'm very close to my crazy family, especially my mom and dad.
I've reached the age where my friends are dealing with issues such as their parents alzheimers or broken hips. Topics of conversation include assisted living and long-term-care and nursing homes and senior meals.
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'...
I've reached the age where I long to be in a condo so that I don't have to spend my weekends investing sweat equity in my old house. Ideally I'd like to get into that new condo and plan to take one fabulous out of the country vacation each year. I worry that I started saving for retirement so late. Not because I wasn't thinking about it, but because I was making so little I wasn't even covering my monthly expenses. I had a master's degree and was making less than $20,000. I didn't get a "big girl job" until I was in my late 30s and then as a 39th birthday present, my position was eliminated and I was unemployed for more than two years. I have a feeling I'll be working until I'm in my 80s!
The other day I received my Social Security summary. When I was 16 I made just under a $1,000 in my first official job. Each year thereafter is represented with a new number. Some years the number would grow. Others it would stay the same. Some years the number would shrink or there would be no number at all.
If I work until I'm 67 at this current salary level, I'll get $1,300 a month in benefits. That's scary. But at least I'll get $1,300. I could be getting nothing.
I haven't seen the Benjamin Button film yet. But in some ways I think it would be more interesting to live your life backwards. Someone once forwarded me an email with that scenario. You're born with a lifetime of knowledge and wisdom and you die as a result of an orgasm. What a way to go!
Friday, January 2, 2009
I wish I could write like Barbara Kingsolver
I've never been to Africa but when I was reading The Poisonwood Bible, I felt that I could see Africa. When I read the words they painted a very vivid picture in my mind as if somewhere in the grey matter there was a canvas and each word added a color to it. I almost believed that if I closed my eyes I could smell the scents and feel the textures of the village in which the characters lived.
My cousin Vicki once told me I was "muy sensual". She's Spanish and didn't mean I was sensual but that I experienced life through my senses. I suppose in some ways, that does make me sensual. I love to feel the softness of skin against my cheek or it's warmth against my palm. I love to bury my nose in my lover's neck and breathe her in. If I close my eyes I can feel her coursing through my veins. And I love to experience the kalaidoscope of colors exploding in my mind like fireworks when making love.
What I'd like to be able to do is find expression for all the feelings and scents and colors and textures of life that careen through my mind every second of the day. I feel tongue tied when trying to speak them. I feel illiterate when trying to write about them. While I dabble in painting or drawing my strokes with the brush or charcoal fail me.
I feel mute and withdrawn and incapable of sharing all of me with others because what I manage to communicate is such a small fraction of what's within.
My dreams are big and my disappointments bigger. And I wonder what my purpose is because I really don't seem to know. Do I have a purpose here? Every time I think I'm coming to understand it something happens to cause doubt. At times I feel as if I'm not even a part of myself but rather that I exist outside of myself watching as I go through each day. Invisible in so many ways.
My cousin Vicki once told me I was "muy sensual". She's Spanish and didn't mean I was sensual but that I experienced life through my senses. I suppose in some ways, that does make me sensual. I love to feel the softness of skin against my cheek or it's warmth against my palm. I love to bury my nose in my lover's neck and breathe her in. If I close my eyes I can feel her coursing through my veins. And I love to experience the kalaidoscope of colors exploding in my mind like fireworks when making love.
What I'd like to be able to do is find expression for all the feelings and scents and colors and textures of life that careen through my mind every second of the day. I feel tongue tied when trying to speak them. I feel illiterate when trying to write about them. While I dabble in painting or drawing my strokes with the brush or charcoal fail me.
I feel mute and withdrawn and incapable of sharing all of me with others because what I manage to communicate is such a small fraction of what's within.
My dreams are big and my disappointments bigger. And I wonder what my purpose is because I really don't seem to know. Do I have a purpose here? Every time I think I'm coming to understand it something happens to cause doubt. At times I feel as if I'm not even a part of myself but rather that I exist outside of myself watching as I go through each day. Invisible in so many ways.
A Story I Wrote
An Evening with The Empress and Fool
A chorus of yapping erupted upon pressing the doorbell. I could hear her footsteps and then her voice commanding, “Back, back” as she opened the door.
There she was bent over, shoulders bare, one arm lying across her chest holding up her dress, the other shooing the trio of “beasts.” “Come on in, hurry,” she said. So I stepped across the threshold into the foyer.
She stood and with that simple movement all air that had been in my lungs withdrew, leaving me breathless. Stunning was she. Stunned was I.
The Empress and the Fool awakened; one in her smug knowingness
and the other in her desire.
“I could use some help with the hooks and zipper,” she said turning her back to me. The zipper of her black cocktail dress was undone halfway. I grasped the metal clasp, pulling upward, covering the bronze skin beneath.
The Fool was shaking, the Empress chuckling.
“Did you get the lower hooks? There are several hooks lower down the zipper,” she instructed. Still trying to recover my breath I undid the hook and pulled the zipper downward, revealing the curve of her spine and the top of her panties.
The Fool urged me to slide my hands in and rest them upon her hips then step forward, press up against her back and trace the curve of her neck to her shoulder with my lips, tasting and inhaling her.
The Empress immediately regained control forcing me to focus on the task at hand. I fastened one hook, then another, pulled the zipper upward, silencing the Fool with one last hook.
We left. The bickering began in my head. “Fool,” said the Empress. “Here you go again. When will you realize that Pinkerton lies, Romeo and Juliet die, and glass slippers will cut your feet?”
“Have you not heard of Cyrano? Have you never had Breakfast at Tiffany’s and why do you think that fairy tales end with ‘and they lived happily every after’,” replied the Fool. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained!”
“Humph,” the Empress retorted, “And what about it takes two to tango? You never were very good at math.”
The Fool placed her fingers in her ears and began singing loudly, “I could have danced all night, now that I’m on the street where she lives, somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must’ve done something good, Maria, I just met a girl named Maria…”
“Ha,” shouted the Empress. “Her name is NOT Maria. You’re name however is Fool which according to Webster’s’ means idiot; stupid or ridiculous person.”
The Empress glanced at the Fool and saw the hurt in her eyes. “It’s all very well to be dreamy, creative, impulsive, and romantic but to be in control of one’s life one must remain alert, responsible and realistic. You just open yourself up like a book and risk your heart every time. When will you learn?”
“I’d rather risk my heart on the chance that I’ll find love than build walls and hide behind a façade of heartlessness.”
“Fine, suit yourself.”
“I will,” replied the fool glancing at the long, brown legs leading from here to eternity.
The beating of my heart increased with the RPMs of the engine as I tried to silence the duo within.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” muttered the Empress. I responded.
With the Fool leaving a trail of glitter, we entered the ballroom and found our seats. The Empress ensuring that manners were minded, greetings exchanged, and applause appropriate and polite.
The Fool kept glancing over my shoulder taking in every twinkle of her golden brown eyes, every soft word, and flash of smile. When she stood and crossed the room to say hello to old friends, the Fool followed with my eyes until the Empress intervened cautioning me not to be so obvious.
“But,” I thought, “She is the most beautiful woman in this ballroom.” I watched as she engaged in conversation, both men and women responding to her charm and wit.
I wondered, “How was it that fortune smiled upon me this evening, and allowed me to be her escort?”
“Because you listened to me,” whispered the Fool.
“Be careful whose counsel you follow,” countered the Empress.
“Both of you be quiet,” I demanded as she returned to her seat. I smiled and she smiled back.
The evening’s festivities soon concluded and we made our way outside, entered my car and began the journey back to where the evening had begun.
Images of freckled shoulders, the curve of her back, the fullness of her bosom, invaded my mind. I turned to the Fool and told her to stop. She reluctantly complied.
“Maybe she’ll need help undoing the hooks,” the Fool suggested. The Empress immediately reached over and slapped the Fool’s hand “enough!”
False logic crept into my head. “Well, maybe she does need help. Will it really hurt to ask to come in, just in case?” The Fool smiled. The Empress rolled her eyes.
She had removed her key from her bag as we pulled up the drive. “I told you,” said the Empress. “Hush,” I responded and then I turned and asked “May I come in for a while?”
“Sure,” she said. Hope sprung.
We entered her house and she headed off to change. “Do you need help with your dress,” I asked, playing the Fool.
“No,” she responded. “It’s a lot easier to get out of than into.”
And the Empress chuckled.
She came out of the bedroom and I wondered how it was possible for someone to look as ravishing in grey cotton jersey as she does in black silk.
She sat down upon the couch next to me and turned the television to CNN.
“Ha, I told you so,” mocked the Empress. And I knew the evening had ended.
A chorus of yapping erupted upon pressing the doorbell. I could hear her footsteps and then her voice commanding, “Back, back” as she opened the door.
There she was bent over, shoulders bare, one arm lying across her chest holding up her dress, the other shooing the trio of “beasts.” “Come on in, hurry,” she said. So I stepped across the threshold into the foyer.
She stood and with that simple movement all air that had been in my lungs withdrew, leaving me breathless. Stunning was she. Stunned was I.
The Empress and the Fool awakened; one in her smug knowingness
and the other in her desire.
“I could use some help with the hooks and zipper,” she said turning her back to me. The zipper of her black cocktail dress was undone halfway. I grasped the metal clasp, pulling upward, covering the bronze skin beneath.
The Fool was shaking, the Empress chuckling.
“Did you get the lower hooks? There are several hooks lower down the zipper,” she instructed. Still trying to recover my breath I undid the hook and pulled the zipper downward, revealing the curve of her spine and the top of her panties.
The Fool urged me to slide my hands in and rest them upon her hips then step forward, press up against her back and trace the curve of her neck to her shoulder with my lips, tasting and inhaling her.
The Empress immediately regained control forcing me to focus on the task at hand. I fastened one hook, then another, pulled the zipper upward, silencing the Fool with one last hook.
We left. The bickering began in my head. “Fool,” said the Empress. “Here you go again. When will you realize that Pinkerton lies, Romeo and Juliet die, and glass slippers will cut your feet?”
“Have you not heard of Cyrano? Have you never had Breakfast at Tiffany’s and why do you think that fairy tales end with ‘and they lived happily every after’,” replied the Fool. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained!”
“Humph,” the Empress retorted, “And what about it takes two to tango? You never were very good at math.”
The Fool placed her fingers in her ears and began singing loudly, “I could have danced all night, now that I’m on the street where she lives, somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must’ve done something good, Maria, I just met a girl named Maria…”
“Ha,” shouted the Empress. “Her name is NOT Maria. You’re name however is Fool which according to Webster’s’ means idiot; stupid or ridiculous person.”
The Empress glanced at the Fool and saw the hurt in her eyes. “It’s all very well to be dreamy, creative, impulsive, and romantic but to be in control of one’s life one must remain alert, responsible and realistic. You just open yourself up like a book and risk your heart every time. When will you learn?”
“I’d rather risk my heart on the chance that I’ll find love than build walls and hide behind a façade of heartlessness.”
“Fine, suit yourself.”
“I will,” replied the fool glancing at the long, brown legs leading from here to eternity.
The beating of my heart increased with the RPMs of the engine as I tried to silence the duo within.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” muttered the Empress. I responded.
With the Fool leaving a trail of glitter, we entered the ballroom and found our seats. The Empress ensuring that manners were minded, greetings exchanged, and applause appropriate and polite.
The Fool kept glancing over my shoulder taking in every twinkle of her golden brown eyes, every soft word, and flash of smile. When she stood and crossed the room to say hello to old friends, the Fool followed with my eyes until the Empress intervened cautioning me not to be so obvious.
“But,” I thought, “She is the most beautiful woman in this ballroom.” I watched as she engaged in conversation, both men and women responding to her charm and wit.
I wondered, “How was it that fortune smiled upon me this evening, and allowed me to be her escort?”
“Because you listened to me,” whispered the Fool.
“Be careful whose counsel you follow,” countered the Empress.
“Both of you be quiet,” I demanded as she returned to her seat. I smiled and she smiled back.
The evening’s festivities soon concluded and we made our way outside, entered my car and began the journey back to where the evening had begun.
Images of freckled shoulders, the curve of her back, the fullness of her bosom, invaded my mind. I turned to the Fool and told her to stop. She reluctantly complied.
“Maybe she’ll need help undoing the hooks,” the Fool suggested. The Empress immediately reached over and slapped the Fool’s hand “enough!”
False logic crept into my head. “Well, maybe she does need help. Will it really hurt to ask to come in, just in case?” The Fool smiled. The Empress rolled her eyes.
She had removed her key from her bag as we pulled up the drive. “I told you,” said the Empress. “Hush,” I responded and then I turned and asked “May I come in for a while?”
“Sure,” she said. Hope sprung.
We entered her house and she headed off to change. “Do you need help with your dress,” I asked, playing the Fool.
“No,” she responded. “It’s a lot easier to get out of than into.”
And the Empress chuckled.
She came out of the bedroom and I wondered how it was possible for someone to look as ravishing in grey cotton jersey as she does in black silk.
She sat down upon the couch next to me and turned the television to CNN.
“Ha, I told you so,” mocked the Empress. And I knew the evening had ended.
Dishwashers and irony
Today my mind is all over the place. So...here goes.
While my mother still thinks of me as the 8-year-old who would push the clothes under the bed in order to "clean" my room, my friends think I'm quite anal when it comes to cleaning.
The past few days I've been a bit lax. Several reasons. My annual New Years Eve doldrums and the fact that the furnace was blowing like crazy but there was no heat, so, I was huddled under big blankets, a dog and two cats for the past few days.
Today I came down and decided to get my rear in gear. I had a few dishes in the sink (a boatload by my standards) that needed to go into the dishwasher. I opened the dishwasher and saw the most discombobulated mess of glasses and other items in the top rack. My roommate's style. Of course all I saw was wasted space and a challenge to rearrange everything in order to double the machine's capacity. A personal victory. I fit it all in.
Then I got to thinking about how one learns to load the dishwasher. It certainly wasn't a part of home ec. way back when. We washed the dishes by hand. And as my roommate is many years younger than I, I don't even think they required home ec. when she was in school. I'm pretty sure that my mother drilled me and my sister in the art of loading the dishwasher. But that was my mother. Do other people's mothers teach them this life skill?
Back to the furnace. After two days of barely 60 degree internal temperatures, I called the repair man today. About ten minutes later the furnace blower kicked in and I felt heat! Why is it that every time you call someone to fix something, the thing that needs fixing decides to work? You know damned well that as soon as the repair guy leaves, the item will stop working again. I think there is someone in the great beyond that controls these things. I'll bet in some ways he's like the Joker in Batman - manipulating machines everywhere for his own amusement all the while tormenting the owner.
I also think this is the same being that knows exactly when your car's warranty expires. At one second past midnight on the day it expires, he presses a big button that makes your car fall apart.
As I mentioned, I spent the past few days trying to stay warm. I rented season 5 of the L-Word as I don't get Showtime. Great eye-candy on that show. Watching those women got me to thinking about Ellen DeGeneres and Portia DiRossi.
I'm such a hopeless romantic. I've looked at their wedding photos about a million times. Portia looked just like a princess in her gown with the pink toile skirt. What a beautiful woman. And Ellen was looking damn good in her ivory ensemble. But what really get's to me each time I look at the video or pictures is the look in their eyes. Such encompassing love and happiness.
My Myers-Briggs and Tarot readings both describe me as having equally strong logical (Emperor) and dreamer (Fool) qualities. My Emperor and Fool are constantly fighting. My Fool dreaming of my princess and dancing with my dad at my wedding. My Emperor running around with a big pin to pop the bubble.
I wonder, in the end, who will win.
While my mother still thinks of me as the 8-year-old who would push the clothes under the bed in order to "clean" my room, my friends think I'm quite anal when it comes to cleaning.
The past few days I've been a bit lax. Several reasons. My annual New Years Eve doldrums and the fact that the furnace was blowing like crazy but there was no heat, so, I was huddled under big blankets, a dog and two cats for the past few days.
Today I came down and decided to get my rear in gear. I had a few dishes in the sink (a boatload by my standards) that needed to go into the dishwasher. I opened the dishwasher and saw the most discombobulated mess of glasses and other items in the top rack. My roommate's style. Of course all I saw was wasted space and a challenge to rearrange everything in order to double the machine's capacity. A personal victory. I fit it all in.
Then I got to thinking about how one learns to load the dishwasher. It certainly wasn't a part of home ec. way back when. We washed the dishes by hand. And as my roommate is many years younger than I, I don't even think they required home ec. when she was in school. I'm pretty sure that my mother drilled me and my sister in the art of loading the dishwasher. But that was my mother. Do other people's mothers teach them this life skill?
Back to the furnace. After two days of barely 60 degree internal temperatures, I called the repair man today. About ten minutes later the furnace blower kicked in and I felt heat! Why is it that every time you call someone to fix something, the thing that needs fixing decides to work? You know damned well that as soon as the repair guy leaves, the item will stop working again. I think there is someone in the great beyond that controls these things. I'll bet in some ways he's like the Joker in Batman - manipulating machines everywhere for his own amusement all the while tormenting the owner.
I also think this is the same being that knows exactly when your car's warranty expires. At one second past midnight on the day it expires, he presses a big button that makes your car fall apart.
As I mentioned, I spent the past few days trying to stay warm. I rented season 5 of the L-Word as I don't get Showtime. Great eye-candy on that show. Watching those women got me to thinking about Ellen DeGeneres and Portia DiRossi.
I'm such a hopeless romantic. I've looked at their wedding photos about a million times. Portia looked just like a princess in her gown with the pink toile skirt. What a beautiful woman. And Ellen was looking damn good in her ivory ensemble. But what really get's to me each time I look at the video or pictures is the look in their eyes. Such encompassing love and happiness.
My Myers-Briggs and Tarot readings both describe me as having equally strong logical (Emperor) and dreamer (Fool) qualities. My Emperor and Fool are constantly fighting. My Fool dreaming of my princess and dancing with my dad at my wedding. My Emperor running around with a big pin to pop the bubble.
I wonder, in the end, who will win.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
