free flow

Fear.
I fear.
I feel I am weak because of this.

In some way I feel that I'd be giving up my life for his.
While that's what 'proper' girls should do, without reservation, I'm digging in my heels.
I fear losing my independence, which I'm holding on to like the stubborn pig-headed girl I am.
I fear leaving my family and everything I know.

Yet.
We talk.
We talk, and I feel somewhat calmer.
Yes, I still get emotional.
I cry.
But with him, no matter what, we share.
He understands in those times he has time to listen.
This week he has been extremely attentive.
Which amazes me.
Which makes me wonder how long this will last.
Which makes me wonder how I'll feel when he goes back to focusing on other things.
But we talked.
And in those moments I feel like we really connect.
And in those connections I feel like this could work.

I fear starting over.
Here or there.
I have my life established here.
Now.
And I wonder how long it will take me to find my feet when I get there.
And wonder how I'll handle starting new.

He wants me to be happy.
He wants to be able to make me happy.
Happy comes and goes for me.
Contentment is what I aim for.
Contentment works for me.
Too much pressure to let him make me happy.
I know I have to make myself happy/content.
I know that I cannot rely on anyone else.
I have taken care of myself long enough to know what works for me (most of the time).

Part of me wonders if there is someone else out there who is more compatible.
For him and for me.
Some topics I just don't agree with him on.
Some things I just feel strongly about, I know what I think.
Some things it feels like his opinion has to be the right one.
Some things I wonder if there is someone else out there who feels the same things I do.

I thought I had decided.
I thought I had.
But obviously not.
Each day, each thought, brings the battle back.
Yes.
No.
Stay.
Go.
We talk and I waver again.
I feel like I can do it in those moments.
I feel like this is possible.

Love means a lot.
Connection means a lot.
But giving up my life?
That is hard to swallow right now.

Please don't take my sunshine away...

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
Drift away only to find my way back. Comfort and security comes from knowing where I am at peace.

You make me happy when skies are gray,
Wake up to the cool morning air, wishing you were here. Stretch and savor the serenity that physical exhaustion brings.

You never know dear, how much I love you
Thoughts come and go, as always, no silence for the internal chatter here. Heat forces me to seek shade, a nap is delicious if slightly delusional.

Please don't take my sunshine away.
I am well aware of my stress levels and how they cease to exist for certain reasons. I have my anxiety pills in my backpack. They do not serve any purpose here. Thank God.


The other night dear, as I lay sleeping,
Here I stop on the side of the highway to take pictures of thistles, of clouds, of sunsets. Pictures that will never do the real thing justice. Pictures that will only serve as reminders of simple beauty.

I dreamt I held you in my arms,
Conversations that bring emotions to the forefront, ones that surprise me, ones that serve to reopen what I pray is my heart and not old wounds.

When I woke dear, I was mistaken,
Whirlwind on many levels, a day here, a weekend there, escape again and again, and endless cycle of searching for something else, something that isn't here or there.

So I hung my head and cried.
Temporary solace found, once upon a time, looking at another, hoping for a better ending. No such thing, knowing there was no connection, nothing real. Wishing for more attention, I had to be careful what I wished for, for where it could come.


You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
Desire to try succeeds in those instances when logic falters. Perhaps I should say screw logic more often, perhaps I should play it safe more often.

You make me happy when skies are gray,
There is no guarantee of happy forever, there is potential for contentment, and that is all I can ask of myself.

You never know dear, how much I love you
One story after another, make the ideals so perfect, often unattainable. I fear that perfection as much as I seek it.

Please don't take my sunshine away.
I only know where I feel peace. Even if it's time with me is brief, I know where I am.

on the road again...

I'm in an antsy/frustrated/spiritually exhausted mood lately... so I'm getting outta here for the weekend. Go hit the peace of the mountains for a night or two. Get away from everything that is and is not going on in my life right now. Do a little solitude. Do a little thinking. Do a little praying my way - hiking through the ruggedness of mesquite and rocks.

Oh hell yeah!

It's official.

And since I know and feel pretty comfortable with most of my readers, and those of you who just stalk.... I kinda feel like I'm coming out of the closet or something.... when really it's just another part of me.

The article I wrote is here. - The second one listed on the news page.

My editor asked for minor tweaks from the original, and the proofer's quote to him was "She is good...keep her".
Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Then I start to panic over if I can live up to my own standards now!

memo re:

Fatigue discounts truths in the sly way of mocking memories, forcing them to restructure themselves in a way I feel better accepting. I want to be able to take the bitter with the sweet, but I am biased towards the sweet, especially if it is chocolate flavored sweet. Yet the bitter of dark chocolate proves right there that I do prefer the bitter in some cases. Perhaps a form of self-torture.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps...

Perhaps my arms are sore because I've been doing all those pull-ups in the pool. Perhaps it is because I turned too far the wrong way reaching for my books in the backseat of my car. Perhaps I've been having wild and crazy sex with my arms tied above my head straining against the ties. Perhaps it was the holding and carrying and cutting and balancing long boards of wood. Perhaps it is the long hours writing those fading memories of hopes I once held so dear, hopes I once held so dear that I haven't figured out how to loosen my grip on them yet.

Running in the shop, a huge warehouse with lead soldering on the counter, with stacks of copper and aluminum pipes, with a permanent feel of metal grindings and sharp objects. Running I shouldn't be doing, but needing to escape. Escape from what, I'm now not so sure - my grandmother's nagging? my brothers and cousins making noise? the ringing phone in the office? my homework? Whatever it was, I would push through those doors, away from that which was scraping my soul, and into the cool, dusty, gritty, partial light of the shop. I would walk around Papaw's tables, the long ones where he folded the aluminum, the snips scattered on the ground. I would pick up the bending tools, the snips of triangle and squares, making my own small designs. I would use the press, the one that seemed like it could have cut off my hand if I didn't use it properly, but would make waves in the longer pieces. I would take the sharp one, stand it on the metal, slam a hammer to it to poke holes. I would just sit and stare out the dusty windows, absorbing the semi-solitude. Even then I needed time on my own.

Rehearsals every day, jumping from platform to platform for a children's show, then from beat to beat in iambic pentameter for Shakespeare. Having the energy to go for hours, and then just collapse. Learning the lines, marking the blocking in the script, making friends, and trying on the costumes. I loved the character development, figuring out the why of what I was doing. These were shows that I cannot remember the lines to anymore, yet I still own the show t-shirts. I loved having something to focus on, because I considered my personal life pretty dull and painful. I was a teenager after all, one with pimples and frizzy hair, long bony arms and legs... The ability to transform myself into another character for a few hours was wonderful. The ability to perform and give the audiences something to think about, cry about, laugh about, is addictive. The energy exchange from the audience and back again, the go-go-go pace, the entertaining every night is enticing. I still sometimes wish I could do that for a living. Even then I needed attention, in any form I could get it.

Witty conversations, barbs flying back and forth, finding myself falling in love with friends who amaze and laugh with me. Sitting under the stars, guitars being picked and voices serenading, conversations that are more silence than talk. Holding hands, back rubs, throwing potato chips at each other, staying up all night. Becoming friends, being friends, staying friends. Skinny dipping at the end of summer, hot cocoa to take on the stupid crazy iced over switch-back drive up the mountain. Making out in the freezer at the back of the kitchen, making out in the office, making out in the hammock, making out in the stairwell, just making out... Going dancing at a club that closed too soon thereafter, scavenging the thrift store for clothes and furniture, road trips at 1am just to eat pancakes. Fights that lasted months, taking sides then giving up because no one can remember what it started over. Slowly peeling away, moving in different directions, losing touch over time, forcing ourselves to stay in touch, yet staying friends no matter what. This is where I found my best friend, and even she knows my highs and lows, proving that the daily life is what actually makes a difference in the long run.

Perhaps...

Nostalgia triggers other nostalgia. In so many varied ways. Perhaps two years ago I could have turned off my IM, then L & I would not have met... that night. Perhaps we'd have met another time. Perhaps. But we did. We began this long tortured dance then, not knowing it would be long and torturous, as well as exciting and tender. Who knew? Had I chosen a different path, I would not be where I am today. Were I not where I am today, I would be remembering things in altered ways. So my truths are mine, my stories are mine... my memories are mine.

toss and turn

job interview, by phone, from a resume I'd sent out to the area I am/was planning on moving to. if it's an offer, then it's up to me. and then I'll know myself, whether I'll be moving for a job, or for love.

it's not so dramatic really. I know this. sometimes it just feels like it is.

what's got me thinking though, is that if I'm not moving for him but for the job, then I really don't want to live up there, and if I can get a job interview from just my resume, then I can send it other places as well, places near beaches or something I'd rather live near, and see about moving there.

decisions. damn.

clear blue to partly cloudy

water. marble. paint. sky. eyes. mirror. ice. veins. plastic. oil. light. necklace. snowcone. snow. ocean. flower. ball. egg. box. note. nightgown. tear.

desire. tender. scream. hope. collapse. barter. pretend. focus. fear. remember. find. care. gentle. nestle. anticipate. prepare. notice. breathe.

I'm trying some variation of word association to trigger myself to write whatever it is I'm feeling right now. Curious. That's another word. I'm curious about lots of things. Right now, it's me and what I want. As always, I'm still figuring it out. It changes all the time. Sometimes I feel/fear I'm crazy to want certain things the way I want them, or to even change my mind so often.

I feel.

I feel...

I feel... ...

confused. peaceful. horny. tense. questioning. frustrated. annoyed. upset. wanted. driven. energetic. thoughtful. alone. naive.

Sometimes a little tenderness goes a long way. Sometimes it's not enough to answer a question. Sometimes I lose track of the path I'm really supposed to be on, and find ways to fight with myself to get back to where I think, no feel, I belong.

I feel. I feel all these emotions. All these feelings. There is nothing wrong with that. It's how I do my best work - by feel. Feel the muscles, the pain, the heat. Feel the grain, the sawdust, the carves. Feel the texture, the combonation, the final picture. Feel the sound, the flow, the thoughts. Feel the love, the heart, the hope. Feel the man, the passion, the desire.

So these emotions are here. More often than not really jumbled and confusing. But they are still here, I still feel them at any given time. More can be said about how I follow through with them, or how I react to them. Thus a lot can be said for the (few and far between) firey tirades to the (even fewer and farther between lately) passionate embraces (unless you count my passions for art).

Feeling isn't the wrong thing.

Feeling is. Feeling is life. Feeling is my life.

So be it. I'll deal with the rest of it later.

would be worth

I need attention. I want it from one man and when I don't get it, I will find it anywhere I can.

And did.

And do.

And wonder then where I screwed up. I have a man here who is kissing my ear and holding my hand. And I have a man I care for who chooses when he wants to talk to me, and refuses to even broach the subjects that need broaching, i.e. - us.

I've tried to tell him that I need to be wanted. I'm not quite sure he understands. He approaches the possibility of me moving as if it was a choice of grape jelly or strawberry jam on a sandwich - it doesn't matter. I'm sorry. I need more than that. I need to know that he wants it as much as I do, he wants to pursue this relationship and work on it together.

This, I think is another point of contention. I get the feeling he thinks a relationship should just happen naturally. While I am an idealist and a romantic and would very much like to believe this too, I know of no relationship that did not take work from both parties. There have to be compromises and planning and investing on both parts.

While I know I'm the one failing on my part by not moving yet, I still have no assurances beyond "I want you. I miss you." on occasion. Yeah, he's as frustrated with me as I am with myself.

I feel better knowing he actually considered moving to Texas. But that was a job consideration. Not a love one. So in a way I know what matters more.

Fuck. Maybe I really am not cut out for this partnership thing.

I have no problem flirting and dancing and being the fun spontaneous sensual girl I am. But when it comes to a relationship - yeah, I get serious, because there is more going on than just the surface conversations. This pisses guys off for the most part, because they only want the fun and flirty. I have yet to meet a man who wants to get serious.

So maybe being single is what I'm supposed to do. Just date, have lovers, be fun and flirty and spontaneous. And keep the serious side, the deeper part of me, to myself.

Fuck that. That doesn't sound like a very balanced prospect to me. Why the hell should I get the short end of the stick in my personal life because the men only want me to be a certain way?

turmoil subsided

gentle soul, curled up and dreaming of jelly beans.
gentle kiss, on her cheek. watch her stir.
sleepy blue eyes, tempting for more

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today was an emotional roller-coaster. I'm attempting to forget the depressing parts of the day in hopes that they will go away. Alas, that is not to be.

Sometime this morning I went to a meeting for a museum I volunteer for on occasion, and was pulled into an impromptu interview. The thought was nice, and the offer, if it happens, will be nice. But I don't think it's me. I really am tired of flying a desk all day, and if I was to stay here, I'd rather look for something else. You know, something else that doesn't involve ... oh, you know what. I really am fucking tired of my own ranting right now. Let's just say that I went into work at my scheduled time, and oh, silly me, I didn't clear it with my co-workers, and suffice it to say, I got snapped at. I have to meet with my manager tomorrow to explain my side of the story, because they told him theirs today. So after all that, I drove home beating myself up. Thoroughly.

Yes. Over someone else's attitudes and I let it get to me.

No real plans then for the night, considering that I thought I was gonna be at work, so I opted for the pool and getting wrinkly fingers. Then went and wandered the book store. And the editor for my writing gig called, he wanted me to cover a function this weekend (can't - due to work), and to tell me that my first draft of the article was really good, just a few tweaks, and maybe it'll be posted next week on the website! (I will provide such website when such happens, but till then, I like having my anonymity here.) So that felt really nice. Totally nixed that whole "I can't do anything right" attitude I had going from earlier. Yea! Now, must go edit...

Sigh. If only my life really was gentle kisses and jelly bean dreams, I could tell my co-workers to shove it and I could go paint and write for a living.

Someday.

coulda been juicy

I so could have gotten laid tonight. If I were really single instead of pseudo-single, then uh, yeah!

I went to see a live band, to cover it as an article for the writing gig (I figure I'm here another month, I'm going to see these bands anyway, I might as well try my hand at it for a little while) and someone I know showed up too. So we sat together and talked, I actually got him on the dance floor, which surprised me considering he kept saying he was no good at it. Liar he was. That man can waltz, lead, swing, shuffle, and two-step with rhythm. Yeah, I like to dance. He led me to the dance floor several times, and we kept talking and dancing.

He really surprised me, because up till now I didn't know him all that well, and I assumed he was like his friends. He is, a little bit, but in a whole lotta ways he and I are a lot alike. So we talked, flirted and traded innuendos, and both had fun. The band was great, the beer was cold, the dancing was wonderful, not to mention having a man take the lead - to the dance floor, on the dance floor, guiding my body around, touching me in that way you have to when you dance, that way that is gentle and intimate at once. Sheesh... I'm getting wet just sitting here writing about it. So much of physical communication in that sensual way can lead to sex.

Now I'm rethinking why I didn't ask for his number... Damn!

trapeze artist

I wish I could be one of those Cirque du Soleil performers.

I want to be the woman who spins so gracefully through the air, winding her way up and down the scarves and ropes, wrapping them around her body, rolling up and down, hanging by her feet one moment, her neck the other, just moving to her rhythm and the beat of the music.

I want to walk, no, prance around letting my arms sway up and back, pointing with my toes, sashaying and dancing my way across the stage. I want to wear a serious expression on my face, even though that seems really hard for me to do if I'm enjoying myself, and gaze thoughtfully at defining moments in the musical breaks.

I want to wear body hugging spandex, in bright and pretty colors, with makeup in wild patterns and glitter, my hair snaking out like Medusa, gelled and glued into place and painted in pinks and purples. I want to shine and be seen while I perform the choreography in a beautiful flowing trance underneath the roving colored lights.

I want to stretch my muscles on a daily basis, moving and dancing and performing for large audiences, defying gravity and feeling free, all to entertain. I want to enjoy the energy and passion of bending and sliding and flying through the air, and be able to feel every moment of it.

Yeah, that's the circus I want to join.

subtle, I'm not

I stood up for myself. Two days in a row. And I felt like shit doing so, because it's not my nature to confront on my own behalf. Oh, I'll confront for other people or other issues, but me? No, me I tend to wash over and push away, let slide, go hide. Whatever. But yesterday I hurt coworker's feelers, even though she was the one who put me on the spot. And today when other coworker, the mean one, the bitch as I've now come to call her, confronted me, which she did at a moment the office was empty so she could, she stood there and blasted me for being mean to other coworker, and for saying what I said. And I stood there, really wanting to slug her, or cry, or both, and told her how I felt, and that she was a part of it as well.

Thankfully an admin walked in at that moment, and the bitch turned and left. I really did want to cry right then. But the admin paused and asked what was going on. And instead of crying, I told her. I felt better for that. And she supported my standing up for myself. And she asked me not to leave, she'd help me find another position within the company, or if I'd take over the whole system at our desk if they got rid of her.

But the company won't get rid of her, so I bide my time till I leave. And half wonder if I come in tomorrow and there won't be a bomb planted under my chair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My grandmother went in the hospital this evening.
I've been on the "short conversation if any at all" list with L lately. He's busy, stressed about work and re-structuring and finances, and doesn't seem to want to talk when I have the time, only when he does.

So, two seemingly unrelated things... three if I factor in my own work stuff. Four if I factor in the writing gig... I'm staring to ponder if personal fulfillment is pursuing the work and activities that make me happy, while staying near my family, or pursuing love in hopes that it will work out.

I'm tired of saying no pressure. I'm tired of saying we'll see. I'm tired of this. I need a little bit more assurance, even when I know wanting that is asking the impossible. He says he wants me. And then he shuts down. What the hell? Am I supposed to sit here, not having a fucking clue what he's going through, and try to be supportive and loving? Am I supposed to be the one who picks up and moves to be closer only to deal with that? How come when he gets frustrated that we don't have time to talk because of our schedules, and I purposely leave work early, or let him know I have the day off, or call when I have time during the evening, it feels like he ignores me and I have to satisfy myself with a quick "I'm tired. I'll talk to you tomorrow." I feel like it does not matter if I'm here or there. I feel like the only thing we'd be sharing there would be our bodies, and while sex is a good motivating factor, it is not enough to build a relationship on. I know I need more. I know I need more, and know that he does not have that ability... at least not right now... So...

I've been this long alone, so why not? Why deal with another person and their attitudes and opinions when I can barely handle my own? Because I have the desire to try even if he really does act like this in person. Because I love him even if he shuts me out. Because even as I tell myself I deserve better, he's the one who makes me laugh, and that counts for a lot. Because I know I'm probably a pain in the ass as well, so it's a wonder anyone would put up with me. Because as scared as I am about moving, I think I'm more scared to stay here.

dirt

The cool after storm sweet smell of wet dirt.
I am a child of this dirt as much as anything.

How it blows dry and harsh in the heat of the day, whipping at bare skin and peeling it raw, draining any bit of moisture from any living thing. The too many miles per hour winds that propel enough dirt to turn the skies pink and brown, these are the winds, the days that drive me inside, drive me away.

Like this, cool, wet, humid and perfect, this I want to soak in. I want to embrace it all. This is what some memories of my childhood are - storms, running barefoot in the mud, screaming and shrieking with my cousins, thoroughly soaked with feet scraped from the rocks. Peeling off mud covered clothes, a bubble bath, and warm clothes. Watching the lightning on the horizon outside - on the horizon a hundred miles away, so unruly and beautiful.

I don't want to move from this spot. I am enjoying this now. I wrap a blanket around me and sit in the front yard. I listen the the frogs that come up, hopping loose, singing their songs, serenading with the crickets chirps. These are the after rain notes that are so musical. This is a peace that I can't help but be a part of. This is what it feels like to be calm.

dinner plans

Open door.
Look each other up and down.
Planned dinner out.
The look in your eye.
The look that devours me.
The look that turns me on.
Pull me in.
Close the door.
Pull me close.
Kiss long.
Kiss deep.
Walk me backwards.
Against the wall.
My back against the wall.
Your mouth on mine.
Hands entwined.
Bodies pressing.
Bodies heating.
Bodies yearning.
Pressure from your cock against my thigh.
Pressure from my breasts against your chest.
Let me unzip your pants.
Reach for the hem of my skirt.
Pull up.
Pull out.
Thick and hard.
Hot and wet.
Press in.
Hard and fast.
Up against the wall.
Slam and slide.
Kiss and fuck.
Up against the wall.
Skirt hiked up.
Pants pushed down.
Hard, sweaty and fast.
Come, and come.
Release.
Flushed faces.
Peel apart.
Release.
Arrange clothes.
Gentle kiss.
Warm and sensual smile.
Eyes shining.
Open the door.
Still make it on time.
Make it on time and enjoy the rush.
Enjoy the rush.
Share that secret smile all night long.

"I feel pretty, oh so pretty..."

A floaty white skirt with red, red roses on it. A classy black sleeveless sweater. Black ballet flats. Curls that bounced perfectly. I felt like Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn all day. Well, I at least felt pretty and like a star. I felt, no feel good.

I feel good in that vain kind of way when I know I look good, but I feel good in that way that I know no matter what happens, I'll be ok. All brought up why? Who knows. I'm just going with it. Things are fairly stable in that usual way that means chaos will ensue sometime soon, after all that is the cycle of life, what goes up must come down, and what goes down must come up... only toward the center does it stabilize. Ya, ya, ya...

That and waking up horny after falling asleep horny last night, I called L this afternoon asking for a phone date tonight. And he was more than happy to help me out the best he could via the distance. Of course we danced around and traded innuendos, but he was pretty reserved tonight, stressing over work ups and downs, and I kinda felt bad by even hinting at the idea of sex in any form. I can only imagine how different it could be if we were facing each other and trying to read the physical cues as well. Intimacy on another level I suppose. We discuss financial worries, work stresses, future possibilities, daily life, and more often than not, hello and goodnight. So mutual masturbation is not an odd request in my book, being a chance to share ourselves a little bit more.

I am scared to pick up and try something completely new, but I know I have to. For me. I have to know. I have to try. And yes, I will keep my registration for the very reason that it is something I worked for and as a certification I can at least hang on my wall. While my coworker will shed no tears over my leaving, my boss and the administrators don't want me to leave and have said I can have a job any time. That support feels nice. And as each day gets closer to the planned moving, I waver a little less and feel more sure. Oh, sure, I still fret (where the hell did that word come from? Does anyone say 'fret' anymore?) over finding work, and whether we'll be compatible, but I know he wants me and that means the most to me. The rest of it will work itself out, and I'll do my best to savor it.

So yeah, I feel good. I feel real good. I also had a really nice orgasm, so I may be a little on the rose colored glasses side of any fence right now.

truth serum: exhaustion

I'm tired. Why am I still up at this hour? Habit I suppose. Routine of sorts. Yet I'm sorta out of sorts tonight. I think it's because I'm bone tired, but who knows...

I did 7+ hours of chair massages today, for very tense elementary school teachers, it is the end of the school year, you know. All to the good, they relaxed, I worked hard, and got paid well. I haven't done a massage in months, so today really was a workout for me - my feet and legs are so sore right now, my back is tense in it's own way. A 7 hour workout after months of eight hour days sitting... yeah, it woke me up to the drastic differences. I'd much rather be moving around a helluva lot more than I do now, be more aware of my body and what I do everyday. And while I like helping people to feel better, I don't think I want to do massages for the rest of my life. See, I have to take CEU's to keep my registration current, and I'd planned to take a class before I moved, just to stay current, just in case we don't work and I someday move back to Texas and I need to have it so I can work. And... part of me knows I'm not committing to L fully by keeping one toe here, as well as I don't really want to use that as a fallback, but it is something I do know how to do, and do well, so it just makes practical sense to use it if I need it.

Still working on that internal debate, and being tired and cranky is probably not the best place or time to discuss it. Thankfully I'm well aware that he's asleep and wouldn't hear the phone ring at this time of night otherwise I'd try calling to try talking about it. Discuss that or that it was suggested when I got to work this evening that I really should quit being so passive-aggressive. WTF? ME? being passive-aggressive? Well, maybe a little bit... but only when provoked. I swear.

Gah. Yes. I admit to being passive-aggressive with a certain co-worker, she who leaves an empty printer, no staples, no paperclips, no change in the change drawer, and an empty roll in the cc machine. One could theorize that she forgets. Noo, she forgets nothing, she is anal, she knows and does this on purpose. So I do it back to her. I am passive-aggressive.

Now I fear that I'm letting that define me and I don't like it. I don't think it defines me, I mean I think of myself as a creative and energetic person, but if I'm playing into the petty games and being manipulative, then that makes me petty and manipulative. Yuck. Needless to say, when I sit and stew like this over my faults, I feel like shit.

Screw that. I'm physically tired from an unusual schedule, I'm beating myself up over how I perceive myself, and I'm also horny. Like slam-down, legs in the air, sweaty screaming horny. Damnit. To top that off the rock climber called, we chatted, he started to veer towards phone sex, and I redirected the conversation. Since the issues L & I brought up several weeks ago we've both been trying to stay on the same page. Well, at least I'm trying more, I think he is too. Because after I thought it was over, I couldn't stand it, I need him in my life and if it takes working a little more on our relationship and a little less on my pride and independence, then I will do my best. And doing my best for him is not talking to another man.

But jesus, I'm still horny. Although at this point my leg has fallen asleep while sitting here writing, so I don't think it'd take much for the rest of me to collapse as well. I may just turn my vibrator on and ...

displaced memories in pocket-sizes

The joys of living a chaos filled life are the small surprises that appear when you least expect them to. Like that five dollar bill that I stuck in my jacket pocket last winter and found when I dug it out this winter. Like my chapstick that I thought had been in my jeans pocket and gone through the washer, which tends to melt chapsticks and make my clothes all stained and gooey, but thankfully wasn't, and I found it later in the seat of my car. Like a necklace and ring that I forgot all about ever having and finding them in the pocket of a pair of shorts that I obviously haven't worn in about four years. Thank goodness styles come back into fashion, otherwise I'd have tossed this pair long ago.

How about the photo strip from a photo booth where we're happy & kissing, that I stuck in a book I was reading at the time, then found months later when I picked that book up again? Or my silver pen that disappeared once upon a time and reappeared in the bottom of my massage bag - and I can only guess as to WHY it was in there with lotions and towels in the first place. My pocket knife tends to move from my purse to my jeans on a fairly regular basis, leaving me guessing as to where it might be at any given time. The staple gun belongs on the shelf with the package of staples, but routinely finds itself by my window, on my bookshelf, and once in my bathroom. Half the time I open my door in the morning, my keys are still in the lock - thankfully I live in a safe and remote neighborhood... hmm, when I lived in a really small town, I left my keys in my car all the time - I'm much better about it now, now I only do it once a week or so!

I know I have a can of reddish paint that I need to finish a painting with, but I have absolutely no clue as to where it could have run off to and hidden - much reminiscent of my ears. So I figure it'll show up sometime and I'll finish it then. Still haven't seen my ears though... hmm, maybe I should just buy a new can... but then the other one would probably show up.

There is one part of the surprise factor that can be a little, umm, icky. Two day old burritos. A bag of Fritos that I think I opened a couple of days ago and left on my table saw... but it could've been weeks ago, and I'm afraid to taste test to see. The cereal bar that I desperately was in need of and thankfully found in the bottom of my purse, mushed but still edible. Oh, and do not put pears in a book bag unless you like mashed pears on your books, which you find a couple of days later when you remember you had a pear somewhere.

Does this mean I'm gonna organize my life a little more? Maybe. Does it mean that attempt at organization will last? Doubtful. Very doubtful.

the possibilities of the written word

So in a way it's validation. An acknowledgement that I have what it takes. A push to pursue further action. And yes, it is an admission that I am actively interested in waaayyy too many things. (carving, painting, marketing, writing, dancing, creating...)

I'd submitted a couple of writing samples several months, projects, light-years ago, to a new magazine that's developing for Texas music, which happens to be something I listen to. And like. So I figured, why not?

And I got an email back saying that if I'm still interested, I can write away.

I know this is coming across as pretty subdued... but truthfully I've been elated all day. I caught myself singing random snippits of songs out loud (to myself) at work. I don't do that. I do not sing to myself out loud at work because work lately tends to be sucky and slightly depressing. And today was crazy-busy, only mildly depressing in the interactions with co-worker, and I somehow twisted my back wrong, leaving it spasmy and not much fun. (As L said, a paper-cut would be too conventional.) And with all that I still sang to myself out loud.

This is cool. So way cool that all of a sudden I'm talking like a bubbly teenager! I could write articles about bands, about venues, my opinions on the music and cd's, and the best part??? - I would get paid for it! That is like amazing in my world! I could go to concerts, drink beer, go to other cities and see who's jamming, and write about it. You get that part? I mean I write here, but there other people would read it. Yeah, pretty darn cool.

I have yet to send them a reply saying "Thank You, I appreciate the offer, but I have to turn it down because I'll be moving to New York in six weeks and I probably won't be able to keep up with concerts and new bands in Texas as well." Actually I'll probably not say all that. Definitely the Thank You part, and the I appreciate the offer part... oh hell, it does sound ok, I might just send it as is.

But not yet. I want to harbor the fantasy that I could be a real live writer and get paid for it for just a little while longer.

enough ?

When I sit to write, I just write from my perspective. Only later, hours or days, do I re-read and wonder what needs elaboration or adjusting, trying to look at it from another reader's pov. And sometimes it looks good as is, and sometimes I want to continue on one way or another. I guess like any aspect of creative life really.

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How could he be so mean? He was an ogre. A real live ogre. He had gray hairs that seemed to grow out of his neck and ears. He grumbled. A lot. He seemed to have a hunch back, he was always looking down, shoulders hunched over. To protect himself, I now know.

But how could that other man be so mean? To hurl such horrible words at him, to say those hurtful things, and walk away. Walk away and not even see this man cry. His pain is true, piercing. He is well aware of how he comes across, well aware that others flee, well aware that he is an ogre. But he is an ogre with a heart, he really wants to be loved. He wants a hug, he wants to be surrounded by his family. And his very family he wants that love from, is the one who just called him names and walked away.

The younger man is trying to protect himself too. Neither wants to be hurt. It happens. The older man, the ogre, he was loved once, by his parents, his sister, his wife, his children. But somewhere along the way he hardened. He learned that people leave, he learned that those you love die, he somehow thought that strictness, tough love, and not crying was the best way to go.

The younger man learned this way, this tough and strict attitude from him. His father. His grandfather. So to him, the fact that he just told this old man, this ogre, this blood relative, off, is just another display of tough love and a hardened heart.

The old man only now knows that his whole philosophy on love so far was a mistake, because he missed so much. He hadn't wanted to hurt at all, he shielded himself well to prevent the pain of loss that would eventually come. And now, when that pain is here, his own son, grandson, is walking away saying he wasn't enough, he knows it is true, and he cries.

And I cry too.

there's a storey here somewhere...

Long hallways. Tall ceilings. Both the kind that seem to go on forever. Old furniture. The kind of old that has been passed down for generations until the current generation decided that they wanted modern sleek, so they sold it all, and it ended up here. In someone else's home, to bring a bit of history to it, even if it isn't theirs. The long sofa settee, faded rose design, claw footed and polished. Tall backed chairs that were meant for sitting prim and proper. Polished wood bookcases, lined with not books, but with bottles of ink, rolls of homemade paper and jars holding the pens. Pens that are well stained with use. But that's too much description of a background that dissolves shortly.

It always was haunted. Not in a scary movie type of haunting. In an way that the spirits of furniture past and books yet-to-be, flows with the breeze of the open windows. As the rooms themselves each had identities, so do the people who pass through their doors. But as of this, the gathering of people are on the big screened in porch. The white walled, long screen windows, lazy ceiling fans all hark back to warm summer nights watching fireflies dance in the yard. Leaning against walls, sitting on the swing bench, or long pews resurrected from old churches specifically for gathering, and one rosewood rocking chair.

It is me sitting in the rocking chair, savoring the night and the company. Visiting, chatting, pausing, listening, conversations that vary from hem lengths in skirts and jeans to how to prune the roses in front to the latest books read. Wine, beer, sangria, lemonade, all provided in pitchers next to plates of crackers, cheeses, vegetables, and of course marshmallows.

Arms that seem familiar come over the back of my chair, he places his hands on my shoulder, caressing my neck, playing with my hair, rubbing his thumb along my ear, letting me melt into his warmth. Not caring that anyone else is here, not caring that we're being selfish of each other, he leans over me, pushing the chair all the way back with me in it, bringing his face so close, pressing his mouth to mine in a deep passionate kiss. A kiss that pulls my body up in a magnetic need to meet his. The kind of kiss where his right forearm is holding the back of my neck up, his left hand sliding down my ribs to my waist and pulling me closer, his mouth covers mine for so long we both decide breathing is a wasted effort and keep kissing.

And then, so suddenly he releases me, leaving my body to vibrate on its own, letting me settle back into the chair. He walks away to join another conversation, I start rocking again, press my fingers to my lips to feel the swell from the kiss, and smile.

...

There is a separate life I live and I don't even know it. I swear it.

Passion flowers, in their natural habitat. Tourists, awed by uniqueness, beauty, and a little bit of a different life. Theirs and the flowers. - Charleston, SC, July 2004


Bottled inside and waiting for release is the fire and energy that I know I am. And I tap into this part of myself in small doses, like my days off when I paint. But it's not the living out loud I'd prefer to be doing. It's not the me that I'd prefer to be.

Don't get me wrong here. I like having a steady paycheck and knowing that I can pay my bills on time each month. I like getting dressed up most days to go to work. I like my family and their proximity. I like the wide open spaces and being able to see the stars at night. I like the open-door chaos that is my habitat.

But that's not this. This is me knowing that there is more to my life than I'm letting myself live. All because I'm scared. Scared and settled into this dry, humorless, some days painful, routine. And they say that acknowledging it is the first step in treatment.

What I realize along the way, viewing the photos here for the Change Me project, or here at serialphoto, are images of the good, the bad, the humanity, the reality in all its forms, seen from everyone else's eyes, is that there really are no rules in life, except those we impose on ourselves. Oh, and that death is the only final answer.

I can realize that it really doesn't matter how many calories I eat or what time I go to bed, or even if I pay my bills on time, or if my co-worker likes me, or what I'm going to do tomorrow. I can realize all this. I can admire all this. I can savor all this and be inspired by all this. Doesn't mean I'm going to go off-grid or spontaneously burst into song, it just means that my eyes are at least open to what I am doing to myself when I stress over the shit that really doesn't matter.

change

Go Here.

This is one of those sites that gets you hooked for hours. Beautiful pictures, haunting images, wonderful, all wonderful.

write on

For some reason I don't want to write tonight. Like the art block that came from staring the blank piece of wood earlier tonight, trying to figure out what design to draw or carve... nothing came of that either.

I have spent the last several hours staring at words of various forms and now feel too drained of anything that resembles what I might want to say. Chapters of nutrition advice and trying to write a paper (One page down three to go!). Invoices that were shoved back in my face when I actually had the guts to defend myself (I so feel like total shit after those encounters). A book on carving techniques that really is inspiring (trying to inspire myself to work on that blank piece, but for now those techniques seem really intimidating). News articles (as well as the hilarious new mac/pc commercials and laptop comparisons). Emails (Whittled down my in box from 56 to 32 unread emails. That is an accomplishment. To me.). Blogs (Yes. You.). The tv guide (And yet there is still nothing on). The fortune in my cookie (Your path may be difficult but will be rewarding). Lots of words, all jumbling around in my head, all forming non-coherent sentences on the end of my tongue (I'm sticking my tongue out right now to prove this point.), and I don't feel like expelling them right now.

Ha. I just did!

sex, by proxy orgasm

Intense in a way that begs to be described. Shortness of breath, pounding in the ears, clenching of my thighs and every muscle in between. All in a good way. A very good way. Pleasure that rolls throughout my body, softening the sounds of my moans, reverberating inside as well as out.

There really is an internal physical yearning to be touched, to be held, to be pulled, to be nipped, to be savored, to be pounded, to be pleasured, to be fucked, to be inside and out, tangled, legs and arms wrapping around each other, holding on and riding till explosion. It is different to feel my own fingers and hear his words in my ear than it is to feel him and hear his breath in my ear. It is different to feel my hips buck and not have the actual physical proximity of his hips slamming back. It is different to pinch my own nipples, to rub my own hips, to favor my own body and feel every bit of it.

Not the same as here, now, on my back, slam, pound, sweat, slide, feel... but it works. (grin)

rant

to the idiot who pulls out in front of ME when the other lane is empty! - GET OUT OF MY WAY!!!

to the friggin' municipal court system that 'misplaced' my ticket four years ago, and then just recently decided that I should probably take care of said ticket - FOUR YEARS LATER - or they'll issue a lovely warrant for my arrest! - When I do actually dig up the $140 bucks to take care of it, have more than ONE out of your FIVE windows open, actually assist the 32 other people in front of me so I don't get grumbly and walk out, and when I simply ask for a receipt to show that this is paid in full, please give me the receipt without launching into a tirade about the rules of said court system and how I am not allowed to see MY OWN FUCKING FILE!

to the hospital THAT DIDN'T TREAT ME IN THE FIRST PLACE AND THEN CHARGED ME OUT THE ASS FOR IT - when I call to set up a payment plan - DO NOT THREATEN ME WITH SENDING IT TO A COLLECTION AGENCY BECAUSE I CAN'T AFFORD THE 300 BUCKS A MONTH TO PAY IT OFF! Fuck that one. On second thought, send it to a fucking collection agency. My last hospital bill has fallen off my record, stick this one on there.

to the goober in the bookstore who doesn't actually know anything about books or alphabetical order of author's names - get a different job, dude! I like being able to find the books I'm looking for, in the place they are supposed to be.

to people who keep telling me what I should do with my life - "You should get a real job." "You should market your work like this." "You should stay at this job and try to work your way up." "You should get married and have a family." "You should build it this way." "You should use these tools and make it look like this." "You shouldn't worry about money so much." "You should read this book about the anthropology of bugs." " You should make these pieces in this style because I like it better." "You should invest your savings into this portfolio." "You should go to bed earlier and get up earlier and you can do more." "You should buy this computer not this one." "You should dress like this." "You should go back to school and get a real degree." and all the others I've heard - STOP it already - shut up and let ME make MY CHOICES (even if it's wrong) without you deciding what is right for me!

to the men who hit on me and think it's flattering to say things like "Why are you still single?" and "You're gonna make some man very happy some day. You want to make me happy today?" - please think about what you say BEFORE you say it, otherwise I will not think about slapping you before I do so!

to the man I'm talking to, we can disagree, we can agree, but please let me be the way I am without suggesting I need to act otherwise - and when we are talking, and discussing something that does seem pertinent, please try to at least stay on the subject - I'm all for random train of thought conversations jumping track, because I often do this myself, but if it concerns us, concerns me and moving or not, concerns our future, concerns ANYTHING I'M WORRIED ABOUT, then please, please, please, try to STAY WITH ME ON IT and not go off about your cat or whatever else just crossed your path/mind, because then I think you don't really hear me or care.

to the coworker who blames me, who screwed up royally in front of an administrator last week and didn't own up to it, who gets away with everything, and CONTINUES TO BLAME ME ANYWAY - just fucking stop it already! it doesn't make you look perfect, it makes you look petty and mean, which you are, makes me want to cry AND PISSES ME OFF!

to the art store that sells the blades I use and when they're mis-shapen don't tell me "They work better that way." as an excuse to try to sell them - I've been using these blades for years - I'M NOT STUPID!


That's it for now. All out of my system. Till someone else sets me off.

nice or not

I felt bad for not being as nice as I could have been today. This particular person imposed himself on me, ahh the joys of being labeled "Customer Service Rep" means I talk to everyone, and he was waiting for several hours, grunting and moaning about everything. He was, umm, abrasive is a good word, and after about 30 minutes of this, I was doing my best to stay busy to avoid having to converse with him.

The feeling bad part is that I could have been nicer. Should have been. Just because he had different opinions, and voiced them loudly and grumbly, doesn't mean he didn't deserve a little niceness from someone. And while I can do nothing about this now, it makes me keep in mind that some days there are people who radiate negativity, who I prefer to stay away from, but probably need a little bit of nice in their lives as well.