mundanetitsnot

The glass of wine makes it a little fussier, or fuzzier, or both, when I try to cut the fabric in a semi-straight line. Not like the lines matter, no one but me will see it. So, snip, snip, snip.

I get bouncy today. The sun is shining, I throw open the windows and let the light stream in, welcoming the feel of spring. I pull the measuring tape out, now ready to cut and build that bookcase I'd been pondering. I pack away the sweaters, pulling out those not worn to donate to charities. Everywhere I turn is another crazy mess, but it feels as if I'm stirring up the stagnating air. Haul seven boxes to the attic. Wash the sheets and comforter and pillows and everything but the mattress itself.

Since I don't wear them anymore for work, and the weather has changed, I roll up my stockings and garters, tuck them away into the dresser drawer to only be peeked at once in awhile. To be pulled out maybe, once in awhile, to pair with that little black dress that hasn't moved from it's hanger since I bought it last summer.

Moving in hip shaking rhythm with the beats of the music, it's loud and lively, I feel so sensual. Very aware of my body. I'm aware of the muscles in my calves that ache from pulling weeds yesterday. I'm aware of the turn in my back with every box I haul up the ladder. I'm aware of my waist and hips as I toss through old jeans, noting that I really do hate the skin-tight fashions, so I throw the ones I don't like into the bag with the sweaters. Give me baggy, give me men's jeans, give me relaxed any day. I'm aware of my breasts, still tender at this time of the month, needing a gentle touch, wanting to be caressed.

Needless to say, I'm in a mood. One not brought on by the wine, one that simmers below the surface that sends my nerves humming and begging. I want to be filled and moan in orgasm to exhaustion. I am in need of passion from hands other than mine own. It's a bustling energy that keeps me going, if only to drive my fantasies wild or to distract me, I'm not sure which.

Scrub, scrub, scrub the bathroom sink... bend over a little farther, oh, yes, what a nice view...

Another load of laundry into the washer... lean right in and feel the vibrations...

Stretch up, sliding the curtains across the rod, open the windows... press into the window box, anticipate the cool breeze across my skin, feel a little shiver at the thought of voyeuristic neighbors...

Turn the music up loud, dance around while working, while sorting through clothes... hold up that black leather bustier that hasn't seen action in too long, pull it on to feel how feisty it makes me, tell myself I need to just go out some night, some time, wearing this, just to see if I've still got it, anticipate the looks and leers, enjoy the darkening of his eyes as I press into him...

So much of what I anticipate is the tenderest and active of partners. His fingers entwining with mine, palms grasping, holding on for dear life, holding on for the ride. Arms that wrap around my body, an embrace that presses in anticipation, muscles that tense in restraint, trying not to explode too soon. A mouth that finds my breasts, licking and sucking, tweaking my nipples, massaging the handful of heft, sending shivers to follow my moans. A smile plays on his lips as he kisses along my side, tickling along my ribs, across the unprotected skin to my hips, teasing me, I'm not sure if I should bat him away or let him keep going, down the tightening muscles where my legs roll into the softness of my thighs.

Let his hands explore where they will, I want him to. I want to feel his body thisclose to mine. I want to let him take over my pleasure for the night. I want him to bring me to the brink over and over again, letting me fall with complete trust and heat. I want to let my body roll in his hands, let him manipulate my body with his imagination and hands. I want to enjoy his tongue on soft skin, I want to growl when he presses his fingers into my wet depths, begging him for more. And he'll let me beg just long enough to drive me wild, then he'll press himself into me, filling me the way I need to be filled tonight, all the way to the hilt. My fingers will grasp his back, pulling him so close, ever closer, our bodies will slide with the sweat. It will torture him, I know, to do this for me, but the final burst of orgasm as my body rides the waves all night will be worth every second. Over and over, I want him to exhaust me. Drive his cock deep inside my being, sliding in with my clenching muscles, all too aware of his unyielding thrusting matching my own undulations. I want to ride, and ride, and explode and explode over and over again. I want to rise for one last tango, finally bringing him to his own explosion in relief, one last grasp of bodies tangled together, letting me collapse into his arms in complete release.

I can want all I want. Somewhere amongst my day dreams and battery operated friend, I manage to get everything else done. Sigh. Someday there will come a day when the laundry will wait until I'm done.

softer comprised

It's a scattered world. Like the mysteries of the universe were taken in open palms and tossed high into the air to see where the wind would blow them.

Day and night. So many offers to roll through. One gentle answer is not enough.

I stand on the porch steps, watching the cars and trucks pass, some barely pausing at the stop sign before speeding off on their busy errands or journey. I hear the squeals of the kids down the street, splashing in the ponds that have formed after the rain this morning. How do we get from there to there? From excited and splashing to too busy to pause.

I fail at it all too often myself. This moment I pull on my gloves and grab the spade to pull the weeds while the ground is wet. Easier. Quieter. The doves coo, the owls hoot, the kids shriek. The ladybug is yellow. Is that a sign? I gently drop her off onto another blade of grass, removing her current perch of a weed leaf. She had just emerged, her wings are new. Perhaps she hasn't had time to turn red yet.

Spent several hours last night in the company of people who all think outside the boxes for livings. Compared ideas and notes, art and inspirations. It's hard to have a heavy heart when you know that there is passion and voices and hope and love in the world.

One step at a time, girl. Remember that. Can't go hop-scotching all over the place. Although, I don't know why not. Just sounded right for a moment.

What I notice, when I give myself pause, is that the slightly unfinished pieces hold the most value for me. They let escape a bit of the raw underneath. An edge or glimpse of the rough and unhewn. Like feelings, made of tactile things.

It's a maddening concept to compare myself to those I don't know. It's maddening enough to compare myself to those I do know. I wonder, briefly how they are, then the mental checklist of traits and faults begins. Some people are better off in their lives not knowing me.

We each have a story to tell. Some tell theirs better than others. Some are great at the comedic timing and physical gestures. Some are brilliant at drawing you in with interest and awe. I tend to go for the raw, whatever that may be. And in this, I do not compare. There are things in my world that no one needs to know, no one needs to ever experience.

And most don't. That's why the comedic timing and mystery people are more attractive. I can see that, even from here on the sidelines.

Each bit fills in the crevices that compose one part. A hole in the side of the inner burning candle shows the flame, like a window. I can remember a smile, a kiss, a hand in mine... I can remember what it once felt like to be held so close, what it felt like to make love, what it felt like to be pushed into the side of my car... I can remember sleeping wrapped in a man's arms, and to be ignored by the same man the next day... I make choices in my past life that shape the directions I choose now.

One day, long ago or far away, I never remember which until it doesn't matter, I tried. I tried to be. Be something to someone. Be someone for something. Be better in spite of spite. Be adoring with a bloody bitten tongue. The masks eventually come off to gather dust on the wall.

Notice is given. Sharp intakes of breath followed by chest tightening screams. Yells. Hollers. A voice reserved for anger or loud places now vibrates.

Do not bury me here. Please. Burn this corporeal shell when it stops moving and let the ashes blow where they may. This is a final wish for that day I still hope is too far off. Better to be prepared. Better to be aware. Better to know what answers I can, to make the decisions I can at the time. Just because I know better, doesn't mean I'll choose better. But I can try.

Yep,

I think tonight is going to be a "The Mummy", "Dirty Dancing", "George of the Jungle" kind of night.

my crayons... veering off...

I have crayons and markers and paints everywhere. I carry a small tin case with crayons in it in my backpack. There are markers in my purse. Stacks of odds and ends like felt, foil, yarn, ribbon, feathers, stencils, stickers, lace, beads, wood chips, and many other shiny objects that capture my attention are all over the place. Across my desks, beside my bed, on my dresser, in my footlocker, in the window seats and on them, on my bookshelves leaving my books stacked up on the floor, in my cabinets, on top of my computer, and on the hearth.

I'm creative messy. I admit it, sometimes with a cringe as I never know how other people will perceive it.

It's been noted, somewhere in some news articles I read somewhere, that the messy people are more creative and usually know where everything is. It's also been noted that this amount of clutter can cause stress.

The part of it that stresses me out is that I can't accomplish every single one of the projects I start on at once.

Oh. Fuck it. I've bored myself here.

I have an open IM that I can't bear to close yet that says "call me XXX-XXXX" from someone I haven't chatted with in a long, long time.

I just got off the phone with Boat... conversations with him tend to leave me more reminiscent and introspective than usual. Tonight is no different, as is evidenced by my lame attempt to explain myself above, but I'm too lazy to just delete it all, so there you go.

I've turned down a writing offer in a chance to clear up some other things in my life. It was a nice inquiry, but after I've read their magazine, I know that my style of writing and articles would not fit with their tone. I am working on a smaller writing side project of sorts. Notes mostly right now, getting a feel for the voices. It will be a collaboration with a director at a theatre I've worked with before. She's someone I admire greatly, very enthusiastic, and she wants me to come back to the stage now that I have my nights free. I haven't done a play in over two years.

I veered off... I do that. I think I've irked someone. And while the fact that I annoy someone is not news, I don't like feeling that I was the cause for their being upset. But, I do not need this person in my life anyway. So in the long run, it's better. Maybe, perhaps, just maybe, I need to learn to irk a few more people...

Oh. Right. Reminiscent thoughts. He comments that he's ready to settle down. He comments that he's changing things in his life for various reasons, me being an inspiration for some of them. He wishes I was on the same page as him. I let him wish, and tell him I'm not.

I'm not. My goals are good for me right now. But they are not anyone else's goals. I'm 29. I do not hear my biological clock ticking. Some (ok, one or two), have noted this might be because I haven't grown up yet. I ponder this as a possibility. I have yet to meet anyone I can see sharing my life with, beyond the few past relationships I thought were 'the one!', emphasis in the exclamation point. I am closer to financial stability than I ever have been, which lets me think that buying land and building what I want to build are real possibilities. While I have friends who are supportive, I know everyone has their own dreams, and no one shares mine.

Finally. The rain that has been threatened all day has started. The lights are blinking as the thunder rumbles. A spring storm, preceded by wind all day, to be followed by calm tomorrow. How it goes. Always.

Continuous circle. Wheel of life. What goes up, must come down. Applied to my life it feels like one of those things I can't describe, only picture, where there are many levels or planes, all rotating at different highs and lows at the same time. Still circling, but some are higher than others. I know what I'm visualizing, damnit.

What I think I'm trying to get at though, is that yes, some things are going great, some seem to have stalled, and some are ready to be forgotten till later. I'm quite content with it like that.

garter of mine

Notoriety is a bit more pleasurable, even when you see your own picture on the 'Wanted: Dead or Alive' posters. Kinda like your 15 minutes, until you realize that everyone standing around you sees the same thing and is now turning to look at you as if you might just be dangerous. Which of course, you are.

They say the best laid plans of mice and men are the ones that go awry. Or at least I think they say that. They say so many things that I'm never sure which are real and which are made up. My guess is that most are made up. Personally, the mice tend to just run around all skittery, while a man will run only if he thinks he's being chased. Notice I said 'thinks'? Yes. Be it a rarin' bull, a bucking horse, or a woman whose bed he just left.

I've detoured. I believe you paused today when you heard about the 'Wanted' poster. Or I want to believe you stopped to see what happens next because of that. Hell, at this point I can believe anything I want to. So can you.

It's not a great likeness. But then, I always could find fault within my own lines and features. Is it still a feature if you don't like it? If I don't like it? The pencil sketching shows me with perfectly round eyes, when my left one leans a little to the side. The etching has a dusty trail ride feel, with my bandanna tied to my neck and my hat pulled low over my forehead, as if I was a hardened killer like Billy The Kid or something. Jesus, I like to think I'm prettier than him. Why can't I have a better etching than that fool boy? Besides I wear dresses and rouge and powder in an attempt hide the bruises and scars. Throws the boys off when they hear the rustle of petticoats instead of the whisper of chaps. I look just as good in both, or at least I've been told. Just once I'd like to see a poster with my hair in curls and the ruffles of my best dress. Then, I suppose, if I wish hard enough, the day they finally do catch and hang me, I'll get my wish.

He wasn't supposed to die. The bastard knew the whole plan. It was his plan. He was just dumb enough to think that I would follow it. For Finnegan's sake, I told him I loved him, not that I would follow him into the street for a fire fight after we rode back into town. Damn fool. Most men are, in my opinion. Which is why it's easier to stay wanted and not caught. What a man will do for a little thigh grabbing and ankle spreading... or vice versa... Ahh, I don't need to tell you that, you just use your imagination a little and you know exactly what I'm sayin'.

His plan was to walk right into the Bank and walk back out. My plan was to let him. See who's standing now? I loved him, but I didn't say I was as stupid as him. I went out the back door, down the alley, and up the stairs to our room at the hotel, where I walked out onto the balcony with the rest of the town to see the sheriff pull his foolish, bulleted body out of the road.

All I can do is sigh. He was easy enough on the eyes and rough enough on my body. The girls standing next to me know, they turn away to whisper about me. I turn around and let them. By nightfall I'll be on saddle and gone. This time flush with cash, and a three day ride to anywhere else. Give a few of those bruises time to heal before I don the lace and silks again. Stay low to the sights, find the towns that see the most of the land rushers and sojourners that there are no questions asked about a woman traveling alone.

Three. I don't count the last one, the sheriff did that for me. I only count the three I pulled the trigger on myself, you see. Of all the things I do in this life, I will remember them. Responsibility weighs just as heavy as guilt, that it feels about the same. Riding alone, camping under the stars, asking for the forgiveness that only the preacher can give when I finally do hang, and then making myself believe one more time that I'm not wrong. Justice is funny that way, ain't it? You can believe that I'm as innocent as the day I was born if I wanted you to. Till I tell you I knew right what I was doing each time. Didn'n make it any easier.

I've been back to those towns twice. Once to pick up what I'd squirreled away in waiting, and once just to see if'n I'd be caught. Not a bat of an eye at another lady on the street. Not a second thought at another whore in the saloon. Just another drunk to follow me up the stairs and mysteriously be found shot the next mornin'. Not just any drunks, mind you. I hold my reasons as close as I hold my aces when playing cards. When the time comes to lay them on the table, then you'll see what I've been hidin'.

Plain as day, I stand here in the general store, purchasing a few more tinned goods to pack for the next ride. I'm standing right next to the poster, when the recognition crosses the gentle man's face. I just smile sweetly, nod once and thank him for my purchases, then I spout up "Well, my stars! Have they not caught up to that girl yet? I wonder if any of us are safe in our beds with her on the loose!" He gets my hint with fear in his eyes. Poor man, I mean him no harm, but he will surely be afraid for a long time to come, knowing that I stood across the counter from him holding a can of dried meats and had a gun strapped to my thigh.

That bold heft of metal against my leg, either strapped to the outside of my pants or tucked underneath the layers of my skirts, gives me the cocky attitude of invincibility. It's when I take it off at night that the world feels just a bit more intimidatin'. Sometimes I think I can go just far enough away, ride for days till I or my horse drops, before I can start all over. Then sometimes ends and I know that I'm the only one who knows it was me in the first place. Those are the days I pull that hat a little lower and let them whisper what they will. Because most of the time I think the stories they tell are made up ones anyhow.

raining on

I'm tired and jazzed. It's a funky twist of it all.

The rain is still coming down. Has been all weekend. I'm not one for superstitions like that. Not really. But maybe I am a bit.

Road weary. Hours and miles. Normally I'm fine. Today I'm stir-crazy. I would have stopped more. I would have meandered more. I wanted to. But other people along for the ride, people who tell me what I should do and where I should go, I start to resent. And they're family, so I really shouldn't. Just go back to a life of relative isolation to avoid the angry responses and energy drains.

Such high hopes are dampened by reality. I know what I want. I can see it. I have been for a long while now, parts of the ideas hum just below the surface in what I paint and write. I know what I want. And there are things in my life I do not want to compromise on. And I feel this is one. So, I will keep trying and keep my eyes open until I find what I'm looking for. Because this is a case of knowing when I know, feeling when I feel.

Yeah. Until then, I'm going to keep wishing on stars and listening to the rain.

gospel girl

Quick and messy pen strokes of ink across the bumpy hand pressed paper leave in their trail a written wish. Several in fact. That is why she mulches and mixes and presses the pulps and colors to make her own paper. For the time to sit and let the pen move, leaving the lines and words across the hand pressed surfaces.

Soft words for soft paper. Gentle hopes on the tenderest of filaments that will blow away in the afternoon breeze. Left to float away, made to disintegrate in the rain or sprinklers, every part biodegradable, including the writings.

Tear, rip, pull apart at the fibers. No cutting along the dotted line here. This is the joy of raw and uneven. This is real, not prefabricated.

Tapping the end of the pen against her teeth as she stares out the window, thinking and wondering. Is that really the dove she hears outside, or is it the deeper calling of the owls? She wants it to be the owls. She can never see where these birds perch to share these stories, so it remains a mystery.

Then, just as quickly and out of the blue, a thought will pop into her head, leaving a quick smile as she bends over to place it on the paper before it escapes. One, two, ten, eighteen, thirty-seven pieces later... she gathers them up into a basket just for this.

Not a ritual, but an offering. A moment in the day where each thought is given away, left to float in the air. Some will be lit by the flame of a candle. Left to burn on the edge of the plate or hearth, curling into itself in blackness and smoke, words and paper no more. Some will be tossed into the river by the bridge. Slowly soaking up the water and falling apart as the current pulls it farther downstream. Some will be blown off the end of her hand on the side of the mountain. They will catch the breeze and dance in the air before bouncing away across the rocks, where the sparrow, or dove or owl, will pick it apart to use in one more layer for the nest.

Each thought gone. Never to be seen again. Such great relief comes in just knowing that the ultimate fate is the same for each. Very much a part of the cycle, she relishes this non-ritual in the very form of letting go. Of letting go of the good and the bad, knowing they will all go different directions and not a one will share the same fate. Of letting go and seeing what the difference is by fire, by water, by air, by land.

Hers is the lighter spirit. Nothing left behind to weigh her down.

dark turns

Not the smartest of moves. It happens. A night out with friends began with laughter and ended in depression. The quickest slice that progressed over hours and alcohol.

Somewhere between the last drink and the spewing everything over the rocks was the sensation of the world spinning a little faster on whatever axis it was on. Not mine, apparently.

I was tired of walking. For some reason the idea of taking off my shoes seemed to solve this problem. But it didn't. Instead, by the time I find the shower several hours later, the bottom of my soles are black and grimy and disgusting. Much like my soul was as well.

Nothing will attempt to sober you up faster than cold pavement against your knees while your stomach flinches and you try to pull your hair out of the way before it gets really messy.

As if it wasn't a mess at that point to begin with.

The lack of control is both addicting and repulsive. It's not the alcohol itself that keeps you coming back for more, it's the feel. Which is why it's repulsive.

Several hours. The difference is only time. Several years difference and I'd be kissing the men on either side of me, or both. So one step makes me remember at the time I close my eyes, that I do feel it. Flipping my phone closed with another sigh, my body rebels at any attempt to move forward.

Not the answers I seek. Not to be found in the bottom of another round of glasses, or in the pants of the men sitting around me. Each with their own charming smile, each with their own whispers in my ear when they believe the others aren't looking. "Have you ever grinded while dancing? Like really close? Like so close it's almost sex while standing?"

"Yes." I do not offer that I have actually had sex while in a packed club in a dark corner against a wall with my skirt hiked up. He doesn't need to know that.

Leaves him reeling. Leaves him to wonder. I pretend to be so sexy and in control, take another sip. Inside I'm laughing and cringing. My past exploits were never that much to exploit. So why does it come as a turn on to them?

I'm not lost anymore. But tonight I am. It's like taking the wrong turn because you know that what lies ahead is what you've done before and you can count on it. Never a good outcome, as is evidenced by the immense feeling like crap at the end of the night whether I sleep with one or two or three or not.

I'm well aware of the decision. It's mine. It's my life and mind to change. No wonder I'm barefoot and throwing up on the sidewalk. It's a heady and overwhelming feeling. At least I kept it out of my hair. And the grime washes off with hot water and soap. Now can I do the same thing with what I believe about myself?

hitchin'

The real man is the humble one. He is grateful for the ride. He has stories of a life I've never lead, one that has given more than than it's fair share of wrinkles and smiles and bruises. He knows that it's a risk, to walk so, to ask for help getting to where he's going. And he usually watches the landscape pass in silence, thankful these few miles are quicker than the hours it would take to walk them.

There is no rule that says I must stop or keep going. Only fear will keep me going. Fear of running late, fear of the dark, fear of the bad, scary things that the news media loves so dearly to exploit.

I've stopped as many times as I've passed. And when I pass, I say a prayer for that person, that someone else will have the compassion I lack at that moment, to stop for them.

Sometimes, it's the ones that need to believe in hope again that need the ride the most. And I'm glad to give it. The friendly smile, the ride, the relief that the world really isn't as harsh as they feared.

It's much like the journey itself. The destination changes with the winds, but we all get to where we are going. And sometimes it's by walking alone on the side of the highway with the world passing you by. And sometimes it's sharing a few miles with a kind soul, sharing stories of where you've been and where you hope to go.

"having a boo radley moment?"

Silly girl.

Sleep good. Sleep till 2pm. Feel better. So... do three loads of laundry, sort sweaters to pack away and pull the tank tops out, pull four wheelbarrows full of weeds, water the trees and vines, go to the store to get food for the week and for dinner, make dinner of pasta & artichokes & pork chops & wine & salad & strawberries, wash dishes and watch a movie, make a birthday card for my sister-in-law, sort receipts for 2006 so I can work on taxes this week.

Sheesh. I get more done in 9 hours than some get done in a week. No wonder I scare people.

Life may not be a race, it's more of my own attempt to do everything I want to do before I forget it. Or, you know, your basic clinical definition of ADHD. As if we didn't already know this.

Could be, it's also a lame attempt to keep myself busy until things change again.

Because I'm crossing my fingers that when I meet with my bank on Tuesday they won't laugh at me too much when I ask them for a loan for $765,000. Because it is entirely possible. Anyone know any investors who like to invest in quirky things? I have found, by the grace of god and an internet search, a bed and breakfast with some land in an area that is growing. A place where I could build that dancehall that I keep rambling on about. Along with an art barn for alternative therapies. One of those things that I know will work, I know I want to do, I am going to make happen. Someday.

So now my prayer is that someday is soon, that there are generous people out there who are willing to work with me on this little dream.

I mean, come on! If I can accomplish all that stuff in one day, when why the hell can't I make a bed and breakfast for alternative therapies work?

It's not just a pipe dream. It's tangible in the way I can taste. (Then again, that could be the after taste of the wine and artichokes and pork chops. Dunno.)

This is a short pause in baring my heart and soul more than I've done in a long time. It's a dream. A goal. One that has been formulating for years. I've managed business (plural) before. I'm certified and licensed for Massage Therapy, and studying Natural Health practices. And this combination, plus my winning go-for-it personality, is what will make this work. I'd always figured to buy the land and build... but here's an opportunity to work with one that is already there.

This is not the normal dream, I know. My best friend dreams of getting married and raising kids. And she wonders (usually with a silent look) why I don't want the same thing. But she knows I go against the grain in so many other ways, so why not that?

You want to know what I really see? A chance to provide shelter for people who are healing in their own ways. A chance to offer all forms of expression to deal with the tough stuff in life. A chance to provide a gathering place for anyone who needs it. A chance to share the beauty in life. That's what I really see.

But, you know, we all have different dreams. I'm just hoping to make mine happen. (Donations greatly appreciated. I'll name a bedroom or cabin after you. Encouragement is just as greatly appreciated. Really.)

4 J

Finally, after 33 days of working, with one day off somewhere in there, and many of them 14-15 hour days, my day job has settled in. Which is fine by me. I'm still trying to figure out which end is up at this point, and I've had many days where I'm so exhausted, I start to beat myself up, which I know is not healthy in any way, shape or form. Somewhere in the haze I've been blessed to have friends to chat with about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. And this has helped immensely in that I surprised myself one night by stating what I wanted very much to do with my future. Whilst this is still forming and rolling towards tomorrow, I'm a helluva lot more comfortable now, working toward a goal I very much believe in. This will be played out along the way, in life and in words. Both very useful, you know. Anyway, back to regularly scheduled programming.

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

Softer. Features so peaceful in sleep after the length of days. All the lines release, smoothing into soft lips and a gentle smile.

The heart reaches out. Wanting to save and protect in the way the heart knows how to do. But this point proves itself over again. This heart beats in one chest, it cannot beat for two. It's a hard enough lesson to learn once. Twice is the mentality of hoping that the outcome will be different.

Just beat, caring heart. Just beat. Leave the saving for the mortal souls you inhabit. Let the protection come from another place. Once, remember the lashes and scars that heal, leave you raw and weaker in their wake no matter how hard you try. Healing will come in it's own form, with stitches or bubblegum.

Grimace at the point of intrusion. A muscle tenses in the neck, oh-so-easy, oh-so-normal, oh I know it so well in myself and others. A knife cutting across would be pleasant release of the nerve firing agony at times like this. Each one fires back, how can a body so worn and tired have any fight left in it? The heart still beats, of course.

What ends, also begins. A story as old as time, it is the given in life. But the hopeful hold on the impossibility of it all is still fascinating enough to draw us back time and again. It is the reach out for another, one who feels the same thing at the same time, forging a connection where there was nothing before. It is the beating heart that enjoys the dance with another like itself.

Where are the two hearts that beat alike? None to be found. But the rhythms will syncronize at the time. Forging the bond built on a pulse. Amongst everything else, when one falters, remember what drew these two hearts together in the first place. Remember that time changes, the winds blow in different directions, and if the thumping in the veins diverges, then it is time to let go.

Once again. Just beat. Leave the saving to the professionals. You've got other things to feel. And once more, listen to the rhythm when the drummer changes. (Because, sometimes you feel like a jig, and sometimes you don't.)

two. more. hours.

to go.

and I want to sleep for the entire frikkin weekend.

don't call. I won't answer the phone.

thunk so?

Hmm.... I'm going to admit my head has been a little swirly of late. The two cards I mailed to A & B a few days ago came back to me today. For no postage. I didn't even notice I'd forgotten stamps. Sigh. Which might also explain the note book by my bed with random scribblings and notes... some of which I can't even begin to understand. Then again, that's not so unusual.

Anyway, I've wandered back to reading long enough to notice that Have The T-Shirt passed along this:

Wait, I make people think? And I'm not doing it so much myself? Should I be worried?

No. I'll take it as a compliment. 'Cause it feels nice to know that sometimes my rearrangement of words gives others pause. And since the requirements of memes is to pass them along... I'm supposed to refer to those who make me think. Well then, go and make it all difficult to do. Everyone on my blogroll is there because I stalk read them (I think...)

The thing is, though, the few who really get to me - who really make my gears turn, like Paulo Coelho, or Wooster Collective, wouldn't know me from any of their other readers.

I still love Wombat of Kiss & Blog for the way his mind works, and I cherished the time I got to write with him. He's great at posing the questions that get me to really ponder what it is I'm doing in relationships. He's also good at diverging in the woods and taking the path less traveled, just to get his point across.

Brandon of The Blog Formerly Known As One Child Left Behind, he who has guest posted here, is like an addiction. I miss his blog terribly, and am constantly looking for where he writes next, because I want to know what he will say next. I know I'm not the only one to feel this, as he has his own fan club and all, but he speaks for my heart sometimes. And for my liver at others.

Scott of Caveat Emptor is a surprise in lyrical stories and straight-faced irony, and I can imagine him smirking when he reads over his post just before he hits 'publish', knowing that people the world over are going to be laughing and scratching their heads. Reading him over the past year or so, you can see the changes in his writing as he gets more comfortable chewing the words before he spits them back out. Oh, and his stories? - they're good, too. ;)

Ok, that's more or less my top 5. All guys. Go figure. I just like the way they think and write.

I have several other addictions, the sites that are dedicated to art (Post Secret), or jokes, or porn... (did I just say that? I think I should strike that, because the porn doesn't make me think...) and the bloggers that are like family - usually supportive, sometimes snarky, and always very real: Neil, Probitionate, Mars, T-shirt, Me/LeavesandGrass, Popeye, and Liz Elayne.

I guess, all in all, this is a version of gratitude, passing along the inspiring pieces of my computer life. Each one of you are worthy of receiving my pass along of the Thinking Bloggers Award. (Even though it only said 5 - we all know I don't like rules so much.) So there - if you choose to, you've been tagged. If you don't choose to, well, then, I bite my thumb at you. (Not really. I still love you anyway.)

Insert meme disclaimer here:

Should you choose to participate, please make sure you pass this list of rules to the blogs you are tagging. I thought it would be appropriate to include them with the meme.

The participation rules are simple:

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think,
2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme,
3. Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote (there is an alternative silver version if gold doesn't fit your blog).

That about sums it up. Now, I've got ribbons that are drying I need to go take care of... so - back to regularly scheduled programming... go, talk amongst yourselves, 'cause I've now got important thinks to go think.

sucker

all he had to do was walk by and I knew it was him.
all he had to do was look over his sunglasses at me and I got all hot and bothered once again.
he just does that to me.
I smiled to myself as I walked away, knowing he was watching my ass.
knowing that he was thinking the very same thoughts about me.
and we didn't even speak.

he says it all in the way he watches me.

it's crazy, it's unsettled.
it's longing for that I can't have.
it's an addiction to being adored, and he does it so well.

damnit.

he makes a point of saying hello later.
when he didn't need to.
when he calls me doll.

I hate silly names.
really, I do.
sugar, honey, baby, sweetie, whatever.

but him, I'll let him call me just about anything.
as long as he looks at me like that.
like he wants to devour me.
like he wants to worship me.
like he wants to do salacious and naughty things with me.
like he wants to pull me into his arms.
so I can see those blue eyes that he hides behind sunglasses.
so I can feel his body pressed against mine.
so I can feel his hands on my back.

so I can feel how hard I make him.

gone.
with a wave.
again.

this time I watch his ass walking away.

damnit.

paperwork

He swings his legs around, pushing himself in circles, just like a little kid, all grown up in a man type body. It's a serene sense of humor that makes me giggle. And it feels great. I sit on the edge of the desk, all the weight of the day gone as he tries to be serious about the flow chart of the daily totals while spinning around in circles.

"Are you getting dizzy?" I ask him in between giggling and trying to keep my own face straight.

"Why? Are you? Have you been drinking in the middle of the afternoon again? I know you love your three-martini lunches, but really? It's hard to work with you when you're all dizzy and giggly all afternoon."

It's all I can do to keep from pulling him into my arms and kissing him. "Oh, didn't you hear? I gave up martinis for Lent."

He stops spinning long enough to look at me. "You're not Catholic."

"But I took up three-margarita lunches instead!"

"That sounds more like you. Although I'd love to see you in a Catholic school-girl outfit... just so I can pretend you're Catholic." A lovely smile spreads across his lips, his eyes light up as he glances down my body to my legs crossed next to him.

I just smirk back at him, raising my eyebrows in response, "You keep your fantasies to yourself, I'll keep mine to myself." Our eyes are locked. We let the pause build past uncomfortable to silence while letting those personal fantasies play.

His lips part, I think he's going to say something... but he just turns back to the charts on my desk. I silently sigh, either relief or annoyance, I'm not sure which. I want his arms wrapped around my body, I want those lips on mine. And yet I love this tension and energy we share and could not bear the thought of ruining it. I lean over the desk with him, torturing him and myself just a little longer.

We banter a bit more, shuffling through the papers, quickly making the notes we need for research for the presentation next week. The files are sorted, I leave post-it notes on each stack of what we need, he fiddles with the hi-lighter between marking pages.

My phone rings, I reach across him to answer it, noting the shiver it sends down my back to brush against him. I feel the heat of his breath on my arm as I answer yes to whatever it was my secretary asked. I hang up the phone, stay leaning over him, and turn my head to look him in the eye again. "Um..."

"Yeah. I'd better go. I'll bring that folder tomorrow and we'll finish this up then."

Not what I wanted him to say. "Alright. See you tomorrow."

I pull back and shuffle the papers into a recognizable stack, he takes his notes and heads for the door. I avoid looking at him as he leaves, knowing it will leave me with more images for my fantasy file than I already need. I pick up the last of the papers and slide them into my briefcase when I see the post-it on my desk. In hi-lighter is a little heart. And suddenly mine soars.

stalking the wild / leap of faith

cinnamon. it smells like cinnamon. I have no idea why. the candles on my hearth are either unscented or vanilla, and even those do no overwhelm me as this drafting scent of cinnamon does. it's beautiful. it's overwhelming. it's... enticing. more on this some other time.

we've played phone tag all week. he's on vacation now that he's back from Iraq, so he's relaxing and visiting his family. and thinking of me. I've been too tired to deal with him, as well as just too tired to even want to deal with anyone. but I know that withdrawing is not a healthy attitude. so what, do it anyway. sometimes I need to.

I don't have to justify myself. I know this. but sometimes I feel that I need to defend myself. or my reasoning.

his faith is deeper or more pronounced than mine is. perhaps. whatever. he's devout, it gets him where he needs to be. my faith holds me steady. it's all I know. but his hope is that someday I'll say let's take that leap of faith. and I ache to hurt him by saying no. I cringe when I tell him honestly that no, that leap I will not take.

sure, it may just be because I don't trust myself. or him. or that he just sees in me that which he craves in his life, not really me. or that I do not see in him the things I want and need in my life. and learned before, and still see it now, that how he is, is how he is. no. I ache to tell him this, to crush his faith so, but I have to. his ideal is not mine. and there will never be a relationship unless it is equal. and we are not equal.

far from perfect. I just try to be who I need to be for me. but I am human. I am petty. I am biting and bitchy. just like you. I make mistakes and try to learn from them. sometimes I do. but I try to live my life the way I feel. and sometimes it comes across as fake to someone else. because I don't trust them enough to let them see the real me. which is funny, because I'm one of the first to bare it all. but I've developed the slight defenses to protect enough until I can move on. it's not fake, it's not always a mask, although it sometimes is, it's a compassionate way of re-directing the conversation to themselves, because that's all they want to talk about anyway, so I can politely bow out. they see me as unreal. when I see them as draining and consuming, so I side step in any way I can.

but I still feel it. fuck, I feel it. he stands in front of me, flirting and charming, but not looking me in the eye. sigh. why do I waste my time? I don't know, but it serves, too, as a reminder that I am multi-faceted and not just one dimensional. no one is, but then I see some who I believe are, and am all irritated and confused again.

he knows what to say. this time will I listen and respond?

funny, the few, very few who have a better idea of me, are the ones who do not laugh at me. and that makes a difference to me. so when I take that small step, in attempting to connect or communicate or share or whatever the hell you want to call it, when I begin to trust just enough to say something, the answer of you and me is there. because I can remember your family and friends, work and life, as simple as what's going on. but if you do not take the information I share and remember it, instead choose to see your painted version of who you think I might be, then we do not connect. and you can't see that either. he can't see that either. same thing. trust is so easily given, and yet so hard to give.

skittish. tired of pretending it doesn't matter. because it does. I admit I need that feel. I admit to longing, when even I can't admit to what I'm longing for. like everything else in my life, it will feel right when it's right. it's the painting that starts as an idea and changes as it's developed to something new. but I know when the piece is done. by the feel. so I know, that by the feel, is how I'll know when right is right. that's part of my faith.

he goes on his way. walks away, leaving me with a wave. leaving this utter repulsion in the pit of my being. why am I the fool to listen?

the he on the phone, we share. the same way we always have. it's what I miss, but not enough to take that leap he wishes for. I don't entirely blame him. some things I never told him in the first place, so how could he ever know? but it doesn't matter, because he only remembers his interpretation anyway. his false sense of knighthood leads him to believe he needs to save me when I'm not perfect. so I never tell him. I never tell him that I'm not perfect every single day. he believes what he wants to believe anyway. his faith is very different from mine.

rill

hello. I'm not a voiding you. rilly.

alarm buzzing at 7am, hit snooze and turn on the tunes till 7:28. at which point I roll out of bed, pull on my jeans (yea!) and grab a shirt and pull my hair back and make it out the door to be at work by 8. holy mother of god, how in the world does anyone function this early in the morning? seriously? you mean millions of people do this every day? WHY? it should be outlawed for anything to happen before 10am.

thankfully, since I don't function until around 11 am, most of my morning work is fairly comprehendable for even non-functioning me. the rest of the day, I like. except - sunshine? it's bright during the day. so, so weird.

the extreme stress of working both jobs until the end of next week, wears me out. ok. I've done my best at returning phone calls and emails. A & I have played phone tag all week, both busy as ever. it's a little bit lonely and depressing to be so stretched thin, and not have anyone to talk to. a phone call from the captain, to ask if I wanted to see a band tonight - a band I'd love to see, but have no cash for the cover as payday isn't till next week, and I know that if out with him, I know where things would probably lead... and while sex is usually a good reason, I'm in a subtle mood lately - one that begs for quiet. one that likes being withdrawn and reserved right now. one that also knows that he's not worth it in the long run, so why keep bothering?

keep looking forward. still so unsettled, so finding my footing is hard. but tonight was one in the stretch of not having to work the night shift, so I took a walk. watched the sunset, smelled the rain that was spinning on the horizon, miles away, said hello to the horses up the street. ok. this part of the schedule I could get used to. hell, this is the part of life I just want to do everyday. someday.

head hurts now... sleep. perchance to dream...

soon

unnecessary rambling. figurative annoyances. tender lines.

only a mercy of begging the past to stay behind just a little while longer. long enough to wipe myself off one more time and find my footing once more.

weary. tired in a way that makes others cringe on my behalf. could've said no, but I don't work that way. it's another form of managing, of denial, of ignoring, long enough to get through it all. blends together. has for weeks now. must not be missing much, can't remember it anyway. that's a lie. there are moments that make it worth it. there are things I'm still missing out on, but can soon again look forward to. a version of hope is what helps right now.

another day passes. too many things to say about that, I know. one in which I could've, should've, would've. and didn't.

this too shall pass.

window shopping

I see what I want. Buried in one of those antique junk stores. The kind that only see daylight when the door opens because someone wandered in. The kind that are cluttered and full of the random bits of people's lives that they've passed on to be sold to someone else. The kind of store that was once a home or a warehouse, now full of shelves and stacks of, things, all covered in dust.

A few fingerprints on a yellow glass vase, where someone has picked it up to examine it, then decided to put it back. Bookshelves full of books that are losing their spines, books that have lived through the ages in several generations in an old family farmhouse, until the latest generation decided to sell everything because the memories were too much to bear. Collections of salt and pepper shakers that have never actually held salt or pepper, but gathered dust in someones home because they are shaped like fishes or cows or trees or gnomes, now sent here, to gather dust until someone comes along to buy them.

The clothes amuse me more than the trays of jewelry do. The baby clothes, once white, now feint shades of ivory or bone, cotton that has aged. Not from stains, but from not being worn, from being worn once, for a baptism, then placed in a chest and forgotten about until that baby is an adult. The t-shirts, the true vintage t-shirts, the ones that the screen printing is fading and cracking on. The cute sayings or stupid logos of generations past, now hanging limply on wire hangers in the back of this dusty store. The dresses. Those interest me. The real ones. Not the mass produced jersey messes with labels from the late 80's. The ones that are hand sewn, with the inside hems just slightly uneven, made from a light sheer fabric dotted with small purple flowers, with a faded ribbon woven into the lace. These are beautiful dresses, with tiny waists, with gentle weight, with lifetimes of stories to tell.

But it's not those dresses that hold my attention today. It's an old, well oiled table, one that gleams under the dust. It's covered in scratches and dents, and then covered in a collage of stuff that was never meant to be on a kitchen table. A lead doorstop, a steel watering bucket with a bouquet of faded pink plastic roses, an iron, a set of typesetting letters that are missing the 'r' and 'z'. A milk crate full of LP's holds down one corner, a bundled stack of National Geographic magazines circa 1965-67, a shoe box full of black and white photos that curl into themselves next to a shoe box full of yellowed post cards from the 1930's. Two chairs are pushed into the table on two sides, a washboard leans against one leg, and a worn quilt is folded up underneath. The table, with all its marrs and braille, is made of the thick heavy wood that withstands being pounded while making bread, that withstands flying rages of cast iron skillets slamming down on it, that supports family dinners seven nights a week.

It's what I want. I want the passion in that table. I want the life that brought that table here, that brings me here to see it, that brings this whole store full of things into one place to be picked over in hopes of going home again. It's the story in the history that it will never tell that I want. It's the life that I can wish to lead, the life that I admire but do not really know, the life I want to have someday.

If I could, I'd give these things a new home. I'd air out the dresses and try them on. I'd re-glue the spines on the books. I'd smash those silly little salt and pepper shakers against a wall and use the pieces for a mosaic. I'd sort through those old photographs and glue them into a scrapbook with made up stories for the people I never knew but imagined I did.

I'd take that table, put it in my kitchen, place a yellow vase of fresh pink roses on it, and sit there and run my fingers over the marks and pretend I understood what it said. I'd sit there and stare at the grooves while I was day dreaming. I'd toss my keys on this table when I walked in the door. I'd scatter the ingredients for making pasta or salad or pizza, with cheeses and olive oil and vegetables and a skillet and a bottle of wine taking up the space. I'd find that partner to make love with, to press me up against this table, urgent and lifting my skirt as we kiss, lifting my hips onto the edge, pressing our bodies together. I'd open my computer on this table the next day, smiling to myself about the night before, right here, on this edge. I'd cry when I got the news of a passing, I'd slam the cabinet doors, I'd drink the wine and raise the glass to whomever had gone and slam it into the table, adding one more scar, sending shards flying to be found for weeks. I'd pour cereal into bowls at this table, for the children I may someday have, as an outcome of that one night on the edge of this table, or for the children of my friends who are staying over. I'd drink my hot tea here in the winter when it's cold, I'd place trays of food on it for the gatherings of friends who have come over to visit or celebrate things.

It's the table that catches my attention today. It's the possibilities that it holds that I want to buy. It's the life it has seen that I want to see. It's the table that says I belong to someone, not here, gathering dust in the back of a store. Strong and sturdy, so much good still in it, so much left yet to see, yet to do. Just waiting, here in the dust and junk, just waiting. Ready to be so much more than firewood, ready to be put to use once again. It's just a table, but its story is one I want to hear.

and

so
glad I wore tennis shoes to work instead of heels today

wishing the world had more people not afraid of getting their hands dirty

wishing my (soon to be ex) manager wasn't so damn selfish and a prick and would actually get off his ass to help me mop the floor from where the sewer line backed up, or to at least answer the phone, or you know SOMEHOW be useful instead of ignoring the inch of crappy (literally) water covering the frikkin' floor

bleah

I need a nap

color of the world tonight

There's something tangible about glue.

I know I'm in the middle of a long stretch of insanity inducing hours. I cannot let myself think about them. Because if I do, I will go crazy. Distractions. Must have distractions. Thankfully, they're easy to come by with what the world has to offer.

The bottle of paint, ready and willing. The three-or-more hour conversation that makes me laugh more than a few times. The little words making phrases. The puzzle out of the back of the newspaper. The sleep. That is a good distraction right there.

What I pause on is the moments of too deep contemplation. The ones that can trip you down that rabbit hole of insanity... it's an envelopment that holds on in a way that feels good, if only if were someone else.

Tamping down awareness just a little while longer. But not. Just on the edge of the periphery. Enough to keep the blood pumping and the gears turning. It's held together somehow.

The ideas roll around now, free to dance and make faces and make me think about what else I can do. Bits and pieces that have been gathering dust are being pulled out now, ready to be connected in their own puzzle way.

I'm sorry. I'm tired. I know now that it makes as much sense as reading a cereal box backwards. I told myself to not let it get to me. I don't listen so well, you know.

Some things, I wish didn't have to change. But I know that's how life is. So I accept it, make the best of it, and move on. But the emotion of saying goodbye, still sucks ass. And emotions are strung out on a limb right now, waving in the wind, because I'm just tired. Great combination, really. Oh god, what I wouldn't give for a ... what? I don't even know what I want right now. So many things come to mind, but none of them seem good enough to choose.

And that's not right. Because they're all perfectly good choices. A hike. A bubble bath. A massage. A bottle of wine and conversation. Silence. A movie.

Instead I lean over my desk, one more time, to try to put something down before it escapes my mind. And then, I will lean into the shower, letting my tears fall, scrubbing away one more day. And I will be fine. One more time. And I will fall into bed, exhausted, listening to the wind whip the limbs free again.

sigh

I suppose now I can say something. Not so secretive anymore. I lived a double life for awhile, and sometimes it was too hard to do. Some of you knew it, too.

I've made the decision to say goodbye to that life, Aspen. She is now laid to rest, only to be perused in my own archives.

It was a good run, a great experience, and a painful decision. Like a breakup, just because I don't have the time available to put into the relationship. Sigh. Broke my heart and his. Not so many of the reader's though, I feel too many were hoping for it for months.

No dating either. A personal choice. I need to sort out some other things in my life plans before I can even imagine having someone else in it. The work sitch will settle in in a few weeks, and the OT gets me that much closer to paying off my last credit card and to finding the land I want to buy. And I very much need to sort through the projects I have scattered about my desks and give them some semblance of a completion date or time. Eventually. Right now I'll be happy if I can find the time to pull the weeds in the yard and to try out the new saw I bought today.

I'm grateful for the experience, the writing experience. And seeing new points of view on many subjects. But I just don't want to sit in front of my computer anymore, and that was where it came from. There, it was writing and editing and working hard to please the readers. Here, I just pour it out and walk away to do other things. And the other things are more enticing than sitting in front of this glowing screen. Harsh, but my truth.

I raise my glass, take a deep breath, and continue on this road I'm on.

polished & poisoned

He holds it there, in his hand, offering. It shines, it's so polished. It's perfectly shaped, a beautiful red skin. Not a bruise to be seen. It sits there, in the palm of his hand, an offering that many cannot refuse.

He has an expectant smile on his face, his eyes are wide in hope that I'll take the apple he offers. He wants me to take the apple he offers. Because I've taken that apple too many times before.

I know the shine is polished in. I know that one bite beneath that luscious red skin will invite a headache. One bite, that he offers so prettily, will make me sick. Horribly, down on my knees, writhing in pain. A poison unseen, so addicting, so potent, that you eat the whole thing before you know it, giving in to his hopeful gaze yet again.

Not this time. This time I say no. This time I surprise him. Because the poison has worn off from the last time I bit, and I'm thinking clearly. And now, now that I know what he really offers, I can smell the potency. Just standing there, staring at that shine, a mesmerizing shine... No.

He recoils. So angry! Yelling, almost throwing that perfectly shined apple that he holds. Almost. Instead he insults my intelligence, trying to trick me into taking his apple. I shake my head. No. He is hurt that I don't want his apple. He is hurt and angry that I am rejecting his offer. He pouts, he whines, he snidely remarks that others have taken the apple, that others want the apple, that others think I'm not good enough if I don't take the apple.

I close my mouth. No answer will suffice. I have said no. I have learned that what comes in such shiny, red, polished apples from him are not what they seem. I will do my best to warn the next person to come along. But I know that she, like me, will think nothing of it at first, will not know until long after the effects have sunk in, will not listen until she bites it herself.

This time, I walk away from that apple being offered. I walk away from the man offering it, now knowing what vile things some people will do to get their way. This time, I reach into my backpack for the pear I bought myself, bruises and all.