cosmic shifts

Found On The Way

2012-02-16T17:14:00.000-06:00

It was longer than that. It looked longer, anyway. In my dreams.

Another hot, dusty afternoon in town, today I was walking around down the main street through town. Not really looking for anything, and yet looking just the same. In the way of days that beg me to go out to see the world, see what the world has to offer me as I meander from thought to thought and place to place.

I had started in front of my grandfather’s old shop, a shop long since sold and no longer his, but in my heart it is where he still haunts, all his tools are still in that soft yellow light filtering down from the wavy plastic in the ceiling. His tools sit on the tables where they sat when I was a kid walking through the shop, lightly touching everything, feeling the weight of metal, feeling the grime of grease.

The filtered yellow light of memory pulls me away from this main street shop, no longer his, no longer really there. A few blocks away, this is not the main street I know, this is not the world I am used to. In some cities the original main street, the history of the beginning of the town, is tucked away, no where near the current thoroughfare, lost in time, holding on to the stories of what was, not allowed to experience the what is now. This is the main street I find today. A lost street, several blocks over from regular traffic, off on the side of the town that is now forgotten.

The dust of the day has settled in the mid-afternoon heat, crisp grass leaves have been so long dry that they rustle without wind. The street stretches out, the long row of buildings across the way have long been empty, bricks crumbling and windows broken. Warehouses down the way, buildings that probably see business still, but not the visible kind. But it is the row of buildings across the street that keep my eye longest. Two, no, three, no, four little store fronts all together. Shops or boutiques or cafes, once this must have been a quaint place to spend the afternoon, shopping and eating and visiting.

The space on the end has an open door, a large metal door, swung open to reveal the inside…which reveals the outside beyond. The door itself catches my eye, there’s something, a string of words perhaps, small and magnetically stuck to the door close to one edge about ⅔ of the way down. I go closer to read it… the phrase escapes me now, but the feeling was “Every wish you make.” And now I regret not having my camera with me for today’s walk, wishing I could take a picture of this scene. Ah! But I have the camera on my phone, it’s not what I want, but it will work to capture the moment. Perhaps I can come back later with my camera for more pictures.

I get a close up picture of the words on the door, then stand back to get the doorway in the frame as well. It looks out onto a large concrete patio that then gives way to a small running trail and down to the water. Water? Water! A river, a lake, whatever, it has water and trees and is a bit of beauty hidden behind the dusty empty store front and street before it. I am in awe and want to explore more. I want to see what lies beyond this wall, what other hidden treasures will I find?

A man startles me, he asks if I’m someone he’s looking for. I reply no, I’m just walking. He sighs, looks at his watch and complains that she’s over half an hour late already and he doesn’t like it. His tie is loose, he’s sweated through his button down short sleeve shirt, and he looks tired. I ask why he’s waiting on her. He explains that she’s buying the place.

Oh? It’s for sale? Really, I ask. How much?

Well, the last two times it was sold we sold it for twelve thousand.

Twelve thousand dollars?

Yes. Are you interested?

Can I see more?

Sure. Come on through.

We walk through the open door to the large concrete patio which runs the length of the buildings in back, down to the other end building where it is covered with a metal roof and there’s furniture stacked about as if someone had moved it out of the buildings. The grassy way beyond drops down to the water, with shade from the trees and porch providing a nice swimming area. The furniture is older, the stuff found in auctions nowadays, with dark woods once polished to shine. There’s a fish tank with a pretty carved frame around it that catches my eye.

The back walls are no better than the front, offering broken and crumbling bricks that need repair. I think to myself that I can actually pull off twelve thousand dollars, putting some on credit cards and from what we have in savings. This begins to stir me toward something that feels good.

Then the woman walks through the door, followed by a brood of seventeen people. Husbands, sisters, uncles, aunts, brothers, cousins, children and more. She is large, too large to be wearing a tube top and short shorts, her hair is stringy and she is a domineering type personality. Everyone behind her scatters - to go climb on the furniture or to swim or to just lean against the wall and smoke. She tells the real estate man she’s here, as if we hadn’t noticed. She says she’s going to the bank to get a loan this afternoon. But first the family wanted to come check it all out.

They climb on chairs, kick the loose bricks, splash in the water. I am dejected now, annoyed that I didn’t sign the papers before she showed up, weary of the whole brood of them. I resign myself and go to ask her if I can buy the fish tank from her, when the place becomes hers. She looks me over, unimpressed, looks at the tank with the carved frame and says sure, I can have it for fifty bucks. Fine, I’ll take that.

I sit down in one of the chairs to contemplate some more, and one of the teen boys comes over, almost petting me, leaning on the chair arm, trying to hit on me in his awkward teen way. I brush him off easily, I’m happily married I say. He takes no pause in his efforts. Another woman walks up, with a white-blonde bobbed wig perched on her head. She shoos the boy off, telling him to go finish his homework or she’ll fail him. He skulks off, leaving us alone amidst the stacks of furniture under he metal canopy. She looks at me, says my name. I look at her surprised, yes, that’s me. She introduces herself as one of my old teachers, years ago, but I don’t remember her, or her name, Ms. Higgenbottom or something, now Mrs. Weathers. She married one of the uncles/cousins, she’s part of this extended family.

I don’t have a response. I sit quietly as she watches the others splash in the water below us. She turns to me and says, you could do better. Surprised, I ask at what? This. She points to the buildings and land. This family might get the loan, and they will move in exactly as is, with falling walls and decaying food in the kitchen, and tear it up worse, not making any changes for the better. And then it will be destroyed and lost. And they’ll move on elsewhere. You can move in and fix it up and hang pretty lights from the trees and have outdoor parties and sell things in the shop there. You’d do better.

A moment to breathe, then yes, I feel it too. I feel insides, so deep inside, that I can do it. I can get inside, throw away the rotten foods, scrub the walls and counters, rebuild the broken walls and windows, give it a fresh coat of paint and a breath of fresh air. I can hang pretty lights from the trees and covered porch, have parties on the patio, encourage outdoor dining from the small restaurant on the end, sell art and pretties from the gallery/shop in the middle, have a little apartment in one building. Yes, this I could do. The hard work does not scare me, it inspires me, it pulls me aside and says, hell to the yes, this is yours to dream and make happen, this is yours to achieve with your own two hands and your art and your designs.

I thank her, she wanders off to watch the others. I find the exasperated real estate man on the side where we first walked in, I tell him I will be back with the money in hand this afternoon. No applying for a hoped for loan, I will make it happen. I want this property, as is, and I want it now.

He finally smiles, thankful and relieved. Yes, he says. You deserve this. I will do this with you. I will do this for you. This will be yours. The buildings, the land, the water area, everything. And I look forward to seeing what you do with it.

So do I.

Did you learn your lines?

2012-01-27T10:51:00.000-06:00

It’s a scary feeling, being on stage and not knowing the lines.

It’s a terror only known to actors. And it’s not the terror of actually being on stage and not knowing the lines, because any good actor will be able to cover and improve their way through, giving the audience no reason to doubt that the person in blue jeans who looked dead on the chaise lounge a few minutes ago is really supposed to be in the period drama you’re watching.

No, this is the fear of real life, of whathefuckamIdoingwithmylife fear that creeps into our dreams and startles us awake to point out that while we may not be on stage without a script, in our waking life we are wandering through without a clue as to what the hell is going on.

The waking wisps that pull you back into dreamstate to remind you that while you're as composed as you can possibly be, this is a show where you don't know the lines or the blocking and you're going to be laughed at and pitied.

Hidden Vises

2011-11-09T23:35:00.003-06:00

The empty space of waiting for something to happen, just something, anything at all, to happen after you've set your goals and started down the path is that terrifying moment of "Am I doing the right thing?"

It's a question I ask all the damn time. It's a fear that was drilled into me from so many years ago, that no therapist will ever hear, but that the words will spill out and be told somehow, somewhere, some here.

My soul aches at the invisible shield that I've placed around myself, guarding what I think should be guarded and removing what I think should be removed, all for the safety of someone else's feelings. Bare it all, I say, damn the torpedoes. But then again, I have bared it all, and I am perfectly fine baring it all. For myself. Not for others.

Wait. What? I mean I will talk and share and be naked and honest and warped with a twist of putting my foot in my mouth, all about myself. But I respect or fear that other people in the world that may surround mine may not like it so much and so I scrub those words to shelter them in.

Trauma is a funny thing. No, no it's not. But it is. It is something that needs to be funny to deal with and yet the inner tearing pain is what pulls apart like a zipper caught on fabric, ripping at metal teeth and grinding at loose threads. I know not how I stand here on any given day, yet I stand and decry the injustice of a world that is sometimes so mean. Viva la difference.

Often with sting

2011-06-27T03:15:00.003-05:00

Sometimes I am inappropriate. I am not a formal and well-pressed flower, ready for display in a shadow box. I laugh out loud when something is off kilter, often jarring other people. But I get my point across. Quickly. Often with sting.

Damn the continuous cycle of life not slowing down so we can absorb our lessons and dramas, so we can pick apart the few bits of meat and toss the bones as if scrying for our futures. Where in daily life are we really allowed to catch our breath, to sit perfectly still and say no thank you to the absurdity of shit thrown upon us? Oh, for one simple day of bliss, of choosing to lounge in bed to savor a book or a lover, to sip wine at daybreak instead of twilight, to step out of the confines of what passes for normal and to be the foolish and yearning self inside.

But the twenty four hour window opens and closes, the same each day, offering the same options. To wake, to work, to dread, to fear, to suffer in silence the ideals of others, to cringe at loss of opportunity, to rant at injustices. To fall from exhaustion of the mask, the weight it carries day after day, the false smile offering no clue to the real you.

So the seams start to burst as all the dreams past pile up, waiting for the bonfire to burn them off, waiting for the ash to be swept away, to make room for more empty space, more lifeless fodder. To release the space only to be filled again with dreams deferred.

This ache bears no witness today. This drive offers no sacrifice to the sinners or savers. This soul is lost in the howling wind, eyes closed in absence of goals, capable of flight no more.

Relief on the wind

2011-05-02T00:38:00.002-05:00

Oh, how the world is changing under our very feet. So close on the heels of Mother Nature whipping our collective asses with tsunamis and tornados and wildfires comes word of a lead terrorist meeting his death after nearly ten years of looking for him.

So where next? What will change now? Will we be able to fly in commercial airplanes without being molested? Will our troops return home safe and sound? Will focus now change on what qualifies as politics?

Jobs are changing, the world is changing, attitudes are changing. Hopes are changing. More will be forthcoming.

to the flicker of light I ask tonight

2011-03-14T02:44:00.002-05:00

The oh-so-silent flash of something off in the peripheral, like a blink, but your eyes haven’t moved. It’s almost a conversation with your own self, perhaps a conversation with a ghost, which on more than one occasion it was.

Like a fairy darting across the corner of your field of vision, if only you believed in fairies and thought that thy could possibly do so.

Like a firefly, indoors, in winter, in a dry climate that has never seen fireflies to begin with.

Like a spark dancing from the candle flame, flickering a bit before settling down for a steady burn, only there aren’t any candles nearby.

Like the twinkling of a star high in the sky that catches your eye on a clear summer night, only you’re indoors, and like I said, it’s winter.

I talk to these light flashes, these flickering dashes that move across just outside of being truly seen. I ask who might be there, as if something or someone might actually answer me. I query their intentions, wonder about their plans, ask if they’d like a chat. I wait, listening to see if there will come a response not from the voices inside my own head.

But no. All stays silent. Nothing moves, except for me. Breathing and waiting. Typing and listening. Calmly amused at whatever may pour forth from these late-night interactions.

And here is where every conversation begins with me. “Who’s There?” I sit, as patient as I can be, which honestly isn’t much because I don’t like to wait, and try to listen to learn whatever it is the flicker or flash might be trying to tell me.

The house settles, the wind blows the branches outside, and I sit, trying to listen.

Is it advice for where my life is going? I could always use that, in the metaphorical sense. A bit of guidance to nudge me along the path I’m meant to be on, to make sure I don’t end up on the former roads to self-destruction. An answer to the eternal question of “What am I supposed to do next?” would be nice, I mean, a little sign of anything to help me along with that decision would help. Maybe it’s just a conversation with a spirit of my own mind, to let me know that life is all right and I’ll be okay no matter what.

Soft words to ease my soul. I’m not tormented, I beckon no help, I just prefer the quiet sort of interaction over the noisy, sword-of-flames sort.

Ahh, an angel perhaps? One who is checking in on me or wants to leave me a message that I’ll find later.

My shoulder blades itch, the wings removed feels so awkward. No wonder I continue to hunch over, trying to protect my core, to hide my soft belly with the hard shell. But my wings are not here right now, they’re not here to drape across my back and down my legs in the comforting way of protecting my body and soul. To wrap around me in a full on hug.

Oh, how I soared with those wings. I flew all over the place, gliding across the air and settling softly on the tops of trees to view the world around me. Mine were not the plain white, mine were colorful, brighter than a peacock. They shimmered in light, embracing the blues and greens as they cascaded down my back. I wasn’t conventional, I wasn’t straight-laced, I wasn’t just there to look pretty. I was there to get things done, to stir others up, to partake in the joys of being.

This life I lead now is remarkably similar, except I cannot soar to the tops of trees or across the vastness of sky. I am grounded with two legs, missing my wings and yearning to fly.

If I'm here and so are you...

2011-01-02T02:32:00.000-06:00

Oh where, oh where, have these last few months gone?

Regulations get tighter and make it so much more difficult to breathe. Or maybe that's just the horrendous chest-wracking cough I've got going on.

Life's demands have ebbed and flowed, as they always do. Hair length gets shorter and then longer again. The pillow I lay my head upon shifts from here to there and here again. Oh, the miles. God, the miles.

I'm tired of the miles.

I really am.

In the last moments of pure stupor I've called out to the skies above asking for direction. What preference does the universe have in where I go next when I really don't even care what direction I go in next. Ah, this blase-ness, so much fun!

Really. I. Don't. Care.

And it really kinda sucks.

Nothing like ringing in the new fucking year when you don't believe in the magic of it anymore. When it just chalks up to another day on the calendar. When getting out of bed is just as overrated as it seems.

I want the magic back. I want to believe in fairies and new year ideals and hopes of better things in the future. Because, right now, getting out of bed really is overrated.

fuck with me, please

2010-09-28T00:34:00.002-05:00

You think you're the first to mess with my head. You think it's new and enticing to play with my heart, to toy with my emotions.

It's not new. Been happening for years.

Slow undressing, tender touching, long kisses along bare skin. Long gazes, gentle moans, deep sighs and excited shivers.

I'll call you.

No, you won't.

You were fun, but I've met someone else.

While we were dating?

I'm not good enough for you.

I'm not good enough for you?

You, right there, were just one of the latest in that long line.

Many moons before teeth marks left their bruise on my shoulder and large hands massaged their way up my skirt were hands that caressed my ass, kisses from two men at once, and passed out nights on living room floors.

Memories of a time before. Of all the times I was searching for something, that connection with another. Of all the times I let myself be used by someone else in hopes of a return of affection. Of a time I let passion and desire allow me to wrap my legs around a man who removed his ring for one night.

The tiny tears in my heart muscle for over two decades slowly started to repair on their own, when I stood up for myself and walked away. When I met someone who truly mattered. Who treats me like I truly matter. Three years in, a good thing going. Now his hands are the only ones going up my skirt.

in the late fall moonlight

2010-09-25T03:44:00.000-05:00

In a tizzy...
In a whirl...
Where did you go?
Who is this girl?

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

You made that mistake one too many times. Remember the third time, when I finally let the the bitter tang release from biting my tongue so long and I said "I told you so"?

Yes, then, when you stood on the sidewalk smoking that cigarette while watching the last brown leaves fall as winter made her approach. When you hooked your thumb into your belt loop and kicked at the crunchy leaves. When you took your shirt off as you walked in the door, revealing three pink scars along your ribs while stretching. When you leaned in so close I could taste that cigarette on your breath, you leaned in to intimidate me but I just stared back at you.

That night changed the dance. The tempo reversed, suddenly we were no more, you chose to stay and I chose to go.

Night fell so much quicker then. Perhaps I only remember the daylight less now than it really was then anyhow. I could hear the crack in your voice, the ache of tiredness breaking you down. The long slow motion of two fingers pulling the strap off my shoulder. The lean in to kiss, the lean in to nip at my neck, the lean in to make promises that were never going to be kept.

Desire and heat offered up a pretty nice deal. Forget the truth, forget the holy pain of revenge and anger, just let you do such deliciously sweaty things with my body for a few hours more. Just let that anger roll itself into intensity, let our bodies sort out those communication problems together, naked, now.

Damn the enticement. Damn the attraction. Damn the anticipation of what we once had. Damn the hope of better urging me off that couch and out your door. Four would not happen with me.

Fast forward many years and many more scars for us both, apart. To see you again and know why you wince in pain. To just know where your heart once led you. My walls are firmly in place now. No more will your sweet words reach my inner longing.

Remember there when I told you so.

am I what I say I am?

2010-09-19T17:17:00.002-05:00

Oh, hello middle of September already, I didn't know you were here. Really. I coulda swore it was still like July sometime.

Into the air again, over the roads and acres to land back in a place to call home-for-now. This bouncing about really isn't doing anything for my complexion. Or my bank account. Le sigh.

The argument most recent in my mind was that of what am I to call myself a writer or an artist when I haven't written anything for pay in months and my most recent painting sales were $20. Enough to recoup the materials cost, not enough to stave off having to get a 'real job'.

Bleah. I spent the better part of a week temping for a company that has no real care for the job they were doing, and obviously has no real care in the first place, otherwise they wouldn't be in the position they were in having temps come in to help them 'scrub' their files. Companies that spend four million dollars on equipment in a day, that ignore safety protocols and then have to sell parts of their company off and don't want the new owner to know all their dirty little spending secrets, well, I have no lost love for them. Nor pity. They deserve the blame and slaps upside the head.

Yes, I am judgmental.

And yet, in another place, standing in a lobby visiting with an employee of the business, chatting with other patrons, and I helpfully answered a question that the manager didn't know, she offered me a job in customer service there on the spot! It felt so damn nice... and so ill timed. Two days till locations shift again, I couldn't take it. Sigh again.

I do like calling myself a writer and an artist and a designer. I love that I am a Creative. But when so much depends on income - I earn from answering phones - I don't want to associate with that. It's a disconnect there for me.

So many half finished thoughts. Plenty of road time over the next 36 hours to mull it over and find nice little labels in my mind.

five year anniversary

2010-08-14T22:55:00.000-05:00

Of sorts.

How things have changed and how they haven't. Who I used to write about to when I do get to write now. The other writers I followed and have disappeared since. I must admit, I don't know how long I'll keep this going myself, and there have been months when I didn't post at all.

Depends on what is going on in my life, I suppose. From desk job to desk job to self-employed to desk job again. Traveling here and there, friends and family, meeting my partner to getting married.

The world continues to spin. The politics continue to annoy. The stress continues to build. The fear continues to thrive.

How far off course I've gotten, I don't know. Not until I start to look for that path again will I ever be sure. It's been a long stumbling trail, following the sunshine but twisting my knee. It's not my path I'm on.

I can't find the quiet anymore. I seem to have forgotten how. To sit in my own silence and let the words pour forth and draw the designs in my dreams. Where did that go? Why am I so scared of that now?

I am afraid of the quiet. I used to not be. I used to face those fears and write them down and tell those stories. Now I turn on the music, turn up the tv, stare at the computer for endless hours in an attempt to fill that which I know I'm missing and cannot find.

Where did I lay those dreams down? Where did I last pause to reflect on my life? Where was that turnoff from the path? Perhaps everything I'm missing, everything I can't find, will still be there waiting for me when I return. Oh, please, please, let me return. Please, let me find my way back through this false forest that hides the sun and let me find my true path again.

unknown under

2010-08-14T22:40:00.000-05:00

It's raw under the scab. So raw and new and pink that it can't help but itch.

She raises her hand and absentmindedly scratches around the raised brown marks along her upper arm. Her short blonde hair is pushed back with a headband, her skinny frame all angles in a light blue tank top and khaki shorts. One can't help but notice her while she shifts from side to side in the grocery store line, holding a cell phone, cash and keys in one hand, scratching her scabs with the other. A case of cheap beer waits for her turn to check out.

Everyone in line feels the same anxiety, the same frustration, the same irritation. No one looks anyone else in the eye, instead they silently judge based on selections and choices. What choices to buy today, what choices to wear to the store today.

She is being judged for her thin body and short hair and wounded arm as much as she is being judged for purchasing a case of beer with cash.

listening in

2010-07-30T17:09:00.000-05:00

I think there's a shadow behind that wall. It moves throughout the day, escaping being completely pinned down by those who choose to notice it. But I'm pretty sure it's there.

Just like the whispers on the wind through the trees. The air that fills our human lungs is what helps our voice form words as it passes over vocal chords. As the wind passes through the tree branches and blades of grass, it tis the voice of the natural world around us.

In the revealing of shadows and wind voices can be noticed the rhythm of life.

Haunting the Mind

2010-07-22T02:23:00.003-05:00

It's amazing the pain we can inflict on another human being when we're in a mood to. The emotional damage is just the icing on the physical cake, so to speak.

It's one thing to wrench through the chest cavity and pull out a metaphorical heart by telling a person that you no longer care for them, that you want a divorce, that someone younger and prettier has taken that space. It's another to tie a person up, with that malicious hunger for bondage, and scrape metal against skin until it bleeds and the screaming begins.

Perhaps if I had followed another path in life, I would have indulged in those horrific fantasies. Found a secret talent for pain and torture and put it to good use in some dark, unnamed part of life. To take that pin and slide it in between ribs to puncture a lung and leave them gasping for air. To take a sharp grater to knees or elbows, shredding skin. To break bones on a whim. To press my thumbs into eye sockets until they pop...

Oh the evils that I'm afraid I'd be capable of scare me. The dark and twisty parts of my shadow self know unlimited boundaries when my imagination boils. Oh, to pour out the gorrific into threads of a story and get them out of my head...and keep them from coming true...a delicate balance, much like the fine line in my soul.

Pillar of Salt Lick

2010-07-20T01:29:00.003-05:00

Fuck the pain. Deal with that long searing arc of insanity tearing through the muscle. I can't prescribe any sort of painkiller that will abate this ache for you. I can't offer any condolences or commiserate because I have no real idea what that feels like.

I only know what I feel like. I know what I want and what my hopes are for, and they do not include listening to the horrible bruising mess that you choose to offer.

We got lucky, that one afternoon, that day the sun shone and the mesquite burst in the heat. That day the tire tracks went left instead of right. That day the roses bloomed red. That day the bookmark fell from the pages, leaving us to ponder where we left off. That day the ice melted into the lemonade, watering down that bitter tart flavor.

One last look behind us reminds us that we do not turn into a pillar of salt as the Bible so declared. That memory, whatever it may be, because we all remember things differently, that memory is the glue that bound us together once. You know. You were there. And so we remember and forget and move on so much further down the road, holding that memory as a bit of nourishment against the future. As if we could prevent dehydration with a margarita. In the end it doesn't matter, but we'll be better relaxed for the outcome I guess.

There are those I wish would go away. Those I'd prefer to forget exist. I'm sure I fall into that category for some. So be it. I was not put on this earth to tell them how to live, what gives them the right to tell me? The opportunity to disappear becomes so attractive at times, and I'd love to point at all the reasons why, but those are cards I hold close to my chest, those are the cards I don't want to play just yet. In case someday I do decide to.

I can only speak from my experience. Your pain is not mine, your words are not mine, your journey is not mine. So follow your road and I'll follow mine. And when the time comes, I'll take salt with mine.

Shot in the dark

2010-07-11T02:00:00.003-05:00

Hello, you.

I see you slip in, trying to hide in the shadows, ducking your head when I turn to scan the crowd, hoping I didn't see you. I silently chuckle to myself at the slight absurdity of this charade.

You want to watch me, to see what I'm up to, but don't want to speak to me or let me know you're there.

Yet I know. I feel that sensation, as if smelling burnt ozone after a storm, and I know you're nearby. All I have to do is stand still and then I see you, slinking or ducking out of sight.

I must say, it's amusing and powerful all at once, to know that I know but that you don't want me to know that you have to know how I am and what I'm doing.

I sip from a glass of water, I watch the singer nurse the microphone, I feel the pulsing beat radiating from the speakers, I smell the cigarette smoke in the air. And I know you're three tables back, with your hands in your pockets and your eyes on me. You didn't come here for the music. Not tonight.

When the band takes a break I mingle with the crowd, conversing easily with anyone who wants to talk. A pretty girl in a halter dress fumbles on her hem and falls into you. Everyone sees the commotion and she is apologizing profusely, begging you to let her buy you a drink to make up for her lack of grace. She thinks you're cute, and if you play nice, you might have just made a new accidental friend.

So. Do you move on, learn her name, enjoy the night, and see what the future holds for you... Or do you slink back into the night, trying to figure out what happened between us, heading home alone, determined to find out where I'll be next?

I feel amused pity. You look up and see me watching you. To see what you're going to do next. The difference is, I shake my head at you, turn and walk away. I don't care which choice you make, I will not follow you to see what you do with your life. Take her to the bar or walk out the door, it doesn't matter to me. I'm not here to watch you.

blue sundress

2010-07-08T00:52:00.002-05:00

A strap has fallen from her shoulder, not in seduction, just in simplicity as she sways gently around the kitchen in the evening light.

And while it is an innocent thing, that one loose strap of her blue sundress gracing the side of her arm instead of residing across her shoulder, it sparks my curiosity with a deeper sense of lust for this beautiful creature frying eggs.

I want to just touch her, to run my fingers along where that strap lays, where it should lie, along her back and along her neck and down her side.

She moves around the stove, reaching into the fridge, pulling out the juice, and all I can do is sit and watch her move.

Just watch that lovely blue strap wrap delicately around her upper arm as she reaches and stirs.

Because if I were to move it would be to remove that blue strap altogether, to remove that blue dress and touch every part of her delicious body as I pull her to me.

he and she will be

2010-06-09T01:34:00.000-05:00

His last words to her probably involved "That was fun." or "I'll call you." But he never did. He went his way and she went hers.

He closed the front door, leaned against the wall and sighed. He had no intention of calling her and he was glad the night was over.

She skipped along the street with a bounce in her step, feeling light and hopeful for whatever the future might bring with him.

Soon enough she realizes and regrets. Soon enough he has found another to say the same things to. Soon enough she has moved on and shielded herself from another regret.

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

In the long dark hours of the night, in the bright glow of a cell phone screen, the texts fly back and forth.
"Do you love me enough to leave your wife?"
"Of course I do."

Or
"What are you thinking?"
"Nothing."
"Then what's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Then why didn't you call?"
"You told me not to!"
"But I wanted to talk to you!"
"I wanted to talk to you, too."
"Then why didn't you call?"
"I don't know."

Neither is happy here.

He sleeps in a bed next to his wife of a decade with their three children sleeping down the hall. He calls on his way home from work when he can. He tells her he loves her. That she makes him happy. That he couldn't tolerate his real life without her in it.

She swears she loves him. She swears he loves her. She swears she'll wait for him. She waits. She sleeps alone with no one to hold because he is the only one for her.

And he sleeps with someone else.

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

2010-06-08T02:13:00.002-05:00

There's some cussing to be had when things don't go your way. There's an entire world of rant you can spew as you rail against the very same world for all the unfairness. There are so many ways to hit a wall without breaking your fist, you'd think that someone actually set it up as part of the school curriculum alongside those "Don't have Sex" conversations that fall over like a lead balloon.

All chatter inside my head stops as soon as the familiar strains of a song filter through the noisy room. One can only stand to the side nursing a lukewarm mixed drink before the room starts to spin of its own free will.

There are so many words I wish I uttered to her that night, to offer some form of an answer besides the trite sayings and cold shoulders we'd grown used to. Her hair started to fall before the hour had passed. My shoes came off as soon as I could walk away. Her voice was softer by then, like she might almost care, like she might have been trying. But that door had closed months and minutes ago.

When the future comes calling we'll retell the stories in a way to make others laugh, even though it stings inside. Twist that barb of hurt just a little bit more, let out the fresh blood over the past offense.

what does it mean...

2010-06-01T01:24:00.003-05:00

What does it mean, to have someone you so dislike stand there and offer a seemingly sincere compliment, when the last time you actually spoke, they were the one cutting you down to shreds?

I could hurl daggers. I wish I could. To hit and see if they bleed. To hit and see if they deflate.

I choose to bite my tongue, it's a safer option. To no ignite a firestorm today. To walk away.

It leaves me to ponder, then, what has changed in those months. To see if I can accept that difference in opinion and move on anew. When until now my only moving on was to live my life the way I see fit, to realize those arguments that they gave were defensive and that mine were, too. I avoided that interaction as best I could. Months.

Maybe, the heat has gone from that fading day, and we can both move on. Maybe.

wedding or not

2010-05-29T04:08:00.004-05:00

Happiness.

Moments have begun to stretch out into minutes into hours of contentment. A few things are inching into place, not necessarily the place I may have planned for, but some semblance of lining up. Some words are getting paid for, others are just free game.

Some moments my intuition is rocking, those feelings of randomness wash over me and suddenly the oddest thing makes perfect sense.

I know I cannot make everyone happy. I mention an idea and suddenly the pin-pricks have left me deflated. From family mostly. I have very few real friends that I confide anything of substance in. Those select people are my supporting players for a reason, and they help buoy my hopes and dreams, however often those hopes and dreams may change.

So is it any wonder that big things, things that matter to apparently everybody, I'm choosing to go against the grain or not telling anyone anything? To the family who have bitched about the cost or distance or food or lack of 'tradition', I've finally quit bothering to tell them anything at all. So no one but three knows what is planned to happen in a few weeks.

I want to be able to shout it to the world. I want to celebrate on my own terms. I want to have a fucking party with hammers and nails and pottery and paint. I want to relax and dance silly and eat food and drink. I want to blow bubbles and visit with people I like.

But nearly everyone has an issue. Too long, too far, too expensive, too risky, too much alcohol, too little alcohol, where's the white dress, where's the vows, where's the cake, too soon, too much, too few, too hot, too juvenile, too rudimentary, too
whatever. All the reasons I've heard. Well, I'm too tired. So fuck it. We're eloping and they can all eat their cake without us.

wicked little words

2010-05-26T00:50:00.000-05:00

How easily we interpret things we may or may not have heard. It's proven that individuals all recollect different things from the same exact moment. We all remember what we want to. We all hear what we want to.

So wrapped up inside our own worlds, our own ideas, our own wants and needs. Sometimes the realization hits later, an epiphany that washes over us, rolling down from head to toe, when something suddenly makes sense. Something we may have heard before but hadn't really listened to.

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

I know I had some intention of a road to go down when I started this little ditty. I don't know where it went. I really don't. Somewhere around the second sentence I lost the determination for whatever rant this might have been about

The steam went out of it before it even got rolling.

There are so many things going on in my personal life and in the world. I admit I ignore as much as possible of the news of things that I don't want to hear about. Yeah, watching the news does not happen in my world. I know what's going on with friends and family, some online some off.

Tonight, for whatever reason, I do want to write, but I don't.

sweeping up

2010-05-14T04:47:00.002-05:00

Now I can hardly blame anyone for misunderstanding where I'm coming from, when all the trails I've left leave a lot to be desired. When I hope and pray for that someday of sunshine and delicious freedom to do as I so choose... Well, it's not your fault you can't read my mind, now is it?

Long ago I learned the best practice to holding my heart in place was a bit of mystery, a bit of delight and hope and desire all mixed in. I observed and slowly put into practice those tricks I'd seen others use. The lilt of a phrase, a playful look, a delightful laugh... All meant to elicit a response without promising anything in return.

Till you've been pushed up against the wall with passions running high, there is no turning back. Till the words cease and instinct takes over, there is no stopping. Till that final draw of will-power to remind you of where you're standing right now may be hell tomorrow, it seems a fantasy of endless possibilities tonight.

I read as much into that one answer as you do into the entire situation. I take in the room, the decor, your clothes, the temperature, the music, your smile, the way you fidget with your hands, the way you lean in ever so slightly closer. I will not make this easy for you. I will not submit with a flick of my wrist and say "Fuck it, let's go." I will toy with you. I will tease and torture and make you dance and beg. I will have you leaning in, breathing along my shoulder, barely restraining a whisper in my ear for what you want from me. I will entice your arousal in what I may have to offer. I will bend and provoke and tempt in the most wickedly delicious ways. I will encourage that longing hope that you are ready to lay bare.

And when you do, I will walk away.

This is not a last reserve of will-power or some bastion of strength. I was never in this for real. You cornered me, begged, kissed, pressed against my resolve as if by wearing me down I would become what you wanted of me. That was never an option.

Humiliated defeat will leave you rooted to that doorway as I walk away. I will walk away, not proud, not scared, not unsure. I will walk away from that last begging question the same person I was when I walked in. I know who I am and what I want. You were never a part of that equation to begin with, so how could you suddenly become one now.

More. There is always more to the story. The problem is, you just told me yours and never asked me mine.

yelping the way it is

2010-05-05T02:42:00.000-05:00

I yelp when I'm excited. Now, don't go thinking all dirty on me. I mean happy, joyous things that excite me while my clothes are still on. No, we already know that I do other things when exited and my clothes are off...

The emotional turmoil over the past month or so has wrung me out and left me twisting in the wind. It's a nasty state of frustration when I can't change certain things so all I do is curl up and cry. Not fun. Not an ideal Bella.

But a few bright moments have made things easier to bear. And you know what? When I'm so far down that winning a candle (yes, a candle, so what?) in a random drawing is the highlight of my week, that's pretty amazing. And I'll take it.

So I'm sitting in a conversation, and someone across the table says my name, I look up, and a lady is walking toward me with a small box saying my name. When I realized I'd won something, I yelped. I downright let out a "Yep!" I surprised myself. I jumped. And then I quickly covered my mouth in politeness and I'm pretty sure I blushed...

In the days since that incident I received one other bit of good news and as soon as I hung up the phone I let out a whoop & pumped my fist in the air.

What surprises me most is the immediate sense of shame I felt. Even though the phone call came when I was working in my own garage and no one else was around. It was so weird, so unreal for me. I usually enjoy my moments of goodness. Have I been so down so long that I don't remember what it feels like when these good things happen?

Yes, there are changes afoot in the long and short term scales. I suppose I'm trying to figure out my place in them so I can figure out just where they might be leading to. But it's the changes within me that have me concerned. The anxiety, the worry, the frustration, the fear, the dealing... I want to be the person who enjoys the good things, who dances just because she feels like it, who savors life and hugs strangers. I need that shift to come back again soon.

a loss of loves

2010-04-28T02:56:00.001-05:00

It's a disappointment as much as a freeing thought when I'm surveying the carnage of my attempts at cleaning or organizing and I realize that a few significant things got tossed in the shuffle.

With a few recent changes and a bit of personal portfolio keeping, I lost posts worth of comments on this blog.

Now, it the grand scheme of things, it's not a big deal. The earth will continue to rotate and I will continue to breathe and fuss and make messes and make noises.

What I feel the sentimental loss over was the long time blog friends comments and the handful of comments from anonymous users who told me they loved me.

Such sweet little words, I hope they were meant in sincerity at the time, offering a piece of their adoration via the shield of an anonymous name on the internet. I had no way of knowing who they were. I have no way of knowing who they are. I could guess, but that was more anxiety inducing than it was worth it. A few times, there were the ex's who knew to find me here and who knew the things to say to bring me to my knees.

In tears or in hope, either one.

Sometimes having a few sweet words left after a post would leave me reeling for a few days. Sometimes the thought of an arbitrary "I love you" would just leave me pondering the world and how it revolves. How does a person who only reads these small parts of the stories of my life that I choose to share and declare those words so willingly? I didn't know, I still don't know.

To all those I've loved and lost before, I will remember you fondly in my mind. I admire that at one time you stepped forward and shared your words of affection with me.

Now, I'm off to finish sorting archives for the permanent moving that will be happening around here. The name will stay the same, the archives should, I'm just trying to save my words before they disappear completely and I have to remember them all fondly.

whipped cream

2010-04-17T02:39:00.003-05:00

Whipped cream is lovely. It's light and airy and sweet and tasty. It's quite nice on pies around holidays and parties.

But whipped cream in a can is just fun. It makes me giggle, which may or may not be because of the nitrous gas used as a propellant... but it's most fun because it's just ever so slightly taboo to squirt it directly in your mouth. It's just...naughty. To have all that lovely cream shooting into the back of your throat, to lick the tip, a bit of cream glazing your lips... mmm...

rising to the occasion

2010-04-16T00:28:00.001-05:00

The sun rises another day, offering her sweet warmth to those who toil under her. One long breath held in the long back stretch of a pose in yoga tries to center the dancing monkey thoughts. One long stretch blends into another, offering continual slow movement.

Fluidity has its own champions. Those who can stay in a zen balance no matter what life throws at them. Those who accept that change is inevitable and go with the flow about it all. Thus, fluidity.

Desires shift along the way. Passions rise and fall as the sun does. What we fight for today is not always what we fought for yesterday or what we'll fight for tomorrow.

Politics tears across the country, dividing arguments for what ever reasons we hold dear. That song from Les Miserables that was written as if French Revolutionaries would sing and chant, well, would we all fight so damn hard if we had to sing and chant for those things we want? That would show true passion. That would show a true fight.

But sometimes the spark goes out, the passion wanes and we stop caring. Where is that tenuous tie between caring and not caring, going with the flow and fighting for what we believe.

"Our souls and spirits fly" to quote "Into The Mystic", hoping that those things that really matter will rev us up and feel so good to admire or defend. Holding still for a breath or bending over for a cause, we are the continual slow movement in this life.

what's going on, April edition

2010-04-12T01:13:00.003-05:00

On slightly more stable ground tonight, I glance at the stars between passing storms and say a small thank you to the universe for a moment of peace.

It's a reminder that I should trust my intuition. I knew something in the air had changed hours before I heard what had changed. For some reason, I dismissed that rumble as a buzzing mosquito, too many cheese sticks in one sitting, nothing to worry about.

There are so many things to deal with now, so much more than when we were originally planning how to navigate the fields of this next year. Now it's drawn out further, and farther away. In the sand. His lines have now been drawn in the sand of a warring foreign country, and I'm scrambling to get things in order before he goes.

This is not how I wanted things to go. This is not how I pictured our lived together. Oh, god, I need to pick up more anxiety tabs, because I cannot breathe again.

There are congratulations and cheers from everyone who thinks that us getting married is a good thing. What they don't understand is that we're committed to each other as life partners, have been for nearly three years. That piece of paper is not for our benefit. That piece of paper is not going to change a thing between us or make our lives better. That piece of paper is only so I can know what's going on while he's away. That piece of paper does not guarantee a happy life. It does not give us a party to celebrate. It is for bureaucratic reasons only. It is not for us.

That piece of paper is the least of the list of things to deal with in the coming months.

If I don't completely lose it, or drug myself up, then expect some intense writing over the next year. I'm gonna have to vent somehow, somewhere. Might as well be here.

fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

2010-04-11T02:11:00.003-05:00

Oh, the grasping breath as I drown on dry land. Amazing how tight these ribs feel from the inside when what was left of the air has been sucked from my chest. Gasping sobs shudder through me, every single wall is squeezing in from every direction possible.

The news fell on one day, the word spread the next, to my knees I dropped, only remembering watching as the tears dropped into the twisted blue carpet fibers. Even when my hands are bound behind my back I have more control in a situation than here and now.

Three days of hiding under blankets and ignoring the shower and piles of wet tissues. I'm ready and waiting for the numbness to begin. I'm afraid it's the only way I'll survive the next 20 months.

Tiny Bubbles

2010-04-08T02:25:00.003-05:00

You know what has tiny bubbles? Champagne does. Sodas do, too, but those are so less intriguing than that lovely fizz of a slightly sweet sip of champagne.

There are so many bubble in my life right now, tiny ones that float around and shimmer in the light. There's the darling, lovely man who has been a part of my life for nearly three years now. Three years? Wow. We should celebrate that or something...

There's my art work, in all it's forms. Drawing, painting, prints, sculpture, wood carving, cards, everything - each and every one of those is a bubble itself, and there are thousands of them.

There's my writing, spending hours a week for a job that is slowing down. Writing for my short stories and posts, and some semblance of a novel I've been writing.

As a freelancer I'm continuously looking and booking new clients. It amazes me how many people still ask for a resume in this day and age, when all that matters is my portfolio of skills. I'd like to shape a new direction for hiring creatives.

You know what, I'm going back to sparkly, happy, fizzy champagne.

~~~~~~

With a soft, gentle whisper glanced along my neck, he sends shivers down my spine. We had been dancing circles around each other, if only in the literal sense, as the evening careened from shopping to dinner to drinks to standing alone by the bar. He hands me a glass of champagne, leans in and lets his lips graze my neck with whispers of lust.

My spine tingles, I lean in closer, wanting to hear everything he says, wanting to kiss those beautiful lips. In concentrated effort, slow and painful restraint guiding my determination, I raise the glass to my lips instead, sipping and smiling. My body responds to his words as much as the alcohol, warming chills down my arms and settling low in my center. My thighs tighten and my toes dance.

One last sip, drawing out the time as much as possible, I set the glass down on the bar behind him, draping my arm over his and pulling his body to mine. His smile matches mine as our bodies press together. This night was progressing away from restraint and toward something very pleasant so very quickly.

Allowed

2010-04-06T04:22:00.003-05:00

The hours tick by, late night settling in and moving on as the sun circles back round to begin again.

A soft quiet calm falls over everything in this state. Nocturnal creatures are the only ones moving forth to find their meals. Logical creatures are tucking into cozy beds dreaming and aspiring to greatness in the new day.

Movements seem to be stilled which allows for careful observation. In the silence there are responses to questions that would fall in the din of a rushing day. Hold one more step before releasing that final breath.

The soft focus renders me speechless for that moment of recognition. Here my words are allowed. Here my words are aloud. I panic, lost in fear of what might be flawed. I pause, desiring for every beat to fall in place, for every emotion to be felt. I wonder, why would anyone care what I have to say here tonight anyway? I hope I finish before I throw up.

Over all too soon. Was it rushed? I don't remember. Was it allowed to breathe like the fine wine I consider it to be? I'll find out soon enough. Will my fragile, vulnerable soul handle whatever response is given? Pull on the mask and pretend it will be alright no matter what.

There are tears. There are hugs. There are whispers of amazement and raw honesty. There is a place here where I speak and it resonates. I am a part of something that is bigger than myself now. I am allowed to speak aloud. I am the writer inside.

Spring has sprung aloud

2010-04-04T02:45:00.002-05:00

Yes, the birds chirp and twitter away, right at the top of the chimney so it echos down the fireplace next to my bed. Roof monkeys have taken six weeks to do the work they promised would be completed in three days. Winds in the transition of seasons around here whip through the newly budding mesquite to let us know that the 90 degree days are here to stay, and Summer is on the way.

Miles and miles from something a month ago, and while the location and destination changed drastically and often, so much remained the same. A few more bumps and bruises leaves the muscles sore from trying to carry the world on my shoulders. Stepping back and letting go had been the zen attempt at keeping the crazy at bay. No, truthfully, I ignore those calls from the crazy nowadays, pretending to still be gone for awhile. It's so much easier to ignore until it goes away. It may never go away, but I can pretend, can't I?

My heart has soared and flown again - sipping from that lovely overflowing cup of bliss and adoration. And it's entered rehab again - tripping over cobwebs and moving boxes, curling up into a ball to cry.

I dropped the daisy in the middle of the intersection in the middle of the night, hoping it would bring about decisions of future coordinates like a divining rod. That quiet, chilly night, there were no immediate answers. That night I resolved of what I wanted to do next.

Of course, within days, it all changed again.

My path is murky and clear, like a frosted glass. I can see the colors. The bigger pieces of the puzzle make sense. But it's a foggy mess. Hello.

Answer one question and I'll answer one question. When you know who you are and where you're going, how do you find your way there?

miles and candy bars

2010-03-09T15:03:00.003-06:00

The miles and locations have changed hundreds of times over the past hours/days/weeks. Again, this is a case of the unawareness of time more than a case of being to busy to note the time. Maybe it's really a case of uncaring about the times.

Here. I am here. Enough aware that the mission has been restated and changed, as per the directives orders. The rough loss of skin from impact has left a minimal scar, I am surprised. Here I was thinking I would carry that bit of memory on forever and rebel against it the way I do the others. Not so much. The scar and the fear are fading. Both.

He ducks out of sight when the spotlight finds him. So quick and gone. I stand perfectly still, hoping to blend in with the wall and people will forget that I was there.

I'm not the woman in the too tight bright red bra under the silicone mini-dress who is flouncing her perfect hair to garner attention to the jewelry adorning her body, or just to her body. I'm the woman in jeans, boots, with pink streaks in her hair who sits on the side and watches all the interactions as if it were an episode of animal planet.

The locations and miles will be changing again sooner than I thought. And in entirely new directions, which has given new ideas to roll over once more. I prefer the possibilities to be endless rather than to be restricted.

You know what else I want? Those new three musketeers whips. I found one somewhere along the road and haven't found them since. When the world rights itself and the crazy releases and I can find the chocolate I want, then we're ok.

stress heading out

2010-02-24T22:41:00.002-06:00

Shit. It's a level of stress that is currently beyond comprehension, yet I know perfectly well that once I get through it all, it will be fine.

Just right now, the starting point I'm at, I can't see the ending point and that bothers me. The only map I have of this particular journey is one in my mind, one I may or may not have travelled before, in this life or the last. I cannot see where the creek is, I cannot see where the trees end, I cannot see if the road is dirt or paved.

Contrary to my free-spirit nature, I do like to have a plan of some sort. A plan with a basic timeline, an idea of getting something done. A deadline, even as I listen to it go wooshing past, helps my strangely fragile state stay in balance.

And hellsyeah, those plans change all the damn time. And that's fine. I can deal with that. I'm open to those detours or getting lost or adding new sights to see or whatever. What has my skin crawling right now is that this particular plan has no real resolution. I'm wondering why I'm participating in this in the first place? Is this some long six-week story arc of yelling and sex? Will there be any redeeming factors to this journey?

Every beginning takes a step. Part of this journey will be determined within the first week. If I can make it that far, that long, well, then I might just survive this after all.

one is not the other

2010-02-22T23:02:00.002-06:00

It's rather disconcerting when you finally realize just how the balance of power was shifted while you weren't looking. When one person becomes overdosed in accolades and all the words left over for you are the teasing scathing remarks of being kicked aside.

It's not about my abilities anymore, it's now about my gender. Fuck that.

Two equals, each strong with what they do, are given the opportunity to layout and design and write, to do what they are best at. Changes to the work was common, as with any business. One followed the guidelines, one didn't. Both showed their true colors in actions, one proving capable of handling details that were unknown until they were accomplished, the other taking advantage of generosity and achieving nothing worthy of the requirements.

Guess which one got the biting remark and which one got the raving review?

Yeah.

wanting to happen

2010-02-21T22:37:00.002-06:00

There are a lot of 'wants' on my wish list for my life.

I want a new bike.
I want to publish my stories.
I want to show my art in a gallery.
I want to dance while watching live music.
I want good sushi.
I want to wake up every morning with my partner.
I want to travel to Ireland and Italy.
I want to dye my hair many colors.
I want to visit so many places across the country.
I want to have an art studio where I can create any time I want.
I want to have a cafe/restaurant/tea shop.

Every day, there seem to be more. The real big ones, the ones that stick out with big waving flags are the ones that I really really want, so much that I can taste them. I can picture that place we want to live, the land and the studio. I can imagine the bits I really want to happen.

Now, to make them happen...

there you were

2010-02-19T03:34:00.003-06:00

It's an eerie notion to be careful what you wish for. Usually uttered like a half-spit curse regarding grand dreams and monetary riches, a way of saying that reality is far harsher than some pretty ideals.

There are resolutions to work harder to achieve the greatest goals of perfection. A sense of alignment that just doesn't feel right to those walking that particular line. Where lies that once glorious hope of a shiny patina on forever?

Meddling in the lives and hopes of others is a sneaky, messy way of trying to make things work. Hold onto that last kiss before the harsh goodbye and you'll only live in agony the rest of your days. Release that lost love so that moving forward can actually happen. Seven months or seven years or seventy years, matters not in the withered space of a broken, crying heart.

Your words fall numbly on deaf ears when all you offer is trite advice. Where is that opportunity to redeem when all you need is time to heal? Wishing for that better night, that loving embrace, that one-last-moment will drain any energy that could have opened the door to something new.

We have hope of daring rescues and cheering fans. We bring optimism and excitement to the table. Desire for the good overflows.

Dust off those harsh words and remove the curse of attitude, for now is the moment to move forward and look for the new.

just now

2010-02-09T02:37:00.002-06:00

He whispers dirty little words in my ear, gently nuzzling along my neck while describing all the lovely things our bodies could do with each other. His breath is hot and delicious, sending shivers down my spine as I close my eyes in anticipation.

the sweetest wtf moment ever

2010-02-04T03:03:00.000-06:00

It's like suddenly the sky is opened an falling with quarters and dimes and nickels and pennies. All the shiny spending coins you could possibly imagine raining down as if the United States Treasury shot millions of dollars worth of coins into the atmosphere and they all remembered gravity and came falling back down.

Landing everywhere, pinging cars and startling birds and thumping some people on the back of their head. Squirrels bit and tossed them back, knowing immediately there was no nutritional value to the small round objects. Some people threw curses at the sky, vehement in their indignation that anyone would dare throw perfectly good money at them! How dare they!

Many people took advantage and picked them up, grabbing the quarters as fast as they can. Then the dimes and then the nickels. And then the pennies. The hierarchy of coin influence. Pay phones may be non-existent anymore, but a handful of silvery coins could still buy a cheap meal.

There are a few left you know. The light will glint off a dime in a parking lot or a handful of left behind pennies outside a store. Sometimes they've melted into the asphalt, teasing those who would dare to try to pry them loose for a few cents.

Next time it rains coins we'll be prepared. We'll have umbrellas turned upward to act as bowls and catch so many more before they roll away under the bushes or fall into the fountains. Next time we'll know just how to spend all that hard won coinage, at vending machines and day-old bread stores and poker games. Next time the rain of coins comes, we'll be ready.

wherein the debate of reality begins to blend in

2010-02-02T00:54:00.000-06:00

Let the evening thoughts fall away in that last gasp of sunlight as it settles over the land. When desires blend into wicked hopes, there is always room for musical whispers. Never quite aware of that last shadow gracing the fallen wall marking time as it waits for one more soul to walk into its arms.

Shout out those questions into the unknown world, letting the empty echos fall into the canyons of bricks and mortar. Hidden and unbidden answers lurk in the last few crumbs.

Where one person holds all secrets so much closer and another lays all cards on the table leaving bare an open beating heart without a cage. Favors returned assume the tasks of loving dotes of permanence. Along the way those markers were cashed in on trinkets and baubles in effort to keep that small fire warm.

Listen on the wind as the hollowed branches release their mourning tune. They ache for those once held in loving embraces of tenderness and desire. Of long languishing days in the summer shade, of chittering birds and hiding squirrels.

One less fight is given over to one more closed book. One more opened book is given over to new adventures.

Not my dream deferred today

2010-01-29T01:21:00.000-06:00

Never a mystery more so than trying to sort out where the road turned before we went down it. When the ideal dreams of the world merged into what we hoped might happen with our lives.

Longing for what my dream is, my goal of what I'd eventually like to see happen with this lifetime, has left sketches and notes decorating my walls as reminders that I can get there someday.

It's an arrow piercing my heart when someone I thought I could share my dream with shoots it down by saying "You don't need all that."

Wow. I had hoped for so much more. I guess I had hoped that she would be supportive and say "Go for it." Not a shake of her head and a laugh as she said "You don't need all that."

I fully realize I don't need all that I dream of to be happy or be fulfilled in life. But these dreams are mine. These goals are mine. My hopes for what might someday happen.

What happened to "Shoot for the stars!" or "You can do anything you want to!"? Where did encouragement go in the recent world? Why do we suddenly have to cut back what we ask for?

I wanna say what's on my mind so I'll do it where no one cares 2

2010-01-22T00:05:00.000-06:00

Because I let just a little too much slip before, it was a good healthy rant with some great cursing and fist shaking, but not nearly ambiguous enough to not get me into some good yelling matches with those involved in the mess, I drafted the last one and am rewriting it.

There are two sides to every story. Actually, there are more than two, and in this particular story there are thousands, but they boil down to just a handful. And each and every one of them believes theirs is the right one.

Not a one of them is willing to step outside of those walls they've built to look at another point of view. They're scared that if they look at this huge mess from another angle, they might actually find a place to agree, and then where would they direct all that pent-up anger and righteous indignation?

I'm not saying I can see both sides, but I kinda can. I was in the trenches for awhile, even though I didn't want to be. I saw enough to really harden my opinion into some good mushy tapioca pudding. But I stepped out as quickly as I could, burning as many bridges as possible in the process.

I try to walk away from the arguments, the mud slinging, knowing it's not good for my health to stress over something I can do nothing about.

Both sides are in the wrong. Both sides should be released. The one is truly a pompous jerk who needs to be cut down and the other has gone overboard and is dragging everything down with them. They are both causing harm to the thing they claim to love.

It's a mess. I can't say anything in real life. But I can write.

in the stars

2010-01-16T22:25:00.004-06:00

The bitter stars shine brighter now, refusing to give up the ghost of winter past. Such clear, cold light reminds that there are things we have yet to see in this world but they're still here.

We're still here.

Even if we've yet to see.

Advice comes from all levels, those we hear from such caring companions and strangers on the street, as well as from the unseen forces in the universe. Every little whisper begins with that quick intake of breath, that inhale of air before letting loose whatever passes for wisdom.

Miracles happen. Things fall into place magically. All because our perception lets us see what is already there in front of us.

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

He tossed the stack of papers on the nearest desk, not caring that the top few filtered to the floor. They'd be dealt with tomorrow. Tonight all he wanted was to pull off his tie and jacket and let them fall. Everything needed to come off. Everything needed to fall.

He pulled buttons apart and let his shirt fall off his arms, unbuckling the belt and stripping down as he strode towards the bathroom. He groaned into the mirror as it reflected back his dark eyes. He turned on the shower, letting it warmup and steam his reflection away before stepping in and letting the water scald his skin.

He didn't hear his phone ring, nor would he care until later. He wouldn't notice until after he dried off and grabbed a beer from the fridge that his message light was blinking. Only then would he hear her voice whispering into the recording. Only then would he realize where he was and what mattered. Only then would he understand where he stood.

2010-01-06T00:26:00.002-06:00

She knelt to light the candle at the altar. One little votive among the rows of dozens. The church was unfamiliar but the practice was. Light, sign of the cross, pray.

Not everyone turns to faith in desperate times. A few make the motions of maintaining that faith and hope no matter what. Praise and prayer. A cycle of being.

She knew before the glass shattered that prayer would not be her salvation now.

changing the surface of wellbeing

2010-01-04T22:59:00.002-06:00

As I established - (Wait, did I establish this site or did it come from some random world weariness? Does it matter? Not really.) - Cosmic Shifts the blog nearly five years ago (Really? Wow.) and I went ahead and claimed the website cosmicshifts.com (it redirects back here, till I find something else to fill the space with) last year, I figure things need change.

Ok. Let's rewrite this without the extra thoughts. Perhaps I could learn to use that technique of using asterisks to denote things instead...

Cosmic Shifts has always been an outlet for me. A place where I could filter thoughts and spew grievances and daydream stories into existence. I will keep it for these reasons, but perhaps the time has come to reach out and make these things go further. Perhaps.

I see favorites come and go (Brandon, I'm talking to you.) and I know I've visited my own site sparingly in the past year. I'm making this change now. Attempting to write everyday, if at all possible. There really are tons of things I have to say, stories about bakeries that make pastries out of yarn and mysteries about who lost the pickled okra and who found the rubber duck.

The title, Cosmic Shifts, came out of the blue, out of thin air, out of one of those daydreams that serve me so well. It meant then, and pretty much does now, that life does change. Life has changed sooo much since I started this blog. Hell, it's changed so much in the last month. Life does that, you know. One more reason to write and try to remember it down the road.

What the hell the website may bring, I don't know. The blog, the stories, the random thoughts - will stay.

mumble and murmur

2010-01-02T22:08:00.001-06:00

If you finished the sentence before dividing any structure, you'd halve the whole thing.

hopeful abandonment

2010-01-01T02:17:00.004-06:00

So many things to try and entice the new year with. Yet it comes along, second by second, minute by minute, whether we're ready or not. So we celebrate and yell and drink and kiss in an effort to cheer on the passage of time that happens every single day.

Where are the kisses and cheers and celebrations every other night of the year?

Opportunities will knock and ring and bellow across the crowded rooms and barren fields, giving each of us the chance to be great at what we do and thrill those around us for those tiniest of moments. Seize those chances and run along, hand in hand, laughing and smiling and trying desperately to remember every single detail so we can share them later with close friends and online diaries and novellas.

We are defining our hopes with each breath we take.

I'm afraid of the decisions that other people make without my input.
I'm afraid of running headlong into the wind only to find out there is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
I'm afraid of remembering things better than they used to be.
I'm afraid of never really getting the chance to do the things I want to do.

How do I change these fears into something better, something useful, something honorable?

I don't know.

But I'm gonna try. By golly, I'm gonna try.

Hello to what may come and please let be embrace it to share with hope and abandoned fears.

shift the shrug over here

2009-12-10T22:52:00.002-06:00

Seasonal shifts I'm used to. Annual shifts give me a bit of the perplexed look for a few days and then settle in. The knock you on your ass shifts, the ones that take the steady paycheck away or remove someone from your field of life, those are the shifts that throw me for the full on carnival loop.

Things did not go as planned recently. Some licking of wounds and some reorganization of the forces had to be played out. Now there's a very long list, at least four post-it notes, of things I really should accomplish before things shift again.

And the part of me that loves procrastination as an ability to get out of doing things I don't really want to be doing because if I procrastinate long enough it'll go away or not be needed anymore is doing the procrastination dance for several things on that very list in hopes they will no longer be needed or sought after. By me.

Shrug.

marking time with broken matchsticks and metaphors

2009-11-09T02:33:00.003-06:00

There are at least several handfuls of phrases I could throw across the metaphorical paper as an inadequate staving off of the wild beasts hungry for what I truly keep hidden inside. I’m not hiding anything on purpose. Well, not anything important.

Yes, I am. Why did I just write that phrase, when I fully realize that everything I’m not saying, or more realistically, writing, is the exact stuff that is important on some level and very much worth hiding.

Do not let the drama slide in, I’ll slip away, dashing off across the moonlit field of thorns and grass before I splinter this mood with an exclamation point.

Suddenly the leftover words freeze in my chest as if I were going to dare to speak them. I won't. It's the middle of the night and everyone I could possibly talk to is asleep, like all good and proper citizens of society should be. Yep, I'm a rebel and I'll never ever be any good.

Harsh criticism! And there slips in the exclamation point, marking my earlier thought moot.

Phrases are turned over and over, like a rotisserie of juicy dripping goodness that I cannot partake of just yet. This is all just the procrastination rearing it's ugly head to remind me there are a metaphorical million things I could better be doing with my time.

On to the next.

no answer

2009-11-02T06:12:00.003-06:00

While I sit here pressing upon the keyboard and reframing pictures of mystery, he twists.

At least, I imagine him twisting and trashing, wondering just how I'm going to respond to his unbidden missive. Wondering if I'll respond to his declarations.

I'm wondering the exact same thing, bub.

Where is is written that all rights are given to say I love you to those who graced our past? Because he deems it so, the light is falling and I must answer?

In all probability I will not. In all honesty, I do not feel the same, did not feel the same, and have my own swirling, changing, crazy fun-filled life to lead here and now. A life that does not involve trips down memory lane as to what once could have happened. Those doors closed. Those doors were never open. What doors?

This heart o' mine, this muscle still beating in my chest, this metaphoric soul - were never yours to play with, mister. Why, oh why, in a million years would you believe that your fantasy was about to become reality because of this letter that you so eagerly await a reply to?

Two days so far. In this age of instant communication, that's a life time. There is no gloved hand bowing as my escort and I am not sitting daintily in petticoats and corset, fanning myself at the arrival of a letter eschewing my qualities and begging my hand in his.

No answer is the best reply I can offer now.

To continue as if it never arrived. To continue with my life and the man I do love and cherish. To ignore the past and hope he moves on and eventually finds his own way. To let him hope that it was never delivered in the first place.

blurring lines

2009-10-28T02:48:00.002-05:00

There are so many words now, so jumbled up inside, dying to describe everything all at once. It's a mess. A mess of words.

The colors are more vivid in the dreams and the reality that sucked the life out of me is slowly fading into past as I breathe anew each day. Now there are things to be accomplished and reasons to live out loud again.

Reaching back inside to find just what works for me to put this next crazy wheel in motion. No longer marking time, now making art.

More. There is always more. There will always be more.

hidden response

2009-08-18T23:27:00.003-05:00

I'm going to come here to hide. Because I don't want the advice everyone is trying to give. Because I just want to vent, to put it out there, to get it off my chest - I'm not asking for anyone else to solve my problems.

The winds have already shifted. Winter is approaching now, whether we like it or not. It will be here in the next several months, just like last year. And the year before that. And the year before that...

With the shift has come so much potential. The desire for things to be different before the first freeze. The desire for relaxing into my future of my design before the first of Fall. The desire to proceed on the path of my choosing, to pick the place I will call home before the air turns bundle-up cold.

I do not solicit your response. I do not grieve at your feet to make me better. There is nothing wrong with me that I cannot acknowledge. I am me, twists and turns, desires and fears, hopes and dreams. I am the person who continues to breathe along the day in hopes the choices I make will prove the road is traveled.

I do not ask for your advice. I do not ask for their advice. I just write. I just express. Do not solve me. I am whole.

where did I lose the light along the way?

2009-07-14T23:12:00.003-05:00

So many not so many years ago, long before now before I forgot, here I stood embracing the world around me.

I wore flowers in my hair just because it was a day when I saw flowers. I wandered through a sprinkler or fountain just because I felt like it.

Today stopped me in my tracks. I stood there, watching the water splash down, reflecting the hot sunlight and inviting me in to play. I wanted to. I wanted to get soaked and laugh and not care. To release all this that has built inside, threatening my fragile acceptance.

I didn't do it. I have finally bent my will to everyone elses standards of proper behavior. I cried inside. Even further than I already had been. I broke a little more.

To supress the rebel, to shush the laughter, to hold back the screams and tears...

She aches to run free once more. She yearns to enjoy once again. She longs for her path to be her own.

She is so ready to burst forth, to splash in the water sprinklers, to sing out loud, so color on the walls, to throw her hands in the air and wave them like she just doesn't care, to wear flowers in her hair just because she sees flowers.

This ache inside, this thinly plastered wall of cheap promises and lousy reality, needs to be torn down. Needs to be tossed out so the lovely knotted wood that supports this frame can be polished and shine through with laughter and silliness and hope and care.

catching

2009-07-06T23:03:00.000-05:00

I know it's just the breeze from the ceiling fan that tossed the papers and riff-raff hanging on the wall around, just enough to catch my eye. A badge, from a conference in January, one that opened my eyes and gave me so many ideas. This badge just caught the breeze, flipped enough to catch the light and thus catch my eye.

There are innocent reminders everywhere, really. I leave them there on purpose. To remind me when I walk by. To remind me how much fun I had or what I was doing or what I was thinking. To inspire future creativity and ideas.

It has been said that I had a horrible time when I traveled in April because I don't like being out of my comfort zone and I didn't give the place or the people a chance. But I routinely do go out on those limbs and try new things and new places and sign up for new classes - because I do want to learn and experience them.

And then I place reminders everywhere to, well, remind.

To say "I enjoyed this." "I learned this." "I did this."

To inspire new directions and new hopes and new thoughts.

In hopes that they'll lead to new reminders...

happiness is...

2009-07-02T00:23:00.002-05:00

Strangely missing from the day to day world is the sound of laughter. Anymore it's full of reasons to run screaming or contemplate taking up suicidal martial arts that involve sharp pointy instruments and blood-curdling screams as you attack whomever has pissed you off.

I think I need to find a new hobby. Keeping those blades sharp is tough.

Beyond that, things have changed. The world did not end when these things changed, but rather it keeps turning. Frustrating and calming at the same time.

My desires are put on hold, yet-fucking-again.

My opinions and thoughts do not matter in these decisions, so I'm left holding the bill for something I did not order and I'm told I have to be happy with it.

You know what? I don't work that way.

When I'm second-guessing myself, something is wrong. The ache in my gut tells me so long before the fire-alarm goes off. So when I don't listen, when I'm told to be quiet, when the majority rule decrees what is best and I'm sent to the corner to think about what I've said, that's when it's time for me to leave anyway.

sometimes there are too many questions

2009-06-18T22:18:00.000-05:00

Within the hour I knew why, but i still didn't know why. The vibes were shifting all afternoon and I didn't know why. There was an edge, a shift of wonder to concern.

All in all, you never see it coming. Never is that phone call the one you expect. Never is that statement the one you thought you were going to hear. All in all, your adrenaline starts flowing and you're in the wrong place.

The tears don't stop because I will them so, they stop because I've cried them all into my sleeve. Soaked and fresh, tender puffy eyes that beg for one more round, one more release.

The littlest thing sets me off now. It's raw in here. A moth glances off my arm and I burst into tears anew. My comment was disregarded, the humor lost, I feel stupid and foolish, the waterworks rebel. I wrap my arms around myself in hopes this very bad dream will wake me up to a better day full of hope and laughter, only to realize this dream is the suddenly surreal world I cannot repair all alone.

Please, I pray now, please make it right. Please make it better, easier. Please. I don't know how much more I can take, and from what the fates dealt today, I'm going to have to take a lot more.

just a few things to say

2009-05-19T19:18:00.002-05:00

I'm finally back on familiar ground. Sorta. Tons of things will never the the same, least of all my perception of how the world turns.

Crazy is as crazy does. Everybody has their own brand of crazy - including people who are 'experts' on what works and what doesn't.

I'm not an expert. I'm a student. I prefer asking questions and learning as I go along. Just to see where the roads, or the conversations, turn.

I hate being talked down to, no matter what. This is a sticking point with me no matter who I'm in conversation with, and if the person talking down to me is a boss or leader or as in this case, a family member - well, I get riled.

I'm hunched over as I write this. My body language is on defense even now. Still working through emotions and responses.

Ups and downs regarding the income have made me tense regarding paying bills as much as just daily living.

No, I'm not perfect. I'm human. I'm learning what works for me as I go along. I sure as hell don't like being told I should be doing things a certain way just because the person giving advice has a piece of paper declaring them an expert, when that piece of paper doesn't preclude their own choices. Thus proving they don't always know what they're talking about. Further proving that what they say is not always for the best.

Yep. Still irritated. Angry responses and conversations have been rolling through my head for the past few days/weeks, just begging for sense or freedom, waiting for me to say something. Anything.

My body is still trying to tell me I need to heal. Skin irritations and muscle pain that are still working themselves away.

Time. Time to heal. Time to work things through. Time to make new changes and slide into place for a new direction.

mired morose middle

2009-04-29T03:36:00.002-05:00

I’m in a strange place doing things I never wanted to do. Pack school lunches, cart kids to after school activities, dentist appointment – and not for me, which I desperately need to do but can’t afford.

Normally the location would be considered paradise. Normally. This is skin crawling. Chicken poop, half-eaten dog food, bird feathers, a couple of mice that have yet to be caught, a dog that is half-blind & farts all the time, a kitchen counter that is covered in residue from probably hundreds of meals since the last time it was wiped down, the encouragement to go barefoot in all this filth where one can blatantly make out the scent of sweaty feet, bath towels and sheets hung to dry where the pigeons roost, quilts and pillows that smell of urine, either from the dog or children…

I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep yet. I have to survive this 10 more days.

Taking care of children who are being raised as if consequences don’t matter – a 10 year old who cannot read and has no desire to, kids who don’t know how to clear a dinner table, much less to wash dishes, pre-teens who still wet the bed, and the attitude that ‘toss it on the floor, mom will pick it up’ and when I point out I’m not their mom, I’m just the week-long full time babysitter and I’m not going to put up with that, I get the yelling – they honestly think this is an ideal way to raise kids.

I’m all for unschooling and home schooling and the emphasis on arts in education and developing programs to adapt to a child’s learning needs, but this is awful. Not knowing how to read by 10. Not even basic words. It’s pitiful. How will these children ever learn anything else in life? How do they learn anything now?

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

My empathy is extremely stretched right now. Last week was hard and I still haven’t had time to grieve. I’m in an unfamiliar place, stuck doing things I don’t want to do, and I’m not getting much sleep which just makes me more cranky.

When I travel I like to get lost and explore. I cherish the alone time to wander an antiques store or sit and sip a tea while people watching. I need things that bring me comfort like a beautiful design or a well written story. I want to go wander about to see what I see. I want to take the time to take a nap.

Although no matter how physically tired I am from dealing with the kids and trying to get my work contracts fulfilled and apply for jobs – I’m not in the same zone of depression I had been in. Which has been both a blessing and disbelief because I haven’t had the time to just sit and think or wander or take care of me.

Yes. I’m selfish like that. I know I need my quiet time and sleep and food I can eat and at least some semblance of cleanliness and time to just wander off by myself and escape everything else. Or everyone else.

goodbye old bear

2009-04-19T00:00:00.004-05:00

the surrealness of the moments today stick out far too clear. the crying. the climbing over a fence. the tracking down. the phone calls. the sight. the crying. the comments. the headaches. saying goodbye. the crying.

everything else is too public. too shiny happy face or too holding her shit together.

I am not holding my shit together as well as anyone might think.

I'm pissed at the #$@%#$^$@#% airlines because they have 'oversold' their two possible flights, hoping that someone won't show, meanwhile people who need to be in places at the last minute, like for a funeral, are screwed. And I want to know when customer service really died, because there is not an ounce of compassion in any of the people I talked to.

I'm pissed at the "goddamned Army" (MASH) because BF is theirs and I can't talk to him or tell him whats going on so we can sort through this mess, but if it weren't for the Army he would be here now anyway and it would be a moot point, but again, if it weren't for the Army we wouldn't have met. I rail. It does no good.

I'm tired of trying to get things settled. I'm tired of crying. I'm tired... I'm just tired.

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

He was a grouch. A coot. An ornery bear. An ogre. And these were the affectionate terms. Really. But he did a lot of great stuff and was a huge civic leader and influence for decades. He got shit done. His way. He knew what was right and what needed to happen and he growled and made sure it happened.

He built this city. He helped push laws into place on a state level. He was in the Army Air Corp in WWII. Which nearly killed him and then forgot about him. He taught so many programs. He was hard on his family and had a terrible temper. He was an alcoholic. He died just before noon, alone in a hospital bed.

And I can't stop crying.

The Cost Of Living Now

2009-03-28T00:54:00.000-05:00

She bats away the question, going on to answer her own thoughts out loud. I stand there in wonder and break just a little more inside, knowing that she is my family and because of this she is my future.

It scares me. To watch her react like that, to stand there as if nothing is happening and go on in her own world.

And I admit I do the same. The denial. The evading. In my own way, I do live in my own world.

~~~~~~~

My grandmother refuses to do anything for my grandfather right now. She's tired of fighting him, of arguing with him of what he needs to do for his health. Maybe not so much refuses as has given up on trying.

He's ornery and grouchy and in pain because he's 87 years old and his body is failing and he doesn't want to drink the fluids his body needs because it hurts to walk to go to the bathroom. He should use a cane or walker, but doesn't, and has fallen more times in the past few months than my grandmother admits, he's fallen in the middle of the night, with no one around, and so he just goes to sleep there on the floor.

These traits are in my DNA. These are things that scare me about my genealogy. The temper. The attitudes. The addictions. The denial. The workaholism. The stubbornness. The depression.

Several reasons why I lean towards not having children. I remember screaming that statement once when I was younger. I don't want to pass this on to yet another generation.

I want to hope that I won't be like that when I'm older. I want to hope that I'll still be painting or throwing pottery or carving wood or doing something. I want to hope I'll still be active. But the reality of my situation is that I'm already like that. I don't go out, except for the business meetings or occasional family dinner thing. I spend a lot of time sitting here in front of a computer hoping that the words I write will get me paid so that I can afford more staples or canvas or supplies, as well as pay the bills & purchase food. I shuffle around, some days not leaving the house at all, some days only eating once a day because it's inconvienient or too costly to eat three meals a day.

Right now, I am exactly like that. And aside from knowing that death happens, this is what scares me.

Absolution

2009-03-27T01:16:00.002-05:00

As night settles in and wraps around you, there is the cool yet stilted comfort of darkness and cricket noises.

Just stand there a bit longer, soaking in the deep purple vibes of a day sifting away.

I want to say yes.

I really do.

I want to say yes and just jump in and go with it. To be able to dive in. To take that leap of faith. To strap on that parachute or wings or bungee cord or whatever and to just launch off that cliff or building or whatever.

I want to take that step and jump for it.

I want to be able to dive right in. To go for it.

And there are so many 'it' moments that beg to be taken.

I need that hope and strength to think that when that moment really happens, I will be able to take that step.

who am I, who are you?

2009-03-25T00:15:00.003-05:00

I want to be the type of woman who wears a sexy dress on a daily basis, complimenting with strappy heels and a cute clutch purse.

I want to be the type of woman who looks good in eyeshadow and lipstick, who has clear skin and toned muscles.

I want to be the type of woman who cleans her house weekly, getting rid of clutter and dust bunnies and has the laundry done and put away.

I want to be the type of woman who doesn't bat an eyelash at adversity, who takes everything in stride, who calmly handles whatever happens.

I want to be the type of woman who gets the yard work done, the daily work done, makes a home cooked meal, and still has time to take a long hot soak with a good book.

I want to be this super, sexy, talented, rich woman.

Instead I am the type of woman who chews her hangnails, wears the same tattered tennis shoes nearly every day because they're comfortable and easy, wears the same pair of jeans every day because they're comfortable and easy, and sweats through tank tops and t shirts.

I am the type of woman who finally gets laundry done every three weeks, and hasn't dusted anything in over a year. My idea of a home cooked meal usually involves dropping pre-made pasta into boiling water for 8 minutes.

I love working in the yard, but that is an all day affair. I like writing, but it takes me hours on a good day and days on a bad one just to put together a 600 word article. I love painting, but I have been holding myself back from what I could do for fear of lack of resources to be able to make mistakes.

I am the type of woman who fights depression nearly daily, wishes she could go farther and do better things with her time.

I am the type of woman who no matter how long or short my hair is, it will be pulled back into a ponytail to keep it out of my face.

I am the type of woman who wants to study so many things, but is tired of arguing with the fucking education system that tells her she has to learn geometry and spanish first.

I am the type of woman who doesn't like to shave her legs or wear makeup or jewelry, who probably owns the strappy sandals and sexy dress but doesn't want to bother with it, knowing that people don't expect it from her and wouldn't know what to say if she did.

I am the type of woman who wants, sometimes needs, change. And when I don't get it, I get stuck in a rut.

Bitter Fingers

2009-03-23T02:00:00.000-05:00

No words were spoken as she lowered her hand from her face, clenching her fist in angry regret.

He'd slapped her because she'd spoken already, said things that set him off and he felt his arm shooting out and his hand connecting with the soft skin of her cheek before he could stop himself. He stood there, seething in anger as much as he was stunned silent by what he did.

She stared at him. She took one step and turned around, walking through the door and closing it quietly behind her.

Oh, if only she's slammed it, he would have felt slightly more justified. Who was he kidding, he felt terrible about what he'd just done and was now ready to crawl under the nearest boulder and hope for a quick crushing death.

She had closed the door without saying a word.

Somebody Like You

2009-03-19T04:04:00.001-05:00

It's the touch. Skin against skin. Warm physical contact with another person. Preferably one you like. Preferably one you want to be pressed up against.

It's the quickening of pulse and shortness of breath and moistening of lips and darkening of eyes in desire and want and need.

When I don't have your hand to hold, I feel lost.

I can close my eyes and imagine dancing my fingertips across your neck, sending those pleasant little shivers through your body, which make you smile and roll your shoulders back in eager anticipation of more.

More of me touching you. More. Of my hands moving over your shoulders and back.

Of my lips grazing across your neck, moving toward your ear, whispering sweet love and dirty thoughts before nipping gently with my teeth on your earlobe. Knowing you've closed your eyes to breathe in my scent as I press so close.

Our desires match. You tell me how soft my skin feels, how good I smell, how nice it feels to be in my arms. I let my hands roam your body. Pressing tight, firm muscles, feeling the gentle hum of electricity we produce together as my palms slide across your chest and down your arms, meeting your hands so our fingers can lock.

I love looking into your eyes. Soft blue, constantly searching for me, searching for affirmation I'm here with you, I'm real, I'm yours. So sexy when you're hungry, the want and desire darkening your face such that turns me on. Making other women jealous because I get to go home with a handsome devil who has, how did she refer to them? Oh right, 'Pussy-eating eyes'. Yes, my dear, you do. And I'm the girl who gets to enjoy that sight.

I love kissing your lips. Pressing my mouth to yours, in effort to shut me up, or shut you up. Pressing my mouth to yours to just kiss you, feeling your mouth move with mine, tongues dancing and teeth nipping, just to kiss because we can. I really enjoy kissing you.

I love holding hands. Fingers twined together as we walk down the sidewalk or sit together with friends at dinner. Fingers tangled as kisses deepen, our grip tightening in driving, sweaty passion or as we drift off to sleep curled into each other. Slowly waking from foggy dreams and my hand searches for yours, holding tight to anchor back to reality.

I love resting my head on your body. Laying across your legs as we draw on each other or as we talk about everything. Laying my head on your chest after sex, when we're sweaty and our hearts are racing, listening to your breathing as you relax. Curling into your side, resting on your shoulder as you devour another book or read aloud to me. Leaning into you while we watch a movie, just feeling your arms around me and sharing the experience.

Don't get me wrong, I love your mind, too. I just talk to you every day so I hear what you think and say; right now I'm needing to touch you again. To touch you and never let you go. To touch you, to kiss you, to whisper in your ear all the things I love about you and all the things I want to do to your body. To look into your eyes and plan for tomorrow.

It's the touch. To know that you are real. To know that this is us.

Of Shadows and Wings

2009-03-15T02:38:00.000-05:00

He stands there, wings spread in defiance or self defense, large and looming over his broad shoulders in the shadow of falling night. Or perhaps, in his standing there, the shadows come from the very wings protecting him, the wings that offer his stance that sweet level of authority and peace.

He is not perfection in the tame sense of solid beauty or strength, he is only perfection in the sight of passion and drive and instinct and power and desire and the forward movement to make life real. He is perfection in that real moment you look up and see him, standing in that shadow of falling shadows.

The pavement is hard. Not cold, just hard. Whether I'm on my knees or standing, I cannot tell, now in this moment I'm curious as to where I stand. Or kneel. Darkness surrounds and all I can see is his dark jeans and dark jacket and dark boots and dark hair and those wings. Do I really see those wings?

Am I on my knees or standing? Does anyone else see his wings. Am I imagining this moment tonight, right here, right now? He does not take his eyes off me, I am here, but is he real?

One look around, the street darkened behind me, people passing, cars driving, absolutely no one stops to stare at this dark man with the giant wings. Perhaps I am crazy. I turn back, looking for the briefest of seconds to see if what I see is really what I see.

He still stands there. The hem of his jeans falling across the top of his boots. The length of his dark jacket just long enough for his fingers to touch. His broad shoulders giving me the impression he could storm through the nearby wall and be perfectly fine with the hole he would create.

But those wings. This is a majesty that is never spoken of anymore. This is a presence that is all too real and all too imagined. His height, his stature, his demeanor, his standing here near me on this hard pavement means this is where I am and where he is. He is rough and driven, sustained and nurturing, intense and calm, quiet and resounding in the shadows of falling night. With wings made from the most gentle of feathers, large broad brush strokes of feathers, whispering as they shift in the silent night breeze feathers. His wings are beautiful.

His wings are taller than he is, they overpower him and hold him back yet there is a subtle force within these two wide swaths of shimmering lightness that will take you out if you make the wrong move.

I am not afraid. I am fascinated. I am here, looking at him, looking at his wings, while he looks at me, quite unsure what to believe. Am I really the only one to see this powerful sight here, now? Not another soul pauses, not another person notices. Each is too busy and wrapped in his own life to look up or care.

A soft, strong, light-reflecting feather drifts toward me. I finally pull my eyes away from the man in front of me to look down. I reach down, picking up the piece of him that he released to assure me he is here, he is real. I nod now. I nod to him. He is real. He is here. He can cause great destruction and devastation, but he will not. He can lift me away from here, but he will not.

He is here to remind me he is here. He is real to remind me to see what others do not always see. He is here to silently offer that strength and peace and drive and passion and hope and desire and optimism and reality. His reality is this world. My reality is both worlds. I can see him. I can see these powerful black, glistening, daring wings and the shadows they provide tonight. Not another person does. Not here. Just me. Just him.

His wings shift, the feathers settle in the silent night breeze, reflecting street lights and car lights and moon light. These black, dark, powerfully intense wings anchoring this silent, dark, powerfully intense man to the ground in front of me. He could take off in half a breath, leave out and push away, those guardian wings guiding him home. Here he stands, protecting, offering, showing, being. He is here. To let me know he is here.

I know. I hold that rich black feather in between my thumb and finger, gently letting my fingers sift through the soft lines of darkness, knowing what I know. I look at him once more. I have to begin here. He nods. I know I do.

In this moment I am finally scared. Not in the moments before, when he stood there, darkness cascading, looming black wings shifting, not another soul seeing him, not another person seeing his majestic black wings. I feel the fear. I stand here, unsure where to go now. He is in my path. Do I continue on, right into him, or turn around and go back the way I came.

I search his face, needing an answer, looking for an answer from him and hoping to find one. No. He stands there. Watching me. Waiting for my decision. I know he waits. I feel it now. He shifts ever so slightly again, sending one more beautiful wave of shudders through the glistening, black feathers of his dark, powerful wings.

I know. I nod. One long breath in sigh and I step forward, ready for that which lies ahead. He spreads his wings, so breathtaking, so sweet, so intense, so wide, tips of feathers gracing the ground I stand upon but never getting dirty. He is ready.

He steps once and is gone. Another soft black feather drifts down in front of me, I reach out to open my palm and let it settle there.

The direction has been chosen. He offers sight to those who do not always see and he offer strength to those who do not always feel it. In stepping forward, in pressing on through reluctant fear, he knows I'm here. I stand my ground holding two gentle black feathers. I hold them and look up. He is gone. I look behind me, knowing that direction is now closed. All I can do is move forward, knowing of the passion and intensity and drive and peace and silence and desire and protection that he offers is here.

He stood here tonight to tell me so. His wings take flight and I suspend the words he cannot say in one sharp instance of comfort, of peace, of standing still and seeing what he was in the falling shadows of night. His dark wings are there to see. His presence is there to feel. I see. I feel.

Tonight this angel with the black wings spoke when he said no words and I listened to what he had to say.

Mantras

2009-03-13T03:42:00.000-05:00

The silence is irritating. I hear the clock ticking, knowing the battery needs replacing because it does not keep a steady one-second click pace. There is thumping echoing through the walls from someone who thinks he's cool to drive down the street with his bass stereo so loud the donkey down the street brays in annoyance to drown him out. I wish I could be more like the donkey, bray out loudly when something annoys me like so.

So it's not a total silence, but I need a buffer. Trance music would be nice, but I don't want the beat. Jazz is too melancholy for now, and with a term like 'world music' it could end up being anything.

A distraction. From the thumping, braying, off count ticking... From the chatter in my own head that tells me over and over again to go to sleep, to stop this, to do that, to quit this, to try that... I'm tired of my own mind telling me what to do.

The stress is new. The fears are different here. I stand up and stretch and wonder what to do now. Now that I cannot sleep at a 'normal' hour, now that I wake as the afternoon wanes because I feel so tired and want more sleep.

There are new things to think about and work through. The decisions I make daily now make a difference, an impact on where I'll be next week. Is this the best choice for this situation? Could I have made that one better? Will this get me one step closer to being able to pay the bills next week? It's terrifying.

That's why I need the distraction now. Because I won't let myself go there. I won't let myself go down that scary dark road that says bad and nasty things that I'm all too vulnerable to believe in the middle of the night when the only things I hear are low thumping and braying and off beat clicking. I need something better now.

Hanged Man Tells the Tale

2009-03-12T03:44:00.001-05:00

The Hanged Man. The 2D drawing with orange lines along the sides of the tarot card offers little in the way of a threat. It's just a card.

Isn't it?

It's a just a card. How terrifying it feels to see this card placed in front of me once again.

Not like I know what it means any more than before.

Delusions of death and destruction made me choke on my chewing gum. With coughing and sputtering interrupting the reading in progress, I heard nothing past her whispery voice saying "The Hanged Man". She continued on, pointing out the cups and numbers of coins and facing up or down. Facing up or down to her or to me, though, I cannot remember.

The Hanged Man. He caught my eye.

I stood up from her folding chair and ducked out of the tent into the bright sunshine and noise of the county fair all around me. An empty cotton candy cone rolled past my feet, dancing in the afternoon breeze as screams of laughter echoed off the makeshift walls of dart throwing booths and kissing booths and jewelery stands and homemade jam stands.

Suddenly, I needed quiet. Someplace quiet, please. I walked past the last stand, a guy selling his hand made rocking chairs, beautifully polished and carved works of art and relaxation, rocking in the breeze, begging to be sat upon and enjoyed. I moved past him and his rocking chairs, past the edge of the clearing to a small stand of trees, just on the edge of the field, offering a bit of solitude and shade on a day like this.

This is where I chose to sit and contemplate. What did it mean, this Hanged Man? This man hanging by one foot from the branch of a tree? I look up above me and ponder this thought.

One moment in suspension... and clarity of a different view comes into focus.

These thoughts are too much to bear now, I'm afraid of digging too deep and finding out what I should not know or what I should already know but am choosing to ignore anyway.

He hangs. He views his world upside down for a mere whimsy of a thought, just long enough to let the loose change fall from his pocket to the ground, just long enough to let the blood rush to his head, I'm sure. Then again, the last time I hung upside down was probably the jungle gym on the playground when I was small, before they were deemed as "unsafe structures for children to climb on". There were whole adventures up there, and part of the thrill was the scare that yes, you could fall and hurt yourself, so you had to make sure your grip was strong and sure, make sure you had your hand on the next bar or your foot upon one to lift you up. The ground loomed below, daunting and inviting. Ready to catch you if you fell, ready to catch you if you jumped. If you jumped off, you were in far more control than falling, thus jumping was deemed far superior than the painful lump of falling.

Perhaps this is what the fabled hanging man saw. A world from a different view than this flat world upon which we stand. Everything was upside down. On purpose. He did not do it to fall, he was not placed there for his death, it was just to seek a sight he could not see on his own two feet upon the ground. This time the ground was above him, catching his falling change, offering to catch him if he fell. This time the tree branches held him firm, as he exercised his right to a different view of his world.

We view him as the odd man, upside down, suspended in time and place. A tarot card telling me to look at things with a different perspective, perhaps upside down to see what stuff falls away, to pause long enough and realize this whole wide world I take for granted is just there to catch me if I were to jump the same as if I were to fall.

The breeze knocks a leaf off the branch above me, it floats down to the ground in front of me, suggesting all along this may very well be true. Just because I'm right side up or upside down, doesn't mean everyone see the same thing.

Someone is throwing darts at a blue balloon in effort to win his girl the stuffed teddy bear. A child is screaming at the top of his lungs because the clown frightened him and he dropped his ice cream - but if he screams from fear of the clown or agony over the ice cream, it's tough to tell. A girl is sitting in the metal folding chair to have her fortune told, hoping the boy she likes is the one for her and hoping this lady with the whispery voice and the well-read cards will tell her this is so. A woman stands on her tip-toes to place another necklace on the jewelry booth wall hook, grabbing her back as she twists in a way that is painful and curses that this is the life she chose so many years ago but is now so entrenched she doesn't know that she, too can change her view or change her world.

I take a moment longer, to look up once again at the branches above me. I know better, this spindly tree would not hold me if I tried to climb it, so I pat the bark and sigh. Maybe having the ground catch you doesn't just have to happen if you fall or jump. Maybe having the ground catch you happens with every step you take. So I stand up and take one.

And promptly fall as I trip over a rock.

Yes, the ground caught me. It was there all along. I lay there for a moment stunned, glancing around to hope against hope no one saw my lack of grace, feeling my hands for the raw scratched and dirt on my palms. I'm ok. No one seems to have seen. I push myself back up and laugh, shaking at the adrenaline rush from the trip. Yep, seems that I changed my perspective after all, if only for a few minutes.

sleep during the day like a vampire at night

2009-03-03T02:26:00.000-06:00

I've been working on project till the wee hours of the morning, some mornings so wee that the sun is beginning to rise as I fall asleep.

Several things pop up in this pop psychology brain of mine as I try to figure out what the hell is going on with me for doing this.

*Avoidance? Sorta. Yes. No. Mmmm. Well, apparently I'm avoiding the question so it must be something. Go figure.

Yes. I'm avoiding... ... ... well, the BF? He's getting up for his day as I go to sleep, I wait till he goes to bed so I can launch into the music and the work I have on my plate. I love him. I resent certain things about our relationship - we've talked, he knows - and I've pointed out that I need to take care of myself for the next few years until his commitment to the friggin military is done. Since the Gov't owns him for a few years more, I have to be able to build my own savings, pay my own bills, and continue to follow my dreams - instead of waiting around for him and wasting time hoping I'll get to see him next week/month/semester/whatever.

So. I sleep most of the day in a subconscious effort to avoid talking to him all day. And when he goes to bed I work on things, one of them our partnership endeavor, all night.

*Silence? It's quieter at night. Everyone else is asleep, the phone isn't ringing - not like it rings much during the day anyway - the world as a whole just feels slower and quieter. I can spend several hours finishing research and writing articles or roll around code for website development or work on designs for artwork.

It's quiet. I like it. I embrace it. I enjoy it. I revel in it. It's beautiful.

The daytime feels dragging, busy, loud, traffic-filled, annoying.

*Depression? I don't have a day job. I don't have a 'valid' reason to get up every morning and get dressed. So much of what I've been doing up to this point is done by email. Yes, there are a few things I need to venture forth for - try to book myself more, find a company to help with our business needs, just get out and network - but by sleeping during the day I avoid those, thus sabotaging myself from growing my business and repeating the cycle of failure.

I secretly feel I'm not good enough to make this stuff work. So I avoid it.

But I put these things into effect, small steps, baby steps really, in the middle of the night so I don't have to see the results, or worry about making a presentation for my skills.

~I don't run on a normal time-table though. So parts of the weird schedule make sense. My brain does not shut off in the middle of the night - I stay up drawing, writing, designing. With the recent changes I'm even more aware of how it works. Or doesn't. Whatever. Several projects are getting crossed off the list, slowly. Like suddenly all those little pieces fall into place for one thing and it's done and ready to go.

It's an amazing relief when this happens. Like I look up and it's done. Wow. Cool. While I'd like to say deadlines are easier, well, some are, some aren't. The writing feels better, more trust from my editor combined with the fact I can take my time to get things done because I don't have to finish writing so I can go to bed so I can drag into an office by 8am.

Art things - well, hitches in the project workings involve lack of tactile substance to be able to finish several pieces. It gets put on hold, I move on to other things and come back to it later to try again only to realize an opportunity to sell something has passed.

Our business partnership is moving along. Slowly. Designs, business plans, options, etc. It scares me. Because he's doing what he can from there, but a large part of it feels like it's on my shoulders. And it will be to make the sales because I'm the one who's putting it on my credit card to get it started and I'll be indebted for that.

Some days I wake up - yes, at 2 or 3 in the afternoon - and feel ready to take on the world, ready to go make things work and make calls and get things done. And some days, unfortunately like today, I want to stay in bed and keep dreaming the wickedly visual dreams I have and ignore everything else in the world.

So I figure as long it's only once in awhile, and not every day, I'm ok. As long as I'm not traipsing along the darkened streets looking to suck someone's blood, I'm doing pretty good.

steering towards better

2009-02-24T01:27:00.000-06:00

I dropped a plate. I could hear the smashing and see the tiny bits scattering all across the floor in that split second it left my hand to start the descent towards crash. In that odd, natural knee-jerk reaction, I moved my hand under it as quickly as I could, knowing full well I could not catch it, but instead diverted the plate from the path to the floor and shattering to the trash can instead. A loud noise, but no breakage. I just stood there, staring at it...

Far too many times in my life I've felt like I'm heading for that ultimate crash. The scattering shards, the high cracking sound of shattering fragility that no one ever wants to hear...

I've felt on that road far too many times.

These last few weeks have been eye-opening in so many ways. I'm no more cut out for a 'real job' taking orders from someone else or sitting at a desk 8-5 than I am cut out for snowboarding Everest or performing brain surgery with knitting needles.

I am doing things my way, a way I didn't know was possible until I did it. I'm more aware of time, and yet so less aware of it. I'm more in the moment as I go through my day. Sure, my sleep schedule is a little off right now, but there is absolutely no demand that I do my work from 8-5 anymore, so if I stay up until 4am editing or writing or designing, so be it.

I've stuck my hand out there to keep the plate from breaking. I divert the crash course into another direction and save the plate, save the potential mess, save the idea that I can make a difference in what direction I'm going in.

Eight Minutes

2009-02-18T00:22:00.000-06:00

One harsh, bitter whisper into the cold night air offers up futile resistance to to the desolation of knowledge. She screamed into her sobs as the letter fell from her hands, all I could do was hold her as she cried.

It's a surreal moment of clarity in such a strange situation when I stand there, holding her, crying for her, and the only thought going through my head involves how orange the sky is as the sun is setting. Orange and pink and purple grey washing under the thick winter clouds as the sun sinks lower and darkness cascades behind us. She's shaking so hard. I almost expect her violent sobs to unleash the snow that's building up above us, let it come raining down upon our heads, cover the ground around us, in a futile attempt to reign in her tears.

The officer who delivered the letter catches her as she finally collapses in my arms. I can't hold her weight up any longer so I let him help guide her back inside. He's so quiet, so strong. He's done this before. I see the silent agony in his face, the way his lips purse as he speaks, the way his jaw clenches at her sobs.

She never saw this coming. She was so hopeful, so open, so in love. She was planning their life together up until eight minutes ago.

Like a kick ass rolling stone, baby!

2009-02-13T23:54:00.000-06:00

Oh. Here I am.

Feeling comfortable in my own skin.

Antsy to put plans into action.

Tending to all the irons in the fire, keeping the fires stoked to stay warm until the natural warmth of summer heat slips into the cycle yet again.

There is a bounce in my step. I sing with the music. I answer Bob Dylan with a resounding "YES!" when he asks "How does it feel" and "How does it feel, To be on your own". Why, Mr. Dylan, it feels fucking amazing to be a rolling stone at this point in my life, thankyouverymuch.

Don't get me wrong, about a week ago I was bitter and crying, but I made those changes, got some things moving, and life feels better now. Waay better.

I. Quit. My. Headacheinducing. Suicideenvy. Cryingredeyed. Mybossisbatshitcrazy. Iwanttoscream. Job.

And I've worked on a few things that I want to be working on, am aiming in a direction I'd rather aim, and have about 2 weeks of imaginary savings to get this rolling. And a few of them are falling into place. And I'm not scared. I feel pretty good about it. (check back in a few weeks and we'll see from there, of course...)

Somewhere in this last week more than the job situation shifted.

Certain realizations about our relationship were reminders of where we're really at right now and how much longer we have to deal before we can get to where we want to be. I have a funny peace with this. Not funny 'ha-ha'. Just a bit o' irony regarding our situation that we both knew from the beginning. So we step back and deal best we can for now. So it goes. But I'm no longer gnashing my teeth over this, I have a calm peace with it and us.

I did have an epiphany. And almost got hit side-on by another car. One of those moments where life really does tell you to PAY ATTENTION!

So. Several shifts where the steps in front of me suddenly fall into place. It's beautiful. And wonderful. And hopeful.

How does it feel? Pretty damn good.

there is more than one thing I believe in, really

2009-01-07T21:16:00.003-06:00

So. It's a new year.

When did that happen?

According to the calendar it was just a few days ago.

It's kinda loopy. Or I am.

Day job - makes me want to stab a spork into my thigh.

Projects - make me happy.

Now, to make the projects into the day job and things would be awesome.

Still long distance for now. Other wrenches thrown into that make it tougher.

I feel a little lost, but I don't.

Because I do know what direction I want to go in, am going in. Just yesterday I stood up for myself. In a situation that normally would have been intimidating. In a situation where the person I was talking with was a person who held a huge opportunity for me... until she pointed something out that I don't agree with. At all. I said goodbye right there.

It felt strangely jazzing to do this, to turn around and walk away.

Yet a few hours later I was beating myself up for walking away from an opportunity. No matter that I know this would have been bad once past the shiny facade. I'm still torn about this. Probably will for awhile until some flash point comes along and I tell myself "Whew, I'm glad I didn't do that after all! I'm glad I stood up for something I believe in, even if it's something relatively insignificant to others."

Waiting on that particular flash point.

Ok. I need to cut some designs out for a painting. More words later.

the floodgates are open

2008-12-06T02:07:00.000-06:00

emotions are tricky bastards.

tonight I need a dive diner booth to stretch my legs out in and a friend to talk to as we order pancakes and coffee. I don't drink coffee, but in all my years of dive diner friend conversations there has been coffee.

I should have gone out of town. It's tearing at me that I'm not. I'm frustrated at the situation and after hitting the boiling point this afternoon my yelling has hit the limit as well. That and my vocal chords are scratchy from it.

It's why I take off and just go. I'm pissed at myself for not being able to. I'm pissed at BF and he doesn't know it but I don't need to bother him with it because he has Army stuff this weekend that a)he has to pass the PT test an do whatever XO stuff they have him doing right now, and b)it's my fucking birthday and I can't be with him, oh and c)because right now I'm really not strong enough and I need him and he's not here.

I flipped my lid this afternoon. I'd left work early to take care of things and the situations that happened, I just snapped. I was yelling and cussing at the top of my lungs in the car, blood boiling and I wanted to use my car to ram things. Bad, bad feelings.

I calmed down moderately through the evening, trying to go on. My plans got changed, so what. But then I just got more and more depressed. Over the situation, over the weekend, over everything. I finally made it home, took a looong hot soak in the tub & crawled into bed and now all I want to do is cry and write. At least the writing part is doing me some good. The crying, not so much.

Yes. I should have done what I wanted to do this weekend. Didn't happen. It sucks. So what am I going to do instead? Try to make some use of the time and work on backlog of projects. Try.

I'm upset. I want there to be an easier way for things. I want to be able to do the things I want to do. When I want to. Right now, i don't like the word compromise very much. In fact, right now, I don't like it at all.

being calm in the sea storm

2008-11-28T21:10:00.002-06:00

Ahh... I have a bowl full of irish potato soup and it is sooo yummy. Oh, and a lovely BF sharing my space for the next few days! So that's a major bonus because I can't stop grinning and touching him.

Yes, I'm aware it's been commented on that I haven't been writing here, or at all, in the ways I need to. In the ways I feel I need to. I miss it. Still working on figuring it out.

I like the writing. I love the feeling that washes over me when I'm done and proud of the piece I've written. I love the feeling that washes over me when I see it published and in print with my name on it. A regular magazine article, a freelance gig here or there, the marketing stuff on the side - I love it, even the cheesy stuff.

But finding time for my own stuff is hard and I have so many things going in so many directions... I don't know how other people do it.

With the economy the way it is, I have to have my day job. I try to work on the side stuff at night, but by the middle of the week and the middle of the night, my pulse is beating in my ears and I'm falling asleep at my computer.

There are a few hopes of things in the works, BF & I are trying to figure out plans.

It's weird to me, we were walking this evening after an afternoon of sex and wine and before dinner, we were talking about the shifting directions of our plans due to the economy and our jobs and the distance. That's not the weird part. The weird part is that he brought up purchasing a house.

I've rented. I still do. I have no problems with renting and figured I would until I got to the point I could buy the land I want and build what I want to build. With BF in my life, we've discussed the same things and are usually on the same page.

I guess I just never figured there would be a middle point in there of buying a house somewhere between renting here & now and building what we want on the land we eventually get.

It's a whole new concept to me. Just one I hadn't entertained before, yet in the way the world turns it makes a little bit of sense.

I'm a dreamer. I know. I want to get from point A to point B and just make it happen, but I've never figured out that there are steps in between along the way.

Ahh, he's back from his run and I've devoured my bowl of soup... till next time I write again...

looking back

2008-11-07T21:57:00.003-06:00

I don't know what I was looking for when I went over there, maybe his name on the list, maybe a picture. I don't know.

Somewhat retrospective. Somewhat confused.

We shared some stories. Some ideas. Some past things.

And it brings up those wondering thoughts of "what if" that don't help anything.

I step away for a few minutes and realize it doesn't matter after all.

But part of me still wonders...

relief

2008-11-04T23:27:00.000-06:00

so far the talking heads say Barack Obama is ahead and will be our next President. cool. makes me happier than I would be if it were the other way around, as I really was really contemplating moving to Canada, except I don't do cold well, and I hated to be in Florida for a few months, so I know being that far away from family & parts of Texas would have been difficult.

anyway.

working on a new website, several writing projects, and doing some painting on the side in between the everything else that is making my weekends busy. trying to learn more about website building, junk like ftp and access and lots of stuff that is making my head swirl. how do people do this everyday? more power to them.

it's that time of year when introspection really kicks in. staying busy is the best possible alternative. thankfully, one of the projects is whimsical and fun, and I love being a partner in it. the creative part is awesome, the whimsy is fun, and the ideas are literally flying - the code/ftp/html insanity is going to drive me over the edge. soon. watch the news, you'll see it happen.

on a yea! note, I paid off my eye surgery from last year & my year check up was 20/20 & healthy! one less bill to worry about.

I get to see BF in three weeks, so I'm focusing on the positive with that. the rest of the holidays and seasonal stuff will be a bit crazy. throw in a few deadlines and I'm all for the going over the edge without the coding annoyances.

trying to look forward and be positive. not just in this nation but in my personal goals as well.

see something you like

2008-10-23T22:39:00.002-05:00

what do you look for when you come here?

with as many sites and pages and links to go wander through, why stop by here? I'm asking myself as much as I'm asking you. I use this to sit and reminisce a bit, remember those past loves and losses, those ideas I once had and those mistakes I can't take back. the short stories I miss, the ones that send chills through me when I go back and read them, remembering the frame of mind I was once in to sit down to write them.

why am I bothering to write tonight? I'm exhausted and need to be in the shower. I miss visiting, I guess. with all the other place my words are going right now, I think I felt I needed to stop in and say hi or something.

out of the blue I received an email from a friend I haven't seen in awhile, telling me he had a rather R rated dream about me. I have not written back, I'm not interested in seeing what it was or encouraging him. what did he want me to do by telling me this? that's what I wonder.

is it the same for you? you've stumbled here from a google search that had the word 'lick' in it and read the hot & bothered short stories from awhile back. are you hoping I'm some horny little nympho who only writes erotica?

I'm not. sure, I still have a healthy sex drive, but I'm not going out to find a hook-up while I'm miles away from my partner. did that, yes. in the past. again, I say mistakes.

I'm 30, just weeks away from the next. so fucking what. I deal with stress and depression, creative streaks and anger, hope and desire, usually all within a daily basis. I'm not writing here as much, but part of me misses it. the anonymity is nice. I can just spill. it's great like that. everything else has my name on it. live. out there. real. tangible. I feel I need to still protect a bit of myself by keeping it quiet, keeping parts of my stories here.

is that why you're here? it's quiet and out of the way, it's just some random woman who writes whenever she feels like it, but it's here.

want a little want a lot

2008-10-09T20:39:00.001-05:00

this week at work has been uber-crazy. I spent a good portion of yesterday crying, because, well, I just felt like it. I felt overwhelmed & like I was drowning on dry land far too many times.

hormones? maybe. probably factored in. whatever. I don't know.

I know I'm exhausted from doing the job of three people and covering such a large program area. a lot of demands, and times like this I don't feel like I can keep up with anything. plus deadlines for the side job of writing - let's just say that bottle of anxiety pills is nearing empty again...

today I managed to accomplish one or two things on my list, this actually helped me climb back up a bit.

painted last weekend. aiming to get ink done this weekend. all deadlines between now & next weekend for 5 pieces. lots o stuff to do.

blah, blah, blah - do you really care?

I'm trying to figure things out. I'm trying to find that path I thought I once had and seem to have meandered off of yet again. it gets frustrating to have dreams I hope for and long for and then come back to the daily life where I feel like I'm drowning and it's massively depressing.

also, the lack of sex sucks. it's tougher than anything to go two months between seeing BF and getting some. very hard on the passion drive. very hard to know he's out there and I can't have him. plus all that good endorphin releases gets put off.

ok, so I want him. here. now. I want less stress at work and more pay (don't we all?) I would love to find health insurance because I desperately need to have work done on my teeth that I just cannot afford. I want to open my own little store or gallery. and I want more art - thus the getting ink this weekend.

I know it's one thing at a time. I know I need to be patient. just very hard to do at times.

there are wings

2008-10-05T20:28:00.002-05:00

there will be wings.

soon.

they have been designed. they will be measured. they will compliment and accent and give flight.

soon.

soon my heart will have wings.

somewhere in the midst

2008-09-30T21:04:00.003-05:00

in the midst of what, are we ever really sure?

I spent the weekend in the arms of my partner, and now, being back home and away from him, I feel just slightly ambitious. slightly.

considering the last few weeks before I just didn't give a flying fuck about a lot of things, this actually feels better.

lots of family shit. funerals. gatherings. cousins from far far away. driving hours, flying even longer.

am I actually accomplishing anything worth noting? I can't think so right now. but I want to try anyway.

I have tonight to myself, no deadline, no work, no pressing things to make me go do something I don't really want to. sure I need to do laundry, and I just replace the battery in my car so it could stand to have a few other things worked on, I have a stack of real mail that is nearly as deep as the unopened emails in my inbox and I'm choosing to ignore both for one more night.

saturday

2008-08-24T23:35:00.003-05:00

we went to go see a band play at this little restaurant & cantina - the outdoor stage, the cool after rain showers - after shopping & meandering thru town all day, this was a perfect end to the night for us girls. by time the band started, it was pretty full, so we shared a table with another group, during dinner we chatted with them & found out how small a world it really is.

B actually knew one guy & his wife, & another gal & her husband knew my ex, RP - the one from two years ago. I asked how his dad is doing, because I do care a bit, & the guy asked if I wanted him to call RP up to come out & join us.

Oh, no, no thanks, I said - I don't want to see him, I didn't even know he was in town.

Yeah - he moved back I think, he says. I ask if he knows why.

Oh, he did something stupid (insert the stupid thing he did here) with the company plane & a hangar full of people & a party - got fired. moved back.

I started laughing. I told the guy he made my night by telling me this. And I don't feel bad about it at all.

Karma, baby. Karma.

where I meander a bit...

2008-08-18T00:08:00.000-05:00

I find myself wandering around on safari, searching the interwebs for whatever... ummm, yes, whatever. I keep distracting myself. I do find myself doing this a lot actually.

The six days camping were so nice. no net access and I only found myself wishing for it once or twice. spent the rest of the time visiting with my grandparents, cousins, parents, brother, and friends. or eating. or hiking. or napping. or reading! books! or herding two small cousins to keep them out of trouble and entertained, all the while being so thankful for contraception so that we don't have any of these exhausting creatures in our lives for awhile.

yep, it's deadline time again, which happens because I write for a monthly magazine. sometimes I get the info I need in plenty of time and can put things together. most of the time people don't get me the info I need till the day or so before my deadline, so I make shit up. true. happened last month on an article, the guy who had band info I needed called me three days after we went to print. oh well. it happens.

heading to Fredericksburg this weekend with the girls, one last trip before B moves to NM the week after. start writing for another blog, an actual paid gig! in a week or so. so I now have a full time job that on most days is pretty decent & I can do things like blogs, newsletters, investigations, and read about those things. then there are some days I want to walk out & not go back because I'd much rather be painting something. I even sat down with a life coach for a mini session & started going over a few things. and while I worked out a few things and am working on those things, I also thought "hey, being a life coach would be really cool too." for like half a minute. I help people figure things out every day, I listen to everyone & offer options, I just get a bit tired of it at times & would rather be painting.

for some reason I guess I feel like my calendar is filling up, it's not like packed day to day or anything, just feels like I've got a lot going on. and I guess I kinda do, a full time job, a part time job, a little (very little) bit of a social life, and some projects that I'd like to finish up by my own personal deadlines.

I wish things were different. trying to learn/accept patience. it's not working so well. I want things when I want them because I know right then it's what is right/supposed to be/ fits. so having to be patient because someone else is not in that postion is very very hard. because I've given up before. and I love this man and won't give up on him, I'm just tired of waiting for him. yes, I guess I did fall in love with yet another man who puts his job over our relationship. damnit.

so, staying busy is just as much a pain avoidance and self-sustaining/preservation method as it is my normal routine.

as for that post below, well, does it need more explanation? I burst into tears while having an orgasm. something I really cannot remember ever doing before. but it was more an emotional release than anything. (oh. duh. orgasms usually are...) it gave me a lot (more) to think about. not the least of which is the trust in the man who helped to get me off. it was a shift in the way I see our relationship as much as for my life. definitely a cosmic shift. one that I haven't had in awhile... one that I needed...

gonna go put more words down on those articles now... you know, so I can get paid and pay off other things so I can plan for things I want to do... hmm... ok, I need to shift my thinking on things like that now...

emotional releases

2008-08-15T23:55:00.000-05:00

Rolling across in waves, just sending huge waves of feeling all through my body, a reverberating orgasm released itself in tears. Each and every muscle clenching moment is followed by my gasping for breath while tears stream from my eyes down my face.

There are other moments in my sexual history that are pauses on the timeline of my life, just as there are moments in my career and artistic experiences that are memorable and noteworthy for their own reasons. Each noted for how they made me feel or react or change my way of life.

This is a moment. A long reaching, deeply moving, let it all out, just feel, force me to accept each beat of my pulse, each warm wet drop squeezing out from my clenched eyelids, each shudder of the gently settling waves through my body makes me ever so thankful and aware of where I am right here in the sense of a moment in many.

blargh

2008-08-01T20:27:00.000-05:00

it's either a head cold, sinus infection, or my head is slowly planning on driving me nuts with this aching & sneezing & drainage & stuffy hearing. I'm blaming the allergy thing.

Yep, the one friend is wedding planning & moving arranging. the other has found a decent man who pretty nice so far, so we're hoping for her.

BF heads out at oh-my-god-this-is-how-late-I stay-up-painting-not-how-early-anyone-should-be-getting-up-o-clock.

oh. we just had a power outage. lovely little macbook, still lit up & type worthy. how I love thee.

anyway - where was I? oh - he heads out for big military training stuff for the next several weeks, so our communicating will be not as much as we're used to. that sucks.

otherwise. I'm tired & feisty. such an odd & exhausting combination.

i'm just tired

2008-07-28T23:28:00.001-05:00

oh I have lots of things all jumbling around in my head, so much so that my dreams have been gnarled and there is not much of actual sleeping going on for me. it's oddness and fierceness and craziness and that oh-so-undefinable visuals of things that when I try to sort them out or line them up or put them down on paper, well, it leaves me feeling off.

it's me trying to parallel two parts of who I am, still trying to make them merge. merge? maybe. maybe parallel is just right.

I've always known I'm a contradictory type. seeing both sides of an argument does come in handy a lot of the time. but arguing both sides of an argument with myself is just pain exhausting.

so I try to keep myself busy, in an effort to not argue or think, in an effort to just do, in an effort to wear myself out so that maybe I can sleep. but it doesn't happen. I still argue, think, and not sleep.

thankfully I leave next week for several days of pretty much remoteness. maybe this will answer some of these thoughts and questions. maybe.

sometimes it's the kiss that tells

2008-07-25T00:16:00.000-05:00

The first time I press my lips to another, I don't know. It's the second. Or the third. Sometimes the fourth. Then I start to know.

Have there ever been sparks? I'm not sure. I would think I'd remember that. I would hope I'd remember that.

Instead I remember where we were. The weather, the time of day, or night, what I was wearing, and more often than not I can recall the thoughts that were dancing in my mind in the moments before. And sometimes after.

I've kissed men. I've kissed women. A kiss is just a kiss. Straight and gay. No big deal. I see no big deal with kissing hello or goodbye to friends. Heck, even strangers who quickly become friends.

So to kiss a man on a first date, or something, is a way of saying hello or goodbye, of sharing a moment, and then seeing what potential might be there for the future.

Yes, there is weight in that "first kiss" moment. A weight that cannot be replicated.

Maybe with all that weight, it's just easier to go ahead and get it over with, get past the nervousness of the moment and move on to see if we click on anything else.

I remember how nervous I was the night I met BF. We'd only been speaking for a week, barely, but every single night for several hours. I've gone off on weekend trips on less of a whim before, so taking off for El Paso was not unusual in itself. The fact that I was meeting this man there, this man whom I already liked on the phone, well, I was nervous. So nervous I almost didn't go.

So standing there, in the parking lot after dinner and dessert hopping between restaurants, I knew we were going back to his apartment for the night, he was already a complete gentleman and offered me the bed while he took the couch. I enjoyed talking to him, but somewhere in the back of my mind was a concern that maybe he didn't feel the same about me for some reason and I would never hear from him again after this weekend. Maybe we'd talk awhile or date awhile, but that he'd be going back to Florida after his training here was done and I'd not see him again. So I didn't want to get too attached.

So we're standing there in the parking lot, and I lean in and kiss him. At the very same moment a car of teenagers drives by and shouts "Whoooooo!"s at us. We laughed.

Did I know right then? No.

Two days later, after spending the entire weekend together, sleeping together, wandering El Paso & Las Cruces for motorcycle stuff, going to an Army dinner, drawing on each other with sharpie markers, and getting lost while driving around, after all that, it was the kiss on that Sunday afternoon as I was getting ready to leave to head back home, that's when I knew.

That touch of his hands to my face, the way our bodies leaned into each other so naturally, the feel of his lips pressing to mine and my lips responding to his mouth, that is when I really knew.

I keep the randomest of shit around here

2008-07-24T00:14:00.001-05:00

It's hard to let go of some things. Part of me is the cluttery-pack-rat mentality. Part of me is the laziness in getting around to things.

Sure, I have a stack of magazines that rivals the hedge out front. Sure, I have tons of books spread across the floor by my bed that I trip over every morning when I get out of bed. I have tubes and cans of paint stacked by my bookshelf, under the art table, and on the hearth, and a handful in the drawers I have specifically for my paints but can't seem to get them put away.

It's the other random stuff that I want to keep. For memory reasons. Ok, not always want to keep, but do keep. Usually. Memory reasons.

Over there, by that stack of massage paperwork that I haven't touched in over two years, is a bag that my great-grandmother crocheted, and inside it is her knitting and crochet needles, her tape measure, a roll of yarn, and one of her figures she made. It reminds me of her, her hands working, her designs, the way she was.

Up there on the top bookshelf is a shoebox filled with old letters and cards, photos and relationship trinkets. Next to it is a small photo album from the weekend I met L. And leaning against that is a cork from a bottle of wine we shared once. There are smiles and memories of that weekend and experience, ones that I stumble across every once in awhile, and remember a good time.

In my grungy paint t-shirt stack is a grey t-shirt left over from a guy I slept with who turned out to be an ass, and while I couldn't care less about him, it's a twinge of thought when I pull it on, but then it doesn't matter anymore as the shirt is now mine, paint splatters and all.

On the mantle is a sculpture vase I won in a silent auction several years ago, my painted stick I used in my leading role in the junior/senior play, a woven flower from wandering Charleston, a folded napkin flower from that guy who asked me to move to Florida back in '97 or so, show gifts, bottles of oils for incense burning, a prayer bowl, a box full of fortune cookie fortunes, and hanging from the hooks are my medicine bags and copper blessing bowl. Each has a different memory, a different association. Theatre, romances,travels, spirituality, hopes, and ideas.

Stacked on the nightstand are notes from the BF next to a photo I picked up at the street fair in Georgetown last year. I see the photo and remember the weekend trip with my best friends, and it's a picture of a scene I enjoy.

Tucked into the tons of books are sweet post-it notes that BF left for me and I use as bookmarks. He leaves them for me and I leave them for him while we're apart, for each other to find.

I have a jean jacket that is too big for me, but I like, but I rarely wear, hanging over there. But every time I do pull it on I remember that date that one night when I wore my black & red dress and we went driving through the mountain air.

On the shelves with my cd collection is the stack of tapes that Boat gave me while we were together, and while I haven't listened to them in years, I see them and remember those happy moments.

I have a couple of cascarones from when I wandered San Antonio during Fiesta. They remind me of the celebration, of the craziness, of the people who slept on the sidewalk with an 18 pack of beer as a pillow, of sleeping with the one guy who was so good to me after Boat & I split and he never called me back.

There are stacks of the miniature playing cards I collected next to the rubber duckies I collected next to my spoon collection, all covered in the dust I'm apparently collecting as well.

This is all an elaborate way of me explaining that my cell phone screen died today, officially. And while it sucks 'cause I've lost a lot of numbers, I don't really care as much. What bothers me is that I had over 150 texts saved from when BF & I messaged each other, ever since we started dating last summer. And I'm all sentimental about stuff like that - our loving and supportive messages, the silly ones, the crazy ones, the ones where he just says the right thing to make me melt. And now I have no way to go back and read through those when I want to.

Yeah, if I were better at being all zen-like, I'd not worry about it, be all "time is fleeting, go meditate and be happy" or whatever. Then again, if I was any good at the being all zen-like, I'd probably have gotten rid of a bunch of stuff. So, obviously, I lean towards the being zen-like in that I don't let the stuff bother me. It just bothers me when it's no longer there.

winding

2008-07-21T23:25:00.000-05:00

Passion drives so many decisions. Just the beginning energy, of course. The follow through and the final outcome are based entirely upon destiny.

One choice begins a whole new ball rolling down the twisting roads of desire and truth.

I want to say it's all the same. But it isn't really. I woke up in a strange bed, unsure of the sheets surrounding me. The ceiling fan twirling lazily above me has a buzzing hum that won't stop. Not a clock to be seen, but judging by the sunlight filtering through the blinds, I'm hoping it's just mid-morning and not mid-afternoon.

Time has lost any meaning. I remember being lost while trying to find where I was going. I remember turning down roads only to turn around a few miles later and go back. Over and over again, far too many times to be worth the effort of getting lost. Normally, getting lost and finding my way back is something I understand. There is a method to the madness, something I can savor.

Where have I landed now?

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

One answer is not enough. Ok, the answer you think I need is not enough, because it is not true. Let that hope belong in your heart and make your decisions wisely. I know what choice I make.

slips of knowing

2008-07-20T01:02:00.001-05:00

I wasn't supposed to see it.

It was never meant for my eyes.

A note, no longer than a page, words sliding across the lines in a quick written hand.

How long ago was this? Eight years? Eight months? Eight days?

How quickly time shifts at that moment.

I need to sit down. I don't understand. I don't want to comprehend anything. I want the world to keep spinning the way it was just a few minutes ago. I want to go back to before I opened this book looking for something else. I want to not know this. I want to forget it and truly forget.

Does. Not. Work. That. Way.

Somewhere in the reaches of what logic I still have, struggling to make its way to the surface with all the overwhelming waves of emotion, is the bare thought of "Before."

Before me. Before this. Before we knew. Before he knew. Before I knew. Before now.

Doesn't stop the tears from brimming over my eyelashes to spill down my cheek, dropping onto the page. I notice it's written with a cheap ball point because of this. Because of the wet drops landing on the paper, but the ink does not lift or smear. It was written in a hurry, on torn notebook paper, with the closest pen to be found.

How little that does to comfort me.

Two hours before family arrive. Two hours before I see anyone. Two hours to agonize and theorize and terrorize and fall asleep crying. Wondering. Slamming my fist to the pillow and demanding to know the answer when I really don't even know the question I'm asking.

All I know is that I wasn't supposed to know.

yeses and nos

2008-07-14T02:08:00.001-05:00

Shit, is it really the middle of July already? Man.

I'm tired. In a healthy, it's good for you to shake up your routine, go out and see the world beyond the four walls of your office or bedroom type of tired.

From swimming in the Atlantic ocean on Monday to the Gulf of Mexico on Friday. In between getting a 5 page newsletter done & started printing, and working on articles for the magazine and blog for work and a possible second blogging gig. Lots of flying and driving. Lots of miles.

That's the short version. The longer version involves fireworks, dominoes, cards, cider, live music and dancing, laughter, movies, shopping, kissing, playing a cowbell, praying, stressing, crying, whispers, tattoos, funny looks, saying "No.", pondering, hoping, sorting, expressing, painting, and very little sleeping.

And now that I'm back home, back to the familiar, and have to go back to work tomorrow - well, I feel lonely.

It's surreal, really.

Maybe my mind is still dancing on the beach whilst my body is collapsing into bed. Maybe I'm wishing I was somewhere else with someone. Maybe I really need to learn to be in the here and now a bit better. While working on the someday portion of things.

I have a wonderful relationship with a wonderful man, and for right now, we are miles apart. It sucks. But I'm content enough with what I'm working on as we build toward our future together. My best friends chatted about their respective men & relationships, as undefinable as one of them is and as fast moving as the other is. I guess I'm the middle ground. They both have the rings and gowns and places picked out for weddings that, well, one may never happen unless the guy she loves finally gets a divorce, the other may happen as soon as August if they keep up the way they are. BF & I talk, and while we'd say "I do" tomorrow, we're waiting a few years. I refuse to be an army wife, and with the briefings and stuff he's dealing with right now, it's a big reminder that the army is his first commitment no matter what. That and most of the current 'traditional' wedding brouhaha makes me want to vomit. So we'll wait till he's done in a few years, then sign the piece of paper.

I do not feel lost in this relationship. I am my own self. We are equals.

Which is all well and good, but I hate sleeping alone now, damnit!

Being back in the apartment in Florida for several days felt comfortable. It was home as much as this is home. His family is my family now, and I want to make a better effort to see them more than 2-3 times a year. I need to figure out how to work enough to travel more, get paid to travel, or find the winning lottery numbers to be able to afford to travel back and forth. Oh, and you know, get my cavities filled, buy a motorcycle to afford gas, and work on the paintings and articles that I need to but haven't found the time for yet.

I'm rambling, I know. I'm attempting to clear my head out so I can get some sleep. Lots of drive time this weekend to throw ideas around inside my pretty little head while the radio was playing. And tomorrow is back to the day job of newsletters and board meetings and questionnaires, and then to the writing of articles that are due this week. So, I kinda need to be focused, and I'm still a little road weary & scattered.

There are things I want to make happen, there are things I'm starting to try to figure out how to make happen. There are questions about things I may never learn the answers to, but I think I need to seek them out anyway. There are moments in my past that have shaped who I am today, and in small ways I'm thankful for those, but in others I wonder what might have been different if I'd chosen better and so I wonder how the choices I'm making now will affect the future.

I know when I'm in the groove, in the flow, in the mindset, in the mood, so to speak, is when things work out and fall into place. But sometimes the preparations are not worth the outcomes. And sometimes I'm sitting on a porch in the rain holding hands with someone I don't want to be holing hands with, but feel as if there is no other option for me at the time, so I choose the wrong choices instead of no choice at all.

There are a lot of what if moments. And there are a lot of weighty moments. But cramming the square peg into the round hole type of solution does nothing but produce splinters and hurt your hand.

see, something for everyone

2008-06-30T23:44:00.002-05:00

Soft & sweet smelling breezes after the rains. We needed the rains. Beautiful.

Mystery texter sent his name. No-longer a mystery, nor can I muster any caring. Another in a long line of men who didn't know who I was or listen to me, but enjoyed the fact that I listened to him moan about his life. Eh, I'll pass on that forever now, thanks. So, no return call or text. He can go find him someone else to deal with his problems.

Ya, know, cause I've got mine own.

We all do.

Florida this weekend, Corpus the next. I'm looking forward to the beaches. Hanging out with friends. Drinking alcohol infused pretty things with swirly colors. Or cider. A scotch egg at Finn's and fireworks somewhere over Jacksonville with BF. Live music. Mojitos and girl talk till we collapse. A couple of full weekends ahead. I can't wait.

Now the crickets are chirping. The breeze is moving in the windows and the crickets are singing loud and clear. BF & I talked for an hour, sharing a few options and overwhelms and wants and if we's. We talk. We communicate. We are we.

Some of my writings are doing pretty good. I'm feeling medium to fair with my level of creativity. I have paint brushes and bird feathers drying by my bathroom sink. There are white and pink flowers glued to a canvas waiting for me to figure out what else I'm gonna add to it. My hair is blonde, and while it takes a bit to get used to every time I look in the mirror, I'm leaning more toward liking it. Maybe I'll add some red streaks, maybe I'll not. We'll see.

I both want to curl up and enjoy the breezes with a good book as well as go spend hours in the garage cutting wood and sanding the work bench. Both. I want.

don'tcha think about it sometimes maybe, umm, no

2008-06-27T23:09:00.001-05:00

Ok. Articles done for the month. Two paintings in progress. Random stuff scattered everywhere. Business as usual for me.

Boyfriend & I had a date night tonight. We both had copies of the same movie and popped it in and watched long distance together on the phone. It was cheesy as hell, talking back and forth, commenting on trivia on the movie on imdb, quoting the lines back. Yes, perfectly cheesy. And wonderful.

In weirdness, or maybe should just be filed in 'File 13', the other night I got a text message at 1am from someone telling me that he broke up with mary & I should call him sometime. I figured it was a wrong number text and thought I was being helpful by texting back that maybe this person had a wrong number. But! This morning at 2:36am I got another text, saying no, he was writing to me, and he gave my whole name. Hmmm... is this a long lost and forgotten ex that was dating someone named mary and now that he's single again he wants to see if I'm, what? available? interested? missing him? I dunno. Some reason that's the scenario my mind goes to because of dealings with past exes...

I'm curious... but barely. On my radar of things to think about and get done within a reasonable amount of time, well, umm, calling back a number I don't know to see who is wanting me to call him is like so far gone it doesn't matter. I have paintings, cleaning, putting oil in my car, paying bills, writing a newsletter for work, folding last weeks laundry, watching seasons of 'Gilmore Girls', swimming, pulling weeds, finding a new or refurbished cell phone that actually works and doesn't cost the same as buying a car, scratching lottery tickets, tweaking a business plan, sculpting figurines, reading any of the half dozen books by my bed, painting my toenails, pouring resin, sanding a work bench, peeling wallpaper, throwing beads at glue on a wooden board till they stick, moving furniture around because I'm either bored with it or because it needs to be feng shui-ed or both, framing some photographs, shaving my legs, making a nectarine cobbler, and packing to head off for various destinations over the next two weeks - all this is way more on my radar of things to do than to call back an unknown.

Because I have the man I want already. I don't need anyone else. I don't need a backup, or hell, even want a backup, because if we were to not work out for any reason, or something were to happen, well, I'm damn independent and would continue on my own. We've both discussed this. We can both handle singledom and have lived up to points in our lives as we so chose. Now we're together and we enjoy each other completely, and this unique and wonderful connection that we have is so unlike anything I've ever had, or not had, before with anyone else. So, you know, I'm good.

Well. Damn.

2008-06-23T00:23:00.001-05:00

So I like to think I know what moderation (in some things) is. But clearing out the house of alcohol because your brother is an alcoholic, well, kinda sucks for the rest of us.

Also, while transferring cases of beer from the pool house fridge to lock away, make sure the bottom of the cardboard case isn't soaking wet and falls apart while walking thru the kitchen, spilling, splattering, busting open 7 bottles of cider. Because then you have to sweep up tons of broken green glass fragments (But! They're easier to see on the while tile!), mop up lots of cider before the floor gets super sticky and smells like dirty gym socks. Eww.

Also, a good way to piss off the cat that has adopted you, the same cat that would hiss at you for the first few weeks you tried to feed it, the same cat that just last week left you a headless and legless lizard on your doorstep as a present, the same cat that, well, up until this afternoon anyway, would weave in between your legs and beg to be petted, a good way to piss him off and get him to hiss at you again is to take the baby bird he's batting around on the porch away from him and go place the shivering & scared little thing back in a safer place and annoy the cat who is still looking in the corners of the porch for his former toy.

If anything, I like to think I did something right this weekend. Either locking up & pouring out the alcohol or saving a baby bird. It's a toss up.

hello: my name is whisper to a scream, how are you today?

2008-06-20T01:06:00.001-05:00

Damn. I know that sometimes my cycle plays havoc with my moods - but today was a bitch and it's not even the week before my period.

Paper jams in the copy machine when I'm trying, in vain as it turned out, to get 40 20-page booklets to print got me so fucking aggravated I was actually screaming at the damn machine. Fortunately I work in a three person office and the other two were at lunch, otherwise I'm sure they would have been hosing me down with the 5-gallon water bottle from the water cooler, or throwing the caramel dove chocolates at me in an effort to tame the wild beast.

The BF had some good news yesterday, news that would be bringing him out here to Texas sometime this fall instead of winter, so we were both flying on this news. Till he got the news today that, umm, nope, not gonna happen. A discrepancy in his application with a report from five years ago made them think he was lying, and they succinctly suggested he not re-apply after a year has passed. Well, fuckity fuck.

So we spent a good bit of time re-hashing some options that had been ignored while focusing on this one. We tossed options back and forth, expressed the stress and disappointment, cried a bit, tried our damndest to find the silver linings and figure out a way to move forward. He lets me be the strong one when he needs it, I let him when I need it, and tonight he needed it. When he feels afraid that he may lose me for whatever reason his mind comes up with, I do what I can to reassure him that I'm his girl. I know what it's like to beat yourself up to the point of pushing people away, but between the two of us we've found what works for us. Support, communication, and finding humor that our twisted, warped minds both like.

I've been in a crazy form of writers block regarding the articles I'm working on, one where I've got three paragraphs on both but no real content. I can't make them connect, can't make the piece 'feel'. It's like I'm writing about something I don't care about (well, I sorta am...) and there is no reason to read about this stuff so why am I trying to write about it? It's coming across as boring, past experience crap and it need to be 'light', 'fun', 'forward-looking', 'entertaining' and, you know, worth reading about, to help sell the magazine. Sheesh, sometimes they want so much, you know?

My darling best friend is in love with an unattainable man, far more so unattainable than any of my past unattainables ever were. I love her, hold no judgment, well, because I've done my fair share of judgment-worthy men and she didn't hold it against me those times, so no judging, just listening. And attempting to gently encourage her to find a way to move on toward something way more better for her on the scale of awesome and loving men. Find her someone who actually treats her the way she needs to be treated without the reservations or, well, his wife getting in the way. She's also scared of losing our other friend B who has fairly recently found her own darling man and now the two of them are all planning on getting married or having B move to be with him in New Mexico.

I keep telling B to visit first, then decide if she wants to move - she and I are a lot alike - both Texas girls, quite fond of the beers and music here that cannot be found or compared to anywhere else. She might like it, I mean, New Mexico is a helluva lot closer than Florida is, but it's still a different culture and influence than it is here. She's not quite ready to move, she just signed a year lease agreement before they met, but to them the sweet song of love is calling them to be together. She'll figure out what works for her, but the other thing that has me mildly concerned is how fast they want to get married.

She got married before when she got pregnant, then divorced less than two years later. I'm all for knowing when 'you just know', I mean, I've got that now myself. But damn, BF & I are waiting for awhile, partly because I refuse to be an army wife (no offense to those who proudly call themselves one, I just have no desire to lose my independence that much), partly because I'm still adjusting my ideas of partnership with marriage. I dunno. My parents were married within six months of their first date, less than a year after they'd met. My brother and his wife were the same. Some people it works for. But then again, abstinence till marriage works for some people, too. I ain't one of those either.

Oh, and the idea of a white dress, fancy ceremony, and all the so-called traditional nonsense is beyond me. To me, white begs to be drawn and painted on, so that already goes out the window. But, they're my best friends, I let them look at the $10 bridal magazines that offer 15 ways to fold your place cards, 21 ways to arrange your bouquet, 12 new dress designs (that really do all look the same), and have multiple advertisements for diamond rings, while I flip through a copy of 'Psychology Today' or 'Street Cruiser' magazine. Who knew it was so important to order the fancy fondant three tiered cake six months in advance or that your shoes need to match your ring bearer pillow. Seriously. Who knew? Yeah, I do not look forward to a ridiculous bridesmaid dress or two, but I say nothing because this is what they want.

These crazy storms blow in the dirt and trace amounts of rain. The grape vines in the yard have growing green clusters that are tart still. I've cleared my grandfather's old drafting table and am ready to use it for canvas stretching and painting, but need to get these articles knocked out this weekend before attempting to do anything else. I'm physically tired, and know that tomorrow will be more of the copy machine battle in an attempt to get something up-to-date for my job. But, it's friday, so fuck it.

.

2008-06-14T19:25:00.000-05:00

trust.

hold on tight, never let me go

2008-06-11T21:00:00.001-05:00

Hi. I've changed.

Let that surprise a few, or none, or one. Who cares?

Thank you.

Darling, I'm me. I always have been. Always will be.

The silent offer, the seduction, the flirtation, the whisper.

In the span of a few hours and a few words, being the object of affection.

Forget it. But not completely.

Let it go. I'm just a dream. Or I'm just dreaming.

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

Had to go cover a music thing last night, for the next article. Interviewed and listened and wrote. Nice to be back into a groove, great music, I was jotting notes as quick as I could.

I was the newbie. I was fresh blood. I was a pretty girl in a room full of guys playing their guitars. And they all noticed.

I wasn't flirting any more than regular charm in conversation to get the story. But there were two who hovered as I getting ready to leave, it being a later night than I expected and I needed to call back my best friend.

I pick up my water bottle and purse, say goodbye to the manager, and slip out the door while plugging my phone headset into my ear. One of the guys follows me out and asks if I'm leaving.

"Yeah, I needed to be somewhere 20 minutes ago." Not be, but call back someone.

"Well, can I get your number? Want to grab dinner sometime?"

"Thanks, but I'm already taken." It feels nice to be wanted, but I only want to be wanted by one man now.

"Damn. Well, tell him he's a lucky S-O-B."

"I will." And I did. And BF agreed wholeheartedly.

I no longer thrive on the looks and flirts of men who like to go off about themselves, who smoke and drink and think they're gonna get me in bed. Thank god. I'm no longer the girl falling for the inappropriate men, making bad choices, doing stupid things.

Because I believe in myself, because I have a partner who treats me as his equal and supports me with love and admiration and he believes in me too. Give me his arms wrapped around me, his smile, his lips on mine, his hand in mine any day.

Life has changed. Mine has. For the better.

Three years ago I started writing here. How far I've come, in my retrospect. Is it time to let this go here and find a more appropriate outlet? Will I continue to use this space for randomness? For short stories? For thoughts I want to keep in an alias? I don't know. We'll have to see. But right now I'm saying yea for where I am now.

it's not meant to be titillating

2008-06-08T12:13:00.000-05:00

really.

I pulled a pair of shorts on and just haven't pulled on a t-shirt yet.

I see no difference in going shirtless as going pantsless.

half naked. or half clothed. optimist or pessimist?

I was there when I started, now where am I

2008-06-04T21:07:00.004-05:00

Um. I know I had a thought about something that I wanted to write about. I think I did anyway. But now, for the life of me, I cannot remember what it was.

Hmm. My friend Boat got himself engaged to a girl he's been dating since Dec. More power to them. He's actually happy now, the relationship they're in is a good one - so that's a yea! in the world.

My friend B got herself a wonderful man who treats her fantabulously. Now we're looking for a great man for A. Know anyone?

I have a base coat on a canvas. I have cleared off the drafting table and now need to wipe down the rubber mat that protects it. Picked up more 1x2 boards for making a frame, need to get more lightweight canvas, cause the heavy stuff won't work for the piece I need to do next.

Work has settled in enough that I stare at the computer screen 6.5 hours out of my work day. Bleah. It's ok - there is a bit enough variety that I'll keep at it until I figure it out. I get to layout and produce newsletters and do membership drive things, and all those jazzy things that look good on a resume (much good as it does sometimes), but the day-to-dayness of listening to people complain isn't much fun.

So I come home and water the poor heat-wilting plants in the garden, in hopes they don't die completely. We survive the 108 degree day and wilt ourselves, collapsing into melted heaps at the end of the day. Sucks the energy right outta ya, I swear.

Went to a small business workshop, in hopes of learning how to get over my own fears of being an entrepreneur. Actually, it's not so much fear as it is lack of funds to be able to launch. Or you know, to be able to buy the building I want to buy.

I brace the thoughts of what I want for the future against what I want and need right now. I want a motorcycle to ride so I don't have to keep paying my grocery money to buy gas for my car. I want $100,000 to be able to buy the building I want and do the work that needs to be done to make it what I want it to be, a gallery & art workspace. I want a certain star design tattoo on my hip, a vine weaving and wrapping around my shoulder. I need to get my brakes, squealing something-or-other, and wiring fixed on my car. I have to go pay the dentist next week who knows what amount of money in order to drill into my teeth so hopefully they'll quit hurting while I eat. I have to pay the bills that should have been paid off months ago.

Wants & needs. A partner who is 1,400 miles away, and I want him here to wrap my arms around more than any other physical need. I want to sleep until 11 am every day because that's when my body wakes up naturally and I believe anything before 10 am should be voluntary, not mandatory; like work, or meetings, or such. I want to feel free to create, be encouraged to create, to learn new techniques and experiment in art.

I'm published again, real and legitimate, a gig that will require me to put together two to three info packed pieces a month. I am extremely proud of this endeavor, proud of myself again, proud of my writing skills. It's hard to explain this. It's hard to explain the mess of dealing with that jackass and the so-called news website and what it took out of me, or more precisely, what I put of myself into it because I wanted to believe it was real. Now, now it's real. Now I have my name on a byline for something I'm proud of, for a piece full of information, for a gig I'm going to enjoy doing.

And right now, I still can't figure out what I wanted to write about earlier. In this scheme of things, maybe it doesn't matter so much.

scraps

2008-06-02T22:05:00.000-05:00

tying the ripped pieces of cloth

moving boxes of paper and paints

peeling wallpaper

applying plaster

pulling weeds

fixing broken sprinkler pipes

soaking in the pool because the temp outside is 104

they expect 109 sometime this week

green paint

new wood to cut to stretch the canvas

ranting: commence mint speech

2008-05-29T22:57:00.001-05:00

Surviving high school is not an accomplishment to be proud of. If it were, it would be up there with getting a gold star for not getting into a car wreck on your way to work every day. Or not pulling a gun and going crazy because the local walmart can't keep cashiers and so they have three lanes open for 75 people wanting to checkout. Or for the ability to remember to put pants on before you leave the house. These all deserve a ceremony with a goofy robe and silly hat.

No. Not really.

Things to really be proud of include landing on your own two feet after a jump - literally and metaphorically.

Seeing blood and pain and twisted bodies and moving into action to do something instead of passing out.

Making an investment that succeeds. Or making an investment that succeeds after one that failed.

Taking responsibility for your actions and accepting or dealing with the results - good or bad.

Making one person smile. Giving one person a hand, or a ride. Being there for one person - friend or foe.

Thinking for yourself. Making a statement or decision that was not prepped for you.

Seriously. What is such a pride inducing thing about surviving three years with people who torment each other? Spent having your spirit crushed? Spent being 'taught' the cookie cutter curriculum and the lemming platform? Spent making increasingly dumb mistakes because you stupidly believe you are well on your way into adulthood? (Let me tell you something, I've been outta high school for 12 years now, and I feel no closer to 'adulthood' than I did then. Make the choices because you believe in them, not because someone else told you to.)

I'm still trying out the real world, seeing which parts of it fit. But I can guarantee you that the best and hardest times I remember were not spent in a classroom. They weren't spent hiding my true self in shame, being teased, or surviving the so-called education.

Fine. Feel proud of yourself for a millisecond or two. Then get over it and go on with the living. Do not relive your glory days of high school. Do not boast gleefully that you were in the top 50% as if you just performed brain surgery with a spoon. Don't get caught up in how easy it was once you leave, the best is yet to come.

Because the best is what's really gonna push you, stretch you, make you learn instantly, overwhelm your senses, fill you with desire and passion, make you scream and dance and cry, and ultimately let you figure out who you really are.

Now, go put on your pants and go do something with yourself. Then you can be proud. And wear a silly hat if you wish.