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April 2017

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Prancing Pony Knees

April 28, 2017

Ya, that right there.

Fuck, how many times have my knees hit the floor?

So many. I have crawled through life more than I have stood on my own two feet and walked.

I remember one night with the Giant, up in the attic of his double bricked house. It was crazy negative 30 Celsius freezing outside and I needed a smoke so he took me on high and lo I had a smoke and it was good, until it wasn’t. My knees were not hidden by the shirt of his that I had picked up off the floor to cover my nakedness with.

I told my girl the next morning, “he looked at me differently after he saw my banged up knees”.

She called me a performing pony and said I had the joints to match, and I do.

My knees are always bruised, swollen, scarred, knicked.

Bygones are bygones and just boy bye. He couldn’t handle me at my best, my most well behaved.

“Fall down seven times, get up eight” ~ Japanese proverb…
“then run like hell away from whatever keeps tripping you and find some level ground to walk on” ~ me

The alternative is learning to fly. But that holds its own dangers, just ask Lazarus.

I have often been humbled before god.
The penitent man shall pass, and I have passed through, never over, always through.
It’s the only way out.

And sometimes we just have to let our knees hit the floor and crawl.

Jim Morrison chanted “Break on through to the other side”.

What if I told you being bored wouldn’t kill you, neither would being sad or being alone.

I know it feels that way sometimes, I have felt that way.

A sadness so profound and crushing in the sheer weight of it that I thought I wouldn’t ever be able to breathe again, much less live or experience contentment let alone happiness and joy.

Alone isn’t the terrifying part, its loneliness that is the scary monster in the middle of the night.

It’s dealing with the loss of the way things were.

“It’s having a thing and losing it that’ll kill ya” Cold Mountain

Inman asked a blind man what he would give for 5 minutes of sight. The answer was nothing.

Loneliness and it’s kissing cousin, nostalgia. When we forget that the past has passed and we cling to the phantom limbs of what was because it was so much better than the here and now. But it ain’t, thinking that way is gonna kill you too.

I spent a lot of time drunk and high as a teenager. Dealing with loneliness, isolation, abandonment and I was a shitty person because of it. I earned my loneliness. I made myself a pariah with my shitty behavior and I poured substances into the chasm left and so it went. And like any shitty cycle, it had to be broken. I had to be broken, my knees had to hit the floor and I had to crawl out of there. And I did.

I know now that I was denied alone time for so long that it became something I crave and covet.

Equal and opposite reactions.

Besides, with the internet, I know if it gets bad, and it does, a voice is not far off.

Like the panic button in a sensory deprivation tank.

And with this knowledge, I float.

We all float down here.

You can float too.

wanderlust

Maybe

April 27, 2017

how far have you walked for men who’ve never held your feet in their laps?
how often have you bartered with bone, only to sell yourself short?
why do you find the unavailable so alluring?
where did it begin? what went wrong? and who made you feel so worthless?
if they wanted you, wouldn’t they have chosen you?
all this time, you were begging for love silently, thinking they couldn’t hear you, but they smelt it on you, you must have known that they could taste the desperate on your skin?
and what about the others that would do anything for you, why did you make them love you until you could not stand it?
how are you both of these women, both flighty and needful?
where did you learn this, to want what does not want you?
where did you learn this, to leave those that want to stay?
― Warsan Shire

Maybe next time.

And it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to father time. Death Cab for Cutie

See also I want to live where soul meets body.

I think the only time I will get to rest in one spot is when I die. I am not being melodramatic, maybe a little, call it writer’s creative license. But it’s an exaggeration with basis in reality, all exaggerations have those. I always thought I would like to have my ashes scattered in the places I loved the most. My lake, my nana’s back yard, my aunt’s cottage. Nah. I need to stay in one spot. Where soul meets body preferably.

I am a transient being. Transcending. Transcendental. I accept this.

Be the change.

Oh I am.

I let go of a bed I have been carrying around since the ex hubby years.

I’ll be letting go of a lot more before this is over.

I know exactly what it feels like to stay somewhere you don’t belong, to pay a mortgage in blood and tears on a house that was never mine. I won’t fight this time. I resign.

I don’t want to live here anymore.

I’ve finally wrapped my head around the idea that we have to move again.
I had planned to stay, let someone else stay in Panda’s room, I was holding onto the idea of staying still for once.

I was going to miss her terribly and I knew it.

We have plans, and prayers both to Father Time and whatever gods run YouTube.

I know I’ve said it, but it took me this long to catch up. Just like turning the key in my new car I still expect it not to start right away, because the last one wouldn’t. Maybe this time, maybe it will get better.

I have bet it all on black before and lost everything, repeatedly.

Thinking of painting my room red this time. I never have, not in all the rooms in all of the houses.

Red rum is murder, red room is Mordor, maybe no.

I’m already figuring out what I can throw away.

I’m craving the purge, it’s spring and with that comes catharsis, always does.

Swelling rivers carrying away a season’s worth of trash.

My heart knows it’s time and she is slowly disconnecting herself.

God I do not want to take down that lamp. I don’t know what’s worse, taking it down or putting it back up somewhere else.

I miss my old chandeliers.

I am realizing, slowly then all at once, that I am the same way with men that I am with houses.

I’m only renting. I move in and I make a nest and I think ‘maybe this time’.

It’s the only game I know how to play. Maybe he means it, maybe he’ll stay.

Eagles build upon the same aeries every year until they become colossal things, hummingbirds build new nests in new trees, delicate and fleeting like they are.

I have pontificated till I am blue in the face about how we don’t own people and everything is temporary and I write these words in black and white about how ‘ok’ that is, it’s just life, life happens everything flows. A river runs through it, and I am floating down.

Maybe that’s why I love my lake so much, she is both fixed and mutable. Always there always changing.

Maybe I am a river and maybe at some point I will run to the ocean and never look back, be swept up, carried away home.

“At the end of the day, it isn’t where I came from. Maybe home is somewhere I’m going and never have been before.”

― Warsan Shire

Maybe.

regular lust

Scorpios and Sex Machines

April 25, 2017

SCORPIO (Oct. 23-Nov. 21):

Now would be an excellent time to add deft new nuances to the ways you kiss, lick, hug, snuggle, caress, and fondle. Is there a worthy adventurer who will help you experiment with these activities? If not, use your pillow, your own body, a realistic life-size robot, or your imagination. This exercise will be a good warm-up for your other assignment, which is to upgrade your intimacy skills. How might you do that? Hone and refine your abilities to get close to people. Listen deeper, collaborate stronger, compromise smarter, and give more. Do you have any other ideas?
http://www.freewillastrology.com/horoscopes/20170427.html

I have taken to reading his horoscope when I check mine.

I like this one, a lot. I like him, a lot.

Once upon a time a princess sat with a frozen bag of peas between her legs because, after a long hiatus and a journey through the woods where she met many witches, warlocks and wolflings (oh my) she finally made it home to the castle and got laid.

This one isn’t exactly a prince, far from it really. And that is totally fine by me. This princess prefers monsters. Usually born in the month of November, remember remember.

“…Romantic feelings for a Scorpio hands down bet it all on black and let it ride. Like any addictive drug, a Scorpio will get you somewhere over the rainbow high, and you will crash.

The sex?

“The desert doesn’t get hotter and the ocean doesn’t get wetter…”

I wrote that ages ago and I wasn’t wrong.

Once upon a time when I was married, and before that and after I didn’t have even remotely enough sex. And the sex I did have was relatively disappointing. Ex hubby wasn’t overly gifted, the next one neither. The two I cheated on ex hubby with were gifted-ish, but those were short lived oasis in the desert that was my love life.

Monster posed the question as to whether or not I had experienced other lovers like him. The short answer is no. The long answer is also no.

I plan on writing an epic poem about this pie.  – David Lynch, Twin Peaks

I failed to do this. I have written epic epilogues about those who came before. But I left him hanging and he had to ask me (as I was shaking so hard I could barely move from aftershocks) after sex how he was by comparison.

The answer is simply…

Prolific perfection.

He is the sum of all the things I asked for. His sex drive matches mine and good god it’s good, amen.

I love the way he looks at me and I know exactly what he wants because I want it too. He plays my body like some kind of complicated instrument eliciting sounds and subsequent feelings that remind me of some kind of archaic music you can feel in your bones and your soul. I love the way he grabs and growls like he can’t help himself.

He asked me how it happened that I got laid so rarely when I do love it so, my answer remains “I don’t know”.
Personally? I don’t think I could finish a marathon so I wouldn’t ever start one, the ones that came before jogged a few blocks and suddenly found something else they had to do in a big hurry, like they left the stove on at home. Didn’t think they could compete so they dropped out, I couldn’t tell you why they started in the first place.

Maybe it’s the age old adage that all men want a nympho until they find themselves a real nympho.

Maybe there are less incubi in the world than I originally thought.

No matter, no mind. I have one now. My fuck monster. Also known playfully as my Sex Machine.

Don’t google sex machine with the safe search off, or maybe do. You’re all adults, do as you will.

I haven’t had enough coffee to process this but in the interest of sharing, here it is.

https://www.buzzfeed.com/hayleycampbell/sex-machines?utm_term=.qrZZ3OaaA#.uuZn2p33r

When I did the search for sex machine I was looking for lyrics not modified dental exam chairs but hey, kinda liked that one.

This immediately calls to mind that photo series/documentary of men living with those hyper realistic sex dolls as actual companions.

We can put that on the list of things that I understand but wouldn’t do.

I understand a lot.

It’s my gift from god. If I look back at my life I can clearly see I have been showered with dowries both tangible and intangible. I am blessed, I know this.

Speaking of…

My fuck monster/sex machine went away for a few days. He needed it, we both did.

As a result, this blog post is being brought to you by me, typing feverishly upon my laptop with a frozen bag of peas in my lap…

I like our version of the princess and the peas.

 

 

unable to even

Gypsy Heart and Home

April 23, 2017

My lovers come into me. Opening doors where before I built walls. I am a shitty stone mason, everything I try to build crumbles so easily. Because I want to be conquered, I want them to come in. Because I use the same bricks and the same mortar over and over in different configurations and different locations because this is what I am and I can’t change that, but I can keep trying. Because I am not made of stone, I am much too soft, too yielding, too willing to be taken over. I want them build a fire and stay in the warmth with me.

But they don’t.

Sneaking in windows crawling into my heart and body like I am a bed that feels just right.
Not too hard, not too soft.
Eating my words with sugar and milk feeling, full and sated by the honey that pours off my tongue and into them.
Not cold, not hot, but warm and just right.

But then they get scared of the beasts that reside here and they run somewhere they feel safe, with some other girl who has golden locks and a sign that says ‘live love laugh’ over her bed. The one above mine says ‘open’ and I am. She doesn’t know how to live or love or laugh, but she’ll fake it and orgasms to make them feel better, more like conquering men than wounded boys that were too afraid of a challenge.

I feed them.

I lay with them.

But where do I sleep?

What do I eat?

When my body is home to them but I have nowhere to be.

Four empty walls without a roof.

Sleep evading as they thrash in the night or worse, trying to curl my body around the hole they left so I don’t fall in and get swallowed whole. I have fallen before and it is a long climb out.

Gypsy girl with shining, transient trinkets and house plants neglected because I slept over and over and over in broken beds that were never mine.

I carried home in my hips and keys in my purse but they were temporary. Locks can be changed. The way he looks at me has changed.

Everything changes.

I’m changing. Changeling. Condos, cottages on easements, things you can buy but you never really own.

I carry home with me in the bones of my hips, he feels forgiven if he can just get inside. So I let him in even when I don’t want to because I know what it feels like to be locked out of Eden.

I just want to be let back in the house.

‘Home at last’ turns to ‘hope it lasts’ in my ear depending on the day.

My welcome mat says ‘welcome back’ knowing they leave and they will eventually find their way back by my porchlight shining like moths to the moon. I don’t know where the moon is I forgot to look I was too busy looking at him, his face shining in the glow of his cellphone, hypnotized by everything that wasn’t me searching for other places to be other than here.

I have a toothbrush in my purse, a backpack in my car in case I get asked to stay or forced to leave. Doesn’t make a difference I know I can live just fine outside in my truck under a bridge. I think that is why I always favored trucks over cars, you can fit more, stretch out between bags and boxes in the back, carve out a tiny place to sleep with your back pressed against a box of photographs my mother gave me that I can’t leave behind. Childhood memories of the last of the houses I felt home in.

Once my apartment caught fire when I was sleeping and I didn’t want to get up and leave I just wanted to stay in bed for 5 more minutes thought the smoke alarm was a clock and I could negotiate my way into staying. My 12th house in my 20th year. It wasn’t mine but I had a key. I had a baby in my belly, where he called home for over 9 months and I kept him safe in there.

That is all I am, somewhere to stay safe while a fire rages before they go out into the world and assess the damages out there not minding what has been done to me and I am left to pick up the same clothes off the same floor staring at the hole in the door trying to figure out how to patch this one this time.

“Everyone’s chest
is a living room wall
with awkwardly placed photographs
hiding fist-shaped holes.”

Andrea Gibson

Time to burn it all to the ground and move again.

Gypsy girl in search of a home.

 

 

gypsy travels

Broken & Home

April 22, 2017

 

 

I want to go home,
But home is the mouth of a shark
Home is the barrel of the gun

And no one would leave home
Unless home chased you to the shore
Unless home tells you to
Leave what you could not behind,
Even if it was human.

No one leaves home until home
Is a damp voice in your ear saying

Leave, run now, I don’t know what
I’ve become.

Warsan Shire

I have long struggled with the idea of home.

I think now that it can’t be 4 walls. I have moved 42 times in 42 years. I just wrote it down, counted, I didn’t realize and I’m reeling from it.
We’re moving again, in July of my 43rd year, and I don’t know where I’ll end up. I never do.

The yellow brick farm house I was born into collapsed into rubble sometime in the last few years.
242 East Gier where all my love lived was sold unceremoniously. Houghton Lake cottage torn down and rebuilt into something big and airy and unrecognizable. Childhood wildling pond and gravel pit filled in and built upon, I hear the basements flood in the spring and this pleases me, the water has her revenge.
My lake remains. Sand castles are as close I have gotten. I want to go home.

I was raised in the mouth of a shark. He in the barrel of a gun.

‘Can’t have clutter’ he says, ‘I was always told we might have to move and to be ready’.

No wonder he can’t settle down. Gypsy kids.

(run)

Cold metal, triggers and explosions leaving holes.

Gnashing teeth and primordial instincts, no emotions.

Killing machines both of them.

What’s the difference between a shark bite and a bullet hole? Not much. If you live through it, there will be scars. Muscle memories of being torn apart or pulled under.

I bring my clutter with me, amass more, purge, collect and move again. I decorate and nest just to tear down and rebuild. I have a fear of perfection, I always have to leave one thing unfinished because if it’s done and beautiful that is when I have been forced to move, when the last nail has been driven into the wall to hang the last photograph, the final curtains, fitted perfectly and sewn just to be taken down and put in a box or a trunk until the next house.

Equal and opposite reactions to the same thing.

He was raised to believe home equaled prison. I was locked out of mine.

You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore? All of a sudden even though you have some place where you put your shit, that idea of home is gone…You feel like you can never get it back. It’s like you feel homesick for a place that doesn’t even exist. Maybe it’s like this rite of passage, you know. You won’t ever have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself…

(Garden State)

That point came early for the both of us. 15. Probably sooner if we dug deep enough.

I’m still creating.

I am proud of my ability to both settle down and move on.

But what if…

Relationships are different for me, I know how he feels.
“We’re moving soon, be ready.”
My shoes stay by the door, purse too. I always know where my keys are. My things are contained, don’t spread out, bring nothing you can’t leave behind. Accept there might be losses, realize they are just things. Breathe and wait for it.

It’s okay if you can’t love me back, I’m used to that. Not sure I would know what to do if you did. Love harder maybe, or try.

We are just two people who don’t know what home is.
No one showed us.
The sit-coms lied, movies too.

We have a solid foundation of epic sex, understanding. It might be enough.

I could pretend.

And I’ll use you as a focal point, so I don’t lose sight of what I want. Amber Run

He asked me to stay, he always asks. I make him, I need to know I am wanted there, in his house he built and bought. It’s his. So am I.

And I stay.

Why? Because the dent in his hand-me-down bed, in his sparsely decorated concrete box of a condo, reminds me of a nest. I feel safe there, warm. I never have to reach too far to know he’s there. I haven’t always liked sleeping next to past partners, but with him…if there was a tandem sleeping Olympic event we would win gold. Perfect form and synchronicity. Doesn’t matter what happened during the day, there I can rest, protected.

Feels like what I imagined home might be.

 

 

 

 

 

men

Don’t Run

April 21, 2017

Sometimes my fingers get so itchy longing for a keyboard.

My muses just love to sit with me in the car and babble sweet somethings in my ear.

Or, like this morning, they were chirping away like birds on a wire as I tidied the things I said I wouldn’t because I want him to come home to clean and peace.

I was thinking, repeatedly and for quite some time now, that I have no idea how to be in a relationship.

But maybe I do a little.

I will tell you right now however, that in the rulebook, if ever there was one written, one of the big bad “NO’s” would be if you are having trouble with your partner, do not, I repeat do NOT write a blog post about it and stick it up on the interwebz.

But I did that.

It’s interesting to me that, from time to time, I have left messages here hoping and praying that they would be read by certain someones. Things I was scared to say out loud but I wanted someone to know. They went unheeded, for the most part.

And then this.

This man who by his own admittance, is not a big reader, checks on here daily to see what is happening in my head. Because he wants to know.

And he read it.

And I got the inevitable text, the one that usually strikes terror in the hearts of most. “We have to talk.”

And I wasn’t afraid. I had already made peace with whatever came because it could only get better. Whether it was to get better together or apart was the only lingering question.

We had to talk. I had to talk and I had to be heard.

So we talked.

He did most of it, I had already said what I needed to say, left it here in black and white to be mulled over slowly. He said more words than he has spoken in a week. Secrets of his universe and inner workings tumbling out of his mouth like an avalanche, tearing down trees and changing the landscape.

It had to change.

After the dust settled everything became so much clearer.

I have been where he is and I know my way out.

Maybe I do know how to be in a relationship because all I have to do is the opposite of what has been done to me before now. Don’t run, don’t judge, hang on, hold fast, listen…really listen and instead of imagining the things about the other person that are different as flaws, recognize them as just a separate set of gifts.

Symbiosis is not a state of two identical things making it work, it’s is two separate, yet equal entities thriving off their differences.

I wish he could see (so I am writing this here) that he is a god among men for the simple reason that everything he is, everything he has, he has built on his own, without instruction, praise or examples to be led by.

He is a good man and a good partner because he decided to be those things. Built a house with no foundation, found himself without a map and makes me stronger by proxy.

 

Nothing is the same as it was before you got here Ria Mae

 

 

 

 

Boys

True Colors and Stubborn Love

April 20, 2017

Show me a smile then
Don’t be unhappy
Can’t remember when
I last saw you laughing
This world makes you crazy
And you’ve taken all you can bear
Just, call me up
‘Cause I will always be there

And I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that’s why I love you

~Cyndi Lauper

I was so scared of how I was appearing to him, my messy hippy tie dyed rainbow self that I failed to see his monochromatic repetitive shades of grey.

I am always there. I am going a little crazy, always been prone to bouts of insanity now and again.
I can bear a lot, which in itself, is my cross to bear.
The texts are less frequent now, phone calls? Rarely ever.
Love? I have no idea. He used to say it when he was drunk, but I think that ship has sailed away on a river run amber with hops and malt.

I can’t remember the last time we laughed.

We must have, maybe at the cat doing that weird thing with his tongue when we touched the side of his face. Ya, I think so.

90 days, three months until the honeymoon phase is over and you actually meet the person you are dating.

We made it to 85 if the movie ticket stubs in my wallet tell the truth, and they do.

I never wore a mask and I was just me and I thought he was just him and it was so refreshing like water after walking through the desert, the nothing. He was something alright.

I think so maybe…

Tori Amos once said ‘hold onto nothing as fast as you can, well, still, pretty good year.’

I named a stray cat I had Nothing. He was so tired from living on the street and so happy to be home he curled up in my lap and did nothing for 3 days. I got it from a book too. Poppy Z Brite a changeling vampire hybrid child “His name is Nothing, care for him and he will bring you luck.”

I cared for him.

I cried with the vet when we found old wounds with the BB pellets from some awful human still  in his leg, he’d gotten in a fight and was dying in my arms. She was a good vet, she believed me when I said I was getting paid on Thursday and took us even though it was a Tuesday. He lived. Stayed with me until the antibiotics were done and escaped out the same window he’d gone out 10 days before, presumably to fight with the same cat. Revenge more important than the girl who loved him. He stayed with me long enough to be well enough to leave. I couldn’t change him, I didn’t try.

Cats don’t lie, they love you for your body heat, attention and the food you give them, nothing more. Doesn’t change the fact that they’ll bolt the second you leave the door open. They can live without those things and they know it. Even the tamest housecat is still a half wild thing.

I love his body heat.

I love that he can’t lie.

But just like anything and everything it’s a double edged sword.

He isn’t excited about me anymore, he won’t lie about it. I am just body heat, attention and food that he doesn’t bother eating.

He is or was, a lot of talk and no action. “We’re gonna…” but we haven’t. He was at the same bar eating the same chicken wings drinking the same beer with the same people because he was afraid he was going to miss something. So we missed out on going away, going anywhere.

Now he is mostly face down in his phone. It lights up his face quite nicely. It used to be me that did that. I loved how he looked at me, like treasure.

The shine always comes off.

One.
You know how this ends. There’s nothing you can do to change it, so make peace with it now. Ready your hands for the callus, shred the cloth for bandages, prepare the rosaries.

Lessons on Loving a Prophet, Jeanann Verlee

He isn’t a prophet but the lesson is the same.

My hands are already calloused from endless games of tug-o-war trying to pull back from the edge.

I do know how this ends. I waited 7 long years for honeymoon husband to reappear and as far as I know he is still fucking multiple women, dirty, laying on the couch playing video games. That’s who he was the whole time.

She’ll lie and steal and cheat
And beg you from her knees
Make you thinks she means it this time
She’ll tear a hole in you, the one you can’t repair
But I still love her, I don’t really care

It’s better to feel pain, than nothing at all
The opposite of love’s indifference
So pay attention now
I’m standing on your porch screaming out
And I won’t leave until you come downstairs

(Lumineers, Stubborn Love)

Although my love is stubborn. I won’t lie, steal or cheat I’ll just leave.

If I get on my knees it won’t be to beg.

Consider this my attempt at standing on your porch screaming out, even though I know that will get me nothing but shushed. “I’m scared you are going to come across the street and cause a scene.”

I haven’t been that girl in a good long while.

But for now I will hold onto nothing as fast as I can.

Hope that he goes back to looking at me the way he did before.

He used to think I’d leave if he seemed weak, if he cared too much. No worries there, I thought it was wonderful and I miss it more than I can say in 999 words or less.

The sex is still prolific perfection, so there’s that then.

Still, pretty good year.

And it ain’t over yet.

regular lust

50 Ways to Stay with your Lover

April 18, 2017

 

We aren’t. Wish granted.

Ta da

Abracadabra.

How bow dat?

The gods always smile on brave women.
Granted sometimes they are smiling because they can’t control their laughter when we forget ourselves and we turn into shadows of what we are and become nagging, bitchy things with teeth and claws and tears.

And then my period stops and ya, sorry bout dat.

Consider my shit together.

Everything is as it should be, as it always is. (Dalai Lama)

I lived without him before he showed up, I can do it again.

But the more I push, the sooner that is going to happen. So no more pushing.

Easy peasy. Like Sunday morning with or without pancakes.

No more clinging onto shit that doesn’t matter either.

Granted there was a rough patch, akin to a quick bend in the river, a drop in elevation creating rapids roiling and rolling, but that was then.

Back to our regularly scheduled ebb and flow, I got caught up on some rocks for a bit.

I am back in the water, here I float, unencumbered.

God I need to get back in the water. Willing the summer to get here quicker is futile, it will come when it comes and it is my job to make sure it is thoroughly enjoyed and glorious.

I keep forgetting what my job is.

Currently I am juggling two paying jobs, writing, being a mother, a girlfriend and whatever version of myself I feel like being today.

I am all of those things.

I decided this.

I decided on him, he decided on me.

The only thing making things complicated was an unconscious decision I made to make it so.

I forgot for a week or two that I am my own Captain Jean Luc Picard, this is my starship. I get to decide how this goes.

I walked into this first actual relationship in 4 years adamantly deciding that I wasn’t going to lose myself this time.

But I found myself slipping.
Spending time in places I don’t belong with people I don’t know.
Time I could have been writing, napping, working, with my girls.
Or just being home alone.

That familiar tearing feeling of being pulled in too many directions which makes me balk and want to hide.

I wanted to be with him, he’s awesome. The sex is prolific perfection. He is funny and strange and above all sweet to me.

I was saying one thing, thinking something completely different and doing the polar opposite of both.

Never ending search for the fulcrum.

The secret is all inside your head she said to me, the answer is easy if you take it logically.
Paul Simon 50 Ways to Leave your Lover.

I am not leaving my lover. Quite like him actually.

The answer is logical though. ‘No’ is a complete sentence. So is ‘Okay Baby’. Just gotta find that balance.

There is nothing wrong with him going to the bar and me being home asleep. He’s away right now and sooooo happy. So am I, both for him and for the time spent alone. I was so desperate for me time that I was spending my tiny allotments in unproductive ways. Overthinking being one of them.

We’re good together and we are good apart.

I wouldn’t stand for him demanding I go out, so why should he tolerate me demanding he stay home.

He shouldn’t.

Doesn’t work that way.

But somehow we work.

 

 

men

Goose and Gander

April 14, 2017

I sat upon the balcony yesterday, early evening watching the sky change colors.

Sitting, smoking, waiting.

Just enjoying the warm and the quiet, well almost quiet. Indie playlist on Spotify coming through the screen door. Squirrels arguing over pinecones, woodpecker knocking his face against a tree, grackles cackling and kids playing at the playground.

Couldn’t tell you exactly what I was thinking about, possibly nothing, but unlikely. I am always contemplating something. It’s just my way.

I adulted ultra-super-mega hard all day and needed a brief moment of respite so I took it.

Something caught my eye and I looked up from my phone. A blue jay, glancing over his wing at me, caught my eye and stared at me, as if to say ‘focus girl’. So I focused. I thought I knew what his particular winged portent meant. And I did. “Speak your mind”.
This is the omen blue jays bring. Speak up speak out clear your throat and just say it.

A few hours later I did.

And it was unpleasant.

In the moment I believed I was right.

Adamantly so.

Blue jay shoulda told me to pick my battles. This was nothing but a small skirmish, not a war.

But I suited up and to war I went.

Much ado about nothing but I didn’t see it that way. I was blinded by prior events.

I hate having tantrums, my stomach ties itself into knots, my eyes sting and my throat burns.

But a tantrum I had. Missed the foot stomping part. Sat on the top step and begged instead. Equally as gross.

I lost the fight, if you could even call it that.

I didn’t get my way.

Revelations chapter one.

Why should I?

He said very plainly “You’re and introvert and I’m an extrovert, I want to go out.”

In the din of my internal struggle against panic and worry, I didn’t hear him right away.

I was left alone to gather my thoughts. I get left a lot. It struck a chord in me and not a good one, like a guitar out of tune with a reverb pedal. But eventually the noise faded and my thoughts became clear.

Alone.

Alone I like.

I’ve been craving it, stealing moments when I can. Being late for things just so I can spend a few more minutes with myself. Getting up at 6 am so I can sit on the very same balcony where the blue jay paid me a visit and just have some solitude before I head back into the world.

Herein lay the epiphany that presented itself rather gently as I laid in the bed, my body held comfortably by the divot we’ve made.

I like being alone.

He doesn’t.

What is good for the goose isn’t always what is good for the gander.

And that’s okay.

I sent a text saying “I was wrong” and promptly and peacefully fell asleep.

He made good on his promise and came home on time. No harm, no foul.

Kissing me and tucking himself into me and the aforementioned divot.

I’ve never been one to mind being woken up, especially that way. I rarely have trouble falling asleep or getting back to it.

All of my no’s from earlier were been replaced with ‘okay baby’.

My natural state of being.

I smiled in my half sleep.

There was no conflict other than what existed in me.

He walked away exactly long enough for me to figure things out on my own and then did something entirely foreign to me.

He came back.

And I let it go.

lost boys

Erasing My Fault Lines

April 11, 2017

Um, all of them Rob
ALL. OF. THEM.

GEMINI (May 21-June 20):
Now is an excellent time to FREE YOUR MEMORIES. What comes to mind when I suggest that? Here are my thoughts on the subject. To FREE YOUR MEMORIES, you could change the way you talk and feel about your past. Re-examine your assumptions about your old stories, and dream up fresh interpretations to explain how and why they happened. Here’s another way to FREE YOUR MEMORIES: If you’re holding on to an insult someone hurled at you once upon a time, let it go. In fact, declare a general amnesty for everyone who ever did you wrong. By the way, the coming weeks will also be a favorable phase to FREE YOURSELF OF MEMORIES that hold you back. Are there any tales you tell yourself about the past that undermine your dreams about the future? Stop telling yourself those tales.

https://www.facebook.com/Rob-Brezsnys-Free-Will-Astrology-133041234078/

 

 

But that is what I do. Isn’t it? Post-game analysis, see where I went wrong…

I was wrong…right?

Rob says stop, so stop I must.

This is the end, my only friend the end. The Doors

I haven’t been that emotionally down in a long time.

How about ‘every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end’ (Semi Sonic)

That works.

I never write about endings on here, or very rarely I guess.
Sometimes it’s because…’and then he never called me again and I have no idea why’ doesn’t really make for a gripping story.
Sometimes it’s because things just faded into a friendship, or with the ones wherein I had the revelation that I was 7 of 9 and not ‘his girl’ like they had promised.

Why would I want to archive that? I pick up the pieces and move on, sometimes slowly… then all at once.

I’ve been left and I have been hurt and I refuse to visit pain on others.

I am rarely the one to leave. End of story.

In the interest of clean breaks and tidy endings…

On a long enough timeline the truth always comes out. Still waiting on a couple but I know they’ll come.

My first foray into dating ended after 3 months of happy when I asked if we could be boyfriend/girlfriend, him saying he ‘wasn’t ready for a relationship’ and me waking from a midsummer night’s dream with a very loud voice echoing in my ear stating “her name is Kayla and she has cotton candy hair.”

It was actually K___ and her hair has been baby blue, baby pink and lilac respectively in the months and years that have passed since then.

18 months later, when she was mean to him, I consoled him. Not like that, just said nice things.

The next one fell into a deep chasm of depression and had to move away atop a mountain.
No great mystery there.
He is as happy on his side of the country as I am on mine.

There was a patented Fuckboi in there, again nothing to be solved, he just was what he was. Well, is what he is. He still pops into my inboxes from time to time. I say hello and deliberately leave it up to him to plan something, knowing he won’t. He never calls back until the amnesia wears off again and he wonders what I am doing or runs out of other girls to fuck. He has abandonment issues the reasons for and the likes of which I have never seen so I refuse to be cruel. Ain’t waiting around neither.

Thai Fighter was engaged the whole time.

Black 19 was incarcerated, again.

The mystery of Lumberjack may well remain unsolved. He blocked me from everything ever and it’s not like I ever saw him. The only thing I was good at was living without him, so that’s a freebie.

Gelfling…well that is a whole other tale along the riverbank. I met his new girl recently and everything suddenly made sense, twice actually, once for him and once for another. A two-fer if you will. A perfect balance of me being too much and them feeling not enough. Can’t be helped I supposed. I refuse to shed my muchyness and they have yet to grow up. The hazards of young un’s I suppose. No great loss in retrospect. Like setting down the Holy Grail and deciding on a sippy cup instead. Better call not-Becky with the red hair.

There is a footnote here.

I am hard to explain to people. I am older and strange. By vocation I am a writer of truths and porn, plus the stripper thing. I am not not-Becky, red headed or otherwise.

To be with me, to claim me in public you have to be pretty brave. You have to give fewer fucks than most about what other people think.

Am I worth it?

I think so.

Nevertheless she persisted.

I cook, I clean, I fuck and I love. I clean up nice and can carry a conversation.

I don’t bitch, steal or lie.

I am already way ahead of most.

I know this now.

Took me a while.

I was mired down in the idea that I had to take some responsibility. But it isn’t mine. I did my part. I showed up and I cared. I contributed to their happiness and well-being. I asked for very little in return.

I’ve long held the belief that I as the common denominator must be part of the problem, even if it was so basic as ‘I felt bad about myself and thereby made bad decisions’. At least I made a god damned decision.

That scene in Good Will Hunting at the end. Robin Williams looks through Matt Damon’s file, sees the abuse and says “It’s not your fault” until Matt Damon breaks down and sobs from his core.

It’s not my fault, these things that have been done to me. It’s truly not on me that they left. I did what I was supposed to, I came all the way forward and stayed.

It’s not my fault at all.

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