Monday, December 23, 2013
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
I Feel Remorse, For Whomever Knocks on My Door
The car ride was nothing less than completely uneventful. I was kept busy by the constant, rhythmic thump of the creases in the road. Normally, my imagination would devise some sort of song, or rap to go along with it. This was not one of those trips. There was a consistent low hum in my brain, that caused me to become myopic in thoughts. I looked to my passenger seat, hoping for a sneaking smile. Maybe she would see that my head had gotten ahead of itself, and gently reach over and hold my hand. She was wholeheartedly asleep, in the back seat of the truck.
This is a flashback. This is how they come. It is a whirlwind tornado, of all encompassing thought, that gets away from me. There is a smell, or a sound, that triggers it. When that happens, it just fades in for a few brief moments, and leaves, like a thief in the night.
Dinner was odd. Is it strange to set up a dinner with an ex lover, so that she can pick you apart mentally? Literally, on purpose, we had planned dinner around this psychological profile she had worked up in her time knowing, and being apart from me. She was spot on. Yet, she held back. Why? She was constructive, when she could have been harsh. I can handle harsh, and she knows it. She looked amazing. She always does. The low cut tops that bare enough cleavage to remind me of what I was missing. Her eyes, bright, full of optimism, and determination. That little click sound she makes with her mouth when she winks knowingly. I think that is where she was being harsh. Killing with kindness. I could still see her laying on my couch, fully nude, on Christmas day. Eating an enormous meal that I somehow pulled out of nowhere. That day, we laughed, and danced, and fucked like it was our last day on Earth. Little did we both know, it wasn't far off.
When the mind wanders it can only be described as a frail woman holding the leash of a determined Great Dane. It is going to lead you. You will follow. The leaves of your senses, start as a small wind swept swirl, in the middle of a suburban street. Slowly, it grows and takes them upwards. Since these memories are merely daydreams, it takes just seconds for them to become a tornado. Grabbing the Midwest homes of your psyche, pulling them into the air, and tearing them to shreds.
No matter whether I see her for a second, or sit next to her for hours on the patio of some local bar, she is both, elation and depression. I'm forever intrigued by her boots. They seem to turn my nearest hand into a magnet. She's never told me to stop. It has never been treated as an intrusion. Well, there was that one time, but I think even she knew it was an over reaction. Every once in a while I will wrap my hand around the shin part of the boot, and gently tap my fingers, as if to let her know I'm there. That small tap. That small pat. The slight, gentle noise of rain starting to hit the pavement. Our day could not have been more perfect, and her impromptu company made it exactly that. We had danced all day. Drank until the evening sun dropped into an orange and purple sky. The shows were loud, and we danced close like two wolves hungry to just play with each other. Earlier in the day, I had been mouth deep below her moans, which, at that moment, seemed like an eternity ago. We ran to the car, and that slow patter of rain began. It grew quickly. I was thirsty for any water, whether in my mouth or on my body, and I began to laugh. Throwing my hands in the air, I looked at her, and saw a small halo form over her head with each street lamp we passed. She was smiling that anxious smile of someone that thinks I have gone mad. I was grinning from the fact that she has no idea how beautiful she continued to look, even with her wet hair matted to her face. We grabbed each other like we had been starving for each other's lips.
Every time my rough hand, slides up and down that soft, smooth boot, I can feel that breath. The breath of a perfect day.
This is a flashback. This is how they come. It is a whirlwind tornado, of all encompassing thought, that gets away from me. There is a smell, or a sound, that triggers it. When that happens, it just fades in for a few brief moments, and leaves, like a thief in the night.
Dinner was odd. Is it strange to set up a dinner with an ex lover, so that she can pick you apart mentally? Literally, on purpose, we had planned dinner around this psychological profile she had worked up in her time knowing, and being apart from me. She was spot on. Yet, she held back. Why? She was constructive, when she could have been harsh. I can handle harsh, and she knows it. She looked amazing. She always does. The low cut tops that bare enough cleavage to remind me of what I was missing. Her eyes, bright, full of optimism, and determination. That little click sound she makes with her mouth when she winks knowingly. I think that is where she was being harsh. Killing with kindness. I could still see her laying on my couch, fully nude, on Christmas day. Eating an enormous meal that I somehow pulled out of nowhere. That day, we laughed, and danced, and fucked like it was our last day on Earth. Little did we both know, it wasn't far off.
When the mind wanders it can only be described as a frail woman holding the leash of a determined Great Dane. It is going to lead you. You will follow. The leaves of your senses, start as a small wind swept swirl, in the middle of a suburban street. Slowly, it grows and takes them upwards. Since these memories are merely daydreams, it takes just seconds for them to become a tornado. Grabbing the Midwest homes of your psyche, pulling them into the air, and tearing them to shreds.
No matter whether I see her for a second, or sit next to her for hours on the patio of some local bar, she is both, elation and depression. I'm forever intrigued by her boots. They seem to turn my nearest hand into a magnet. She's never told me to stop. It has never been treated as an intrusion. Well, there was that one time, but I think even she knew it was an over reaction. Every once in a while I will wrap my hand around the shin part of the boot, and gently tap my fingers, as if to let her know I'm there. That small tap. That small pat. The slight, gentle noise of rain starting to hit the pavement. Our day could not have been more perfect, and her impromptu company made it exactly that. We had danced all day. Drank until the evening sun dropped into an orange and purple sky. The shows were loud, and we danced close like two wolves hungry to just play with each other. Earlier in the day, I had been mouth deep below her moans, which, at that moment, seemed like an eternity ago. We ran to the car, and that slow patter of rain began. It grew quickly. I was thirsty for any water, whether in my mouth or on my body, and I began to laugh. Throwing my hands in the air, I looked at her, and saw a small halo form over her head with each street lamp we passed. She was smiling that anxious smile of someone that thinks I have gone mad. I was grinning from the fact that she has no idea how beautiful she continued to look, even with her wet hair matted to her face. We grabbed each other like we had been starving for each other's lips.
Every time my rough hand, slides up and down that soft, smooth boot, I can feel that breath. The breath of a perfect day.
Monday, December 2, 2013
My Homeless Looking Dog, Isn't Doing Me Any Favors
The all too familiar look,
and a small shake of the hips.
She lights up my life,
like an explosion.
With a smile she uses to get her way.
The light touch of conversation,
and the slight begging in her voice.
She drowns out the daylight,
like curtains I wish I owned,
With her raspy voice she shakes the trees.
Two of a kind,
they are the sun and the moon.
The enticement of warmth and heat,
but I still need the darkness that travels over the hills.
So, waking up next to two different ex lovers, in a matter of 48 hours, needs only one word for description. Weird. Really fucking weird. Having cast one of them so far from my thoughts, that the mere idea of being in the vicinity of her, is completely foreign. Let alone, going to dinner, and having her suggest that we "casually date".
"Um....Eliza.....not just no, but......fuck no", these were some of the hardest words I had said to another human being in a long time.
I think her reaction was typical, which made it even more, odd. She has never been one for typical responses. Yet, the dinner was enlightening. I learned things that made me realize that her brand of life may never fit easily into mine. I would have created a Powerpoint, but instead I give you my list.
Reasons why it is hard to love Eliza:
"You just can't let yourself be happy, can you?", she has said this too many times, and it sounds no different a year later in my truck. Here's the problem with that. I am happy. I am. I mean, life is never perfect, and sometimes contentedness is as close as you get to happy. I'll take that. I truly will. I can let myself be happy, and I do, often.
Yet, let's be honest. This is nothing more than holiday blues, hitting her. It's happened before. Well, it hasn't hit me. I actually feel a little better. Especially after writing this. It has popped my psyche open to things that aren't even mentionable here. I'll leave this with quotes from two texts that I just got from a dear friend. Batting a problem around with someone completely removed from the situation, like exes coming out of the woodwork, is something I highly recommend.
"Because they are alone, and want the comfort of something great, they once possessed."
"They want to see that certain look that you get when you look at a woman. I have seen it, and craved it."
Thank you, Adrienne. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
P.S. If anyone out there could get me off The Royal Tenenbaums soundtrack that would be very nice. Thank you.
and a small shake of the hips.
She lights up my life,
like an explosion.
With a smile she uses to get her way.
The light touch of conversation,
and the slight begging in her voice.
She drowns out the daylight,
like curtains I wish I owned,
With her raspy voice she shakes the trees.
Two of a kind,
they are the sun and the moon.
The enticement of warmth and heat,
but I still need the darkness that travels over the hills.
So, waking up next to two different ex lovers, in a matter of 48 hours, needs only one word for description. Weird. Really fucking weird. Having cast one of them so far from my thoughts, that the mere idea of being in the vicinity of her, is completely foreign. Let alone, going to dinner, and having her suggest that we "casually date".
"Um....Eliza.....not just no, but......fuck no", these were some of the hardest words I had said to another human being in a long time.
I think her reaction was typical, which made it even more, odd. She has never been one for typical responses. Yet, the dinner was enlightening. I learned things that made me realize that her brand of life may never fit easily into mine. I would have created a Powerpoint, but instead I give you my list.
Reasons why it is hard to love Eliza:
- Eliza has a Body Dismorphia problem that causes her to think that she is simultaneously able to get whatever she wants because she is gorgeous, and still the little fat girl that was ignored by her parents.
- Her parents never ignored her. She's just an only child, with parents that drank a lot.
- In a matter of the year or so, in which we have been broken up, she has fallen in "love" twice, and already been through a 9 month relationship.
- I realize that she may have a completely different definition of "love" than I have.
- Eliza has an ability to make me smile on the outside. Yet, not spark a piece of intellectual excitement. This dinner was no different.
- Sleeping next to her was a reminder of why I never dreamed when I was with her.
- I love my dreams.
- She still, to this day, picks the worst friends and acquaintances.
- The realization that I give fantastic advice to people I care about, and love, and deserve someone that will listen to it when they ask for it.
- Her butt is still lacking. I know she's proud of it, but her face is so much more, and she doesn't realize it.
- Take note: If you are doing something for the better of yourself and the world around you, it doesn't mean you have to remind everyone of the same.
- Did I mention that she has already been in "love" twice? Hahahah
"You just can't let yourself be happy, can you?", she has said this too many times, and it sounds no different a year later in my truck. Here's the problem with that. I am happy. I am. I mean, life is never perfect, and sometimes contentedness is as close as you get to happy. I'll take that. I truly will. I can let myself be happy, and I do, often.
Yet, let's be honest. This is nothing more than holiday blues, hitting her. It's happened before. Well, it hasn't hit me. I actually feel a little better. Especially after writing this. It has popped my psyche open to things that aren't even mentionable here. I'll leave this with quotes from two texts that I just got from a dear friend. Batting a problem around with someone completely removed from the situation, like exes coming out of the woodwork, is something I highly recommend.
"Because they are alone, and want the comfort of something great, they once possessed."
"They want to see that certain look that you get when you look at a woman. I have seen it, and craved it."
Thank you, Adrienne. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
P.S. If anyone out there could get me off The Royal Tenenbaums soundtrack that would be very nice. Thank you.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Ocean Waves Recess
The week progressed just as I thought it would. Four days of rest, three days of excess, and seven days of grasping for the straws behind my psyche. Waking up at 3am is clockwork to me. I'm not up too long, but it gives me just enough time to dole out a few sets of push ups and sit ups. Jeff watches me with a look of disgust that only a dog awakened by nonsense can give to you.
"Listen Robert, I'm finally five years old. That's.....", dogs are not very good at math. "That makes me.....hmmmm...... thirty two?" See I told you. "I think we should talk, man to man."
"First of all, I'm not even going to talk about your poor arithmetic skills. Yet, I will say, it's three in the morning, I'm trying to wear myself out, and obviously the "man to man" reference doesn't really work in this situation", I am this sarcastic, even to my dog.
"You have good points, but I could also say, you are the one, in your briefs, holding a conversation with a dog." It is a really sad state of affairs when your mutt is dead fucking on point. Needless, to say, the push ups have ceased.
"Ok, you have my undivided attention", I sigh as I roll over onto my back.
"Robert, listen man, I keep trying to find a good way to bring this up, but I think I need to be direct", he has now switched into an oddly serious tone. Don't ask me what a dog's serious tone sounds like. It will just embarrass the both of us even further.
"Ok, just spit it out", I sit up and we are nearly eye level now. Yes, I let him sleep on my bed. I mean, come on, he's a talking dog.
"You've been single for what.....a year....year and a half now?"
"Jeff! That is not entirely true. I mean Amalie. That was a few months, right?"
"You know, I'm really wondering whether that relationship even counts", he said it. He really did.
"I don't want to discount her at all. Lovely girl. She truly was. Yet, was that really what we would call a 'relationship'? I mean, you gotta put yourself out there man."
"Wait. What? I put myself out there", I'm starting to get a little insulted by this conversation.
"Oh, I'm sorry, by yourself, I meant more than just your dick", my dog is well versed in the sarcasm, also. "Listen man, you gotta stop it with this wall building shit. Don't get me wrong. You really do...um......how can I say this.......play the 'man' role? But, you gotta be more giving with yourself."
"Example?"
"I need you to look me in the eyes for this", Jeff has turned dead serious.
"Sure", I say with just a bit of uncertainty. I ease up on my knees. A lot is starting to sink in. It's three o clock in the morning. I'm in my underwear. Kneeling nose to nose, in front of my dog. Having an imaginary conversation about my relationship with women. This is not a high point in my life.
We are now staring into each other's eyes.
I've always found it weird how human his eyes are. They seem to come from another place. It, at times, has been unsettling, but for the most part, comforting. I can see his nostrils flaring with each breath. His little black lips are thin and a bit pouty. He lets out a small bark. It refocuses my attention on his eyes.
"Robert, I want you to listen closely to me. You are wonderful. Not only the parts that you show people, but the parts you hide away. You are smart, and funny, and witty, and anyone can tell, no matter how much you hide it. You have a ton of love in your heart. I mean a fucking ton, man. I see it everyday. You can't ever stop hugging things. I think it's funny when you try to be all mean, and gruff. Because I see what your smile looks like when we wrestle around your bedroom. You're problem isn't that you love too little, and people think you're an asshole. You're problem is that you love so much, and it hurts people to watch you try to hide it. I know you have been hurt, and I know you want to do the same to everyone else. Yet, it's frustrating you even more because you can't. Just stop it. If I had arms I would hug you, but I don't. So, all I can do is this." With a quick motion his tongue hit me on the tip of nose.
I buried my face in my hands and started to cry. I found myself at an odd crossroad. A dog. A stupid, furry, mangy, mutt had told me what no one else has had the balls to say. In that one little doggy kiss, he had broken down everything I had tried to build. A big, fucking, mean, black, sarcastic, wall. I looked up at his gorgeous, brown eyes. Tears soaking my face. There was only one thing I could say to him.
"Who wants a tummy rub?"
"Oh, oh, oh, oh, I do!!! I do!!!!!", he exclaimed.
"Listen Robert, I'm finally five years old. That's.....", dogs are not very good at math. "That makes me.....hmmmm...... thirty two?" See I told you. "I think we should talk, man to man."
"First of all, I'm not even going to talk about your poor arithmetic skills. Yet, I will say, it's three in the morning, I'm trying to wear myself out, and obviously the "man to man" reference doesn't really work in this situation", I am this sarcastic, even to my dog.
"You have good points, but I could also say, you are the one, in your briefs, holding a conversation with a dog." It is a really sad state of affairs when your mutt is dead fucking on point. Needless, to say, the push ups have ceased.
"Ok, you have my undivided attention", I sigh as I roll over onto my back.
"Robert, listen man, I keep trying to find a good way to bring this up, but I think I need to be direct", he has now switched into an oddly serious tone. Don't ask me what a dog's serious tone sounds like. It will just embarrass the both of us even further.
"Ok, just spit it out", I sit up and we are nearly eye level now. Yes, I let him sleep on my bed. I mean, come on, he's a talking dog.
"You've been single for what.....a year....year and a half now?"
"Jeff! That is not entirely true. I mean Amalie. That was a few months, right?"
"You know, I'm really wondering whether that relationship even counts", he said it. He really did.
"I don't want to discount her at all. Lovely girl. She truly was. Yet, was that really what we would call a 'relationship'? I mean, you gotta put yourself out there man."
"Wait. What? I put myself out there", I'm starting to get a little insulted by this conversation.
"Oh, I'm sorry, by yourself, I meant more than just your dick", my dog is well versed in the sarcasm, also. "Listen man, you gotta stop it with this wall building shit. Don't get me wrong. You really do...um......how can I say this.......play the 'man' role? But, you gotta be more giving with yourself."
"Example?"
"I need you to look me in the eyes for this", Jeff has turned dead serious.
"Sure", I say with just a bit of uncertainty. I ease up on my knees. A lot is starting to sink in. It's three o clock in the morning. I'm in my underwear. Kneeling nose to nose, in front of my dog. Having an imaginary conversation about my relationship with women. This is not a high point in my life.
We are now staring into each other's eyes.
I've always found it weird how human his eyes are. They seem to come from another place. It, at times, has been unsettling, but for the most part, comforting. I can see his nostrils flaring with each breath. His little black lips are thin and a bit pouty. He lets out a small bark. It refocuses my attention on his eyes.
"Robert, I want you to listen closely to me. You are wonderful. Not only the parts that you show people, but the parts you hide away. You are smart, and funny, and witty, and anyone can tell, no matter how much you hide it. You have a ton of love in your heart. I mean a fucking ton, man. I see it everyday. You can't ever stop hugging things. I think it's funny when you try to be all mean, and gruff. Because I see what your smile looks like when we wrestle around your bedroom. You're problem isn't that you love too little, and people think you're an asshole. You're problem is that you love so much, and it hurts people to watch you try to hide it. I know you have been hurt, and I know you want to do the same to everyone else. Yet, it's frustrating you even more because you can't. Just stop it. If I had arms I would hug you, but I don't. So, all I can do is this." With a quick motion his tongue hit me on the tip of nose.
I buried my face in my hands and started to cry. I found myself at an odd crossroad. A dog. A stupid, furry, mangy, mutt had told me what no one else has had the balls to say. In that one little doggy kiss, he had broken down everything I had tried to build. A big, fucking, mean, black, sarcastic, wall. I looked up at his gorgeous, brown eyes. Tears soaking my face. There was only one thing I could say to him.
"Who wants a tummy rub?"
"Oh, oh, oh, oh, I do!!! I do!!!!!", he exclaimed.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
My Favorite Game
It's called, "I Wonder if She is Thinking About me, As Much As I Am Thinking About Her?"
Monday, November 18, 2013
The Lion's Den
They say, "There are plenty other fish in the sea."
I say, "Fuck you, she was my sea."
-J. Faulkner
The best foot forward
on the edge of a sliding cliff.
"I can hold you", she whispered.
"I can hold you better", I scream.
We all do, what we can,
and hope that the "best" is exactly that.
"I know you can do this", I sighed, hoping she would listen.
"I can't", she knew I was ignoring, all of it.
All the choices in the world
never means it will be enough.
"I gave this all to you so quickly", she wrote on a note and slid it across the table.
"I think you underestimate my pain threshold", I crumpled it, and threw it away.
Walking through the desert
was supposed to be easier.
"Come here, hold my hand", I reached out to my side.
"................", she said nothing, because she was no longer there.
Monday, November 11, 2013
The Shot Heard Around My Head
This is an embarrassing tale. With a less than classy set of circumstances. So, we are going to try and wind our way through it, without divulging all the minuet, possibly ridiculous, details. Let's start it with a bang.
That's what happened. I could tell from the second I saw her. I had fallen. hard. Now, I'm not going to pussy foot around. Most people that read this blog, should know by now, that I am prone to manic fits of endearment. I fall for a great smile. I blush with a slight wink of a gorgeous set of eyes. I have a "swoon factor" that is fairly unmatched. It has always felt right to fall easily. The enjoyment from it warms my chest, and I would hope that it does the same to the person I am complimenting.
"oh my god someone just said the sweetest things to me and I’m going to die because it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened. I’ve never been fawned over like that oh man
'I would want to be cute lesbians in New York with you making lots of really good art
I would ride the subway past 9:30 and keep you safe
I’m smitten, smitten
I want to drink whiskey all night with you
I want to open a record shop with you and sell vinyl to people who don’t deserve them, I want to be assholes to everyone with you
I just fell in love with a stranger
Everything about you is cherubic
You deserve to always have a pretty boy or girl next to you kissing your cheek, you deserve the best possible things always
I’m gonna scoop you up and eat Mexican food with you
I love you, I love you, I adore you
I’ll ride my bike over every bridge in PDX til I find you'"
This was all said, by me. This was all meant, by me. Our conversation still rattles in my head, and the memory of her smile still makes my skin goose bump. Here comes something that only a few people will understand. You can take this literally, or figuratively. I saw a lot of naked women that night. I saw sex, and skin being thrown around like it was a mere afterthought of existence. Hers, though? I had no want. I had no lust. I had no ulterior motive. I just wanted to hear her voice, see her eyes wince in giggling joy, and warm my heart in the glow of a happy woman. Yet, it gets worse.
I will, more than likely, never see this woman again. I will never hear her voice. I will never touch her, or feel the warmth of her breath. I will never fix her breakfast. We will never ride bikes together, or take her along as I walk my dog. I will never lay in a park, and watch her fall asleep, on the blanket I brought. She will never kiss me. She will never bring me coffee while I paint. We will never meet up, randomly on a side walk, as our friends drag us to drastically different places. She will never fix my crooked tie, and I will never try to get into her pants at socially unacceptable points in time. She will never heal my wounds, and I will never be the biggest cheerleader to her accomplishments.
Very early, on Sunday Morning, I fell in love.
That's what happened. I could tell from the second I saw her. I had fallen. hard. Now, I'm not going to pussy foot around. Most people that read this blog, should know by now, that I am prone to manic fits of endearment. I fall for a great smile. I blush with a slight wink of a gorgeous set of eyes. I have a "swoon factor" that is fairly unmatched. It has always felt right to fall easily. The enjoyment from it warms my chest, and I would hope that it does the same to the person I am complimenting.
So, I have ran over how I would write this blog post in my head several times. I think it might be best to let you hear what happened in her own words:
'I would want to be cute lesbians in New York with you making lots of really good art
I would ride the subway past 9:30 and keep you safe
I’m smitten, smitten
I want to drink whiskey all night with you
I want to open a record shop with you and sell vinyl to people who don’t deserve them, I want to be assholes to everyone with you
I just fell in love with a stranger
Everything about you is cherubic
You deserve to always have a pretty boy or girl next to you kissing your cheek, you deserve the best possible things always
I’m gonna scoop you up and eat Mexican food with you
I love you, I love you, I adore you
I’ll ride my bike over every bridge in PDX til I find you'"
This was all said, by me. This was all meant, by me. Our conversation still rattles in my head, and the memory of her smile still makes my skin goose bump. Here comes something that only a few people will understand. You can take this literally, or figuratively. I saw a lot of naked women that night. I saw sex, and skin being thrown around like it was a mere afterthought of existence. Hers, though? I had no want. I had no lust. I had no ulterior motive. I just wanted to hear her voice, see her eyes wince in giggling joy, and warm my heart in the glow of a happy woman. Yet, it gets worse.
I will, more than likely, never see this woman again. I will never hear her voice. I will never touch her, or feel the warmth of her breath. I will never fix her breakfast. We will never ride bikes together, or take her along as I walk my dog. I will never lay in a park, and watch her fall asleep, on the blanket I brought. She will never kiss me. She will never bring me coffee while I paint. We will never meet up, randomly on a side walk, as our friends drag us to drastically different places. She will never fix my crooked tie, and I will never try to get into her pants at socially unacceptable points in time. She will never heal my wounds, and I will never be the biggest cheerleader to her accomplishments.
Yet, she is out there. She is reading this, and hopefully, for a few minutes of time, we lived a life unchained by anyone else, but each other.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
How You Look to Me
She told me today that she feels guilty. Working different hours than your partner is a strain, or so I'm told. I wouldn't know, and in this instance, I don't seem to care. This story is getting off track.
The circumstances go like this. She is a ball of anxiety and fret. Now, keep in mind, none of this is a direct result of anything I have done. Well, that isn't exactly true.
"Can I ask you a question?", she slurs, slightly as the rain hits the windshield of her small urban SUV. The funny thing is that no matter how many times this scenario happens to you, the situation always comes out of left field.
"Of course you can, Hon", I keep my eye-rolling buried deep in my conscious mind.
"The other day, when I told you I loved you, why didn't you tell me, that you loved me?", no matter how you answer this question, you are fucked. I don't really pause here. I know the answer. The worst part is, so does she.
"Because I don't love you."
The circumstances go like this. She is a ball of anxiety and fret. Now, keep in mind, none of this is a direct result of anything I have done. Well, that isn't exactly true.
"Can I ask you a question?", she slurs, slightly as the rain hits the windshield of her small urban SUV. The funny thing is that no matter how many times this scenario happens to you, the situation always comes out of left field.
"Of course you can, Hon", I keep my eye-rolling buried deep in my conscious mind.
"The other day, when I told you I loved you, why didn't you tell me, that you loved me?", no matter how you answer this question, you are fucked. I don't really pause here. I know the answer. The worst part is, so does she.
"Because I don't love you."
Does This Exist For Me?
She wears garters on a regular basis.
She reads novels, that weren't necessarily written in the last 60 years.
She paints me.
She can go through entire evenings without discussing herself.
She doesn't have to be mad, to be silent.
She has a style that others envy.
She watches a movie.
She truly watches a movie.
She listens to Slayer, yet you could never tell by looking at her. Or maybe you could.
She fucks me like a hate crime.
She lets me fuck her like it's genocide.
She doesn't say sentences that sound, such as, "Yeah, Robert isn't like the other losers I dated."
She bothers to learn the names of my relatives.
She understands why I don't want to see my relatives.
She understands why I want to see my relatives.
She teaches me something new, almost, everyday.
She can run.
She can jump.
She blushes, when I whisper dirty things into her ear, in public.
She moves closer when I do.
She does them, also.
She has common sense.
She has intuition.
She never let's me go away unresolved.
She will fight the war, but understands the battles are normally ridiculous.
She understands when I want a night, or two, or three, alone.
She surprises me.
She doesn't feel a need to schedule.
She doesn't go to the same place everyday.
She is not in constant mourning for something that is beyond her control.
She knows how to let go.
She can tell when she is going to ruin something, and doesn't.
She can tell when I'm going to ruin something, and doesn't let me.
She has a past.
She has a future.
She, most importantly, has a present.
She does not set standards for me, that are not standards for herself.
She knows life is not absolutes.
She can discuss anything.
She is not in love with the idea of me.
She is in love with what is truly me.
She reads novels, that weren't necessarily written in the last 60 years.
She paints me.
She can go through entire evenings without discussing herself.
She doesn't have to be mad, to be silent.
She has a style that others envy.
She watches a movie.
She truly watches a movie.
She listens to Slayer, yet you could never tell by looking at her. Or maybe you could.
She fucks me like a hate crime.
She lets me fuck her like it's genocide.
She doesn't say sentences that sound, such as, "Yeah, Robert isn't like the other losers I dated."
She bothers to learn the names of my relatives.
She understands why I don't want to see my relatives.
She understands why I want to see my relatives.
She teaches me something new, almost, everyday.
She can run.
She can jump.
She blushes, when I whisper dirty things into her ear, in public.
She moves closer when I do.
She does them, also.
She has common sense.
She has intuition.
She never let's me go away unresolved.
She will fight the war, but understands the battles are normally ridiculous.
She understands when I want a night, or two, or three, alone.
She surprises me.
She doesn't feel a need to schedule.
She doesn't go to the same place everyday.
She is not in constant mourning for something that is beyond her control.
She knows how to let go.
She can tell when she is going to ruin something, and doesn't.
She can tell when I'm going to ruin something, and doesn't let me.
She has a past.
She has a future.
She, most importantly, has a present.
She does not set standards for me, that are not standards for herself.
She knows life is not absolutes.
She can discuss anything.
She is not in love with the idea of me.
She is in love with what is truly me.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
I Did It
It's true. The last time I did it, I was not with you. The last time I felt happy, and pleased with life. You were nowhere to be found. You were not around the corner. You were not a mile away. Hell, I think it is safe to say, you were several zip codes in distance.
The last time I did it you were fast asleep. Dead to the world. The last time I was on my knees, half naked, fist clenched to the sky, and happy for all that I have taken from the world. You were nowhere to be found. It is not like I passed by the thought of you, idly. I stared into that "abyss" that everyone wants to throw around like a two dollar word. I cupped my hands, and yelled your name. You were not there.
Is that my fault? Quite possibly, yes. Should I be treated like it was? I say, emphatically, fuck no. That little slice of heaven, that crashed over me, like a boy in the ocean for the first time. That small "nirvana" that hit my soul, like a prize fighter, in over his head. That sliver that can only be described as, "the joy of joys", that gave me on full minute peace from my own ego. It was there. I felt it. I saw it. I tasted it. Where were you?
That night I fell into a deep trance. Covered in paint, and my mouth dripping with feminine honey. I slipped in and out of warmth, and heard yells that made me swoon. The space in which I existed became chaos. The time in which I inhabited lasted forever. I could do no wrong, without even trying.
You?
I do not pretend to know.
I smiled grandly, while staring into the face of the beast. I grabbed it by its throat. It enjoys that. I have found that I add to my joy, by strangling beauty. It is me. It is I. It is the large encompassing world that drives me to take the ferocity of smile, and cover it with the palm of my hand. Listen to its muffled screams of excitement. It is the death of your memory, and the infinite longevity that is my tainted existence.
The last time I did it you were fast asleep. Dead to the world. The last time I was on my knees, half naked, fist clenched to the sky, and happy for all that I have taken from the world. You were nowhere to be found. It is not like I passed by the thought of you, idly. I stared into that "abyss" that everyone wants to throw around like a two dollar word. I cupped my hands, and yelled your name. You were not there.
Is that my fault? Quite possibly, yes. Should I be treated like it was? I say, emphatically, fuck no. That little slice of heaven, that crashed over me, like a boy in the ocean for the first time. That small "nirvana" that hit my soul, like a prize fighter, in over his head. That sliver that can only be described as, "the joy of joys", that gave me on full minute peace from my own ego. It was there. I felt it. I saw it. I tasted it. Where were you?
That night I fell into a deep trance. Covered in paint, and my mouth dripping with feminine honey. I slipped in and out of warmth, and heard yells that made me swoon. The space in which I existed became chaos. The time in which I inhabited lasted forever. I could do no wrong, without even trying.
You?
I do not pretend to know.
I smiled grandly, while staring into the face of the beast. I grabbed it by its throat. It enjoys that. I have found that I add to my joy, by strangling beauty. It is me. It is I. It is the large encompassing world that drives me to take the ferocity of smile, and cover it with the palm of my hand. Listen to its muffled screams of excitement. It is the death of your memory, and the infinite longevity that is my tainted existence.
“Self-Portrait with a Mirror”, 1908, Léon Spilliaert.
Monday, October 14, 2013
It All Slips Passed You
I could hear it falling on the roof. The small "tink". That tiny knock that water droplets make to tell you that they are here. My ears, and eyes, wince open. I pull my covers tight over my neck.
"Where is my thunder?", I ask to the Rain God, in particular.
"Where is my partner?", I ask to no one, in particular.
I can tell someone has heard my mind asking questions, silently. I can hear the measured beating of my dog's tail. Beating on my mattress like a small bass drum. I roll over. The beat goes into double time. Peering out of my covers. His ears go back, and I can see the smile on his face.
There is my thunder. There is my noise. There's nature with my alarm clock. It's too early, when you know that your sleep hasn't even gone past four hours. Who cares? You have done more with less. Tis my life. The slow slap of my feet on the hardwood, seems to run in time to the now hurrying beat of the rain. It has gotten larger, and now sounds like one hundred tin drums.
Coffee, bacon, eggs, and jazz music try to cure something, that I try to forget ails me. My hands are empty. They used to be wrapped around a feminine thigh. My table is empty. Where there was once two plates filled, and two cups of energy, there is but one. My house has a silence in it that has become uncomfortably settling. The random ins and outs of women has slowed. My choice. The late night amalgamation, of knocking passer bys, has stopped. My choice. The Saturday morning phone calls of hurried energy, urging my presence, has become extinct. My choice.
I take my time. I take my breath. I take my vision. I take my abilities. They are mine. Mine, solely. Yet, in the back of my head, in a small little crevice, hidden from everyone. Hidden from myself. She sits. She sits here on this couch. She has a plate full of bacon and eggs, and a cup of coffee. She is urging me to hold her hand. She is laughing at my eyes welling up, over a story conveyed over the old wooden console stereo. She is prancing around, making my dog gesticulate wildly. She is different, in all her shapes and forms. She is simultaneously love and regret. She is simultaneously happiness and anger. She is simultaneously life and death. She is simultaneously a lover and a stranger.
The rain comes harder. My blinds open, and I'm in nothing but my underwear. I have no shame. She knows this. They all know this. The multitude of public stories told in mixed company has always been proof. I don't care who knows my faults. I don't care who knows my triumphs. I just care if she walks next to me. She doesn't. She hasn't. It wasn't her.....their choice. In the end, I provide the final push. I'm good at it.
"You're a smiling little fucker this morning, aren't you", I say to my bacon begging mutt. Someone has to smile enough for the rest of us. I can only stare. I can only stare, listening to the rain, and to myself. My breath and brain are working in synchronicity. I am sorry.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are on the other side of the world, listening to some band I've never heard of.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are half the continent away, enjoying a vast urban landscape with a family member you would never let me meet.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are across the state looking at a sunset that the rain is forcing me to miss.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are on the hip side of the city, wondering how to sleep longer due to the tin roof, rain combination ringing in your ears.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and even though you are a mile away, know that when you sleep, I dream of you more than I want to.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and even though you might be in my bed, know that I'll never hold you tight enough to fear losing you.
"Where is my thunder?", I ask to the Rain God, in particular.
"Where is my partner?", I ask to no one, in particular.
I can tell someone has heard my mind asking questions, silently. I can hear the measured beating of my dog's tail. Beating on my mattress like a small bass drum. I roll over. The beat goes into double time. Peering out of my covers. His ears go back, and I can see the smile on his face.
BOOM!!!!!
There is my thunder. There is my noise. There's nature with my alarm clock. It's too early, when you know that your sleep hasn't even gone past four hours. Who cares? You have done more with less. Tis my life. The slow slap of my feet on the hardwood, seems to run in time to the now hurrying beat of the rain. It has gotten larger, and now sounds like one hundred tin drums.
Coffee, bacon, eggs, and jazz music try to cure something, that I try to forget ails me. My hands are empty. They used to be wrapped around a feminine thigh. My table is empty. Where there was once two plates filled, and two cups of energy, there is but one. My house has a silence in it that has become uncomfortably settling. The random ins and outs of women has slowed. My choice. The late night amalgamation, of knocking passer bys, has stopped. My choice. The Saturday morning phone calls of hurried energy, urging my presence, has become extinct. My choice.
I take my time. I take my breath. I take my vision. I take my abilities. They are mine. Mine, solely. Yet, in the back of my head, in a small little crevice, hidden from everyone. Hidden from myself. She sits. She sits here on this couch. She has a plate full of bacon and eggs, and a cup of coffee. She is urging me to hold her hand. She is laughing at my eyes welling up, over a story conveyed over the old wooden console stereo. She is prancing around, making my dog gesticulate wildly. She is different, in all her shapes and forms. She is simultaneously love and regret. She is simultaneously happiness and anger. She is simultaneously life and death. She is simultaneously a lover and a stranger.
The rain comes harder. My blinds open, and I'm in nothing but my underwear. I have no shame. She knows this. They all know this. The multitude of public stories told in mixed company has always been proof. I don't care who knows my faults. I don't care who knows my triumphs. I just care if she walks next to me. She doesn't. She hasn't. It wasn't her.....their choice. In the end, I provide the final push. I'm good at it.
"You're a smiling little fucker this morning, aren't you", I say to my bacon begging mutt. Someone has to smile enough for the rest of us. I can only stare. I can only stare, listening to the rain, and to myself. My breath and brain are working in synchronicity. I am sorry.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are on the other side of the world, listening to some band I've never heard of.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are half the continent away, enjoying a vast urban landscape with a family member you would never let me meet.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are across the state looking at a sunset that the rain is forcing me to miss.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and you are on the hip side of the city, wondering how to sleep longer due to the tin roof, rain combination ringing in your ears.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and even though you are a mile away, know that when you sleep, I dream of you more than I want to.
I'm sorry I pushed you away, and even though you might be in my bed, know that I'll never hold you tight enough to fear losing you.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
I Stopped Twice, and Never Saw it Coming.
Weekends come and go, and sometimes as fast as their counterpart. This was one of those. An influx of great aspirations, mixed with the idealism of action, made for strange badfellows. Mix together car crashes, teenage lies, indoor picnics, surprise boyfriend visits, crying women, garage sales, dog shaving, listensing to the song "Sara Smiles" a few too many times, and sombreros. Yes, sombreros.
I wonder if people think that I should listen to myself more often. Yet, if they could hear what I say, deep inside, they would ignore me too. Soon, very soon, the time will come for me to make that great trek. That cleansing of the soul. The sweet moment in time where I walk away from them all. I do smilingly refer to it as, "The Great Cleansing". Motivation has eluded me as to why I choose to wash away the acquaintances that have gathered around me every couple years. Trust me, it is not a form of social conceit. It's just cyclical.
Hearing the same comedy, the same tragedy, can become overwhelmingly mundane. I don't mind, glee, sadness, gloating, sarcasm, self deprecation, etc., surrounding me. I just hate the same forms of it. It becomes predictable. Boring. The same person making the same joke about themselves, or others, becomes.......un evolved.
Yes, I am sick of you right now. Can you tell?
I wonder if people think that I should listen to myself more often. Yet, if they could hear what I say, deep inside, they would ignore me too. Soon, very soon, the time will come for me to make that great trek. That cleansing of the soul. The sweet moment in time where I walk away from them all. I do smilingly refer to it as, "The Great Cleansing". Motivation has eluded me as to why I choose to wash away the acquaintances that have gathered around me every couple years. Trust me, it is not a form of social conceit. It's just cyclical.
Hearing the same comedy, the same tragedy, can become overwhelmingly mundane. I don't mind, glee, sadness, gloating, sarcasm, self deprecation, etc., surrounding me. I just hate the same forms of it. It becomes predictable. Boring. The same person making the same joke about themselves, or others, becomes.......un evolved.
Yes, I am sick of you right now. Can you tell?
P.S. Yes, this post is ADHD.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
The Precipice
“A curtain of stars, miles of them, are scattered, glowing, across the sky and their multitude humbles me, which I have a hard time tolerating. She shrugs and nods after I say something about forms of anxiety. It's as if her mind is having a hard time communicating with her mouth, as if she is searching for a rational analysis of who I am, which is, of course, an impossibility: there... is... no... key.”
It was the third time I have seen her this week. Same spot, same time. She stands in line, directly in front of me. This time, it was a little different.
"We have to stop meeting like this", she coyly stated. This hit a nerve since she is a stranger, and I want her to be so much more than that.
"I know. They are going to start thinking we are casing the joint", I smiled through my response. I've never been good at initiation. This is where I get nervous and stammer.
"I have a feeling this place won't make us Bonnie and Clyde."
"I know. Just sad. I have a feeling they don't even have enough money to get us to the border", my mind has already wandered into "undressing her with my teeth" territory.
"Let's be honest, neither of us would last ten minutes in a border town", she's got a smile on her face that I would love to turn into delightful anguish.
"Speak for yourself sister. If need be, I'd just use you as a bargaining chip anyways", I can see her on her knees, mouth filled. Her large brown eyes, wide, and tears ruining her makeup.
"Hahahahaahah, oh really? What's to say I wouldn't do the same to you", practically laughing at this point.
"Please, I'm an Americanized Mexican. I'm worse than a lazy gringo. I can't even mow a decent lawn. I'm the worst bargaining chip you could hold", she is laughing almost hysterically. I can't stop smiling.
"I guess I should stop thinking about this convenience store robbing fantasy and order my sandwich", she giggles.
"Oh, yes, without a doubt, because I am a notorious "cutter". I was like a cat burglar in elementary school", she laughs, steps up in line, and smiles back at me.
At this point I have done things to her in my head that would make her cry in a shower for days. Luckily, any physical manifestation of my thoughts can not be seen. She has laid in my bed and smoked cigarettes, while I read her Chaucer. We have made love in an alleyways, in Paris. Like Henry Miller, and every single prostitute that held on to his coat tails. She has laid on a Chaise Lounge, let me fuck her mouth, while her best friend tongued her, and yelled Satan's name in proper Aramaic.
She turns and bids me farewell with a grin. My esteem tanks. My fantasy withers. I order my sandwich, and make my way back to work, throwing open the glass doors.
"What's your name?", with my head down, it could be anyone's voice, but I know who it is.
"Robert. Sorry, I know I can take things too far. Especially in public", I extend my hand. She shakes it. Yes, as a matter of fact I am still picturing her moaning on top of me.
"I'm Chelsea, don't worry about it. You're hilarious. We should go get a drink sometime. Do you work around here?"
"Yeah, I work right up the road............", the conversation trails off into what she does. What I do. How we wish we had the rest of the day off. I'm letting the "We should get a drink sometime" sit out there. This is not going to be the ending I had hoped for, but it's the one that needs to happen.
As we trail off to go to our respective places of slavery, she reaches inside he car, and comes out holding a business card.
"Call me sometime. Maybe we could go see a show at a "real" comedy club. You know, instead of just making each other laugh", she winks. I accept the card.
"I'd love that. I haven't been in a while, actually."
"Do you have a card?", she rightfully inquires.
"I do, but we just changed locations, and my new ones haven't come in yet", all the while my cards are trying to eat through my wallet. This is literally going against every fiber of my being.
"Robert. Sorry, I know I can take things too far. Especially in public", I extend my hand. She shakes it. Yes, as a matter of fact I am still picturing her moaning on top of me.
"I'm Chelsea, don't worry about it. You're hilarious. We should go get a drink sometime. Do you work around here?"
"Yeah, I work right up the road............", the conversation trails off into what she does. What I do. How we wish we had the rest of the day off. I'm letting the "We should get a drink sometime" sit out there. This is not going to be the ending I had hoped for, but it's the one that needs to happen.
As we trail off to go to our respective places of slavery, she reaches inside he car, and comes out holding a business card.
"Call me sometime. Maybe we could go see a show at a "real" comedy club. You know, instead of just making each other laugh", she winks. I accept the card.
"I'd love that. I haven't been in a while, actually."
"Do you have a card?", she rightfully inquires.
"I do, but we just changed locations, and my new ones haven't come in yet", all the while my cards are trying to eat through my wallet. This is literally going against every fiber of my being.
She leaves.
I walk with my head hung even lower.
Morals suck.
Her card goes in the trash.
I walk with my head hung even lower.
Morals suck.
Her card goes in the trash.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
You Know Who You Are.
“There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.”
― Henry Miller
― Henry Miller
Monday, September 16, 2013
It Has All Taken a Turn
It really has. There is this incredible amount of anxiety and nervousness that goes with change. No matter that you like to tell people how versatile you are. You exclaim that you are used to altering yourself, or instability. No matter how liberal, and willing, you are to accept change. It is still different, and with that difference comes an amount of wariness. Discomfort.
"I don't like this, at all", I stared up at her.
"Shhhhhhhh. You are mine. Let go. Stop trying to control everything", she vampishly stared into my eyes. Her dark eyeliner highlighting a confident, secure look.
"Seriously, this really isn't my thing. I've never done this before." Now, I was talking through a nervous half laugh. It didn't accent how absolutely serious I was. I was laying underneath her. She had started to wrap my wrists with my leather Brooks Brothers belt, above my head. The head board and my arms had become one.
"I.....I....really....can't...", I stammered as she kissed her way down my stomach. Usually, anything soft, caressing that part of my body would cause me to kick and squirm. This was not the case. Looking up at me smiling, she could see me struggle. Testing how well she had tied my hands. It was tied extremely well, and quick. I was impressed. The loss of control. The inability to take my angry urges out on someone else. The small bit of helplessness, with someone you know, wouldn't truly hurt you. This has all the makings of sad, disastrous sex.
With my eyes, and the feel of her breath moving farther down from my lips, the feeling of something different has set in quickly. I am the one that uses my hands. I use my arms on you. I use my belt on you. I whisper dirty things in your ear. I use my mouth on you, while you are tied helpless. This is not the way, sex with me, is supposed to go. Others have tried this. Why am I letting this go? Without any other classy description, this is where I go soft.
I can feel her mouth enveloping me. The undesired result, of this loss of appendage use, has shown me the opposite. I can't get enough. I need more. This change has caused something. Something deep in me that I've never witnessed. Something I have struggled with has been broken. I can't stop feeling warm. My breath releases like it hasn't ever released before. She has me. All of me. Deep within her mouth, but for me it's also mental grasp.
"This is how this is supposed to feel," my mind says to my cock.
"Oh yes it is", my cock excitedly says to my mind.
"Now what do we do?", my mind inquires back to my cock.
"Looks like you don't really have a say it what happens next", my cock is rarely right.
This time it hit the nail on the head.
"I don't like this, at all", I stared up at her.
"Shhhhhhhh. You are mine. Let go. Stop trying to control everything", she vampishly stared into my eyes. Her dark eyeliner highlighting a confident, secure look.
"Seriously, this really isn't my thing. I've never done this before." Now, I was talking through a nervous half laugh. It didn't accent how absolutely serious I was. I was laying underneath her. She had started to wrap my wrists with my leather Brooks Brothers belt, above my head. The head board and my arms had become one.
"I.....I....really....can't...", I stammered as she kissed her way down my stomach. Usually, anything soft, caressing that part of my body would cause me to kick and squirm. This was not the case. Looking up at me smiling, she could see me struggle. Testing how well she had tied my hands. It was tied extremely well, and quick. I was impressed. The loss of control. The inability to take my angry urges out on someone else. The small bit of helplessness, with someone you know, wouldn't truly hurt you. This has all the makings of sad, disastrous sex.
With my eyes, and the feel of her breath moving farther down from my lips, the feeling of something different has set in quickly. I am the one that uses my hands. I use my arms on you. I use my belt on you. I whisper dirty things in your ear. I use my mouth on you, while you are tied helpless. This is not the way, sex with me, is supposed to go. Others have tried this. Why am I letting this go? Without any other classy description, this is where I go soft.
I can feel her mouth enveloping me. The undesired result, of this loss of appendage use, has shown me the opposite. I can't get enough. I need more. This change has caused something. Something deep in me that I've never witnessed. Something I have struggled with has been broken. I can't stop feeling warm. My breath releases like it hasn't ever released before. She has me. All of me. Deep within her mouth, but for me it's also mental grasp.
"This is how this is supposed to feel," my mind says to my cock.
"Oh yes it is", my cock excitedly says to my mind.
"Now what do we do?", my mind inquires back to my cock.
"Looks like you don't really have a say it what happens next", my cock is rarely right.
This time it hit the nail on the head.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
The Only Problem with Jumping off a Tall Building, is Getting Lonely on the Way Down.
I am almost done with the book. It's a parable. The symbolism is bold, and transparnet. Hating books like this used to be my hobby. Classics, who needs them? Obvioulsy, I do. In the last weeks it has brought me solace. A warm respite that no living person could have. In fact, no living person has done much to supply me with reassurance. The normal has been an uphill battle. The mundane has turned stressful. Vacation provided only a moment for everything to turn upside down. Yet, I couldn't be more determined.
"You are a broke bastard", she turned to me and said.
"I know. I need another paycheck, soon."
"That's not what I'm talking about", laying there, calmly said between inhaling cigarette smoke.
"You're right.", I'm wearing it as a badge of courage. Feeling like my mind is in a hospital bed, and occasionally getting up to try and walk with invalid legs. I like it this way. I knew what she was talking about. I was just hoping that a sly deflection would work. It didn't. It also didn't stop her from following me to the kitchen, and running her hands down my chest.
"It's ok, baby. That's why I like you." She looked up into my eyes. "Let's be honest. That's really why any woman likes you." Fuck. It's ok when you say it to yourself. It sounds completely different coming out of someone else's mouth.
"You are a broke bastard", she turned to me and said.
"I know. I need another paycheck, soon."
"That's not what I'm talking about", laying there, calmly said between inhaling cigarette smoke.
"You're right.", I'm wearing it as a badge of courage. Feeling like my mind is in a hospital bed, and occasionally getting up to try and walk with invalid legs. I like it this way. I knew what she was talking about. I was just hoping that a sly deflection would work. It didn't. It also didn't stop her from following me to the kitchen, and running her hands down my chest.
"It's ok, baby. That's why I like you." She looked up into my eyes. "Let's be honest. That's really why any woman likes you." Fuck. It's ok when you say it to yourself. It sounds completely different coming out of someone else's mouth.
Monday, August 12, 2013
No use crying over spilled milk.
It's funny how you can express yourself to one person, in a crowded room, with just a small piece of body language. It's not a wink, or a twirl of the hair, or even a touch that gets me. It's the quick glance. You know, that small look that happens when she glances up from talking to a friend, and quickly there is a soft, crooked smile. If done right, it's sly, and side of the mouth. It says, "don't talk to me, just look at me for a while, until I come near you. Then you can engage me, but don't be to overt."
It slows you down. You might have been watching her all night. Quietly salivating. Side listening to her conversations, hoping to find that "in". Thinking to yourself that it's going to be a night where you either go home alone, or start texting a stand by.
Then, it happens. You see the glance. You see that smile. She looks back down, and you realize that, the later the clock strikes, the better this soiree has become. You find yourself not positioning, but admiring. You know the time will come. You will do something small, like walk out the front door. Just to get some oxygen away from the crowd. Smoke a cigarette in quiet confidence. You've already seen the glance a few times. You know that no one is in a hurry to go anywhere.
The door opens behind you.
"Do you happen to have another one of those?", it's her voice, you aren't startled. This time was coming. You could see it. Luckily, she's the female, so she saw it before you did. Trust me. She did. You think that you found her attractive. She saw you come through the door. While you were busy shaking hands, and introducing yourself, she had already made the decision for both of you. When you were busy trying to find a way to interject in her conversations, she had already decided to steer the conversation in a direction to keep you on the outside. While you were busy salivating, trying to get her attention, she had made the effort to keep her gaze away until the right moment.
This is how you ended up here. Fast forward. You are keeping one ear on the party, and another on her. You have quickly, and quietly found yourself in the bathroom. Pants around your ankles. These long, slim legs are wrapped around you, and her ass is being pushed against the counter so hard there is a soft squeaking noise every time she moans. You can see your face in the mirror, through your tight eyelids. You went from having nothing, to having it all in a matter of minutes. None of it was your choice. Yet, you still haven't realized that. Her mouth is open, no sound. Your brain is reeling, no thoughts. The night is ending on a high note.
Until your head hits the pillow, and you realize, that nothing happened by accident. Nothing ever happens by accident. Nothing ever will, happen by accident.
It slows you down. You might have been watching her all night. Quietly salivating. Side listening to her conversations, hoping to find that "in". Thinking to yourself that it's going to be a night where you either go home alone, or start texting a stand by.
Then, it happens. You see the glance. You see that smile. She looks back down, and you realize that, the later the clock strikes, the better this soiree has become. You find yourself not positioning, but admiring. You know the time will come. You will do something small, like walk out the front door. Just to get some oxygen away from the crowd. Smoke a cigarette in quiet confidence. You've already seen the glance a few times. You know that no one is in a hurry to go anywhere.
The door opens behind you.
"Do you happen to have another one of those?", it's her voice, you aren't startled. This time was coming. You could see it. Luckily, she's the female, so she saw it before you did. Trust me. She did. You think that you found her attractive. She saw you come through the door. While you were busy shaking hands, and introducing yourself, she had already made the decision for both of you. When you were busy trying to find a way to interject in her conversations, she had already decided to steer the conversation in a direction to keep you on the outside. While you were busy salivating, trying to get her attention, she had made the effort to keep her gaze away until the right moment.
This is how you ended up here. Fast forward. You are keeping one ear on the party, and another on her. You have quickly, and quietly found yourself in the bathroom. Pants around your ankles. These long, slim legs are wrapped around you, and her ass is being pushed against the counter so hard there is a soft squeaking noise every time she moans. You can see your face in the mirror, through your tight eyelids. You went from having nothing, to having it all in a matter of minutes. None of it was your choice. Yet, you still haven't realized that. Her mouth is open, no sound. Your brain is reeling, no thoughts. The night is ending on a high note.
Until your head hits the pillow, and you realize, that nothing happened by accident. Nothing ever happens by accident. Nothing ever will, happen by accident.
Friday, July 26, 2013
When I look into her eyes.
"I want to do to you, what Springtime does to the cherry blossoms. In a prison way." -Pablo Neruda.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Twelve Steps Means Nothing
Dreams come in all facets. Some leave quickly when the glow of the outside world hits your corneas. Some linger, slowly fading as the morning starts. Yet, there are dreams that continue to wash over you, and actually affect the day, and its processes. My favorite dreams stick to my psyche. It will continue to whisper in my ear that, though might have been a dream, it knows the real me.
Snow shoeing through rugged Appalachian terrain is no place to suddenly find yourself. Snow comes down sideways, snow comes down in sheets, but this snow was gentle, and forgiving. My camera was a mess and I was wondering why I had brought it along. Yet, I knew that the pictures I was about to capture were going to be the best. Not the best in the world. Just the best in my world. That was enough for me.
"Turn around, turn around, turn around", the voice in my head repeated in succession.
"No, fuck you. I know where I'm going, and this time you won't stop me", I actually yelled this out loud. No one could hear me. I was miles away from camp at this point. Plus, anyone that knew me was well aware of my mental state.
"Turn around, turn around, turn around!", this time a bit louder. I ignored it. I felt my legs becoming more defiant. My body was getting so used to the cold the huge jacket and snow pants I was wearing felt like a hindrance. The altitude is stunning to the lungs. The fact that I had given up smoking was helping the climb. No one knew where I had gone. I woke up before everyone in the cabin, and this fact worried me about as much as a fly I had swatted days earlier. My mission was simple, and it was going to be fulfilled. "Turn around, turn around, turn around", this time the request felt like it was right behind me.
"Asshole. This is where I give you the finger", as I pointed my glove into the air, and extended my "fuck off" digit. No matter how comfortable you are in the snow, falling is never graceful. That's exactly what I did, with my middle finger splayed out into the morning air. Slowly, rising from knee to knee, the wind grabbing my face, and wrenching it up from staring at the soft, white snow.
"I told you to turn around", it said to me. I say it because it wasn't what it was. Does that make sense? It was huge. The wind was rustling its hair, and its eyes could not have been staring deeper into mine. It was a wolf. Period. There was no mistaking it. "If I had thumbs, I'd help you onto your feet. I hate seeing humans looking as helpless as you look right now." The sound of the English language coming out of its mouth shot me back onto my ass.
"I...I.....I......I......", luckily stammering has always been my forte.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm a wolf, and I can talk. I know", he stated, about as matter of fact as anything has been stated to me before.
"What the fuck?", I literally screamed.
"First, you didn't know we talked because you never stopped to listen. Second, I need you to shut up, and stop being shocked. I don't have long."
"Ummmmmmmmm...."
"Good, I can see we understand each other", I'm starting to realize the sarcastic ability of wolves. "I know where you're going. It's futile. It's pedantic. There is no need. You need to turn around, walk back to the cabin, and relax. You are one of us, but that doesn't mean hunting everything in sight. We have learned a great deal from being on the edge of extinction. If you hunt everything you can hunt, you will inevitably come across the things, that can hunt you. If you eat everything you can eat, inevitably the things you want to eat will disappear. If you wander, everywhere you can wander, inevitably you will run out of places to wander. Walk back, take off that silly artificial coat, and relax. All this will come to you in time. You will go to it in time. Stop running, start walking, and enjoy the fireplace. While you can. Remember, the greatest advantage us wolves have..", it stepped up and pressed its paw against my chest. Signaling that I was included. "The greatest advantage WE have is camouflage. Understand?"
"Yes......I...um....understand", I seemed to be able to slip the words out of my lips.
"Oh, lastly, stop doing it all alone. We roam in packs for a reason. It's OK to go off by yourself, but you need us, and we need you. Now shake my paw so I can run away, dramatically." The wolf stuck out its limb. I took its paw. We shook hands? It was done. That quick. In a blink of my snow covered eyes, the wolf had run into a small patch of trees, and I was done. A lesson had been learned. I mean, let's be honest, it's a fucking talking wolf. Was I supposed to ignore it defiantly? Fuck no.
Snow shoeing through rugged Appalachian terrain is no place to suddenly find yourself. Snow comes down sideways, snow comes down in sheets, but this snow was gentle, and forgiving. My camera was a mess and I was wondering why I had brought it along. Yet, I knew that the pictures I was about to capture were going to be the best. Not the best in the world. Just the best in my world. That was enough for me.
"Turn around, turn around, turn around", the voice in my head repeated in succession.
"No, fuck you. I know where I'm going, and this time you won't stop me", I actually yelled this out loud. No one could hear me. I was miles away from camp at this point. Plus, anyone that knew me was well aware of my mental state.
"Turn around, turn around, turn around!", this time a bit louder. I ignored it. I felt my legs becoming more defiant. My body was getting so used to the cold the huge jacket and snow pants I was wearing felt like a hindrance. The altitude is stunning to the lungs. The fact that I had given up smoking was helping the climb. No one knew where I had gone. I woke up before everyone in the cabin, and this fact worried me about as much as a fly I had swatted days earlier. My mission was simple, and it was going to be fulfilled. "Turn around, turn around, turn around", this time the request felt like it was right behind me.
"Asshole. This is where I give you the finger", as I pointed my glove into the air, and extended my "fuck off" digit. No matter how comfortable you are in the snow, falling is never graceful. That's exactly what I did, with my middle finger splayed out into the morning air. Slowly, rising from knee to knee, the wind grabbing my face, and wrenching it up from staring at the soft, white snow.
"I told you to turn around", it said to me. I say it because it wasn't what it was. Does that make sense? It was huge. The wind was rustling its hair, and its eyes could not have been staring deeper into mine. It was a wolf. Period. There was no mistaking it. "If I had thumbs, I'd help you onto your feet. I hate seeing humans looking as helpless as you look right now." The sound of the English language coming out of its mouth shot me back onto my ass.
"I...I.....I......I......", luckily stammering has always been my forte.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm a wolf, and I can talk. I know", he stated, about as matter of fact as anything has been stated to me before.
"What the fuck?", I literally screamed.
"First, you didn't know we talked because you never stopped to listen. Second, I need you to shut up, and stop being shocked. I don't have long."
"Ummmmmmmmm...."
"Good, I can see we understand each other", I'm starting to realize the sarcastic ability of wolves. "I know where you're going. It's futile. It's pedantic. There is no need. You need to turn around, walk back to the cabin, and relax. You are one of us, but that doesn't mean hunting everything in sight. We have learned a great deal from being on the edge of extinction. If you hunt everything you can hunt, you will inevitably come across the things, that can hunt you. If you eat everything you can eat, inevitably the things you want to eat will disappear. If you wander, everywhere you can wander, inevitably you will run out of places to wander. Walk back, take off that silly artificial coat, and relax. All this will come to you in time. You will go to it in time. Stop running, start walking, and enjoy the fireplace. While you can. Remember, the greatest advantage us wolves have..", it stepped up and pressed its paw against my chest. Signaling that I was included. "The greatest advantage WE have is camouflage. Understand?"
"Yes......I...um....understand", I seemed to be able to slip the words out of my lips.
"Oh, lastly, stop doing it all alone. We roam in packs for a reason. It's OK to go off by yourself, but you need us, and we need you. Now shake my paw so I can run away, dramatically." The wolf stuck out its limb. I took its paw. We shook hands? It was done. That quick. In a blink of my snow covered eyes, the wolf had run into a small patch of trees, and I was done. A lesson had been learned. I mean, let's be honest, it's a fucking talking wolf. Was I supposed to ignore it defiantly? Fuck no.
Monday, April 29, 2013
It's Been a Weird Month, I Like It
So, I am about 32 hours away from a full, alcohol free(among other things), month. This month has proved to be surprising, eye opening, and rewarding. Physical and mental health have never been a top priority of mine. Those two topics, in my life, have been approached with a kind of battlefield like sensibility. "Kill 'em all, and let God sort 'em out." Well, yesterday was my first, full, three mile run. I've been to numerous bars, and been able to keep up with my drinking counterparts. My artwork is making leaps that I never thought possible. My whole style and technique have evolved. "Changing" was a word that kept coming to mind, but "evolved" sounds more accurate. Also, I have been taking care to dress, more like the adult man that I am.
"Are you going out to a nice dinner", my ex-wife asked me, on Saturday, in a slightly condescending tone.
"No, mom, this is just how he dresses, when he's not working in the yard, or on the Jeep", my son chimed in defense.
"Well, you look nice", I hate my ex-wife, but the compliment was appreciated. Sitting here, I am still wondering what is coming of this. I think I've pretty much resolved that this is not going to be my last sober month. Dare I say, that I like it.
I like that I can hold conversations over drinks and feel like I'm making a linear point. I like that I can drive anywhere, whenever I want, and I dare the fucking pigs to pull me over. Also, the fact that there is no worry about getting anyone else home safely, that makes me feel proud. I like that I have lost weight. I like that I feel motivated. I like that I feel......well....that I feel more. I like that I have regained my posture. I like that I feel power over myself. I like the fact that I don't have to worry about "whiskey dick", at all.
"You look younger", he exclaimed as we walked down the sidewalk.
"What? Seriously?" That came from left field. My son is a typical moody, brooding teenager. Things like this don't usually come out of his mouth.
"You look fucking good. You look.....and I know this sounds strange, but you look happy?" I could tell this was almost gut-wrenching for him, as it came out of his mouth.
"Thank you, really. Thank you", I brushed myself off in a Jay-Z fashion, smoothing out my dress shirt and tie. It was Sunday. Slung my arm around his shoulder, in a half hearted headlock.
It's this that I love.
It's this that I want.
It's this, that I want noticed.
"Are you going out to a nice dinner", my ex-wife asked me, on Saturday, in a slightly condescending tone.
"No, mom, this is just how he dresses, when he's not working in the yard, or on the Jeep", my son chimed in defense.
"Well, you look nice", I hate my ex-wife, but the compliment was appreciated. Sitting here, I am still wondering what is coming of this. I think I've pretty much resolved that this is not going to be my last sober month. Dare I say, that I like it.
I like that I can hold conversations over drinks and feel like I'm making a linear point. I like that I can drive anywhere, whenever I want, and I dare the fucking pigs to pull me over. Also, the fact that there is no worry about getting anyone else home safely, that makes me feel proud. I like that I have lost weight. I like that I feel motivated. I like that I feel......well....that I feel more. I like that I have regained my posture. I like that I feel power over myself. I like the fact that I don't have to worry about "whiskey dick", at all.
"You look younger", he exclaimed as we walked down the sidewalk.
"What? Seriously?" That came from left field. My son is a typical moody, brooding teenager. Things like this don't usually come out of his mouth.
"You look fucking good. You look.....and I know this sounds strange, but you look happy?" I could tell this was almost gut-wrenching for him, as it came out of his mouth.
"Thank you, really. Thank you", I brushed myself off in a Jay-Z fashion, smoothing out my dress shirt and tie. It was Sunday. Slung my arm around his shoulder, in a half hearted headlock.
It's this that I love.
It's this that I want.
It's this, that I want noticed.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Drinking
Well, I guess this is as good a place to confess something as any. I quit drinking exactly 19 days ago. Am I an alcoholic? No. Have I lost a job, kid, wife, girlfriend, or fuck all? No. I just wanted a change of pace. I keep telling myself that I don’t need a drink. That another day without is another day that I feel stronger, faster, slimmer, smarter, friendlier, and this is all true. About four days into this self initiated sobriety I recieved a call from a bitching ex-girlfriend, and that didn’t even shake my resolve.
I had always thought of myself in Hunter S. Thompson terms, but until you are 24 years into it, and that is completely literal (twenty four fucking years into it), don’t come to me thinking you know how to deal with the process of suddenly having clear thoughts. That is 24 years of fist fights, vomiting, shaking from too much, shaking from too little, breaking hotel lobby coffee tables, driving OD’ing friends to the ER, helping strippers vomit in your bathtub so they can aim better than in your toilet, fucking for 48 straight hours, knocking on random doors for shotgun shells, stealing clothes from midget strippers, trying to break into art museums at 4 in the morning, etc. Do not blame me for not knowing how to process my thoughts into words, words into actions, and actions into something satisfying. I’m just as lost in this as anyone else. Am I trying to prove a point to any one? No. Am I trying to prove a point to myself? No. So, what happened? I don’t know. I really don’t.
I just woke up one morning, looked at both the girls laying on either side of me, and asked, “Do ya’ll want breakfast? I can even make ya’ll mimosas.”
“Mimosas for everyone!!!”, the brunette said, half elated, half hangover whispering through her lips.
To which I said,”No, just for ya’ll. I think I’m gonna take a little break.” That was my decision that morning, and that has remained my decision for 19 days now. I’m not going to lie. I want a drink. Somedays worse that others. Yet, every morning I wake up and get out of bed, instead of dragging myself out of bed, and I am…fuck it…..I’m happy. Happy like a retarded kid that just got some basic arithmetic right. It’s dumb, it’s small, but it’s satisfying.
I don’t know why I wrote this. I think it was because I just saw a picture of some delicious Gin, and my mind told me how awesome it probably tasted. Maybe it was because I just thought about a pair of young breasts, and how nice it would be to pour Jack down them, laying my tongue on her belly button, to catch it like a thirsty dog. Maybe it’s because this is what you do 19 days into sobriety. You reflect, and feel like an idiot for telling anyone about a minor accomplishment. Fuck, I don’t know. I just know that 19 days ago, I stopped, and yet, at the same time, I started.
I had always thought of myself in Hunter S. Thompson terms, but until you are 24 years into it, and that is completely literal (twenty four fucking years into it), don’t come to me thinking you know how to deal with the process of suddenly having clear thoughts. That is 24 years of fist fights, vomiting, shaking from too much, shaking from too little, breaking hotel lobby coffee tables, driving OD’ing friends to the ER, helping strippers vomit in your bathtub so they can aim better than in your toilet, fucking for 48 straight hours, knocking on random doors for shotgun shells, stealing clothes from midget strippers, trying to break into art museums at 4 in the morning, etc. Do not blame me for not knowing how to process my thoughts into words, words into actions, and actions into something satisfying. I’m just as lost in this as anyone else. Am I trying to prove a point to any one? No. Am I trying to prove a point to myself? No. So, what happened? I don’t know. I really don’t.
I just woke up one morning, looked at both the girls laying on either side of me, and asked, “Do ya’ll want breakfast? I can even make ya’ll mimosas.”
“Mimosas for everyone!!!”, the brunette said, half elated, half hangover whispering through her lips.
To which I said,”No, just for ya’ll. I think I’m gonna take a little break.” That was my decision that morning, and that has remained my decision for 19 days now. I’m not going to lie. I want a drink. Somedays worse that others. Yet, every morning I wake up and get out of bed, instead of dragging myself out of bed, and I am…fuck it…..I’m happy. Happy like a retarded kid that just got some basic arithmetic right. It’s dumb, it’s small, but it’s satisfying.
I don’t know why I wrote this. I think it was because I just saw a picture of some delicious Gin, and my mind told me how awesome it probably tasted. Maybe it was because I just thought about a pair of young breasts, and how nice it would be to pour Jack down them, laying my tongue on her belly button, to catch it like a thirsty dog. Maybe it’s because this is what you do 19 days into sobriety. You reflect, and feel like an idiot for telling anyone about a minor accomplishment. Fuck, I don’t know. I just know that 19 days ago, I stopped, and yet, at the same time, I started.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
Monday, March 4, 2013
I Keep it All
"I appreciate your feelings
And I don't want to pass you by
But I don't ask you 'bout your business
Don't ask me about mine."
And I don't want to pass you by
But I don't ask you 'bout your business
Don't ask me about mine."
-Lynyrd Skynrd
I keep so little to myself, and I like it that way. There is no filter. there is no holding back. People know what I like, and what I don't like. There is no second guessing. there is no ulterior motive. there is no question of disdain or joy. It is not different from the living room to the bedroom. It is not different if I'm clothed and talking to you about politics, or if I'm behind you, thrusting inside, with my belt wrapped around your neck. If I am interested in you, sometimes it's better to ignore me, or not be around me. Especially if you don't want someone being nice to you. If I want you, it might be best to forget I exist, because I will do my damnest to have you.
"I have had to resolve myself to the fact that you like other women. That no matter what, you are going to continue to fuck other women", she said this painfully, laying naked on my bed.
"Well, it's true. I do like women", I laughed, trying to shrug it off non-chalantly.
"It's a hard thing to get used to."
"I know, but at least you know where I stand. Also, I can guarantee, when I am around you, there is no one else that I am thinking about. I am completely invested in the time I spend with you", I am not trying to put her mind at ease. I am speaking the whole hearted truth. It's true. At least everyone knows where I stand. At least you don't have to guess. If you want, you can ignore it. You can put it out of your mind for the fleeting moments we are around each other. I am invested in you. When I want you...I want no one else besides you. I would rather be no other place, except by your side.
Yet, when you leave. When you get up, put your clothes on, and walk out of my life. If it's for a day, a week, a year, I want the variety that life has to offer me, and so should you. That's the best part. I don't care how you live your life, except the portion of it that comes in contact with me.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Bad Decisions
I don't think she realized how long I was laying there awake. I kept looking at her sleeping smile. I traced her hips with my hand. She is so light. She could feel them in her sleep. I could tell. Rolling over slightly, and pushing her ass into me, made me slow down. I didn't want to wake her. I just wanted to watch her. I just wanted to smell her. I just wanted to feel her. This is not the first time I have woken up in her bed. It's not the first time we've laid next to each other. It's not the first time we haven't had sex. This would not be the last.
People mistake us for lovers, for boyfriend and girlfriend, but never for friends. We laugh it off. Stare at each other, wink, nod, and smile so large. It's as if the secret was a person. We know the truth. To keep them all guessing brings us small moments of youthful joy, and adult pain. Knowing what we mean to each other is all that matters.
The night before, we rescued each other? I put that there because I know I rescued her. She asked me.
"Cockblock", was all the text said. Oh shit, this warrants a phone call.
"You need me to cockblock you", I asked.
"Yes, tonight, please", I like to write this like she begged me. She wouldn't ever have to beg me to do anything.
"I'm on a bike ride. I mean, where and when?"
"I'm going to [place omitted] with [person omitted]."
"OK, explain this to me. Why would you agree to go out with him if you need to be cockblocked", I think this is a very valid question.
"He's a nice guy. He's funny and everything. I just think he wants more than I want to give him", this is a valid point.
"OK, I'll see you there."
"You're the best", she says this a lot.
"That's a lie", I say that a lot.
The question mark that I alluded to earlier was because she rescued me. I didn't even ask. I didn't even know I needed rescuing? Obviously, she did.
"I'm going to go ahead and go home", this is the text I got from my date from the other side of [place omitted].
"What? Why?", I walked over and found her. She was clearly drunk. The day drinking had gotten away from her.
"It looked like you were sharing a moment with that girl."
"What? Me? No? She's just my best friend. You walked over during a weird conversation about her date. That's all", I'm stretching the truth.
"Well, I'm getting a headache anyways. Do you want to come home with me?"
"Well, JJ is over there, and I was hoping to hang out with him tonight", trying to recover. I can't leave a good cockblock session.
"OK, call me tomorrow?"
"Absolutely", I end the date with a kiss and everyone leaves happy.
So, there is that. Fast forward. We get yelled at twice. Once for being too loud. Seriously, it's a bar? One time for dancing to close to the kitchen doors. It didn't stop us. As we walked out the door, she hugged everyone. Including her date. She grabs a hold of my arm, tight. She always does. She holds on like a kid on a carousel for the first time. This is where it hits me. We came on separate dates, and left together.
So, here I lay. Again. Next to her. Wondering what the hell is wrong with us? We are perfectly wrong for each other, and perfectly right at the same time. I don't over step her boundaries, and she keeps me at arms length with realistic expectations of who I am. How can we call this the night of bad decisions? When it turned out completely right?
People mistake us for lovers, for boyfriend and girlfriend, but never for friends. We laugh it off. Stare at each other, wink, nod, and smile so large. It's as if the secret was a person. We know the truth. To keep them all guessing brings us small moments of youthful joy, and adult pain. Knowing what we mean to each other is all that matters.
The night before, we rescued each other? I put that there because I know I rescued her. She asked me.
"Cockblock", was all the text said. Oh shit, this warrants a phone call.
"You need me to cockblock you", I asked.
"Yes, tonight, please", I like to write this like she begged me. She wouldn't ever have to beg me to do anything.
"I'm on a bike ride. I mean, where and when?"
"I'm going to [place omitted] with [person omitted]."
"OK, explain this to me. Why would you agree to go out with him if you need to be cockblocked", I think this is a very valid question.
"He's a nice guy. He's funny and everything. I just think he wants more than I want to give him", this is a valid point.
"OK, I'll see you there."
"You're the best", she says this a lot.
"That's a lie", I say that a lot.
The question mark that I alluded to earlier was because she rescued me. I didn't even ask. I didn't even know I needed rescuing? Obviously, she did.
"I'm going to go ahead and go home", this is the text I got from my date from the other side of [place omitted].
"What? Why?", I walked over and found her. She was clearly drunk. The day drinking had gotten away from her.
"It looked like you were sharing a moment with that girl."
"What? Me? No? She's just my best friend. You walked over during a weird conversation about her date. That's all", I'm stretching the truth.
"Well, I'm getting a headache anyways. Do you want to come home with me?"
"Well, JJ is over there, and I was hoping to hang out with him tonight", trying to recover. I can't leave a good cockblock session.
"OK, call me tomorrow?"
"Absolutely", I end the date with a kiss and everyone leaves happy.
So, there is that. Fast forward. We get yelled at twice. Once for being too loud. Seriously, it's a bar? One time for dancing to close to the kitchen doors. It didn't stop us. As we walked out the door, she hugged everyone. Including her date. She grabs a hold of my arm, tight. She always does. She holds on like a kid on a carousel for the first time. This is where it hits me. We came on separate dates, and left together.
So, here I lay. Again. Next to her. Wondering what the hell is wrong with us? We are perfectly wrong for each other, and perfectly right at the same time. I don't over step her boundaries, and she keeps me at arms length with realistic expectations of who I am. How can we call this the night of bad decisions? When it turned out completely right?
Thursday, January 24, 2013
On Top of Me
The thoughts that go through my mind everytime I see her would make her take a shower for days. I know we aren't good for each other. We are great for each other. She holds me up when I'm about to fall. I hold her close when she needs it most. I want her in bed next to me. I've had her in bed next to me. She refuses to lay in bed next to me until I get well. I know physically she wants me. I know menatlly she wants me. I know that she steps back to admire what I am becoming, but is worried that I will take steps back to admire someone else.
I do. I can't stop admiring. Yet, it's not someone else. It's everyone, including her. My wandering eye is who I am. My therapist hasn't commented on it. I don't know why. I think she might think it's intrinsic. Both of them. I can't hide it. I can't skirt around it. Is it something that is wrong? Is it something that is right?
I do. I can't stop admiring. Yet, it's not someone else. It's everyone, including her. My wandering eye is who I am. My therapist hasn't commented on it. I don't know why. I think she might think it's intrinsic. Both of them. I can't hide it. I can't skirt around it. Is it something that is wrong? Is it something that is right?
The Last 72
Time is moving very slowly, lately. I am still wrapping my head around a lot that has happened, and a lot that has not happened. I seem to have started to dive into a little bit of a mental tailspin, which I'm hoping adds to my painting, but you can never guess these things. My body looked oddly shaped this morning, so I tried not to look at it too hard, in the mirror, this morning. I had three bad dreams in a row. I can't keep certain people out of my head. I want so badly to have organized thoughts. I need a whole day to growl and be unbelievably rude to people. I need my sarcasm to seeth. I......I......I......I...........can't stop my fingers from stuttering as I run them across my keyboard.
It's Nothing, but the Truth
Last night was rough. I don't know why or what got into my head, but I felt unbelieveably small in my skin. I have a great life. I'm actually feeling healthy, both mentally, and physically. I'm not drinking as much, not smoking as much, and getting good sleep. I'm painting and reading more. the relationship with my son has grown tighter, and healthier. So, what is going on with me. It all seems perfect, or going in the right direction?
I laid there staring at the ceiling constellations. Thinking over my last few months. Thinking about how I ended up to be, where I am now. I smoked a cigarette, and looked haphazardly at the novel "Ishmael" laying on my end table. I wondered how many people I have come across today with smiling faces, and insides twisted in knots?
I laid there staring at the ceiling constellations. Thinking over my last few months. Thinking about how I ended up to be, where I am now. I smoked a cigarette, and looked haphazardly at the novel "Ishmael" laying on my end table. I wondered how many people I have come across today with smiling faces, and insides twisted in knots?
Thursday, January 3, 2013
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