Thursday, December 15, 2016

What Thoughts May Come

  The moon has been out, and full. I feel a pulling, a pinching, between my armpits and breasts. Anxiety. And Sadness. Whose voice is there? I cannot say. Stop. Pause. Wait. And everybody is so esoteric in  their grief. Not esoteric, existential? Has the package shipped? Where does it go. I think if I could learn to play, then I could dance with it; but movement drags. Stop. Pause. Wait. What happens in the spaces?Blue bird. Waiting for something to say. In their grieving, they find the words; in mine, I shut down. I don't want to fake it, and I'm afraid that I won't make it, so I don't do anything at all. Fear, and jealousy, and envy—my greatest obstacles. Stop. Pause. Wait. Read. Maybe it's dark matter pulling on me, or out of me...invisible, and subtle, but effecting change nonetheless. The dark matter annihilation in me powers the Dark Star. Isn't this what You were saying? Those who pass by closely, feel the energy and buzz of the dark star, feel the light and heat, the spark and sizzle, maybe just a little singe, and come away enlightened, invigorated, inspired; those who fall in are doomed to annihilation, to feed the spectacle, not drawing their own in, but losing their particular particles in the mass void. Consumed without ritual or notice. The Dark Star powered by a Wimp, without which it cannot exist. Can I generate my dark matter into my own star formation? Draw them in and churn it out? But even this is flimsy, and took longer than it should have (who says should?) and now I don't want to any more, because this will never make a difference, not to me, or to You, or to them. But pizza, pizza makes a difference.

Friday, November 11, 2016

Feeling Groovy

Sitting, parked
immobile, and locked;
Deep breath in, hold
hold
and out, and listen
This music I hear, 
joyful noise, hopeful rhythm
moves me and floating
and falling, I sway
and stretch, seated dance
Extending beyond, unfolding and reaching
Breath in, more
and out
There is magic just beyond

Friday, September 30, 2016

Excitement

Open Doors
Open Hands
Open Hearts
Open Days

I consider Our Future
I reflect on Our Love
I remember Our Struggle
I praise Our Progress

For now, the flutters and fears and frustrations have no hold,
And I am only Eager, for You 
and Eager, for Me
and Excited for Us
For the new Way of Living
For the better way of Loving
For the reward of Lasting

Let Us begin, then, 
Our Life
Husband and Wife.

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Here it Comes Again

A day's work, done and proud
something to show
shower, shave and rest. 
Midnight, You are sleeping
and sudden pangs course through me, 
oh no, not now...but
yes, 
a trip down the ladder, 
flip on the bathroom light, 
pale-moon face shines back through sweat, 
lean over porcelain, 
and let it pass through; maybe, 
maybe it's just this one, maybe,
if I just go back to bed, maybe
it will pass over me quickly.
Go back up, 
check the blood, and too much
too much, so dose, and sleep...
1am, and You are sleeping, 
and I wake again to fluttered motions 
in my chest and stomach and throat, 
a whole hour?
That might be a good sign, hang
in there, kitten; 
back down and up, 
rinse and spit, get the pills and check
that blood again, too high still.
Dose and sleep, until, 
1:30, no, no, 
only thirty minutes?
That's not good, but
down and up again, this time, 
more medicine, to go up and in, but
it's too late, I think, and it is, and 
why, why, can't I just sleep it away?
2:15, 2:37, 3:11, this isn't going to work, so
one last chance, next trip I'll get up and go, but
oh, the ordeal of it all, all over
again, and again and again, 
You called it Chronicity, 
I call it anguish, prolonged torment,
suffering for which I know not.
Finally, sometime around 5,
 I know I cannot wait any longer
and I must go, and 
what must I tell You, other than 
it is time. 
And all around me, the early morning is quiet, 
and I fade away and out of the world, to ride
ride along, and stumble through sliding glass doors, 
and, mercy on me, this time no drunks, or druggies or babies with burns,
just me and my green bucket asking for help;
a temperature, a weigh in, my name and date of birth, 
and I'm wheeled away, into the inner corridors
of the Emergency maze, 
and 
by now, I'm hardly here at all.

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Sensuous

A dozen things try to distract me as I walk in trying to remember, those words once more:

Imagine, feel, 
Foreign Object
smooth, velvet, underneath
firm, shapely 
invites finger play, a touch 
ten tickles, and pearls
flimsy silken strands
hide, small  gathered
pucker, inside, purple
pocketed, 
one way to play at language.

Freedom is a constant struggle

  All I ever wanted was a song, a poem, a dance.

  I read all the words being exchanged, and remember when it was I, and You , and we; but I'm tired, so tired—and so goddess-forsaken  slow— and need replenishment, enhancement, excitement, support. I gave You my submission for so long—waiting to hear Master's call, waiting to feel the tug and pull of His desire, for the snap and snug, for the whisper of skin and the tremor of flesh—but along the way, it did not amount. I'm busy, so busy, and yet feel that all is a waste, that accomplishment is beyond my grasp. I need such enrichment, yet feel my mind is as a hardscrabble field, and everywhere around me everyone seems to be moving and growing and knowing, filling with water, spilling passion everywhere, yet there is none that I can catch. Forsaken, for asking:


  Where is my Master?

  To Whom may my submission granted?

  Where is my Soul?

  Where is my Song?

  Where is my Dance?

  Where is my You?

  You give the frustrated brow, and and the general sweep of the hand, "it's all there, for anyone to read." And I have read, and who can I trust to sort it out, when neither You nor I know where the Truth lies hidden. Layers upon layers have I borne, and now am buried, and feel asked to throw the weight off and and spin it into a golden Understanding. My silence was my defense, and a poor one at that. It has ruined me. And now, when it is so vital to speak, to sing, I find there is no Voice but the one that cries out...There is no voice now, my tongue slips and slides in a mysterious way, and I wish, more than ever, to seal my mouth, only to speak quietly with lips. 

  Desire, it is You. Drawing near, I feel You pulsing in me, and yes, it is like a drug, first soothing the ache, then increasing the want, exciting the blood, spreading open the wings to fly, fly, fly...

  And I must keep telling myself, do not waste the opportunity, do not be so timid. I was never so bold as I was with You. Until I became Overwhelmed by You. You have seen where I come from. I was not prepared for the onslaught of Genius and Madness. Am I "the one who comes before"? Who does it badly, until another comes along and simplifies, makes art of what have struggled with for so long? But, You will say,I am being my old self, holding on to the right information in the wrong way. But, sometimes, I don't feel Real. I think it is because I cannot remember so much of my Story. I am not who I want to be, and I don't yet believe I can be. Who is my author? Is it me? Is it She? Is it He? I don't know what I believe, and that makes it very, very hard to say anything, and so I am outpaced, outdone, outshined, out. And if I do rewrite, edit, go off-script, who or what am I defying? Me, or It?How do I even know that I am living out my own choice, and not that pre-scribed for me? Loose, or bound? And will what I have lived through make be better, stronger, wiser?

  "It's not the genes that make a person, but a long, rich history of collisions, choices, audacity, courage and cowardice." All of these I have, what use are they now? Which is the illusion, and where is the magic? Is there anything that can, should, be held onto?

  "There's kudzu creeping across the Southeast, occupying environments with its singular purpose, killing off everything not itself. There's privet attacking the other parts, choking out life very fast and disrupting the food chains extremely fast by geographic standards. The two of them flood wild those places wherever humans have just given up. Wherever you see litter, you will see these two here in the South. Wherever you see all three, you are looking at a land screaming for its freedom from despair and depression." This is me. Feeling low. Wanting to be lifted, as a child, swung about in joy, and affection, and a care for the tending of the good earth that lies beneath a fallow field. 



  

  
  

Monday, September 12, 2016

His Words

I wear my green shirt today.
I put it on and turn around, and there lay
a sleeping thing, like little bean
toes on paws: a cuteness quietly
curled beneath furled sheet,
drassled hair, stuffed menagerie too 
My lips on her temple, adoration for this sight;
she murrs and purrs, unseeing she leans to
me, me she seizes from beneath sheets
peek-a-boo kitten playing
peek-a-boo joys staying
she's just a girl like this

a girl whose tail is furred

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Moja droga, ja cię kocham

  You keep telling me how bad it is. It's like being in that "toilet bowl" water-slide—the one we went to in February, where we had such a good time, but things were already strained, me being cautious and restrained and insecure, you being attractive and attracted, riding a high not-quite-faded both of us wanting more and more and more—only without lights or handles and I've nearly been thrown out more than once, to bump and brace against walls slick and unforgiving, sluicing and spiraling down to an unknown end. 
  
  But then, for a moment, the light in Your eyes will change, and You will say You need me, to be brave and bear all, even braver to bare all, and this is what I desire, too. To stand proud and unashamed, wanted and wanting, both of us worshipping through the other, feasting and feeding and feeling united with the outer other inner lover, making magic together. That is what I miss, the hard-won belief, that I was magical, too, that all my life, it was in there, thrumming just below, wanting only the right catalyst to send forth the surge, in ecstasy, rapture, exaltation in life itself, in love at last, flying astride, higher than any pill, powder or potion can imitate.  

  So, I find myself , yes, wistful, and wantful, and aching to make love to You, through You, to me, to delight in the scents and sounds we craft from one another. To say to You, and even more to myself: Moya droga, ja cie kocham. Listen

Monday, August 15, 2016

A Thought

Amidst the nonsensical rambling and schizo-smithing
reality can be just as absurd as 
"she gives me googly-eyes."

Friday, July 29, 2016

Prison Dream

I was in prison, needing to escape, for what I'm not sure. Another inmate decides to help me by smuggling me out in the van. All I had to do was lay down on the middle seat and cover up with a stiff coat while she drove out through the gated guard station. She slipped the van right around the security arm, and then I was free. I don't remember getting out of the van, but suddenly I'm standing outside the prison, which now looks like a multi-storied office building, and it is raining. I think, I have to get back in there, so I run back into the complex, around the same security arm I just rode through, slipping in the sandy mud that hinders my steps. Poussey and Taystee are at the guard shack. watching me run back in, looking at me in confusion and, possibly, disgust. 

Thursday, July 28, 2016

A dream

  Christopher was four or so. He was sitting on my lap, facing me, his hands in mine. I am bouncing and jostling him while nearby adults prattle in conversation. He leans forward, touching his forehead to mine, and he says "Our heads are different coloured strait-jackets."

  Later in the dream, I am sitting at a long, rectangular dining table with a white tablecloth laid out. I am recounting to the same adults from earlier what said the child. 

Photograph

Sitting, huddled in the hull
nearly helpless in the heaving sea,
searching, hoping, 
for home

Thursday, July 21, 2016

A thought

There is so much soul-suffering around me
Can none of us be saved?

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

The Birthday

We took the weekend
to celebrate, to renew, to rejoice.
You chose the place, 
planned the trip, and rolled with the detours
showing me the reborn You
and teaching me, more than ever,
about extraordinary love.
I think we are both more certain now
that You have coughed up demons and 
expelled anxieties for us both—
it's good to have You back; it's
good to have You new.

Your birthday was yesterday; it was a week ago
water came down; and water came up
You drowned Your sorrows
and You were bathed by heaven

Thursday, June 16, 2016

Things I think

Harpsichord and strings, all the Bachs
the trees dance to the vigorous strains
where was I

I missed so much, kids
you have to give them everything when they're young, but
trauma

I wasn't around violence
just a constant broken heart
and a void so big it crushed me.

What about the laundry
it doesn't matter at all
now

So warm outside, so
cold inside
So cold outside, so
warm inside

I want a violin
I want a camera
chimera

I want You
to want better, to want me
to want You, want Us, them

I thought I saw You just now
driving up, I take a sip
and see a collection of delivered notes

Chilly Down, chilly brass
Excuse me, hello
lost your head, the body will mind

Water falls, the waterfall
Niagara, here we come, come
hell or high water

Go in go deeper
and I see that You do
what I do

You so long and strong and
broken and wonderful and
hopeless, and me

Short-round, he used to call me
and it's true, I'm short and
my thoughts go around and stray

I want to say so much and the difficulty
is so great, but I see how You do
and I feel myself slowly waking

It's 3:33 and I wish
I wish I wish I wish
I wish


Wednesday, June 8, 2016

My Waking Dream

The dress was late. It should have been here by now, so I'm wearing just my underclothes, but there are people all around—
  "Is this confidence?" she asked. "No, it's just too hot in here."—

I'm clutching a bunch of  aubergine, golf-ball sized fruits on long stems. I can feel their weight as they bob and sway with my movements. I'm supposed to address the crowd, but the shame of the missing dress is too much, and I begin to cry. 

You ran down stairs to get me, and then we were out in the crisp and clean and cold night. I remember the moon in Your eyes.

I dropped the fruits back there, and I can see their stain on the path behind me. Flickering lights make me turn. Something is shining, white and blue with pale green at the edges, but it is too bright to see who or what. But we are neither of us afraid. 

The light gellifies, and begins to blob around (gegenuber).

I hear You cry out.

Reject It

Remember when
You rejected it—
all the anxiety
and worry
and hurt
and dissatisfaction
and rage
and haunting—

You rejected it
screamed 
and cried
and yelled it away, and it worked—
but, the cleansing isn't done. 

Cleansing, catharsis, clarify
purify, clean and jerk
it's work, I know—
I know, when I say so, but
"No", You say, I don't;
but I have been here and 
I have been there—

Reject it, 
eject it, 
pull the fucker by it's forsaken roots
and tell it 
You are 
Not
It's 
Slave.

Rise Victorious from the ashes, 
glorious to behold, be held
Be Healed. 



Friday, June 3, 2016

Friday Morning Drive

a tiny, wild bunny
watching the hu-men unearthing
its burrow.
a Laotian in Motion
streaming bright blue and black speeding
its pride.
a Slocombe lavender afro
teasing my eyes toward delving
its nimbus. 

Monday, May 2, 2016

Hospital Cure: Part Two

    It's been entirely too long, and I should have done this long ago; but , confusion and mixed feelings, distance and dreams, life and You, all of it has served to remove from me the feelings of excitement and wonder, the possibilities that I began to see are now bitterly retracted. But, I will try to remember.

  Two days, sixteen hours was all we had. Even less than that. And  what happened? I was turned on, fondled, flirted with and excited. But none of that lasted. In the moments we were together there was a pulling at me, a desire to give and receive. In the moments between it seemed unreal, and unlikely.


  He came back in the next morning; I thought it was all over already, but he smiled at me just the way he had before and came over to the bed. "How was your night?" Quiet, boring, lonely. You hadn't been there, You had to stay home so You could sleep and be rested for work the next day. "How are you feeling today?" "Sore, and thirsty." "I'll tell you what. After I make rounds I'll come back and give you a massage. What would you like to drink?" "Could I have a cup of ice, and a Sprite Zero?" He laughed a little, "Sure." About an hour later he was back again. I had drifted off to sleep again, and I woke to find him leaning over me a bit, a banana and red jello in hand. "What's this?" "They call it a banana; I though you might like some breakfast, and if you eat this I won't have to give you a potassium pill." "Those are the big fuckers, right?" "Yeah, they're really big." He said he had to take care of some things, but that he hadn't forgotten the promised massage. I ate the banana and jello in the relative silence of the room, wondering about You, and relieved to be eating something. You were at work by now. What were You doing? What did You think I was doing? Do you imagine me there there alone, sleeping or reading or watching tv or talking to nurses when You are gone. Usually I am alone and asleep, letting the medications seep in and steal away the hours until it's time to go.


  And then he was there again—another shot of morphine ready— hands rubbing together to warm them before he touched me. I turned sideways on the bed again, waiting for the pain relief, and perhaps more. His hands were strong and the pressure he exerted was intoxicating. I leaned my head back a little, and he leaned in to my neck, breathing and whispering in my ear, perhaps discerning my weaknesses—my weakness. Why was I letting him do this? I couldn't tell myself that it was just a friendly massage. I wanted it, wanted more, wanted him, but at the same time I felt deceitful and wrong. He was married; neither You nor his wife had any idea about what was happening, and that made me feel terrible, but the touch was so good, and this had never happened to me before— I gave in to my weakness for just a little bit more, but still fearing that it was all too far, and too much, and unforgivable. His hands massaged lower on my back, and around my hips, then made their way back up to my shoulders and arms and chest, just barely touching my breasts. I swayed with the movements and moaned with the ministrations, and then I heard him say something like "I'm getting my dick sucked." Wait, what?


  He went to the door and checked the hall, then he came back to the bedside and pulled his scrubs down a little, and there, behold, was his cock. Brown and erect, with a scent of fabric softener and musk, and just inches away from my face...this was all too fast for me. I couldn't let myself go that far, even with the drowsiness and medications, I knew, I knew, but still I could almost feel my tongue stretching forward to lick and kiss and feel the tumescent flesh filling my small mouth...no, no. "I'm sorry, I can't." "Come on, I'll be quick..."  His hand came down to my shorts, searching for the warmest secret spot. I backed away, "I'm sorry. I just can't. It's not that I'm not very tempted by you, and your cock is beautiful, but I can't do this like this." "What do you mean, like this?" I took a deep breath and tried to formulate what I wanted to say. "Have you heard of polyamory?"   


  He cocked his head a little, and his eyebrows and his pants went up. "What does that mean?" "Well, it means that my fiancee and I have an agreement. It means that we are open to seeing other people, and that under the right circumstances we might develop other, interests. Maybe, I don't know, maybe we could get together for coffee, or something, and discuss the possibility of this happening another way?" "My relationship doesn't work that way. I can't develop feelings for you." By this time the cock had disappeared back into his pants. "Oh, well..." He took a deep breath and let it out in an explosive expletive. He stretched his arms up over his head, his shirt raising to reveal his stomach, and then he brought this arms down and around in circle-stretches. "I'd better go. I'll come check on you in a little while."  "Ok."


  So there it, mostly, is. What I remember. I saw him two more times, briefly, as he administered my medications, but there was no more flirting. He still looked me in the eyes, and maybe, maybe there was a sort of regret there, but what sort I can't say. He didn't say good-bye when his shift ended; he just walked out and away. And now, as I've told You over and over, I don't know what it meant for him. For me, the two weeks after, I could still think about him and smile and wonder if maybe, somewhere, somebody, would be right—but, then, You are right, and so I don't know how to be, or feel, or think, or do.


   A few days after being released I wrote him a letter, as well as writing to one of the other nurses who was very kind (but that is another story). I don't know if he got it. But I wanted to tell him at least that for a little while he made me feel something I hadn't experienced in a very long time, and I thanked him for that—and the red jello. That I hoped everything went well for him, and if ever found his way back to the college, he should stop by and say hello.


  I don't think I'll ever see him again, and indeed, even in my mind, his face and voice fade. One day he won't be there at all.


  

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

Fine, or not

  "I'll be fine," He says, and walks out the door.
(as I write this, I am notified—a message from Him, but not really, only a repeat, no emoji in sight)

   I think of the torn shower curtain from this morning—not just torn, but shredded, the Great Cat having ripped it apart after the long pole failed.


  I think of His tread of late, heavy and swaying like a wounded, angry, defensive beast—it is no wonder You say the ladder is coming away.


  I think of Him and me and us—

Tuesday, March 22, 2016

Hospital Cure: part one

  
  I  had a very profound experience in the hospital—an experience with another man. The situation I believed impossible occurring at the most unlikely time. Granted, had it not been for the meds, I would never have been so bold, so open—sitting in that hospital bed, once more attached to tubes and wires and poles I felt I was in my own surreal adventure, exotic Persian prince included. 

  It was my eyes he first saw, the rest of me was burrowed down in to a pile of six blankets (one is never enough in the hospital; if you're lucky they bring you a heated blanket; putting the heated blanket next to your cold limbs and feet can be close to divine). His initial remarks about my blue eyes sort of slid right by me. All I could fathom was that it was shift change, and here was the newest stranger that would be poking, measuring, asking, checking me every two hours. A male nurse, what a rare treat; some of these men are incredibly compassionate—Mike, in the ER, for example; years ago, a man named Brian—some are just efficient. But this one, was attracted to me, and I'm still trying to figure what it was. Hair pinned up, no makeup, dehydrated and nauseated—amidst all that he saw something he liked. His hands lingered on mine when passing medication, or beverages, or the red jello he brought me because he knew I was tired of green. 

  He offered to give me a shoulder massage—I can never resist a massage from a pair of strong hands. "You're so hot." "Well," innocently, not understanding, "I have been under six blankets all day." "Oh is that what you thought I meant?" Embarrassingly, yes, I thought he meant that my body was literally hot. That was the first moment when it occurred to me that this man was attracted to me, not just attracted, but that he wanted me, however briefly. He was standing behind me as I sat sideways on the bed, so close I barely had to lean back to be against his abdomen. He leaned over and whispered into my ear "You smell fantastic." Again, shock reeled me. Granted, I had taken a shower just before going in to the hospital, but I would have thought all the saline and plastic and latex would have overwhelmed any scent I might carry. Thank the goddess I had refused to wear that awful hospital gown, instead I was wearing a black spaghetti strap tank with a shelf-bra and a pair of purple jammie shorts, allowing at least a modicum of comfort and, I suppose, a more pleasing view. I began to make the small noises I do when pain and tension are being rubbed away. "Oh my god, do you always make those sounds? I can't believe this is happening. I've got you all day tomorrow, too."

  I said I was certain he showed this attention to all his pitiful patients. He told me to walk through the halls and look in the rooms and find someone else that looked like me. "What about all those cute little nurses and nurse techs?" "No way, not those snobs." Now, I was convinced that I was not the first patient he had ever thought was cute, nor would I be the last that received extra attention; but, at this time, in this moment, I needed, wanted, to experience seeing lust in a man's eyes. He leaned against the wall with his computer kiosk, clicking all the appropriate boxes,entering all the data that was required, all the while looking up at me and smiling, maybe even somewhat sheepishly. The ring on his finger hadn't gone unnoticed. I just kept my gaze on him, so that every time he looked up our eyes met. "I think you are trouble." "Me? I'm the one bound to this bed right now. How can I cause any trouble?"

  In between the administration of medicine and Sprite Zero, weaving around the looks and fingertips, we asked innocent questions. "Where do you live/" "Flowery Branch." "That's a nice area." "I like it."
"Where do you work?" At the College a few towns over. "I graduated from there!" small coincidences that add up to a fated meeting. Of course, there are things I think I said, responses I think he made, but the memory is now dulled by time and a different kind of insobriety. I confessed to him that I thought my face fucked up everything for me—I think he said "Your face doesn't fuck up anything." But I can't remember exactly, or for certain. 

  He asked if I was married. "Not yet, but in October I will be (hopefully). What about you? I see a ring on your finger." Married for seven months. Then what is he doing with me? What am I letting myself do, or letting him do? He offers another massage. "Let me know if I go too far." "It would be hard to go too far in this room; you never know who will pop in wanting to extract or insert more fluids into and out of me." His hands moved down to my biceps and squeezed, then they slipped into my shirt, and squeezed my breasts. "I think that might be too far..." I started to protest, but it came out a wordless breath. I brought my hands over his and removed them from my breasts. "We can't," I whispered, "we'll get caught." Caught by whom was the question. I certainly didn't want another staff member to walk in; but even more so there was You, beneath all of the flirting, I wondered about You and what You would say or do if You were to walk in while I was being fondled by another man, trying to understand the duality of my feelings—for the first time since being with You I was in the presence of another man I wanted fuck. 

  He grabbed my face in one hand and kissed me, once, twice. "I've got to go; but I'll be back later. can I bring you anything?" He looked down at his crotch and shook his head, "How can I go back to work like this?" The erection underneath his dark blue pants was unmistakable and flattering. As he wheeled his kiosk out of the doorway he said "Behave yourself in here," and winked at me. "Of course I'll behave, I'm all alone in here."


Monday, March 7, 2016

Perfection Ruins

  We fought and loved and battled in waves, and finally, the unrelenting struggle grew tired and began to flag, to flag for truce and truth. You said things I wanted to hear, and things that I didn't. I lashed and howled and tried to fight the both of us at once, and urged the both of us on to terrible acts, committed. I rent myself and You so deeply, the tears began to seep out of the floor...and now, now we both have a hand in destroying the home. We both have fault in destroying ourselves.

  Time slips away from me.

  I got into the car, and a man, a pastor Rick Something was speaking about how perfection ruins our lives. I'll be damned if he wasn't speaking to me. He said that a perfectionist doesn't always come in the form of someone who is "perfect," but too often it is the most imperfect person, one who uses perfection as a standard for themselves, measuring constantly their imperfectness against either their imagined ideal self, or against what their imagined form of perfection is. This gives the poor perfectionist a perpetual armory of pikes and powders and projectiles with which to pummel and punish themselves for not reaching perfection. In this way, the perfectionist is a slave, always believing that it is the measure and account of performance that pleases their Master. Every day the slave must wake and worry about the sheer number of  tasks perfectly performed, deeds needed to obtain and retain favour of the Master. Thus, the slave can never be certain of his station, and the list of failures and insufficiencies—sometimes real, sometimes unsubstantiated— and the feelings of dysmorphia replenish the armory of perfect pain.

  Of course, the perfectionist—believing that there is such a thing as "the" perfect—also holds others to this imagined standard. In doing so, they are allowing themselves to pronounce judgments and values as though they were foundational to the situation, as though they were righteous; but, that doesn't mean right. The perfectionist becomes disappointed —unwilling to become dis-illusioned—when the object of their perfection proves to be ineffective in fulfilling the fantasy, and then the pitiful begins to criticize and pick apart the imperfect performance of the partner, casting the same blame and guilt upon the other as they do upon themselves. The perfectionist drives both themselves and others into frustration, annoyance, anger, and it is and perpetual cycle as long as Perfect is a goal, a desire, an idea.

  In this way, a perfectionist can end up driving away the very one they respect the most. In this way, the perfectionist can distance themselves from the masses. In this way, the perfectionist can lose the very means of improvement. In this way, the perfectionist ruins lives.

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Weekend Wax

  

  We sat on the couch, after a day of shuffling and cuddling around the house, making love,watching television, making love—now, through the window a light up on the hill, beyond the trees and limning motion distracts us from our comedic plot. At first, we thought it must be a car, paused at the top of the road, picking up, or dropping off a neighbor in weekend revelry—but the light was too clear and too bright and too clean, and after a few moments still it did not recede— in fact, it was growing more luminescent. You got up, and looked more closely and then, the first sliver of lunar flesh appeared. For the next few minutes I watched her slowly sway across and over the horizon, the trees dancing in her glory and our eyes reflecting her rising delight.

  She was there with us, all weekend, just peeking in the window, over our shoulders, finally awing us, brazen and full frontal as we crested the town hill after washing our duds. She caught us unaware, our chattering immediately interrupted by exclamation. So close and full, a glowing ocherous orb fixing her impunitive gaze upon the land, only wanting to see and be a scene, then demurely taking cover behind gossamer and lace. A very great lady, full of grace.  

Thinking of You

  It breaks my heart, a witness to what You do. 

  What I see in Your inklings and notions— the sheer magnitude of process, the energetic drive to touch more, more thoroughly, the motion of thought and colour and sound in You and through You, the tender and the terrible, the terrific and the tragic, all the world expanded to include and contracted to exact, dreams and philosophy and politics and sex and horror and joy and wonder and befuddlement, a cascade of  empathy and sympathy always at he brink, a genius that cannot be duplicated, a boy that cannot be consoled, a man that cannot be yet is, a mind ever stretching and feeling it's way, sensitivity and sensuality, the marking You leave, remarkable— so much that I cannot describe for my own clumsy ways, some day it will be known, and received by those who can appreciate, respond in kind, inspire and uplift. 
  
  You are greatness, unacknowledged, undiscovered but for the likes of me. Someday that must change.

Thursday, January 14, 2016

The Strongest Woman You Know

  So often, I feel and I fear inadequacy, but I am trying to clear a path through those thoughts that mire me down and tire me out. 

  So often I fear that even giving my all will not satisfy, that more will always be demanded, and I find myself unable to give in at all; but I am seeking to open my heart. 

  So often I look at You, and in my tri-centered core both anxiety and elation swell and swirl and either can sweep me along but, I am looking for ways to balance my mind.

  And, so often, looking at them, I find hopelessness and envy seeping into my thoughts and pricking at my heart. But, I am learning to find joy in my surroundings. 

  And through this, through all of my faults and flaws and feelings and fears and fuck-ups and fragmented thoughts, there is a love that is infinite and ever expanding, as implausible and magnificent as the universe, a love that inspires me to become the strongest woman You know.

Friday, January 8, 2016

Mystery

Mystery.

  You said that I don't realize to what extent I remain a mystery to You, as if it were a bad thing that there are things in me You have not seen, or heard, or felt—of course, these are still mysteries to me, also. But if I am , as You have claimed, a goddess, then do You dare attempt to strip away the layers of mystery that protect the divine? What right have You to know any goddess fully? What would happen if suddenly You could read my mind as words on a page, and there were no thing left to inquire about or seek? What use would You have for me then?

  You said it as if it were a personal affront, a crime, but I cannot help but feel that You know me all too well, and that there is nothing mysterious about me, for when You speak of me to me, You hit so close and hard, perhaps not with perfect accuracy, but with incredible insight. You implore me to speak, to narrate, to astound You with soliloquy. And at the same time tell me I have nothing to say. The very reason I remain so silent is so that You will not discern my emptiness—better mysterious or somber than vapid and trite—, and the more You force me into vocalization, the more panicked I become, and the emptier. It's as if You don't believe me when I say that I have run out of words; but it is true, that in those moments, those haltering phrases that I manage to utter slide away into fragments of "I don't know," "Say something, quickly!" and "You're losing Him!" The pressure to come up with not only the right words, but any words at all, paralyzes, and literally the thought repeats in my head "I can't think. I don't know what to say now." I fear I have run my course.

  I hear myself sometimes, sounding exactly like my mother, and it is disgusting to me, and intolerable. I know You see and hear it too, so how can I not be ashamed to open my mouth? I never know when it is the wrong thing to say. You tell me of  little men who live in our stomachs. I ask "What do they live on?" I thought I was doing well by starting with questions, but You respond with "That's your question?" It was only a start, but it was immediately dissatisfying to You, and You put me down for saying anything at all. What am I to do? Is this how You support me? I'm afraid to have You read what I wrote yesterday for all of these reasons...I can't do it like You, and because You want me to , I will always be lacking. 

Fear fear fear...I have been trying so hard to escape you all week. 

  And after a long day, I return home, wanting only to crawl in bed and drift off while nuzzling  in Your skin and hair and scent, I am chastised for having nothing to say. My small accounts of what have happened, all I can offer in the moment, are seen as so much pitiful prattle, worthless and useless and valueless. I had just begun to feel a tentative sense of accomplishment in what I had done this week, and now I just feel inadequate, again. The stirrings of excitement in me were quenched by a sense of failure . Today, I feel hurt and low, and the feelings I have been trying so hard to ignore, the voice telling me I am not good enough, are coming not from me, but from You. I thought I was rising, but it seems I have only sunk further into Your disapproval.

  I thought You understood. My great pain, is that I cannot do for You what You do for me, even though I would give so much to do so. I don't know what I can do, or do, other than frustrate You.

  The week was good, yet now it seems like it isn't worth much at all.

  But the most hurtful thing is that I have disappointed You, again, when You need so badly for someone to override Your own rampant thoughts with their vivid descriptions and recollections and imaginings. Sometimes You tell me that the narrative in my head that tells me I am not good enough is a lie, and that other people aren't thinking or saying it, so I should stop hearing it and being difficult with myself. But, doesn't this prove me right? Isn't it  sign of...something, that as soon as I decide to try a different mindset, someone puts me back in the place I was trying to leave?

  I know that I need to share more, but so much of my thinking is shrouded in pain of various sorts, it seems that I cannot get around it, or outside of it, or away from it, or out from under it. It is hard to let your mind fly freely when the weight is always upon you.