tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373211325449453322024-03-08T17:49:47.945-05:00A Woman Who SmokesAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-81041804806493464932018-02-14T15:53:00.002-05:002018-02-14T16:09:07.689-05:00I love you <span style="color: #351c75;"><i>Valentine's Day...I have a tricky relationship with this day. This year, having finally gotten used to the look and feel of my hyphenated name, it is the day I fully acknowledge that my marriage is over, that the man I have loved most fiercely in my life, the one I have given myself to freely and gladly again and again, is lost to me. Our first date, years ago, years supposed to be on Valentine's Day, but he had car trouble, and had to cancel...I think, that's the story, but looking back, it could have also been that the woman he was living with insisted that she spend the day with him. It would have been my first Valentine's Day with someone in more than three years, and while I had become mostly embittered by the holiday and its corporate roots, I was still very much excited to be with him. We had our date a week later—and that became our yearly celebration— dinner and a trip to an antique shop where we saw many wonders and whatsits, but eventually, bibliophiles that we are, got lost in the booky section, staying there on the floor reading to each other until the shop closed down and we had nearly been locked inside for the night. I found a volume of Emily Dickinson poetry that I brought home, and treasure as a memento of that day, and of the time when we were so excited for each other's gaze. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> But this is not about that day. This is about today, and now...and now, my heart is broken and lonely, but I know that I am not alone—but it feels Alone. I've been wandering around the house, trying to imagine what it will be like when he's gone, for I'm going to do my best to keep the apartment we've just moved into—the one we've still not totally unpacked, because I think we both knew that our situation was approaching its terminus. I can only hope for a more amicable break than the cycle we've been in. I did everything I could, but lacking my own mania, I cannot outwit somebody else's. I am so sad that my love for him has only endured through all of the tumult, the storms of his anger, and rage, and depression, and regret, and mania, and love, and joy and wit, I thought that because My Love would not die, Our Love would not die...I was so very wrong. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> I've been through a lot in the last few years, and learned a lot in the last few days. We were supposed to celebrate next Tuesday, but obviously, there is nothing to celebrate...except, maybe that I've also realized that I will miss him very, very much, and the next steps are unknown to both of us, but I'm going to be ok. I'm going to try my best to take all the energy and effort I've put into everyone else and try, instead, to love myself enough to seek out happiness again. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> I love you</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> I love you</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>I love you</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> I love you</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>I love you</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> I </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> love</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>you</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>I </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>have </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>to </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>let</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>you</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>go</i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-86530427805274197632017-08-31T18:49:00.000-04:002017-08-31T18:49:37.603-04:00Vulnerable<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>thinking of us</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>all the long way</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>from then to there</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and here we are</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>thinking of us</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>lying in bed, spread</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>imagining you there</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and here, I am</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>listening for You—</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> for the rallying cry, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> for seeking and finding</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> for frenzy and wisdom</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> for love struck</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> for chiming in </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> for harmony, even from two crowns</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>striving for me—</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> When every thing feels like failing and falling</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> When hope is fleeting and my lover fickle</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> When fact and fiction are equally strong</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> When force and fury beg forgiveness</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> When fucking is fantastic and</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> things are fanfuckingtastic</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>pressing, pulling, coming</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> to the aching conclusion</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> the swelling sense of sweet</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> lovejoyfancyneedlosshopedesire</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-38154070492567196142017-06-23T13:34:00.001-04:002017-06-23T13:34:09.656-04:00The Womb in "Giovanni's Room"<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>Not having it right in front of me, but for starters:</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> The title is "Giovanni's Room," but, it isn't Giovanni's at all..it's some woman's, a maid, whom we never meet. This may explain, partially, the presence of the romantic painting—a man and woman dancing or walking together, roses all around, I think. Eventually, Giovanni begins to "renovate" the room, but he only manages to bring in dirt, detritus, and disarray. But what if the room, belonging to a woman, is representative of the womb belonging to a woman? It's not just that the painting taunts Giovanni because of its own symbolic horror, and so he wants to erase it, but also that he is literally destroying, scraping out, the womb signifying the "abortive relationship" he has with David, and the dead infant in his past. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> For David, the threat of the inescapable, disfigured womb— the all-seeing dead mother, whose influence dominated his childhood home even through absence—doubled with the image of the life he pretends, sometimes wants, but ultimately cannot have, becomes too terrible, and he must run to a living woman, any woman, to prove himself capable of rejuvenating life, in his loins, in her, in his future. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-55985017127393725152017-06-01T17:38:00.003-04:002017-06-01T17:38:55.013-04:00Excerpt from the Sacred Prostitute<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> "Differentiation is not a limiting factor; on the contrary, it is necessary for full psychological development. In the second half of life, the psychic process is predisposed toward reuniting the opposites, only now on a conscious level where the feminine principle of Eros and the masculine principle of Logos function congruently. Alchemists from the time of the Dark Ages describe this process in the poetic image of Sol and Luna, as gold ans silver, being melted into a unity purified of all opposition, and therefore incorruptible. But the sacred marriage can only occur after there has been a differentiation of the masculine and the feminine principles. As Ulanov writes:</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> 'Without wrestling with this task of differentiation, we fall into formlessness and a cheap imitation of current persona roles. We miss our chance to become unique persons. Furthermore, we miss the spiritual significance of physical sexuality. If we deny sexual differences then we deny the fact of otherness that is so strikingly conveyed to all of us through sexual experience.'"</i></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-14118438047688771152017-05-31T17:44:00.000-04:002017-05-31T17:44:54.887-04:00This could be the end...<i><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-size: 16px;">I see you in the evening</span><br style="font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-size: 16px;">Sitting on your throne</span><br style="font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-size: 16px;">You're playing with a fireball</span><br style="font-size: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-size: 16px;">And post it up against wall</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></i>
<i><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-size: 16px;">(so say the Kings)</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></i>
<i><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-size: 16px;">and everywhere you go </span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-size: 16px;">there is darkness </span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-size: 16px;">and there is light</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></i>
<i><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></i>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-67223197138220384572017-05-08T16:42:00.003-04:002017-05-08T16:43:30.045-04:00<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>A well timed joke, </i></span><br />
<div>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>a well earned smoke, </i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>as I muse and meander through what is</i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>and was</i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>and may be...</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>where, on earth, am I?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>a blue hall with faint blue doors?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>a roiling saturation of blood-fresh red?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>a cut down tree, glowing violet at the heart?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> </i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br />
</i></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-3486294242630319212017-05-08T16:42:00.002-04:002017-05-08T16:43:41.537-04:00All for one<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>Pitting one against the other</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>never turns out right—</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>the surest way to kill joy is through comparison—</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"I've loved Him longer...been there, been through..."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"Yes, but I love him newly, with new perspective..."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"Oh, but I love Him, unfulfilled, afar..."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"But I am His home."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"I am his desire."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"I am His frivolity."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"I am his fantasy."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"This I know..."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"But this, I know."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"Me...look here...see how I know?"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"I will spend..."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"I will make..."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>"I will send..."</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>All of us trying to know more, show more, be more...</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> for You, to You. To prove that we are capable of what no other could do for You, or with You, or through You...all to be chosen...all for One, one memory, one moment, one man.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-85214012877675672152017-04-04T17:38:00.001-04:002017-04-04T17:38:50.132-04:00Fool<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> So, here I am again...reaching and reaching, knowing everything is pulling away, slowly, but with ever more efficiency. And so I try not to reach too much, or too fast, or for too long, trying to grab the snippets of affection you still show, hoping, hoping, hoping that they will stir in you renewed desire for me, however small, believing that small things grow. I do not expect the immediate return of your desire, as I know there are still old hurts and ideas that must be purged from the system, and so I try to keep my own system clear... I try to appreciate that you ask after me, taking it as a small sign of care, concern. comfort, but my response earns no response, and I cannot say whether it is a matter of business, or avoidance. I am not asking for much, just encouraging words, and an encouraging heart. I am seeking my courage, my personal power, but I need a boost to help me feel empowered—you ask me still, to admire you, look here, smell there, and again, I take it as reason for hope, that for you to ask me to come closer and observe, and feel for myself the pleasure of knowing you, means that for that moment you want me near, are inviting me in to the sensual...but, then, when my responses to your questions are met with silence, I am drawn back into a position of doubt. And some times I think that because I am having trouble keeping myself entirely lifted through these ins and outs and ups and downs and overs and unders and backs and forths that we are experiencing, that because I do still get depressed, in spite of my best efforts, that because you're mood and receptivity do, in fact, impact me greatly, that somehow you see me as not doing what needs to be done. I do not believe that I deserve "full credit", because I know that in many ways I am still ignorant about myself, about how to find the me that's me, the me that's best for me, and best for us, even best for the world; but I know also that my position has shifted, and I know that, even though, on some days, I fail at doing more, I am doing more. I don't know how long it takes to learn discipline, to be disciplined...I think discipline is what I need, mostly from myself (but, yes, I do want discipline from others, as well, because, let's face it, spankings are fun—as your bumper sticker may soon attest!) but I don't think I could ever be severe about it... I think you know what I mean. But then, maybe that in itself is a problem...like, I'm asking for it, but not too rough, not too hard...just enough to get me there, but not enough to sap the pleasure out of it... I have been trying to infuse my will with the will, not just the desire, to change into what I always wanted to be: a woman with subtle secrets, a woman who is desired and has desires, a woman who is and has accomplished, a woman who feels the universe moving, a woman who sees the best in people and brings it out, a woman who is respected, a woman who is intelligent, a woman who is sexually satisfied, liberated, and free, a woman who is witty and charming, a woman who is fulfilled...and sometimes I worry that is too much to ask for, when it has not been given me as birthright, because I, who wished so desperately to change her station and position in this world, still secretly believe that I don't deserve to be all those things, because those who deserve have already received their blessings, and that whatever it would take to sculpt me into such a woman would be far too costly, well beyond my reach. Is it worth the dying to try..? Is it worth the living to not? There are so many examples of people, men and women from all lands, that have risen beyond their circumstances, and I hope to discover the skill to do so too. And so, while I understand that there is no way, no logical, practical, way, for us to be everything and all to each other, even as Romance still appeals to a naive little girl in me, I also truly need from you acceptance, moral support, and the same understanding you always asked from me (especially as it pertains to the argument that you are not my father, so too, I am not your mother)as I seek out what else will satisfy. (I look out the window, and see that googly eyes and branches that signify your presence, and remember that this time it is not so) Whatever I will be, I will be different, and I want, most of all, to come through all of this, all of the things that hold me away from myself, all of the things I am afraid of, all of the things I held for so long that did not serve me, with an ego sufficiently stroked, a mind enlivened, a heart empowered, and a body that moves with it all, no longer, uncertain, no longer afraid, no longer waiting to be, no longer a fool too afraid to take herself seriously. </i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-11775999608404308272017-03-22T16:48:00.001-04:002017-03-22T16:48:20.039-04:00The First Day of Spring<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>I nearly gave up on myself, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> I wanted only to sink into that </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> Dark, Torturous room—slick grinding, and muffled, warbled, garbled screams—</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> and lie on the floor weeping, weeping, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> weeping... Heart sick</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>(She Dove</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> Came back)</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>But then, with a measure of hope in magic</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> I went instead into the </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> gloaming Present Peace room—water singing lightly, stones set, </i></span><i style="color: #351c75;">and a guiding voice—</i><br />
<i style="color: #351c75;"> and lay on the floor breathing, breathing, </i><br />
<i style="color: #351c75;"> breathing... Heart lift.</i><br />
<i style="color: #351c75;"><br /></i>
<i style="color: #351c75;">She drove</i><br />
<i style="color: #351c75;"> Came home</i><br />
<i style="color: #351c75;"><br /></i>
<i style="color: #351c75;">And when I came home, </i><br />
<i style="color: #351c75;"> I walked across worn wood in that</i><br />
<i style="color: #351c75;"> humble house that is a room—wind whisping, chimes swinging, and your keyed thoughts— </i><br />
<i style="color: #351c75;"> and we lay on the bed talking, sharing, </i><br />
<i style="color: #351c75;"> touching... Heart felt.</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-42477910780818246912017-03-17T15:11:00.002-04:002017-04-04T17:41:22.437-04:00The Melancholy of Resistance<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<i style="color: #351c75;">Think of them as Spirit voices. Emotions find attachments. I could feel her anxiety. She is me.</i><br />
<i style="color: #351c75;"> </i><br />
<i style="color: #351c75;"><br /></i>
<i style="color: #351c75;"> At first, her practiced detachment was slightly offending—she clearly wouldn't stand to brush shoulders with any strange persons, and eye contact was to be strictly avoided except in the most extreme cases—then it all became very amusing. Not as boisterous and blundering as Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Bouquet, if you please), but rather, she is a woman, as she recognizes herself, a lady, who, when travelling alone amongst coarse crowds, keeps a discreetly dignified exterior, while internally she staves off her anxiety by keeping moral tabs on the senseless humanity around her. Her attempt to reserve a circle of defensive space around herself fails to keep away the broad back belonging to the broadcloth coat or the harried face and voice of the peasant woman. Her distress at the leering man, the noisy rabble, the lurching of the train, motivates an inner dialogue eventually driving her to high anxiety—the "attempted rape," the brutal beating in the darkened street, the failing electricity, no help forthcoming, and all she can do is run, run, run from her rumpled dignity, from strangers who assault with scent and sound, from her own gigantic fears.</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-86833830079117723682017-03-02T17:01:00.000-05:002017-03-02T17:01:05.659-05:00I Love Thursday Mornings<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>...waking up </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Your furred face, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>smelling wild, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>upturned and glowing,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>I roll and burrow</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>into deep sleep smells,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and take the tendrils of dreams,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>curling into my core, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and gather the menagerie of watchers</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> who witness</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> I love Thursday mornings. Thursday mornings are my preview of the weekend, my reward for half a week's worth of work, a special delight that comes for no special reason, other than it's Thursday. Waking up, feeling you wake up next to me, slower than other mornings, knowing there will be coffee brewed and shared, still hot, spiced and creamed, held in matching mugs; there might be eggy-cheese sandwiches on toast...it sounds like the weekend, but it's Thursday and it's delicious. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> Thursday mornings are good for me, and today was especially good. </i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-50164111082658347022017-02-21T09:42:00.002-05:002017-02-21T09:42:16.179-05:00Happy Anniversary<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>...just a day like any other, You said. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> Slice, cut , burn, scrape, pierce, poke, choke, slap—hurt people hurt people. You asked why I cared, I asked what kind of a question is that? You said, a sincere one—but it couldn't have been, because You know better. You know that just because You are angry with me, even when I am angry with You, there is never, never, a moment when I don't care. Ever. It is You who stop caring, here and there, is that not so? </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> I was, I am, proud of myself. For last night—for allowing myself the pleasure of being in the moment; for not allowing hurtful thoughts to taint the experience I was there for—truly, not even having hurtful thoughts—a breakthrough!—; for not crying; for interacting even through an uncomfortable meeting, without envy, or fear, or judgment. I was, I am, proud of myself for this morning—again, for not becoming hysterical, for not yelling, or throwing, or hitting anything, even though today is important to me. But, my self-control in these moments is nothing to You. You see no progress there, and are too hardened against me, in a moment, to give me credit. But, I am not giving up. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> You have been, for many months, on a wonderful journey to a better self. I, am right behind You, soon to be abreast. You hit a very rocky bottom last summer, and it was the catalyst for great change. And yet, there is much that has not changed—I thought it was a goal of Yours, to expand Your patience, especially with me. Why did we get married, if not to support each other, and lift each other up, to be the kind voice when the the inner voice is cruel, to model patience for each other, and to practice on each other love and warmth to spread to the world. But, in times like these, I feel that You attach residual resentments to the situation at hand—and how can I move forward when You treat me just the same? I am taking more responsibility for myself, for my body and my mind, but I don't think that means You have no responsibility to me. I think that whatever relationships we are in, we have responsibilities to our partners. You asked me how much of myself I want to change—I don't think You believe I can, and feel like You have given up on me. I have not hit the same rock-bottom; I am trying to heal myself before it gets that far. Do You see that? Can You believe it? Can You help me, by allowing the past top be the past, and the present the present?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> I didn't think I would be able to sleep, last night, after much ado about nothing. But I took a lesson I had learned, only earlier that day, and imagined soothing light, blue and white and violet, passing through my head, moving up and down my spine, blanketing me. It worked! And I prayed that in the morning, You too would have let it all go. You said You weren't holding a grudge, but what else can I call it, when You are holding on to whatever happened yesterday, the day before, last week, last year... if You are always regarding me as what I was, it keeps Your mind confined, and You confine me to Your contempt, hostility, disappointment—just as, if I were to see You as the same man You were last year, or the one before, I would be doing You a disservice, and an injustice. Please, cast off the past, and know, see, witness that I am stretching, expanding, and growing stronger. It's true.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> I love You. I love so deeply, so fiercely, yes it sometimes hurts, but I would never choose to love You less, for the sake of less pain. I am, we are, still learning ourselves, and each other. Do You want me to fully comprehend who You are? I wonder if that's possible. If You continue to grow and expand and learn, then there will always be more for me, or anyone else, to understand, examine, and know. I think that is exciting! How wonderful, to always be getting better, more interesting! I sometimes feel I know You very well, but I also know that You are mysterious—Through learning myself, loving myself, I will also know more of You. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> I write this now, hopeful. It is true, that we have, and will, struggle at times. This is true for any relationship that moves through time. But, instead of struggling against each other, we could struggle with each other, for a shared goal. My goal—to see You be the best man You can be, to see me be the best woman I can be, and to share our love and happiness with each other and with others. I believe in us, in our marriage. I believe we both will be fulfilled, and I believe that as we grow together, and for ourselves,though it be painful, at times, we will be grateful for the experience, wiser for the lessons, stronger for the work, and loving for the pleasure...successful for the commitment. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> Happy Anniversary. </i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-25601737323972977072017-02-21T09:40:00.000-05:002017-02-21T09:40:54.925-05:00<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>I walked in the moonlight, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>I had not done so in awhile,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> and listened to the small singing night beings</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> whose lives are so much simpler than ours. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>I breathed in the spiced smoke,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>I do when I have much on my mind,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> and welcomed the heady rush burn in</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> exhaling deeply to clear spaces between.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-29710769139469998652017-02-08T16:41:00.000-05:002017-02-08T18:04:10.393-05:00And now<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>Lingering hurts, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>thoughts combined into pulpy mash</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>Believing, disbelieving, Disbelieving believing</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>a strangely isolated place,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>having forgotten much in fighting the pain, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>and searching for how, how, how to make my magic,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>cultivate, yes,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>grow, yes, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>scratch and itch and burn and yearn, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>Disbelieving, believing, Believing disbelieving</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>a loss of Trust, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>a lack of Faith,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>a stumble and fall, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>hard thoughts make hard feelings make </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>conversations hard, but</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>You will tell the whole world,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>soft thoughts make soft spots make</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>me want You near, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>but You don't want to hear that from me, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>...so fragile a kiss,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>so fragile, a heart—</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>Believing</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>disbelieving</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>disbelieving</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i>believing</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-48356084284420544452017-02-07T12:50:00.001-05:002017-02-08T16:36:20.600-05:00Punishment, or TLDR: I should have shut the fuck up.<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> You say You don't do it to punish me, but You know damn well that's how it feels, what it looks like, how it functions. When I walked in the door, I could tell something was off. You maintained a distance from me, and I had been gone all day, our last communication giving no evidence of any tension. There was, from what I could tell, nothing I had done to warrant the distance. But, not wanting to be invasive, not wanting to repeat the previous hug fiasco, I didn't draw in to You. I tried to tell You about the moon, the yoga, the night...when You said we should go lay in bed, I thought that perhaps now would be the time; but, no. You crawled into bed as I made us tea—tea You would not drink—, and covered Yourself, chin to toes, as if I were not even allowed to look at You. You were very clearly avoiding me, contact, touch...and perhaps it was not enough that I did not reach out to touch You. I tried to give You a space to talk, and instead of telling me that You did not want to, were too tired, You give me vague answers about speaker and audience, then seemingly fall asleep. I was frustrated, because I felt like You weren't acknowledging me, that You were edging around the subject, and then acting as if I have no reason to suspect that there is an issue. You asked me about normality, as if, from Your perspective, everything was as usual. It felt like You were being callous—knowing that every day I look forward most to coming home to You, eager, every day, every hour, for closeness. Something about, after being alone for a while You don't know how to be around people...</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> I told You what my perception was, specifically, that You were upset about having to change the plans You had made, You were decided not to be close to me and to make me suffer as You were suffering. I admitted that I could be wrong, but that I couldn't see another reason for Your distance. I asked, nicely, for You to either confirm or deny what You call my "accusation." Because You didn't like what I said, or how I said it, or why I said it, You chose not to address it, and to let it fester in me. This is what I meant when I told you You had the power to alleviate my concern. You say that I make mistakes, when after years of observation I should know better. But, after years of observation, has it ever helped me to "see more clearly" or to "calm down" when You don't answer the questions I ask, when you walk away, when You get out of answering by condescending to me? That is the surest way to elevate my frustration and anger. I know that sometimes I walk away to smoke when we are arguing, to give myself a space to breathe and redirect, and I try to make that clear, and I think You know that when I get a clove, I'm calling time-out; but, when You walk away, it makes me feel like You are doing it to—I've already deleted this and started over because I can't get it right, and everything I write inspires images of Your disgust. What I'm trying to say, is that I feel like You can hurt me, so much more than I can hurt You. I know that I have, and it tears me up, because I love You more than anything. And, it feels like You know, as well as I do, that You have a power over me that I do not hold over You. You know, it hurts me when You leave the bed in anger. You know, it hurts me when You withdraw, physically or emotionally. You know, it hurts me when You don't speak to me. You know,starting or ending the day with stress, without affirmation, is painful to me. All of these little hurts that hurt so much—I don't have this effect on You, You don't feel the need for me that way. So, believing that You know these things, I can only believe that these wounds are intentional. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> Maybe it's true, I am an abuser—I won't deny that in the past I have acted out against You—maybe, I abuse myself. mostly. I've told You, and it's true, that I have never gotten so riled by anyone as I am by You; I never hit anything or anyone until we started having really awful fights. I don't blame You, but I think, a long time ago, when I saw You handling Your anger by being destructive, I learned how to do it too—and now, we both have to break the habit. But simply voicing my observations, accusatory or not, isn't abuse. Bringing attention to the fact that we haven't had physical contact in 24 hours isn't abuse. Getting angry, feeling hurt and lonely, these are not abuse. I was trying to have an honest conversation last night, because something was obviously on Your mind. We could have avoided this whole fight, all of it, if You had just been honest with me. We are both guilty.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> You were still in avoidance mode this morning...else , why did You not kiss or caress me, as is the usual morning greeting? So, I waited as long as I could, lying awake, aching for touch, for connection, until finally, I had to get up. Usually, if You are not upset with me, You will say "Good Morning" as I come down the ladder; since You said nothing, I assumed, taken with the lack of physical touch, that You were still upset. You come to me, while I am at a disadvantage, and ask if I am still mad at You, I say I thought You were mad at me...shouldn't that have been the end of it? If neither of us was mad anymore, what happened? You thought I was being short-sighted, I wanted You to acknowledge my observations, concerns, as legitimate. I wanted a hug. A kiss. A pat on the head.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> You asked me if I ever look in a mirror. Of course I do. Every day. What do I see? A crooked face, a weakened and warped body, a twisted soul. What is the "double?" I'm not up on my Lacan. The self, and the other self, okay, fine...but I haven't figured out how to remove myself from myself to find something better. I fail every day. I was a little proud of myself yesterday, making it through the day even after a rough morning, doing three separate yoga sets, trying really hard not dwell on negativity, to connect with breath—but now it feels like a useless effort. Nothing changed, nothing got better—I didn't get better. I came home, was rejected anyway(regardless of malice), lost control of myself for a moment, slept unsatisfyingly, and managed to anger You while wanting not to. So now, I just feel like shit. Punished. By You, by It, and even by me. And now that I think about it, it really is my fault. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> There I am, desperately wanting to be hugged, and I guess if I couldn't get that then I was going to get some kind of engagement. I mean, it makes sense, right? I am angry because Your body language, and even verbal language, indicated You didn't want to talk with me at all. I should have just shut the fuck up. I'm sorry. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> </i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-90085520651134117382017-01-17T15:54:00.000-05:002017-01-17T16:10:37.713-05:00I am a seed<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>I am a seed</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and I am still growing</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>through mud and rock.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>I was almost too dry, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>closed too tightly, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>but I can feel the shell giving,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>just a little,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and cracking. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>I sat in a pocket of tears, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and now there is moisture </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>seeping in. Someday, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>maybe tomorrow,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>my tiny shoot will </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>open hands, to push </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>through the mud and rock</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and make a space to move into.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>And the next day, I will stretch a little more, until</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>I break the surface, and then</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>I will feel my roots grow strong, from the seed I am, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and my leaves unfold, from the Sun that is,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and I will grow and grow and grow.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>There will be cold days, and snowy nights, and dry, hot summers;</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>there will be times when nourishment is scarce,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and months when I cannot help but shoot up farther</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and faster;</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>From seed to shoot to sproutling...</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and if I'm lucky, and tend my self with care, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>I'll bloom—</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Yes, bloom, and be grateful for the grace of maturity.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Bloom, and know the life-struggle, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>the dance with the elements, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>the drawing up and in of air and water, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>of heat, and food, of care, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>that all was meant and made for the moment at hand,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>the fulfillment of purpose, the joy of knowing, at last </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>at last, the fruit buried within, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>attracting all the stars to look, inviting all the bees to taste,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>honeyed and sticky with sweet-life-song-sex.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-4119051714063567412016-12-15T13:41:00.001-05:002016-12-15T13:41:38.926-05:00What Thoughts May Come<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> 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.</i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-76773897708729672792016-11-11T09:44:00.000-05:002016-11-11T09:44:27.256-05:00Feeling Groovy<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Sitting, parked</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>immobile, and locked;</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Deep breath in, hold</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>hold</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and out, and listen</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>This music I hear, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>joyful noise, hopeful rhythm</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>moves me and floating</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and falling, I sway</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and stretch, seated dance</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Extending beyond, unfolding and reaching</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Breath in, more</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and out</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>There is magic just beyond</i></span><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-43965095348019399552016-09-30T13:37:00.000-04:002017-01-12T17:11:36.314-05:00Excitement<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Open Doors</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Open Hands</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Open Hearts</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Open Days</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>I consider Our Future</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>I reflect on Our Love</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>I remember Our Struggle</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>I praise Our Progress</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>For now, the flutters and fears and frustrations have no hold,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>And I am only Eager, for You </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and Eager, for Me</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and Excited for Us</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>For the new Way of Living</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>For the better way of Loving</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>For the reward of Lasting</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Let Us begin, then, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Our Life</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Husband and Wife.</i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-26908333341553569852016-09-28T16:55:00.000-04:002016-09-28T16:55:02.566-04:00Here it Comes Again<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>A day's work, done and proud</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>something to show</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>shower, shave and rest. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Midnight, You are sleeping</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and sudden pangs course through me, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>oh no, not now...but</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>yes, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>a trip down the ladder, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>flip on the bathroom light, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>pale-moon face shines back through sweat, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>lean over porcelain, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and let it pass through; maybe, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>maybe it's just this one, maybe,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>if I just go back to bed, maybe</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>it will pass over me quickly.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Go back up, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>check the blood, and too much</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>too much, so dose, and sleep...</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>1am, and You are sleeping, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and I wake again to fluttered motions </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>in my chest and stomach and throat, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>a whole hour?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>That might be a good sign, hang</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>in there, kitten; </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>back down and up, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>rinse and spit, get the pills and check</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>that blood again, too high still.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Dose and sleep, until, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>1:30, no, no, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>only thirty minutes?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>That's not good, but</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>down and up again, this time, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>more medicine, to go up and in, but</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>it's too late, I think, and it is, and </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>why, why, can't I just sleep it away?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>2:15, 2:37, 3:11, this isn't going to work, so</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>one last chance, next trip I'll get up and go, but</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>oh, the ordeal of it all, all over</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>again, and again and again, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>You called it Chronicity, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>I call it anguish, prolonged torment,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>suffering for which I know not.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Finally, sometime around 5,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> I know I cannot wait any longer</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and I must go, and </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>what must I tell You, other than </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>it is time. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>And all around me, the early morning is quiet, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and I fade away and out of the world, to ride</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>ride along, and stumble through sliding glass doors, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and, mercy on me, this time no drunks, or druggies or babies with burns,</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>just me and my green bucket asking for help;</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>a temperature, a weigh in, my name and date of birth, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and I'm wheeled away, into the inner corridors</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>of the Emergency maze, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>and </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>by now, I'm hardly here at all.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-47936076564784705632016-09-21T19:44:00.000-04:002016-09-21T19:44:19.124-04:00Sensuous <span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>A dozen things try to distract me as I walk in trying to remember, those words once more:</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Imagine, feel, </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Foreign Object</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>smooth, velvet, underneath</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>firm, shapely </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>invites finger play, a touch </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>ten tickles, and pearls</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>flimsy silken strands</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>hide, small gathered</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>pucker, inside, purple</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>pocketed, </i></span><br />
<i style="color: #674ea7;">one way to play at language.</i><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-73242241822479738132016-09-21T16:00:00.001-04:002017-02-08T16:49:13.572-05:00Freedom is a constant struggle<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> All I ever wanted was a song, a poem, a dance.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> 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:</i></span><br />
<i style="color: #674ea7;"><br /></i>
<i style="color: #674ea7;"><br /></i>
<i style="color: #674ea7;"> Where is my Master?</i><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> To Whom may my submission granted?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> Where is my Soul?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> Where is my Song?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> Where is my Dance?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> Where is my You?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> 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. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> 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...</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> 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?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> "</i><span style="background-color: #f6f8f7; font-family: "sorts mill goudy"; font-size: 15.4px;">It's not the genes that make a person, but a long, rich history of collisions, choices, audacity, courage and cowardice."</span><i> 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?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> "</i></span><span style="background-color: #f6f8f7; font-family: "sorts mill goudy"; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #674ea7;">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." <i>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. </i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f6f8f7; font-family: "sorts mill goudy"; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #f6f8f7; font-family: "sorts mill goudy"; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #f6f8f7; font-family: "sorts mill goudy"; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #674ea7;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #f6f8f7; font-family: "sorts mill goudy"; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #674ea7;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: #f6f8f7; font-family: "sorts mill goudy"; font-size: 15.4px;"><span style="color: #674ea7;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> </i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-31007433560932408152016-09-12T15:17:00.001-04:002016-09-12T15:18:04.640-04:00His Words<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "sylfaen" , serif;">I wear my green shirt today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "sylfaen" , serif;">I put it on and turn around, and there lay<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "sylfaen" , serif;">a sleeping thing, like little bean<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "sylfaen" , serif;">toes on paws: a cuteness quietly<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "sylfaen" , serif;">curled beneath furled sheet,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "sylfaen" , serif;">drassled hair, stuffed menagerie too <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "sylfaen" , serif;">My lips on her temple, adoration for this sight;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "sylfaen" , serif;">she murrs and purrs, unseeing she leans to<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "sylfaen" , serif;">me, me she seizes from beneath sheets<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "sylfaen" , serif;">peek-a-boo kitten playing<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "sylfaen" , serif;">peek-a-boo joys staying<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "sylfaen" , serif;">she's just a girl like this<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: "sylfaen" , serif;">a girl whose tail is furred<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-30332010830556869162016-09-06T21:19:00.000-04:002016-11-11T10:00:55.405-05:00Moja droga, ja cię kocham<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> 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. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> 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. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><i> 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: <span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; line-height: 26px;">Moya droga, ja cie kocham. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tfnBxbDz77U">Listen</a></span></i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37321132544945332.post-12633188608768519712016-08-15T21:19:00.000-04:002016-08-15T21:19:05.391-04:00A Thought<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Amidst the nonsensical rambling and schizo-smithing</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>reality can be just as absurd as </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>"she gives me googly-eyes."</i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08898498856284533364noreply@blogger.com0