the last of it

these may be the last posts for a week or so
gotta rush away
but i’ll be back

and i’ll be checking email

paragraph 8

Who knows what I love you feels like, anyway? Like the lingering of a lost voice or the sting of licorice drops held under the tongue? You made it so easy to lose my head when the world suddenly shifted from flat and lifeless to gaudy three dimensions. I didn’t know what to do with it all. Didn’t know when to close my eyes and stop the spin. There just wasn’t enough room to stuff my pockets full of the angles and textures – leaving the inevitable bruise that remains from trying to hold something intangible in the palm of a hand.

paragraph 7

After I walked away, the string that was pulling me across the world slowly slipped from my fingers. Distance and time inevitably deflate infatuation. The exchange of obligatory finishing words took on the mode of two separate conversations, exposing the necessary element – physicality. Each note or phone call ending in silly commentary and innuendo that didn’t seem to match the other insular dialogue about who got to keep the coffeemaker or when I might collect other insignificant forgotten items. This realization produced that pinch – the scratch in the back of the throat – that reminded me just what I am, or what I was, or perhaps, provided me with definition. A receptacle. A body. A lover. Not your full time. Not lasting.

paragraph 6

I was looking for confirmation in useless vacant terms. Searching for solace in my own brand of self-destructive lunacy. We had always been on the opposite sides of love. For months, I let that be enough for me. Because it was all you were willing to give, and I wanted something. Anything to attach to those hands, that body, that face, those moments. Somewhere along the way being your ambiguous in-between no longer was enough.

paragraph 5

Words tend to confuse and confound, and I made that mistake. Still do. The practice of using too much to express the pull felt under the ribs – an ache to which I attributed too much meaning. So I assigned the flavor and savored the phrase as I inhaled your breath in an effort to remain alive and exhaled with regret –

I love you.

You did not say those three damaging words in return. Nor did you remain in the safety of silence or sanctified hands.

I could.
Not I do, or I did.
But, I could.
You make me want to love you.

paragraph 4

I was your in-between. Your never-mind. Together, we weren’t anything visible. Like vapor before it falls from the sky. After months of undressing each other on spontaneous weekends, we arrived at that sacred point where silences resonated. When I convinced myself that the use of false and empty words fell away to reveal a clean place without vocabulary – a higher form of communication. We lived there. In tenuous moments of blindness. An unawkward muteness. And I began to define myself by the shape of your body – through the movement of our tongues.

paragraph 3

You were holy. My origin. But there was no way to make things right, even as we ran slick from the shower to your room to avoid your housemates. Lying endlessly with limbs intertwined, you made me feel like the bass chord of your favorite song. But I knew about the others. It was so much easier to let the silences fill in for truths like marriages and other deniable relationships. To believe that the possibility existed for me to take the place of whoever-you-slept-with when I wasn’t around. Even though you had explained on numerous occasions that you weren’t interested in a serious emotional entanglement. Even though I said I understood. I lied in confirmation.

paragraph 2

It’s been awhile since I’ve allowed myself to think about us, and there’s something that happens in the span of time between words. A spark of anticipation that makes my fingertips buzz. That makes my head rock. Thoughts of your eyes – your soft skin – shape my lips into a grin like an indecent proposal. I wonder if you still bat ocean blue intoxication. If you still try to love too many people at once. Your eyes were like ice – the pleasing kind that you want to crunch between your teeth until your cheeks and tongue are numb. It’s nice to think of you this way. Before we exceeded the logical limits of words or explanations. Before I left your house trailing expletives and shared commodities like bread crumbs, without a moment to notice that I wasn’t even wearing my own clothes.

paragraph 1

I wore your jeans yesterday. Your old Levis. They are faded and worn. Won’t be long until I have to surrender them up completely to the effects of adoration and time. But they still remind me of you. Memories of disconnected moments. All those times I slept in your bed and tried to achieve a greater closeness by shrouding myself within the confines of your things. We stalked the streets in the University District to imitate the exoticness of lovers at coffeehouses, where you read to me in your best poet’s voice from The Grapes of Wrath, and I wrote secret notes on the backs of sugar packets and wouldn’t let you see them. You kissed me – full on the mouth – in front of everyone. Held my hand across the table. Five large fingers that refused to let me go. Afterward we walked the lake. Dipping naked toes into the cold. At night. The side of your head against mine, from behind. Those arms like ivy wrapped around my ribs. Your almost criminal embrace.

news break

apparently . . . comovedy is taking over the world
so, like, don’t miss your chance to be a trendsetter
go there
seriously
now

[plus, he makes me miss England – with those vague references to cooking shows and places like Boots. ah, sigh.]

a shorter version of something else, entirely. perhaps the longer – too long for a blog version – another time

I met someone the other night. Did you hear me?
Just the alarm and the static hum of music.
What did you say?
When?
Now?
As I awakened?
Yes.
Hey, who is that guy you’ve been dating?
[There was no reason to mention that we’d only been
friends. That he had flown back to Italy months ago.]
This is already a miserable morning.
It’s far too early to say miserable.
I’m lucky to have you.
I love you.
I could. You make me want to love you.

instead, I pretend to drink my cold coffee
bite the inside of my lip to arrest the tears
and think about loaded words that sting
intensity
affection
intimacy
none of those conditions attach themselves to you
they fall down, out, away
shatter into a million pieces on the floor
and as I pack useless clothes into cardboard boxes
a vacancy grows greater than I ever imagined possible

the lack of tempt

Sometimes there isn’t much to say. Fought the urge, last night, to fill the screen up with drunken messages after a long night at the bar with friends. I forget how good it can feel to keep ordering vodka crans until you aren’t sure you can walk yourself home. And the alcohol lessens the sting of saying goodbye to the people I love and respect. So maybe there just isn’t anything interesting to say.
Only that I’m leaving soon.
the transition
and it will take time to get through it.
For it to all be over.
And I think about how many times in my life I’ve wished for that feeling. For that sweet release. For the calm that follows after everything has crashed down on your head and you aren’t even sure you’re still alive – or that you want to be. But there’s the inevitable rebuilding. And that can only be good. Can only lead closer to a reclamation of words like who and what and where.
Maybe I rely too much on definition. Maybe I use too many words, anyway.
Or I look for them too intently. To fall from the mouth of the wrong [anything].
So it’s me that I’m taking along.
For balance and a new way of looking at things.
And it will be better.
For sure.

Only a few more days until my access to the Internet will be limited – but only for a week or two. Then I’ll be back in full force. And I usually find a way to get here, when I can.

the last time we met

it was barely dawn and the light from the High street transformed the buildings from muted grey to brilliant gold. and i was lost again. in your eyes – deep and dark like perfectly polished stones. like a novel i’d never read. a sleep induced vision until you covered me in your almond skin. and i drank from the cup of your soul like warm black coffee. heavy loaded sips that burned the back of my throat. knowing that vanishing was all we knew how to do. after we two parted – the memory of you remained like a bitter taste in my mouth. what’s left, sometimes, to remind us of reality.


he’s written to say he’s going back. without me. that every street light’s a reminder. and i’m not entirely sure if he means -- here or there. but I’ll miss him. and distant thoughts of university and summer time in England.

Last night I listened to some unknown blues band belt out the following

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?
-- Bob Dylan, “Like a Rolling Stone”

as I stood next to a river. In the dark. Jamming fists into my pockets as deep as they would go. Hands that constantly seek change and reaction. And fighting the urge to sway to the music. To show anything at all.

There are questions that I never asked or answered. About needs and how to catapult myself closer to their desired end. About desire itself. Passion and loneliness. Or the stark confrontation made upon returning that reminded me how impossible and destructive attempts to possess another person’s body can be. And I am disappointed in myself, that I didn’t have the ability to say that hard and fast reactions found within the confines of healing hands reveal other needs outside of my own. That it isn’t only me out there looking for something.

click for fun

Go here: The Apartment
and just do what it says.

Then go here
and read the about file.

excellent good

seeking wisdom from the past

The phone rang leading me into something unplanned and strange. And the tones from the other end reminded me that I need guidance and wisdom. I called T’s father M. He’s known me since kindergarten when he played the piano for us in the evenings and we’d dance in our nightgowns on the crisp wooden floors and pretend that we were princesses or birds. He played for us throughout our years – even after we became young adults and instead of imaginary beings he helped us transform ourselves into the music. And I became a woman under his gaze – as a result of his love and appreciation. Until I pulled away. Ran away to transform myself in other ways. We reminisced about these things and other matters until I revealed that I needed his fatherly presence again. That I was seeking transformation from his advice and his years of living an honorable life. His voice came down like summer rain and made me feel like home. Like an embrace I never want to leave. And I told him as much as I could. Every fear. Every possibility mapped and routed into the future. All the things that have happened over these last few years to lead me to this confusing and frustrating position.

He began simply by saying, “I love you.” And he said it over and over again until he understood that I believed him. It’s difficult for me to accept that level of emotion from someone that I know isn’t required to give it. And it hurts me – somewhere deep beneath my eyes. An ache that has slowly been producing tears in sporadic shifts throughout the day.

His message wasn’t simple or romanticized, and I won’t capture it well enough here. He suggested that I consider the idea of starting over. Do I want to start over together or alone? Anyone can change. Anyone can try harder. If that’s what you want, then you’ll have to see where it takes you. Nothing is going to be easy all of the time. Even the most wonderful connections that we make are going to go through difficult and seemingly insurmountable times – and you’ll have to decide for yourself where you stand within that. People fall out of love, but they don’t have to remain that way – but it will take both of the people involved to decide to make reparations. You don’t take decisions lightly. Nor have I ever known you to rush to judgement. You dedicated your life to something – and it will take your dedication to keep it strong – any relationship will require that.

M and I got married at the same age – and he and his wife are still together and have been for somewhere around 30 years. He told me that the most important thing to do – is to find my own happiness – the rest is just a supplement that should make everything ever more enjoyable.

I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.

tell me you believe that
he demands
and I’ll never bring it up again
but you’ve got to tell me you seriously believe what you are saying.
I don’t.
can’t.
or shouldn’t.
And I know with every word I’m placing an irrevocable pressure on the invisible string that binds us together. The tether that pulls my lowest rib and reminds me what it feels like to experience truth and emotion and love. Each syllable – a scissor's snip that will snap and leave a traceable burn.
You can lie to yourself all you’d like
he hushes at me as I let the bath water surround like warm plush blankets
but don’t pretend that I’m buying any article of it.
We let the resulting silences fill in for answers – like what I’ll ever do and when. And as the vanilla scented beads transform into intoxicating noxious vapor, I know that it’s the love of friendship that won’t afford me the luxury to fall back into an empty and meaningless repose. And that if I do so – it won’t be co-dependency that delivers me up to the sacrifice of artifice.