Celluloid Heroes

I wish my life was a non-stop Hollywood movie show
A fantasy world of celluloid villains and heroes
Because celluloid heroes never feel any pain
And celluloid heroes never really die

I heard this tonight on my way home from work. Oh, it's so delicious. If only it were nutritious.

I had fiction on my mind tonight, but alas no time to write it.

In my mind, I saw an old woman, sitting on a porch. It wasn't a deck, it was definitely a porch. A replica of a New England farm house on a cliff. She looked out over the Pacific---a view she once longed for. She has to view alone goddamn it, but it's there; the sun disappearing each evening.

She sat that day counseling her grandchild, a young boy confiding, lamenting, that he has feelings for another boy. In 25 years discrimination and ignorance have not yet been completely abolished. But above all he knows how much his Nana loves him. She made him banana bread because she knew he was coming.

"You can't pick who you love," she tells him, as she stares beyond the horizon.

feeling by braille

She places the book she is reading down and slides her foot up her calf, enjoying the feeling of smooth skin. There were no nicks and cuts this morning, and the baby oil after her shower still lingered, keeping friction firmly at bay.

"How does a brain recognize it's our own touch versus someone else's?" she wonders. "Is there specificity to skin and its grooves? Is it something electromagnetic in the air around us, like an aura that identifies the external pressure against our bodies as foreign? Why does it hurt less when you pull off the Band-Aid yourself? For that matter why can't you tickle your own feet?"

All of these questions are far too deep for a Friday afternoon, when the sun is shining, and breeze is from the west and warm. Her mind wanders—as always, to where it shouldn't. Fuck it if her own touch was the only thing she felt on her legs these days, not to mention other places.

The Pottery Barn catalog has this beautiful teakwood chaise on its back cover that's made for two. She closes her eyes and pictures it on a deck, where the breeze from the west now comes off the ocean. She inhales and pretends she can smell it, and nearly does, much like the lifelike painting of an ice cream cone can look so real you want to reach out and grab it.

She wants to grab… what? Life? This she does, albeit she can't really hold on. She has to settle for each time it comes around, always reaching for that brass ring. But there's no such thing as a free ride. Not that she paid a high price; in fact, she has netted much for her work and sacrifices. It's the free ride that actually comes at a great cost.

So her mind wanders. And in her mind she is pressed into the cushion of the teakwood double chaise, by pressure most definitely not her own. She doesn't need an aura to tell; every neuron is firing at the speed of light, blinding her in the form of sweet kisses all over her face, lips, and neck, and she squirms under his hips. She uses her fingertips to play across his back.

Somewhere in the distance a dog barks, and she opens her eyes, remembering she is outside. Any guilt is beaten back down before it can manifest; misguided it can wreak havoc on her ability to cope. It get so hard sometimes, hard to be understanding and give love when she gets so little back; when her sins are dredged up every three or four months and fed to her like castor oil until she wants to vomit. Every time she finds herself at the top of the hill, she sees her husband back at the bottom, arms folded in an eternal pout. If only she could send him to his room like she does with her other children.

"Come down when you're ready to act like a grown-up." She thinks, and laughs.

She takes another turn on the merry-go-round. At least the music is good.

*^*^*^*^*^

I bet you'll never come here again; reading what I wrote here probably scarred you for life (as if I haven't already.) I had no choice but to do it that way. I thought it brilliant actually. I had Lisa take it down the next chance she got. I'm going to burn in that special hell for it, as "pro" likes to say. I hope you do though, come back. I promise not to ache on and on all the time, just prose. 'k?

When I look to the sky

What to finish? Will the voyeur let his guard down? Will the woman who let the highway lead her to the arms of a sexy stranger ignore her conscience? I am avoiding finishing these things. I never finish anything really.

You know what? I am thinking way too much; it's impeding me. This is a pretend fantasy blog. There are no rules, and Jiminy Cricket can kiss my sweet ass. (I love how Word's dictionary has "Jiminy" in it to spell check.) If I can't take my mind there—all the way there, then I have no business in fiction, I have no business spewing the love and angst such that I do. I can feel whatever I want, express whatever I want, and it isn’t wrong.

I just can’t act on it. *snort*

I feel like there is this part of me that is doing this for a very specific reason: I need to push myself, and the unconscious boundaries placed there by my psyche. IE: The Guilt! I must stop the guilt. If I want to fantasize about picking up a stranger in a bar and having him fulfill my desires then that is very cool, 'cause many repressed women won't and can't. If I want to imagine various scenarios of running into you in the middle of an average day in Boston, (and I have dozens of them, LOL) then I will. Yes I am rationalizing; be quiet.

Unfortunately, it’s 11:00. (and I've seen 11:11 half a dozen times in the last few days) I can’t start another story right now; I need to sleep because I have to walk/run 5 miles tomorrow and lift weights. (Today I rode my new bike 7 miles!) I did however make good use of time by formatting some good pieces I have for submission, and I just have to decide if I am going to enter them into contests, or submit them in the fall to publications I found. I am leaning toward a contest entry because I think my odds of publication are better there. I won a bottle of wine at a site called Gather you know. I wish I could drink it with you. I'd settle for just you reading the story, LOL. I have another idea for a book too.

God I am so tired. I can’t wait to dream. Oh speaking of dreams, my recurring one is back, but now, I miss the plane instead of it crashing. The hell?? Jung, please leave me alone!

Verse

You come like a thief in the night
and steal the breath from my lungs.
If it sustains you I don't mind.
Share my air.
You have my heart, my soul after all.
If only I could have felt your lips
as they inhaled my expired air.
They'd be a salve,
Soothing the emptiness
the void
that remained in its wake.
I stand on the shore
shielding my eyes from the afternoon sun
with my hand
and wave,
winded.
Never knowing if you see.
*******

Oh Pablo, forgetting is long indeed.

Sometimes I wonder, if ten years from now, when my children are grown if I leave...

Would you be my friend?
Yould you love me still?
Me fifty, you sixty.
Holding hands on the shore,
sharing sweet kisses
passion,
words,
love.

Love is short. Forgetting is long.