Lingua Franca

innocuos eggnogg

2008-12-05T21:32:00.002-05:00

Bless me father for I have sinned. It's been 5 weeks since my last confession.

Yeah, it was a lame attempt at dark humor at that.

I am drinking eggnog. From a carton, mind you. I am not being "Martha" at 9:30 on a Friday evening. The last few days, maybe a week, I've thought of writing here. (Maybe even writing in general, but that's another post...) I always manage to channel those thoughts somewhere more constructive or productive. I call a friend, pick up a book, look up a good recipe for dinner... and "poof" it's gone. Shoved back into a corner of my soul.

I think the good news is I am happy. Happier? Focused? Better adjusted? But dammit, I have the right to let emo-Sabine out to rant if she wants to. She is a bit pissy because despite all her personal exploration, guilt over her sins, and putting her energy toward the future and her real loved ones, her husband doesn't think their marriage is any better than it was three years ago. And while all her therapy has taught her she has no control over his feelings and this is his problem, not hers, she can't help but be all, what the fuck?????

And when he starts saying things like therapy was a waste of time, and that that the reason he has these so-called ~~diagnosis~~ "black marks" on his medical record, i.e. "depression" is because of my antics... well, it's hard to take a deep breath and understand that it isn't your fault, and he's being an unenlightened ass, who can't accept that being abused as a child can cause you to be a fucked up adult and maybe that's why you and your wife had issues in the first place.

But I digress. And suck it up. And he kinda sorta quasi acknowledges he was an asshole without actually saying "I'm sorry"... [air quote]Whatever[/airquote]

So the "throw my past indiscretions in my face" anger episode came about 6 months after the last instead of three, so maybe we are making progress. Wake me in seven years when my ovaries shrink and vagina starts to dry up and tell me how it works out.

Enough about him. I'm here to visit you. Which is pretty sad really, because you don't even know who I am anymore probably. Which of course for you is a good thing, and I hope to all hell you have focused your energy on your wife and haven't been spreading your charm all over the fucking internet.

I am going to watch the movie tomorrow. I have the house to myself. I really shouldn't, only because there is a part of me that will look for an Easter egg meant just for me. But I have set myself up to be disappointed. I know even if there is something there, it will be so vague that I will still question whether or not I am seeing what is not there. If that makes any sense.

My daughter has been studying poetry, in 6th grade no less! Her teacher has her then modeling their own poem in the style of what they read. She has been reading Edna St.Vincent Millay, and William Carlos Williams, and her poems---no surprise are wonderful.

There is a song out right now, that makes me think of you. The lyrics just have this passionate emo-intenisty-angst that I recall being part of you and the songs you used to cite. I almost hesitate to post lyrics because then people search them and hit my blog and I hate when random strangers find my blog over song lyrics. It's the Airborne Toxic Event's "Somehwere Around Midnight".

And it starts...
Sometime around midnight
Or at least that's when
You lose yourself
For a minute or two

As you stand...
Under the barlights
And the band plays some song
About forgetting yourself for a while
And the piano's this melancholy soundcheck
To her smile
And that white dress she's wearing
You haven't seen her
For a while

But you know...
That she's watching
She's laughing, she's turning
She's holding her tonic like a crux
The room suddenly spinning
She walks up and asks how you are
So you can smell her perfume
You can see her lying naked in your arms

And so there's a change...
In your emotions
And all of these memories come rushing
Like feral waves to your mind
Of the curl of your bodies
Like two perfect circles entwined
And you feel hopeless, and homeless
And lost in the haze
Of the wine

And she leaves...
With someone you don't know
But she makes sure you saw her
She looks right at you and bolts
As she walks out the door
Your blood boiling
Your stomach in ropes
And when your friends say what is it
You look like you've seen a ghost

And you walk...
Under the streetlights
And you're too drunk to notice
That everyone is staring at you
And you so care what you look like
The world is falling
Around you

You just have to see her
You just have to see her
You just have to see her
You just have to see her
You just have to see her

And you know that she'll break you
In two

Music is so good like that. Letting you emote. And drift. And laugh. And scoff. And scorn.

This is just to say

2008-10-26T23:41:00.002-04:00

A colleague I hadn't seen in a while asked me this weekend if I was writing. I hate getting that question. I don't get it often, and I get it from the strangest people. Not that the people are strange, mind you, I mean it's often random folks I am not close with or see very often. So when they ask I often pause to think, "They must have thought it was cool/interesting, whereas others may give it that, 'oh, neat. Did you see Roche Bros. has chicken on sale?'" to the point where when the see me they remember and ask me about it. And then there is my dad. When my dad mentions it it really hits home. I turn into this puddle of mush who feels like a 5 year old who daddy wants the best for and did something that really made him proud, but is now just shoving it in the drawer with copies of Mozart's Requiem, and Beethoven's Mass in C. (Because I don't sing anymore either. Except in the car.)

My husband even prodded me once, and I had to tell him how much I appreciated him encouraging me, but that it was just too hard to explain, and I was blocked and frozen and I just had to walk away from it. Which is the truth. Just not completely all of it, but as I said it was hard to explain.

Why do they care? Why do they ask? (God I just got deja vu again. Have I blogged about this?) Do I have some destiny to fulfill or some obligation to write? Psychological translation: am I wasting a gift? I highly doubt that.

I can't even go back and read the stuff here I am so mortified. Not about the smutty aspect of it, but the whole "Mary Sue" thing.

Next week will kick off another nanowrimo. I did it once. I'm not sure if it can be made into a publishable work. But the whole idea of writing is now in the forefront of my concsious. Everything happens for a reason?

So I come here to write, even if it's just my thoughts. Because you were my muse. October 13th came and went, and I didn't come here. It snuck up on me. I wouldn't have even noticed at all, that's how well I am doing now, except for the news story that came out not too many days before hand. It was jarring. Only because I know how PR works. And what I believe I know of you. If it was you. In bed, in the the dark I mentally composed thoughts, but it just was never apropiate to come down and write them. I keep normal hours now. But I had to wonder, is it a bi-polar type of issue? "Manic" could certainly apply to you my dear. I remembered how in our first exchange I teased you about delusions of grandeur, and how you laughed. But you, you self proclaimed work-aholic, I thought you'd changed that with your backpack across the world and adventures in surfing, string theory, and airplanes. So is it something more organic?

I didn't see the film. I probably will at some point, on disc. I can't do it openly, some people have short memories about my so-called indiscretions. I am also afraid to watch. In the back of my mind will be this hope there is an Easter egg for me. And what's even stupider is that even if there is I will always question if I am just seeing what I want to see and it's just coincidence.

But if coincidences are just coincidences why do they seem so contrived? *snort*

But Karen saw what they thought was one. I read her post about it. The cow. And fuck, Sheila got a wallet and a pie plate signed, that's even more tangible. She's too funny, bless her heart, and Karen, etc. They never let go. But who am I to talk as I sit here and write about it?

My daughter came home, and talked about a poem they studied in class by William Carlos Williams. I was so thrilled. Her exercise was to write a similar poem, apologizing for something she dis that she wasn't really sorry for. Her response was to write about how she didn't do the assignment. I wish I could remember how it went, but her grasp of word play and irony is outstanding. And she's eleven! I am most proud.

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

at a point that you could walk across with five steps down

2008-07-11T15:33:00.003-04:00

It's funny. Not ha-ha funny,
but in that ironic/coincidence/bittersweetness sort of funny.
"I Want to Believe"
I remember when Sheila used to say that all the time.

I see him now, this man
He sits on a stage;
an awkward nervousness shows through the smile of public appearances.
And I remember conversations.
He used the back entrance because he hated "that shit."

In interviews he says "um" a lot
and I laugh.
For all the intelligence in that mind form a concise coherent thought!
But then in makes sense.
It's easier to form the words on paper.
To tell stories.
It's "convenient to have someone with his face read [your] words."
And there the mystique was broken.
This fictional iconic hero that spoke to my unhappy heart
was a real person.

big pause to appreciate the ginormous irony of that sentence.

At least I believed.
I wanted to believe.
I am ashamed to admit I probably still do believe, despite the illogic insanity behind such an opinion.

He used to whisper poetry to the women he bedded.
I know this because he told me.
Do italics count as whispers?
Or was ~~duplicity~~secrecy more like the parenthetical comments that weren't suppose to count?
He couldn't bed me.
Which when all is set and done is a good thing.
Because, you know, he'd "ruin my life."
It just got ruined for the next few years instead.
Kind of like getting away with manslaughter instead of murder one.
Ok, it not really like that but right at this moment it was an analogy that worked for me.

He loved my words.
Sometimes I still doubt the sincerity of that high praise. Given how he encouraged everyone to write.
And his penchant for flirting.
Not many words coming from my pen these days.
It would disappoint him.
Not that I should care.
Actually he probably doesn't care either.
I'm sure my taillights faded to black a while ago.

But, it's hard not to think of him, when pop culture resurrects an iconic hero.
Forty foot billboards in shades of gray
"I Want to Believe"
And I laugh through the twinge inside.
And of course I peeked.
Once a "ho", always a "ho".
I almost want to go.
I want my hero back to make me smile and forget life for an hour.
Even if he isn't real.
Even if sometimes, I want to believe he is.

pride goeth before a brawl

2008-06-15T23:03:00.002-04:00

disclaimer: I might be incoherent. Working non-stop for 10 days to get your house in order to be shown + booze + ativan because all that + stress and PMS could be teh eebhvul. But now I am sitting in my pristine new family room and it is soooo peaceful. I am ignoring the ~~parental~~spousal unit making comments about how he gave up trying to have us not live in squalor for the last ten years. I can't wait to prove him wrong about the new house and how it will stay clean and pristine because we will have space. everyone keeps implying that I'm naive and of course it will get messy and the more space you have the more shit you accumulate but I will prove them all wrong. I may not have a high profile job right now but goramit if I don't mean business in the homemaking department. Fuckyasall as my sistah would say.

What I'm really here for is to exorcise some ~~demons~~negative energy. It got the better of me last night. See, my brother-in-law had been up here helping us get the house ready to be shown. we had loaned him money to move east to join his girlfriend (sound familiar? Not a soul mate this time though. I think just a ~~mother figure~~meal ticket. $3000 to be exact. No sign of it bein repaid, so Hubby came up with a novel idea, work it off by helping us get the house on the market.

I will spare the long background story. All you need to know is the following descriptors:(and this is both of them by the way)
pride
arrogance
stubborness
anger
abused as a child
get defensive to the point where the most stupid thing is a threat to your well being.

They got into blows. D got pissed at being told what he'd been doing "wrong" and said "get the fuck out of my house...G, make sure he is packed and gone..." (this is the point where my anxiety kicks it up a notch and I enter this quasi-dissociative state.) Hubby storms off. B starts to check facts and measurements. He discovers he might be wrong about some stupid part of the argument. Hubby comes back down ranting about brother leaving his house. Bother says "why don't we take this outside..." then all is a blur and my husband is screaming to call 911.

This isn't my house. We don't call the police. We don't have domestic disturbances. I yell at them to cut it out. They are wrestling standing up in my foyer, bouncing against walls. My husband is screaming at me to call the police, but I am frozen. How can I call the police to my house. This is his brother. We all love each other. B would never hurt him. I can't do this to B.

But I think about how much he has been drinking all week. I hear my husband screaming at me. So I call.

I enabled him. I love him, he is a friend and a confidant. I didn't want to see or believe anything was wrong. I still don't want to. I am so broken into bits over the whole thing, especially when I think about it. What if he genuinely meant "go outside" so as to not disturb my kids. which was a whole nother can of worms as I had to comfort them as they heard everything and saw the police, who took brian away under protective custody.

We haven't heard from him. We know he got home on his flight. His girlfriend implied we "Should have known this would happen." well, no we never thought he would charge and hit his brother. He lived here for four months and did our kitchen and drank a lot of beer but was never violent. So now he is back there, unemployed (which is why he came up to work off the debt) and drinking. God knows what we should "expect" will happen. I am so so sad. and confused, because I hesitated to call, to support my husband, because he has a tendency to overreact, and has a temper. It was his whole "get the fuck out of my house" that started it. I felt I had some allegiance to Brian. but then I realized that was wrong. I needed to be on my husband's side no matter what. But is that right? I still feel bad. Brian allegedly said to his sister, about him attacking D, "G said that?" He has no idea what he did. But the thing that nags at me is I didn't see the initial contact. who put hands on who. who was reacting? what was alpha posturing? But D had scratches on his face, and huge bruise on his arm that is still there a week later.

My daughter was devastated. Her older brother a bit more worldly and mature about it, the little one, too young to understand. I held her as she cried and tried to explain it was kind of like where she and her brother both get stubborn fighting and don't want to give in, and then come to me asking me to pick sides, and in this case the police say the same thing, "It's not our business, work it out yourselves."

Right now my house is quiet and cleaner than it's ever been. The Celtics are down by two. Tomorrow is the last day of school. I can't wait to sleep for hours. I hope someone who saw my house today makes an offer.

Blasphemy!

2008-03-30T00:46:00.002-04:00

I went to confession tonight.
I’m serious.
I didn’t plan it. And it’s probably not what you might first think. I mean, with my infidelity and all.
I confessed I don’t get to mass and feel badly about it.
But what I felt was a worse sin
Was that I think poorly of myself sometimes. I don’t give myself respect.
That must offend God, if he created me in his image
And loves me and thinks I am special.
Maybe the irony of this is that if I went to church I’d feel better about myself, LOL.
This is why I journal, to have those kind of epiphanies.
They help you know. I wish I could physically write in a diary, but I don’t trust someone not to find it and read it. Which brings me to the point of this entry: my penance.
I didn’t get three Hail Marys.
No, Fr. Joe told me to do something nice for someone I don’t like
And not to expect recognition or thanks
Because I am doing it for God, and myself.
And I couldn’t help but think
Isn’t that the story of my ~~marriage~~ life?
I know, I’m awful.

A fellow blogger I once was friendly with is now divorced
And having hot sex
And got a book deal.
I feel so incredibly guilty not writing.
I had two people ask me about how my writing is going tonight.
Even my Dad over Easter.
I let Him down.
And I don’t mean Dad.
Or God
‘Cause you know the hubby was the Oedipal manifestation
….
Pregnant pause

Oh shit that’s another one of those ironic epiphanies.
Men just suck ass. I want to be a femi-nazi lesbian.
And knit socks and grow my own vegetables.

I’m proud of this.

Just a myth

2008-03-12T00:17:00.001-04:00

Monogamy is a myth? These words were spoken (sic-written really) by a jaded but very adorable and lovable friend on Livejournal. N.B. the play on words applicable to my past dilemmas. BWAH! Myth believed in monogamy. In theory, I think. He also said he was a man-slut, so I might have to rethink that. My friend Alan says the best we can hope for is serial monogamy, which makes sense to me. That however leaves no room for marriage in the purest sense. Myth believed in monogamy as it pertained to trust and commitment. It was imperative I maintain my monogamy. He told me his wife failed in their pledge to be monogamous. She was sorry though, and they worked it out. I am glad for him. For her, really, if he could forgive her and regain that trust. Because despite remaining monogamous in body, I betrayed my pledge emotionally, and it was deemed an equal sin. I have yet to regain that trust. I don’t have intimacy. I have glimpses of it. It gives me hope.

Yet at the same time, I lack a certain amount of trust in him, because we’re due for the every three month freak-out-dredge-up-the-past-and-why-I-am-the-whore-of Babylon and not fit to be his wife or raise his kids… That’s the thing; I get hopeful, and think things might be getting better, then he takes all that is wrong out on me. And I shouldn’t. I spend so much time affirming how special I am, and worthy, to let him project his shit on me and make me feel inadequate and lowly.

You know what was very interesting? I did one of those memes via email, where you ask you friends to reply back to a bunch of questions that show how well they know you. Every one who responded said I was shy. Granted some said I was shy but have changed recently, or some said get a few drinks in me and I’m not… I never considered myself shy. Yet it does take me a while to make close friends so I guess I have that element. If I don’t know myself, how can I expect others to know me?

So what makes someone be unfaithful. The same adorable man from above told me if I wanted sex I should go find myself a boy-toy if I was unfulfilled sexually. Since I’m such a MILF and all. Just get one of those pay as you go cell phones, and don’t get caught. But it wasn’t just the sex. It wasn’t the sex at all. It was the love, respect, and intimacy that would lead to sex. Granted, there is the occasional meet hot guy in a bar and no one will know fantasy now and then, but it isn’t real. That could never be real. Heavy breathing over DSL is not real. I do believe though, that the emotional connection, the caring, love, and respect can transmit. Can that translate into intimacy? I guess it depends on your definition. To someone who has none, any connection will do. Is that why men cheat? Why anyone cheats? Are they looking for the type of sex their partner can’t or won’t give them, or are they looking for an emotional connection? I suppose no one size fits all. And what happens when you both need to take, and you find that you have the strength to give so of course you do.

I feel so empty. A good friend helped me to remember to look for hope in the small things. My Golden Retriever is small. My kids are small. I wish they could get all they wish for, so sometimes thinking of them doesn’t help. I need to go to bed. He pissed me off today. I can say that here, even though he is my husband, and I love him, and if I didn’t believe in marriage I wouldn’t.’t be here. His mother is sick. He is stressed. I am doing all I can. But it’s so hard. He micromanages me. I end up feeling I can’t do anything right, and want to tell him to fuck off. But I don’t. because it isn’t right. No matter what I do something with be wrong, and someone will be unhappy.

The kids have no school tomorrow and we get to sleep. I actually stayed up tonight on my own, so I feel this sense of empowerment, usually I go to bed with him, so he trusts me, and maybe we will have some kind of physical touching. I wish I knew what to do.

I'll have a cosmo

2008-01-25T22:18:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I really hate that I let so many real life people (i.e. and especially my spouse) in my main/original blog that I really can't espouse anything too personal or revealing there. It's lost its role as a diary or journal. Granted I should just use a *gasp* real pen and bound paper to record my private thoughts, but all this journaling was born out of some narcissistic addiction to having people read them, so... plus I still am not comfortable having such a book exist in my home lest my husband choose to seek it out and read it, again.

Then comes the dilemma of coming here to unload, given the type of baggage it was born out of. But what the fuck? Am I going to open yet another anonymous account at LJ or Blogger? This is here, might as well use it. And I have that added edgy, masochistic thrill of knowing a link to it is tucked away. :p :p ;-)

So here's the "I am naughty" thought of the day: I went to the big box electronics and appliance store today, to scope out a new refrigerator. The sales boy, and I mean boy because he couldn't have been more than twenty-five came up to offer his assistance. I would have blown him off, but he was so confident, congenial, and cute I was amused. God help me he had this little Mona Lisa lilt and smile I found it attractive. Maybe I was just enjoying having male attention payed to me. Because a woman knows when a man is noticing her. Then of course I had to go and read Cosmo while I was waiting to get my nails done. There was an article about the top voted sexual positions by readers. The first one had you laying back on one of those exercise balls and I thought I was going to orgasm right in the chair just thinking about it. I mean shit, that is hot. I actually had a gym fantasy once, but it just involved the weight bench. I am so boring.

I make it sound like all I do is shop and get my nails done and that really isn't the case. It's just only when I'm free and out on my own doing things like that my mind wanders and the bad Sabine comes out, then I think about writing about it.

Should I mention I visited Cosmo.com later that afternoon when I got home?

He actually did touch me last night, in an affectionate, dare-I-say-physically-suggestive-sort-of-way last night. I want to get my hopes up, but much like I can't get too excited about this new house yet because he keeps ruining it for me, I am afraid to. If I thought we were heading in that direction I'd email him the Cosmo article. LOL
That's dark, self-depreciating humor by the way.

I am all alone this evening, which is really wonderful. I need some down time. I have a morning tomorrow where I can sleep in and not have to get anyone on a bus or to the mountain. It's an estrogen fest! I had dinner with two girlfriends tonight out at this great Vietnamese place, which is BYO, and tomorrow a bunch of us are heading to the Cape for a girls night sleepover. It's so funny I can't read these women sometimes. The last email we got from our hostess said this:
I told Sue people can share beds but there is also the fear of creating lesbianism (is that a word?) which was a big theme in some of our books this year. Also I don't like to sleep with anyone but Peter and sometimes not even that!!)

I wasn't sure how to take that. I mean, I have never been involved sexually with a woman, but I can see it, and understand it, (even more so lately) and it doesn't repulse me. Not to mention sharing a bed has nothing to do with sexuality and it seemed a bit sophomoric to even make that joke, no? I replied all that I was comfortable enough in my "womanhood" to share a bed, and I promised I would keep my hands to myself. LOL

I have a date with iTunes to make a kick ass playlist for the drive, (three of us are going in the BMW and the stereo rocks) then perhaps a pink, battery operated device. *weg*

She knew it was time to send them back. The caterpillars softly wiggled in her hand, spelling out "goodbye"

2008-01-11T10:50:00.000-05:00

My heart was so full yesterday. My daughter, 11, is involved in a creative writing project at school called “The Mystery of Harris Burdick.” Without having to copy and paste the entire forward from Chris Van Allsburg’s book, (but do visit the link, it's a great story) briefly, Harris Burdick was a writer and illustrator that once visited the home of publisher Peter Wenders with fourteen drawings, and said he has stories that went with each one. Wenders loved the pictures and wanted to read the stories. Burdick promised to return with them the next day, but never did. Attempts to find him led nowhere. Since then though, the pictures have inspired many people, adults and children alike to create their own stories based on the images and the caption that accompanies each. Allsburg published the pictures in a book to inspire others to write and has started a website in honor of them, and there is currently a contest being held for children grades 2-8 to submit stories to be published on the website.

Now, my girlie girl is already quite the writer. A while back I thought it would be her brother to inherit all of his mother’s creative genes but apparently not so. Her school actually has a writing class that goes along with her English and language arts class, in 5th grade! Isn’t that awesome? (I think the schools in this hick town are the state’s best kept secret, and another reason I don’t wish to move.) I love reading her assignments, she blows me away with the stuff she comes up with. She is so excited about this contest. She asked me if I knew about Harris Burdick and when I said no, she told me the whole story, lol.

Now, I am asked to read her drafts, but I am not allowed to get all critical about her grammar! She just wanted to know “what I think about the story”. The problem she was having though, was the maximum word count was 250. She was well over that. I was allowed to give her suggestions on where to cut words. She worked on it until 10 o’clock at night, then in class the next day. She was so proud of her final copy, and I have to admit, she did a great job of editing and still keeping the story intact, as she wanted it. Her story was based on this picture, and she wrote about a little girl who lived alone in the woods with mean parents who were criminals. She woke one day to find these caterpillars that could spell words with their bodies, and they made friends. Until her mother found them and made her get rid of them. So the little girl ran away with the caterpillars. She left the ending dark and hanging. I know someone who would have loved that.

I remember so well writing challenges, and prompts, making careful word choices to move souls and capture feelings. I loved doing that so much. Maybe I should look at Harris Burdick’s drawings myself and have a go. I miss writing. But I still can’t seem to do it. I’m not on an even keel emotionally, and I don’t want to go down a road that requires drawing from within.

I’ve come to realize that what brings me the most pleasure in life is being able to create with my hands. I’m not sure how music ties into that though, especially if my instrument was always my voice. Though I did play guitar. I love baking, and playing with dough. I love chopping and cooking. I love working with yarn now. All of these things, even writing since I must use my hands to transcribe these thoughts bear a tangible result, something to touch, wear, smell, hear, eat. It’s funny how I ended up choosing a career in science.

I’m waiting to hear about a house. It’s so much bigger than our current one. I’m convinced he doesn’t want the deal to go through, even though he went through with the offer. But, I’m sick of his passive-aggressive shit. And he’s the one tired of waiting and tired of looking, so he has to suck it up and deal with what isn’t perfect. And if he tries to hold it over my head in years to come that he never wanted it and it was all me, I will personally put his bags on the lawn and say, “fine, go find a nice townhouse with a pool closer to Maine and the office. See ya.” Well, I probably wont, but I’ll want to. Who knows, maybe by then I’ll have the balls to.

I still have a dirty mind

2007-11-29T10:00:00.000-05:00

A disturbing thing happened this morning. I really shouldn't phrase it that way though, as disturbing. My therapist is always driving home the fact that I shouldn't be so hard on myself, and to not indulge in self-loathing, guilt, blah blah, and I have gotten much better at that in all honesty. Everyone has naughty thoughts no?

I was reading in bed. I need to finish for book club tonight. "Snow Flower and the Secret Fan" is really a wonderful story. Anyway, the phone rings and it's the man, of course. (Things have been a bit better, btw, there was a turning point I believe, but that's another tale for another entry.) When I twisted to put the phone back on its cradle, the cord brushed across my breast, my bra-less nipple to be exact. It gave me that certain shiver. I hadn't in so long, you know? And there I was all comfy cozy, still in my pj's alone in my room...

As a rule, when it comes to matters of self-gratification (pun! Hee!) usually faceless, anonymous men occupy my fantasies. I've long gotten past a lot of things. But God, my He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named really is like a seasonal, quarterly visitation, a spirit who has the ability to surprise and haunt me. At least it doesn't upset me anymore, and again I don't beat myself up or let guilt gnaw at me for "thinking about Him". For a while I was afraid to, lest something think I am mentally ill or something. But he was important to me, and there is no Haitian Hero to come erase my memories of him, as much as I once wished for it. It is natural for him to come to mind occasionally when a song plays or a literary theme emerges. I actually erased some old files I found on a hard drive yesterday! He'd be so proud of me. LOL. "Why do you keep that stuff anyway?" No honey, it wasn't to blackmail you with someday. ::eyeroll::

Tangents, oy! I guess the rest is self explanatory. I think my words imply what compelled me here to confess. Consider this my semi-annual exorcism.

back to the future

2007-10-23T09:48:00.000-04:00

What kind of wood would a woodchuck sport
if a woodchuck
could sport
wood.

I'm such a dirty girl. That just popped into my head.

I've decided I really need to express myself somehow. I need to vent. I went back to therapy, and I know that will help. See, there's Good Sabine, and Bad Sabine, and poor Bad Sabine has been shoved deep down in some Jungian closet in my psyche for a while now because it was just easier not to deal with her. This is all metaphor mind you, I'm not some schizophrenic psycho (despite what *he* came to believe.) He used to like metaphor. We had such fun playing with words. That was the best part, and what I miss the most. The intellectual stimulation. Actually, I'd take any kind of stimulation right now. I haven't had sex in over a year. Yes, you read that correctly. *sigh*

Or course that's an obvious discussion for counseling, lol. If I want it I should ask for it. But someone has already said he doesn't like me to "demand" things of him. Apparently, me saying I missed him kissing me goodbye in the morning translated as I was commanding him to do it, and he resented that. (So since it came up again in our last "what is up with our relationship talk" now I get this peck on the cheek with a grand sing-sony "goodbye!". It smacks of a little sarcasm, but whatever.) I 'm also afraid of being rejected, honestly. I made the last move a few months ago. We were lying in bed in the dark, and I started stroking him, and he didn't resist, so I got him off. He returned the favor with some kissing and a finger. At least I got some release. I don't count that as sex though. A week or two ago I offered him a massage. I had offered it earlier as well. He begged off politely, which really sounded like a "thanks but no thanks because I suspect you are thinking of using that as a seduction tool and I'm still not in the mood to be intimate with you."

The excuse is our door is broken and the kids are so close, so I am hoping maybe up north at the ski home this winter something will happen. If not, then I know it's me. Well, it's him. I guess it's us, us?

this post has no title but it looks better with words up here

2007-05-25T00:50:00.001-04:00

I really don't hate you, you know. Despite the venom I wrote back last fall, I bear you no ill will. It was just frustrating. Upsetting too, I guess. I believed in you. After all the doubting I did, thinking you weren't serious, that you were playing me, despite all the posts you made, the stories you created, and conversations we had, what you wrote about being so ill, about losing weight, about the toll walking away took on you... it was then I truly believed you. (Is that irony?) And not just that, I defended you. That for all the bravado, all the times you called yourself an asshole, I knew there was this beautiful, kind man who cared about others so deeply. One that I was proud to have known. I still do I guess. Not that I can claim to know you. I don't know about anything anymore. What I do know is that the man I believed in wouldn't have disparaged me. Hence the hurt feelings. I know at the time it wasn't premeditated or intentional---the whole "feelings thing"... so whatever, as we tend to say lately.

What I do hate is that you're on my mind and that I felt the need to come here and post it to get it out of me. But I can't beat myself up. Just like a diet, no need to bag the whole thing if you eat a cookie (like I did tonight!). Just pick up where you left off and keep going. I've lost three pounds you know. I need to get my bikini body back.

I read about the actor from the show that brought us together having a new series on TV about a man who constantly falls in love with unavailable/unattainable women. I literally did ROFLMAO. I wonder where he got that idea from. I wish him well. He's due a break. God knows he still looks good in briefs. *weg* The promo shots were hot! I doubt I'll watch though. I need that like I need a hole in my head.

God the angst in this blog is pathetic. It served its purpose though. What's the point of journaling if you don't look back on what you've written and grow from the experience? I definitely have more confidence lately. (Can you imagine? How can people stand me, you ask.) I got this amazing hair cut. I think Sampson was on to something. (though look at you! Would all your masculine vitality go out the window if you cut your hair? *snort*) It should be amazing, with the color it cost over $300. I got it by Pini on Newbury Street. I swear, if I knew how to do my hair like this when I was 15, I would have lived a totally different life. LOL

I still wish I had that man as my friend back. I think he would like me even better now that I'm not that spineless emotional wreck. I am almost the woman I aspire to be. I just have to be patient, and enjoy the now.

This morning at work, I bought a yogurt from the cafeteria. The cashier was this pretty young girl, of South American descent I think, and she smiled so brightly as she wished me good morning. "How are you today?" She asked. I was good, very good in fact, and I commented on her enthusiasm and attitude. She proceeded to thank me for my words. She thanked me! She went on to mention vaguely about people have their problems in life but they have to go on, and how she goes to church and it helps her. I agreed wholeheartedly, and reiterated that if you can put forward positive energy it benefits us all. We pass it on. Pay it forward. This girl thanked me for for acknowledging her genuine greeting. I am so glad I did. Only God knows what she is struggling with, and I hope she has peace.

Pay it forward honey. Don't deny people. Don't disparage them to others, even if you may not really mean it. Fingers crossed doesn't really count.

Sentimentality is for suckers

2006-11-10T17:41:00.000-05:00

So much for the innate goodness I told you I saw in you, despite what you felt about yourself and what others thought.

So much for that caring, generous man who I saw not think twice about buying a plane ticket for a friend.

So much for the man I saw humbled by a woman who faced more adversity and physical challenges than all of us combined will see in a lifetime.

So much for Neruda, and well placed posts about nobly walking away and living happily ever after---"theoretically." I guess forgetting isn't so long now, is it?

But I am some batshit crazy woman, just because it was for me.

You self-serving, narcissistic, egotistical serpent. (Like that alliteration? I went back and forth on which word sounded best next to serpent.)

Fuck you, and the board you rode in on. Oh, and don't worry, despite the tone and the anger I'm not stalking you.

God that felt good. Screw my prose, now I really hope you find this blog someday.

I just can't get enough

2006-09-15T00:58:00.000-04:00

"Is this good enough?" He asks.

Define "good enough", I think but I bite back the retort before it can escape my lips. The words sound so pitiful and meager. I can't help but picture two people negotiating a deal.

"I told you we want Mariah Carey."
"Baby, Mimi just isn't gonna do it, you have to realize she has a new CD. I'm telling you I can guarantee Ashlee Simpson though."
"I guess that's good enough."

It's just a slightly different twist on the "do you feel like you settled?" question I used to get from him. My husband is nothing if not king of asking questions he-already-thinks-he-knows-the-answer-to-but-want-to-hear-the-you-reassure-him-otherwise. He is perpetually a six year-old boy with thirty-five years experience in manipulating. Though that isn't true, I have never seen him manipulate anyone but me. I guess it does run deep: both his feelings for me and the depth of my betrayals.

Is this "good enough"---this life of co-parenting with a man who won't forgive me for what he sees as tantamount to adultery even though I never even shared airspace with my "lover?" We share meals, jokes, news. We vacation, make decisions about our lives, our kids. We do what needs to be done.

Is it good enough that he provides and loves our children, and is a companion to me? Is it good enough to know he will never look at me with admiration or adoration through those eyes veiled with mistrust and anger? Is it good enough he will never show me the passionate drive and desire that took my breath away across three-thousand miles? Is it good enough I will never feel a man's tongue against my sex? Is it good enough that this will always be a competition of who is getting their needs met?

Is it good enough that I will never feel the way I did when I saw myself though your eyes?

I think the amount I lie to myself is proportionate to the depth of emptiness that bores within me. While my grief wanes, the hollowness grows. In that respect nothing will ever be good enough. Sometimes I feel like all my energy gets sucked into that hole. Resistance is futile.

It has to be good enough.

I make it good enough for me. I am the only one who can.

"We do the best we can," I tell him. "It's good enough for now."

***********

He knows that the time of year I think of you more is coming. I am a wretched thing.
I want so much for you to find this blog, and my words.

HG Wells replies

2006-08-20T00:27:00.000-04:00

Oh my sweet Sabine you have such a flair for the drama! I loved your fantasy of us meeting on the steps of the Old Bullfinch building. Only the Ether Dome itself could have made a grander setting. You may think I am teasing you—and maybe I am a little, but you know how much affection went hand in hand with my pokes. What is really funny is how much alike yet vastly different the day I did see you the hospital was.

You were not on the lawn you were in the cafeteria, stealing French fries off Alan's plate, likewise oblivious to me sitting in one of the recessed booths nearby. You were so close I did nearly panic, but you were not expecting to see anyone out of the context of your job sitting anywhere; you had no reason to be idly starring about the cafeteria ponder life, death, and circumstance as I was. You were taking a break from your hectic afternoon for some food and talking with your friend. I took it as the gift I think it was meant to be.

You had on a pink tee shirt and hospital issue scrubs, hair in a pony-tail and bespectacled. I could only imagine how horrified you'd be if you had run into me. I remembered the night you remarked you looked like a dishrag; how I laughed. Don't you know that you could be caked in mud and I'd embrace every inch of you?

You did look tired though. I couldn’t help but wonder if you were staying up late. If so, who were you talking or writing to? I told myself it was out of concern for you, but it was pride and jealousy thinking the worst of you. For that I apologize, for now I see the only person you keep writing to is me.

I like to envision that moment much differently. There is no angst. I rewind history instead of altering its future.
*****
It is New Year's Eve, 1990 is about to surrender to Father Time, and Downtown Boston is cold for the heartiest New Englander, never mind a Southern California boy visiting family for the holidays. Still, First Night revelers were undeterred; the streets were crowed with merry makers wearing sparkled top hats, and carrying giant plastic horns that sounded like a call to arms.

The Painter, pt.1

2006-08-11T00:17:00.000-04:00

I hate how Harlequin some of this sounds, but everytime I re-read it I can't seem to cut or replace what I've written. You would love it. You would laugh. You would be moved by some of it, I know. God I miss you so. I was reminded of you today. I've had this cooking for a while so despite the futility of it all I am posting it.

********

The paint had splattered along her cheek and forehead, and she wiped at it instinctively, making an indigo smear across her face. War paint, he thought briefly.

"You did that on purpose," she squealed.

"No," he answered, "flicking the brush that way gets a random splatter of dots on the canvas to mimic natural snowfall." With her tanned skin and fair hair drawn up behind her, she looked like a native goddess, but her smile suggested ceremonial merriment, not battle. "The collateral spray is an occupational hazard," he added, and grabbed a rag from his pocket to wipe her face. She closed her eyes as he cleaned off the paint. Her lips parted, (another reflex?) and he had a tremendous urge to kiss them, but pushed it aside. Instead he ran his thumb across her hairline, smoothing down some wayward strands. When he finished she opened her eyes and looked toward the canvas.

"I don’t understand why we are using dark blue to make snow," she said.

"Oh come on now, you've looked at enough art in your young lifetime; think about it. Think about what you know of Adobe Photoshop, your Sony Wega television, of digital photography. Think about a sunset on a hot August evening- hell, think about fifth grade science class and prisms. What is color but the reflection of light? Is a snowflake really white? We could just leave the canvas blank."

She was looking at him bemused, and a small smile appeared as she reached out and stroked his arm.

"I get it, yes."

He always did that, overstated his point. His thoughts ran deep if topic at hand was something he cared passionately about. It put some people off. He didn’t want to put her off. He reached for the palette.

"We could use a dozen colors to make one snowflake," he told her. Like the myriad of colors in your eyes when you look at me that way, he thought. He beat that thought back to join the kissing wish. Sabine was off limits. But God help him she did not make it easy.

"You make quite an impression," she said to him with a smirk. He groaned in reply.
"Oh that was so bad!"
She nodded back toward the canvas. "Show me what you were saying earlier about the tip of the brush and pressures and angles and so forth."
He never should have agreed to this. When she asked him to teach her how to paint, he was thrilled at the prospect. On one level he was excited to have the company and a friend, but if were to be honest with himself, and if he had learned nothing in eight months it was to be honest with himself, it made him so happy to have an excuse to spend time with her. He refused to let her pay him.
After a brief demonstration of how to create fine angles versus swirls, he held out the brush to her. She held her hands palms forward in front of her.
"This isn't a stick up take the brush."
"Me? Now? I don't want to ruin it."
"Sabine this is your painting, you can't ruin it. Anything you do to it will be your mark, made with your hand. All art is personal and subjective. You're not being asked to produce a masterpiece; you're imparting your spirit upon a canvas with paint."
Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes demurred, but she took the brush, dipped it in pale pink, and dotted a few spots of blue with it.
"Like this?" She asked.
"Very much like that," he told her. He reached around her shoulders and placed his hand over hers, adding a gentle pressure to help guide her strokes. "Just a little less pressure. It's almost like blowing dandelion clocks."
He wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but he could feel her pulse coursing through her wrist, pounding against his. Or was his pounding against hers? Her head leaned precipitously against his shoulder as together they dotted the landscape and transformed it into a winter wonderland, while the world outside the painting grew warm and more humid.
The heat spread everywhere, and he felt himself growing aroused, though he was loathed to break the spell that transcended the material. Did the warmth fill her as well? He closed his eyes yet they kept painting, and he focused on each beating pulse, imagining the blood rushing and engorging her as well, hearing her breath becoming shallow with each stroke of the brush. His head dipped and his lips brushed against the top of her ear. Her knees buckled, and her left hand grabbed at his shirt as she started to fall backwards.
"Oh!"
But he was there, catching and cradling with one arm as his left supported her elbow. Her face inches below his, startled and confused. Amber eyes reflected his fear. He lifted her upright, but was reluctant to let her go.
"Griffin?"
His face felt leaden. He relaxed his grasp and stepped back. His gaze fell to the floor.
"Sabine, forgive me. I didn't mean to…"
"No, shush. Stop. Don't say anything," she replied. He looked at her. Her cheeks were flushed, the blue paint flecking as it dried. He could imagine the flakes shedding and falling from her skin with each facial expression, with each word she spoke. He would later create an abstract of it on canvas and sell it for more money than he'd seen his whole life but she would be long gone by then. "Nothing you could say right now will make either of us feel better."
It was difficult to breath. He had ruined everything. She would leave and he'd never see her again.
Her hands were trembling. She fiddled with her necklace with one and the other pushed strands of hair behind her ear.
"Please don't tell me you didn't mean it," she said.

somewhere only we know

2006-07-07T00:28:00.000-04:00

It wasn't you.

Of course it was so naively stupid of me to think it was.

If coincidences are just coincidences, why do they seem so contrived?

I mean seriously, if a woman suddenly realizes the man she wishes never left her still may be lurking about where she frequents online, and places an oh-so-not-so-subtle post about links with names that might jump out at people, and just knows that "lingua franca" seen buried within a list of names would most definitely mean something to a certain someone, sees that the day that plot is hatched someone follows the trail, from the city where that someone lives...

Well what would your heart think?

It wouldn't think about the ten other people who might have seen the post.
And that half of them are from that city.

Because how would they know Lingua Franca out of all those fucking links Lisa has on her sidebar. It had to be you. (Fuck Harry Conick Jr! It wasn't!)

I was so happy. I was like a child at Christmas. You had come and read my words, my love, my fiction. I could just pretend it never happened but I'd know.

I'd have my footprints.

And I wouldn't have to wonder.

And I could just cherish inside that if I had prose to sing to you I could leave it there, and maybe on a quiet night, maybe while traveling, when forgetting is long

you'd come and read it.

Now I have been sucker punched, had the rug pulled out from under me, the knife that was twisted... I cried for a few minutes, then sucked it up.

This is now my temper tantrum. My husband used to kick stair rails and fling furniture, I can type cuss words and make them bold for emphasis. I can go on and on, ANGST FUCKING GALORE! Because just like I said in the beginning

If a woman writes words that no one will read do they make a sound?

I'll tell you

They don't.
Despite their exorcism they stick in your throat
until you asphyxiate.

What I did think of tonight was the mini-convo I had with our mutual friend about "Logotherapy".

It is my choice.
I chose to not let go.
I don't understand how or why it is a choice
but in my heart I know that if I tried hard enough
that it does require effort and action
I could find happiness and peace.
It doesn't seem that way though,
in the heat of emotions
and the grade of the road ahead

I can persevere all I want
get a story published
write a novel
see my son become president
save my corner of the world
I sometimes feel like none of it would matter because I cannot share it with you.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKFUCK FUCK FUCKFUCK FUCK

I could live this lie forever if I just knew you were there with me in spirit.

I should believe you are anyway, and I do; anytime the clock reads 11:11. Anytime I hear Michael Penn. Anytime a cold wind blows through me.

How ironic, I am the one who always had blind faith. I can believe Jesus holds a place for me in heaven, and that my Nana is there waiting for me someday, yet I can't believe you think about me, or wonder how I am, even when I see a bone thrown my way. It's not the same when I can only reply casually and objective.

This visceral passion is a curse. Why should words make me cry?

Bad

2006-07-06T00:24:00.000-04:00

Dislocation
Separation
Condemnation
Revelation
In temptation
Isolation
Desolation

Lessons in humility can be hard yet I find that I have endured so many as I get older that they are no more painful than having blood drawn. Still some give notice to the startled grass.

Why is it perceived as nobler to take the high road? Turn the other cheek? Why does pride go-eth before a fall? Where is the line between preserving our hearts and striving for a higher, and so called better existence? How am I supposed to have faith that those two things are not mutually exclusive, but rather co-dependant?

The book I am reading just made me cry. Has a book ever made you cry? It's a question I never asked you. I find so many of those—questions I'll never have the chance to ask you. Though, if I were to know you, as I think I knew you

The answer is yes of course.

Celluloid Heroes

2006-06-30T00:31:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-21T14:29:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-13T23:12:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-11T00:38:00.000-04:00

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.

dizzy

2006-05-27T20:38:00.000-04:00

she is benediction
she is addicted to thee
she is the root connection
she is connecting with he

here I go and I don't know why
I fell so ceaselessly
could it be he's taking over me...

I'm dancing barefoot
heading for a spin
some strange music
draws me in
makes me come on
like some heroin/e

she is sublimation
she is the essence of thee
she is concentrating on he,
who is chosen by she
here I go and I don't know why
I spin so ceaselessly,
could it be he's taking over me...

[chorus]

she is re-creation
she, intoxicated by thee
she has the slow sensation that
he is levitating with she ...

here I go and I don't know why,
I spin so ceaselessly,
'til I lose my sense of gravity...

[chorus]

(oh god I fell for you ...)
the plot of our life sweats in the dark
like a face the mystery of childbirth, of childhood itself
grave visitations
what is it that calls to us?
why must we pray screaming?
why must not death be redefined?
we shut our eyes we stretch out our arms and whirl on a pane of glass
an afixiation a fix on anything the line of life the limb of a tree
the hands of he and the promise that s/he is blessed among women.

(oh god I fell for you ...)

Do you think she meant "asphyxiation"?

I ache tonight.

It's strange, how the night---the littlest things send me back to that ceaseless spin. At least it is no longer a downward spiral.

I ache tonight. How I crave your voice in my ear, a puff of air, soft hands manipulating my senses---all of them.

I swirl red wine in my glass, it has fine legs. (Not as fine as mine.) I stick my nose in and inhale deeply. It is sweet and rich, like you. Rich as in full you fool. I am no longer full. The words I write echo within me. Like in a vacuum they never fade; they just continue to reverberate.

My mouth tastes like the merlot. And fresh ice cream. I no longer smell like cigarettes, I smell like Calyx and rosemary shampoo. I always imagined you smelled like the ocean, since it was such a part of you; ocean, Tide, and maybe some men's sport deodorant like Right Guard or Gillette. I imagine wrapping my arms around you, late in the afternoon, on the deck or the beach, sliding my hands into the back pockets of your jeans, and pressing my face into your tee shirt and inhaling deeply and hearing your heart beat.

You made me a better person. I felt stronger, smarter... loved. There is such a dearth of soul and spirit around me now. I have to strive much harder to keep from getting pulled down by it. I need so much more. I want so much more. You understood.

The night is so quiet and empty tonight. I look out into the darkness; I seek the stars above my head. There are no wishes to be made.

I just ache.

Addendum:

I was thinking today. The last fantasy I posted, (which isn't done) was about a stranger, and not you. (I might as well keep on addressing you. I had tried to avoid that at the beginning but I keep doing it.) Even my fantasy life mirrors pop-psych culture, as I go out and pick up a total stranger to fuck to try to forget you. ROFL. That really is precious. God help me I wish you could read this.
I do love you so. Peace.

Miss Jackson if you're nasty

2006-05-26T00:30:00.000-04:00

There is a new guy at work. He's not teh_hott but he's cute in a bookish way---wire rimmed glasses and not too short, not too long wavy hair. He's a mere boy really. And yes, ~~Mrs.Robinson~~ Sabine is crushing on him a little. Ok, it's more like fantasizing, fine. While I generally lean toward lusting after older men, everyone once in a while I meet a younger man like this, all fresh, firm, and muscular, and think "I'd like to teach him a thing or two." Not that an older man can't be firm and muscular mind you. Unfortunately I never got the chance to touch, (or taste for that matter) so I can't vouch for dear Griffin. I know he was athletic, and the man did love to brag about his prowess in bed to torture me.

Anyway, back to the boy. What gets to me is his voice; he has this wonderfully rich, deep, baritone voice. It reverberates inside me when he talks. And he runs. So we talk about running naturally. I admit I might let on that I am more physically fit in that department than I actually am, but I bet he is exaggerating a tad too. *weg* Suddenly, I am picturing him with no shirt on, all tan and sweaty from a 5 mile run, whispering in my ear in that deep voice, while some of that sweat drips down my own neck, and dips into my cleavage. Oh won't you lick it out sweetness?

Ok, however, I was in the middle of a fantasy about being submissive. Did you like the "I am broken like a wild stallion" line? ROFL. I amuse myself to no end. I think I like doing the smut very abstract and free form, so I am going to do that again.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Where we left off

With one hand you have my wrists clasped above my head.
The other works on the buttons of my blouse.
Back to the wall of your motel room.
Kissing me.
Hard.
A rush of nerves chokes me.
You could hurt me.
Bad hurt me.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

A smile belies serious eyes.
Kind eyes
Warm eyes.

"Do you trust me? You need to trust me."

I close my eyes, part my lips, and press against you, aching for contact.

I trust you.

You believe me.
Oh yes, you do.
Yanking down my jeans
My hands stay where they were
Of their own volition
Push the straps of my bra off my shoulder
No need to unclasp them
Cup, squeeze, roll
I moan
You grip my wrists again
You take me to the bed
On my belly
Your belt buckle jingles
Like Santa
against my back
Oh sweet pressure
I raise my hips
Grind to feel your dick between my legs
My folds
You push me back down.

"Not yet. Patience darling, I'm calling the shots here."

*************
Sorry kids, but I must go get sleep now. Despite my own throb, *snort*

let's get busy

2006-04-07T00:33:00.000-04:00

I am so lame. LOL. No more stupid emo shit. Back to fantasy.
*^*^*^*^*^

Pt. 1.

I place my hand over his as he grasps the handle of the car door. He stops and looks at me, eyes inquisitive, and I search their blue depths for reassurance.

"I've never done it in a car before."

He roars aloud, but I don't take offense. His laughter is filled with affection and merriment.

"It's not much different," he leans in and whispers to me. He places a gentle kiss on my mouth, which is partially agape from wonderment. Oh God. I can hardly wait for more. But I don't have to. The kiss takes on a life of its own as my lips absorb and melt into his. I am melting all over. I am a pat of butter, collapsing and oozing over the sides of a stack of buttermilk pancakes; and he is starving. His body traps me against the side of his SUV, pressing hard. It feels so good. I am powerless and a Goddess all at once. I grind my hips against his dick, growing harder by the second, and his hand slides down to clutch my thigh. The other sinks into my hair, pulling my head aside while his mouth attacks my neck. I am broken like a young mustang at rodeo.

Then he stops. My neck is cold where his lips pulled away. He is still holding my hair, his eyes wild and shining. Reaching behind me, he opens the passenger door.

"Get in."

I do as he says. My breath comes in short pants. The door slams behind me. He slips into the driver's seat. Drive me baby, I think. How fucking corny.

Much to my dismay, he starts the car. The look on my face must bear the confusion emanating from my churning stew of hormones, endorphins, and catecholamines.

"I changed my mind," he said, as the Land Rover peels out of the bar's parking lot.

TBC! LOL

Words

2006-03-07T07:57:00.000-05:00

I read these words in another blog today and my thoughts immediately went to you.

unedited

2006-03-03T01:11:00.000-05:00

Continued from part I. As in read that first.

The moment is frozen. My limbs are leaden, and I feel the blood draining from my face. I close my eyes again hoping it was just my imagination and you will be gone when I open them.

No such luck.

You face is frozen, stuck in the same moment. Stuck in a moment, I think.

"And you can't get out of it."

I shake my head and shrug it all off. I find my feet and stand up. I can see my goal: the entrance back to the central lobby. I can quickly lose myself in the maze of corridors and crowds of people. But you've already moved to the bottom of the granite stairs.

I am panicking. I am a cornered animal. Fight or flight.

Flight.

I try the large, ornate doors behind me into the historic building in desperation but they don't budge, not that I am surprised. So I stand there; still holding the handle, my forehead against the glass, and I wait for the inevitable. It's like seeing the tidal wave coming at you; there is only submission. I feel all the blood in my body leave through my feet as the approaching wave sucks it out and gathers it up in preparation to completely engulf me.

Your breath sounds like a freight train. And again it seems like we’re frozen; you behind me, now not knowing what to do next, and me with no escape. So I do what any honorable man would do: I turn to fight.

In front of me is not a monster but a young woman biting her lip with tears brimming, and stocking feet. You never put your shoes back on.

I open my arms and you fall into them.

Just not today

2006-03-02T20:12:00.000-05:00

I have writer's block, and it's all your fault.

Yeah, I know, it can't be your fault when you haven't even spoken a word to me in nearly eighteen months and you don't even know where I am or what the hell I am doing. Actually you know exactly where I am, I never go anywhere. It's me that doesn't know where you are or what the hell you are doing. I can guess, imagine, (fantasize! Bwah!) but I am not allowed to know. Technically I am not allowed to wonder. Anyway, none of that is here nor there, or relevant. My pysche or muse just doesn't seem to want to let me write anything until I come here to do a little purging. It's pushing me here---like Modell! HA! Oh how I wish I could just be Linda Bowman again.

Gee, that sucks. I get to purge but never got to binge first. What the hell fun is that?

Yes, so you have been creeping around my mind again. I felt like I was shrugging you off for a while, I even survived the b-day, albeit barely. Something happened a week or so ago---I don't even know what it was now, but it hit me like a brick. It was like that song by the Indigo Girls: "you rush right through me 'til I start to drown..." Since then I've been trying to shove you back down under the bed, into the trunk, where I don't think about you... It isn't working.

Then it was the Whitman. I listened to a program on him. It was so thrilling and inspiring, and I wanted to talk about it with someone, anyone who would get it or at least want to try to. Sadly there is no one where I am like that. I even tried. It made me so sad.

It was then I began to cry again. I have no control over it sometimes. I just try to do it in secret---silently so no one catches me. When I think about what I'll never have again. No one will ever see me the way you did
or listen to me
hear me
respect me
want me
and I don't mean sexually you pain in the ass. (ok maybe sometimes it meant that)

I know it isn't pretty, and it's demeaning and counterproductive, but there are moments---ones like those that I just can't help it. I would give anything to be able to talk to you again, to be your friend. Having you in my life was just a joy and a gift. Then I watch a stupid television show, and see McDreamy say, "Oh I walk the dog every morning at 'such and such a place', meet me for coffee we'll be just friends" and I want to throw things at the TV because he is an asshole and knows better and so does she.

You can't be my friend.

I thought at least you'd note the date. It hurt so bad that you didn't even come look, or peek in on me, maybe even send a innocuously veiled wish through an acquaintanceance.

You probably don't even think of me anymore.

Not a day goes by that I don't think of you.

I wont give up. If anything just to prove something to someone. I am strong, and special, and I really do believe in myself. Most days. Just not today.

When will it not hurt so bad?

2006-02-13T00:42:00.000-05:00

No one reads this. Happy birthday to me.

The shade is cool under the portico that makes up the edifice of this historic old building, what I gather used to be the original hospital. The large stone pillars make for a great hiding place. It's also several steps above ground level, providing a nice view of the landscaped quadrangle which serves as an island in a sea of sickness and vulnerability.

You would shit if you knew how close I was to you.

There are a lot of people outside this afternoon, which isn't surprising; it's an early spring thaw, with temps soaring into the low sixties. People like me—visitors tired of being inside a ten by twelve room dimly lit by artificial light, giving their friends and loved ones some time to rest while we go outside for a breath of fresh air. Some have taken the sick outside, dragging IV poles, or pushing wheelchairs, so they can enjoy a moment or two of sunshine. I have to wonder how long some of them have been ill and in the hospital.

Then there is the scrub-clad staff, taking a few moments of liberty to catch some rays as well. Some are taking their lunch at the tables, or sipping an iced coffee while they sit on the grass underneath the giant chestnut trees. You have chosen a table in the corner next to the granite stairs, and I sit here, a voyeur with a box seat. My pounding heart is audible to my own ears, so much so I'm afraid you can hear it too. But I don't move. I'm not sure if my motivation for staying put is fear or need.

I was nervous to come here, but there was no question I had to. A good family friend needed emergency surgery, so I flew east. In the back of mind was the knowledge you worked at this hospital, and I could potentially run into you. Then again I rationalized, this place is huge, and so what were the odds really— especially if I kept to the room and avoided the cafeteria?

Even though I have never heard your voice the moment I heard the sound of your laughter; in the split second it took for my head to look for the source of the sound, I knew it was you.

You have your feet up on a chair in front of you, shoes dropped carelessly underneath, and your pant legs rolled up to the knee. Sunglasses on, you're slouching with your head way back, beckoning the sun's rays to your face. So much so you have to tilt your cup of iced coffee to get the straw into your mouth, and the cool drops of condensation fall onto your neck and down your shirt, causing you to spring forward. You tug at the tee-shirt in an attempt to fan your skin dry, but end up just blotting with it. It leaves a spot. I find myself having very impure thoughts about licking the skin underneath clean.

The man you are sitting with laughs at your misfortune though. By your ease with each other and animated conversation I am guessing he is the friend I always heard about so much. I hate him. He gets to have coffee with you and make you laugh. He is the confident to your secrets and desires and not me. And I don’t care what you say; he wants to sleep with you. I can tell by the way he watched you rub your hand across the top of your chest just now.

I need to leave, but I'm afraid the movement will attract your attention. You're bored with whatever he's talking about. I see you wiggling your toes, and twirling your ID badge around your finger. You head leans back once more. The breeze catches your hair. It's shorter than I was in pictures I last saw of you. If I close my eyes I can imagine the scent of your shampoo being cast up my way and I inhale deeply. When I open them I see your face full on, and despite the large sunglasses hiding your eyes, the expression on your face leaves no doubt in my mind you are looking right at me. I've never had a panic attack before in my life but I know this is what one must feel like.

I hate getting bitch slapped

2006-02-05T00:32:00.000-05:00

I just made you up to hurt myself
Yeah, and I just made you up to hurt myself
I just made you up to hurt myself
Yeah, and I just made you up to hurt myself
And it worked
Yes it did!
There is no you, there is only me
There is no you, there is only me
There is no fucking you, there is only me
There is no fucking you, there is only me

Oh Trent, you rock.

*****

My headlamps reflect off the fog hovering above the roadway. It's dangerously mesmerizing, especially paired with the rhythmic bass pounding through the stereo speakers. I can't really see much ahead of me; I am swallowed up by the mist. It's an appropriate metaphor for me, for I haven't given much thought to what lies ahead, and for all purposes erasing what's left behind me.

How many times have I thought, "I wish I could just keep driving"? Tonight, I do. I think the car made the decision for me. I must have missed my turn in the fog. I kept waiting for a place to turn around, but I never saw one. I can't see anything but the glow of my lights betraying me.

I'll stop when I run out of road, or run out of gas, whichever comes first. There'll be one of those roadside bar and grills, which is just fine because at that point I'll really want a drink. A man at the bar watches me—I can see him out of the corner of my eye, so I turn my head to catch him in the act. He doesn’t flinch; the light in his eyes flashes bright while they say, "dare me." I get a heady rush and fight my initial urge to demur. Instead I am brazen and just smile sweetly to disarm his gaze. He smiles back.

We talk across two stools for a while, until he orders another round for us and moves to the one next to me. He has a handsome face that wears the stubble of a long day well. A dark suit makes him look like a businessman, but his tie is loose and his shirtsleeves are rolled up suggesting he's not uptight. Tan forearms look so sexy as they peek out from the snow white, crisp, starched cotton shirt, with dark hair trailing down to a gold Rolex, and a soft manicured hand clasping a bottle of Bud. No lite beer for this man, he's for full flavor. I giggle at my naughtiness before I can catch myself.

He asks me what is funny. Nothing, I say, I was just admiring his watch. He traces the shiny band with an index finger, and tells me it was a reward for job well done. I imagine that finger sliding across my own skin and shock myself with how wet that idea makes me. Suddenly my wine glass holds a fascinating appeal.

You must be very good, I tell him. I am shameless, but I can't help it. It feels so good. I am a snowball rolling downhill, gathering mass and speed.

He doesn't miss a beat. Dark eyes meet mine; the air between us is thick like toffee, slowly stretching, like the playful smile that spreads across his face.

Wouldn't you like to find out? He asks.

slap me with a splintered ruler

2006-01-27T00:47:00.000-05:00

What would I do if you were suddenly standing here before me?

I'd slap your face,
punch your gut,
knee you in the balls.
Then slap your face again,
because I picture that action providing the most release.
It's the sound the striking hand makes.
The mark left on your cheek.
These are tangible things.

Your (marked) face might look shocked, pained, or sad.
Then of course I'd feel bad,
since none of this is your fault.
But I can no longer direct my rage inward,
Because I am worthy
and beautiful
and lonely.
That's the problem, nothing works.

I burst into tears the other night while brushing my teeth.
The sounds masked by the humming of the sonic toothbrush.
See my sparkling smile?
I composed myself and slid every so gently under the blankets.
I practiced calm, even breathing.
Not too deep.
But it wouldn't be quelled.
Emotions welling with the force of a hurricane,
my face and neck, bulged with tension:
they betrayed me.

A tear escaped, and I felt it burn its way down my face
hitting the cotton fabric of my pillowcase with a thud
that surely must be audible three blocks away.
I laid in utter stillness, afraid to breath
a soldier in the jungle,
a child under the bed
the snap of a twig
a sniffle
would be suicide.
There is no failure.

So I hunkered down
under my down
and imagined the river sweeping me away
warm and swift
You were holding my hand.
God I hate you.

Just once I wish I'd wake in the morning, safely downstream,
to see your footprints in the snow outside my window.
They'd be tangible.

Word forplay

2006-01-20T14:03:00.000-05:00

It's an Alanis kind of day.

thank you india
thank you providence
thank you disillusionment
thank you nothingness
thank you clarity
thank you thank you silence

Words are so sexy. Many times, after he was gone, I would have imaginary conversations with him in my head. My fantasies are always plot driven, (because you know, chicks like that stuff) and I took just as much pleasure deriving conversations as I did from... well you know. Can I say fucking? I can because I can be or say anything I want here. I can say the hot monkey love, passionate sex, whatever, but regardless the verbal exchanges that led up to the act were just as important as any physical stimulation.

So here's another thing that I've adapted for here. Sounds like adapted for screenplay. I think that is my calling. When we first met, and he read something of mine, he asked me my process for writing it. Apparently I write like teleplay.

This is almost too good for him never to be able to see. Pisses me off.

The bowl of strawberries sat atop the mosaic patio table mocking her. The leaves of grapevine that weaved its way in and out of the trellis above the patio swayed in the warm breeze, creating flickers of light when the sun reflected off the moisture covering their red flesh. Juicy red like lips, the strawberries were making raspberries at her.

Sabine couldn't sort out exactly what she was feeling at the moment. She was wound tighter than a piano string, humming a different frequency each time he struck a key.

When he kissed her in the piazza this afternoon there was no mistaking what he meant. It wasn't an accident, she wasn't expecting it, and she swooned like a southern debutante. But now, back at the villa, he was quiet. When a little flirting didn't draw him out, she became bold, and retrieved the berries from the kitchen. The thought of what she'd done made her cheeks burn just as red with embarrassment.

They had been dancing this dance for weeks, and her feet were tired. She was sick of mixed signals—high on chemistry, soaring from a kiss, hurt by his rebuff, confused about intentions, and longing for something just out of reach.

She was in love.

She'd finally realized it, and just thinking the words made her stomach quiver.

"I'm in love," she whispered to the strawberries.

"And I bet they'd be even better with some fresh cream."

She whipped around to him standing in the doorway to the kitchen. On his face was a Mona Lisa smile which pulled her quivering belly right up to her heart. She had to turn away to avoid his gaze, lest he see her agony. She wanted to crawl under the slate stones beneath her feet and hide, cry—anything just to get a grip on whatever was going on inside her, and save whatever dignity and persona she had left.

"Are you mad at me?" He asked.

She swallowed down the lump in her throat. "No, no. It's most likely just raging PMS."

He laughed. "So what you're saying is I'm not off the hook and there's still time." He walked over to the chair she was sitting on and knelt beside her, taking one of her hands in his and laying it under his head upon her lap, looking up at her like a puppy who just knocked over a vase.

"I'm sorry Sabi. I'm such an asshole."

She ran a few fingers through his hair. "You're not an asshole."

"Shush, let me talk."
"When do I ever have a choice not to let you talk?"

"Smart ass."

She sighed and relaxed her back against the wrought iron patio chair. She could feel the tension leaving her face. Why couldn't they always just be like this? He was just looking at her.

"So talk," she said.

His thoughts seemed to linger though, on the edge of vocalization. She could almost see the words on his lips as they twitched imperceptibly.

"Can you see yourself in my eyes Sabine? Do I reflect you?"

"If I say yes do I get a prize?"

"I'm serious."

"I know you are," she told him. "Even when you are teasing me I can always tell how serious you are." She couldn't help but think if she got the answer wrong this time she would lose everything. "Reflect me how? Literally, as if a mirror? Is it a metaphor for can I see myself as you see me?" She felt herself growing agitated so she paused for a breath. She slipped her hand out from under him and placed it on the side of his face, cradling it, and stroking his cheek with her thumb.

"Or do you mean do we see eye to eye? Do we see the same things when we look at each other?"

He was silent.

"The other day, when you asked me for another word for 'parallel' and I said 'coextending', I saw me in the excitement you had over how well it fit within your phrase. You reflect me when you ask me if I put on sunscreen every morning before we tour somewhere, just like I chide you not to stay up all night."

"I don't stay up all night."

"Quiet, now it's my turn to talk." The words were liquid, pouring out of her.

"I saw myself in your eyes this afternoon, when your face drew near mine, and I could smell the cinnamon from the cappuccino we'd just shared on your breath. I saw myself in you moments ago, when I held that strawberry to your parted lips, teasing them, letting you have just a taste but wanting you to bite…"

"Stop, Sabi please."

His eyes were closed, his face stressed.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just don't understand what you want from me."

"How can you love me? You barely know me; you have no idea who I am."

"I know you're the kind of man who'd open his door to a lost stranger, and sit up with her all night because she caught a fever. You'll drop twenty Euros in the hand of a beggar. You'll eat the all calamari feet and leave the rings just because you know she hates them…"

"You think they're icky," he interjected with a mock matter-of-fact-ness.

She ignored him. "I know you love sweets and pasta. You take your morning coffee black, yet love lattes in the afternoon. You're kind, intelligent and more respectful than any man I have ever met. What else do I need to know?"

"You don't even know my last name."

At this he sat back on his heels and stared at her pointedly. "This isn't real. We're in paradise; this is the Italian equivalent of Eden," and with a snort of a laugh he added, "You, you are my apple—or olive if you will, following the analogy. Olive, yes, that's priceless."

She felt her mouth going dry. His voice had a tone quality to it she hadn’t heard before. It was bitter, perhaps mixed with some self-righteous anger. Or was it self-depreciating? She stayed silent, implying he should continue.

"It can’t stay like this Sabine. This is a time-out, an interlude; like the ubiquitous, mysterious dance sequence in 'An American in Paris' it doesn't play any part in the plot. You have people back in the states that care about you, and you can’t hide here forever. The same goes for me…"

"What are you hiding from?" She asked, at this point not expecting an answer.

He shrugged. "From myself, I guess. I can't tell you what I want because I don't know what I want. I'm a big coward, afraid of me hurting you, afraid of you hurting me, frightened of failure…" His voice trailed off. "Every time you look at me with those eyes, flirt with me, push my limits, my heart and soul wants nothing more than to pick you up and carry you off to my bed, but my head is screaming at me to be responsible."

"I wish I could be a fly on the wall of your brain. I feel like I'm not following your train of thought, because there are assumptions I'm not privy to. Responsible for who, me? Who made you my keeper?"

"You did, the minute I saw you sitting in the square wearing that adorable floppy hat, obviously distressed, clutching a map in one hand and taking inventory of your purse."

She had to smile. He was like the answer to a prayer, after having been robbed of almost everything she had as she slept on the train traveling south from Milan. She had gotten off the train and after filing what seemed like dozens of papers a station guard, or whatever he was called here was kind enough to drive her to the nearest town so she could contact police, family or other authorities. Not that she was about to call her family. Perhaps she was just as afraid of failure. She was however, not afraid of herself, nor him.

He breathed a deep sigh, and relaxed to sit cross legged on the ground. She got up from the chair and joined him there, now at eye level instead of sitting above. "You are so young Sabi," he said gently. "I'm here because I ran away from mistakes, if I let you steal my heart what will I do? I can't keep you here, a de-facto prisoner in my self-imposed exile. I should know better. So despite the joy your amaranthine presence adds to my life, despite the innate and unremitting temptation you embody, I push you away.

As always, language and words could bend and shape at his will. They held this great power to touch and penetrate the soul. He was like the Pied Piper with no need for a flute, for his voice was his instrument. She could then hum the refrain he designed to allay the unease that invariably had come from his arsenal mere moments before. Much like resolving the tension created by an augmented chord pleases the ear.

"Your words are always so pretty. You're often being counterproductive when you do that you know, disguise the bad stuff with stunning prose."

"You give me far too much credit sweetheart, if I do anything it's try to spare your feelings. To see you hurting, pain or tears on your face, is like a knife in my heart." Then he smiled and shook his head, "I guess you're right, that was pretty poetic. Maybe even pathetic." He was trying to get her to smile, and she couldn't help but to.

"Are you kicking me out?" She asked.

"Oh God, no. As if I could. One, I would never do that to a friend in need. Second, I think I would surely die from 'Sabine withdrawal' within hours."

"Oh please," she said, with a roll of her eyes.

"Seriously, as dangerous as it is to my health to have you stay, I can't bear the thought of you leaving. Can we just walk this line a little longer and maybe the right way will show itself?"

She gave a heavy sigh. "So basically this conversation accomplished nothing."

"I wouldn't say that at all, I would hope you have a better understanding of my feelings and where I stand." And with that he stood, brushed off his jeans and extended his had to help her up.

"True," she agreed, accepting his assistance. "But I still don’t know your last name."

Mitigating Circumstances conclusion

2006-01-17T14:07:00.000-05:00

I had sex this morning. It was a bit perfunctory, but I suppose any orgasm is better than no orgasm. I've always had this thing for making love in the morning, (not that I've had that much opportunity to capitalize on that.)

I am still not over my ~~juvenille I hate you, you bastard thing~~anger thing, but I deleted my little emotional outburst since it certainly is counter productive to expend that amount of life energy on such negative feelings. Better to direct it toward hot passion. He really doesn't deserve it anyway, and I shouldn't care.

*~*~Z*~*~~*~*~*~omgwtf where were we? Oh yes, playful forplay, as our hero has taken charge of the situation, laying meSabine down on the bed…

If you want to start at the beginning go here and work backward.

She giggled. He laughed. She lifted her foot and trailed it down his belly as he knelt above working on the button and fly on his jeans. With a pointed, daring look she slid it down his erection, and he paused undressing to watch her pretty pink toes tease the soft cotton of his briefs with just a hint of pressure. She felt his dick twitch, and her own sex became wetter and throbbed, begging for it.

He grabbed her foot and pulled her closer, bring it up toward his face. Her head slid off the pillow as she shifted down the bed. He kissed her ankle, and then with a maddeningly slow pace trailed his lips and tongue slowly down her calf, pausing behind her knee. Just the thought of him going there; just one touch, one breath, and she'd come. She closed her eyes, wondering if he could hear the blood rushing through her body from her pounding heart. She felt his soft wavy hair alternating with the stubble of his cheek against her sensitive skin. He was nuzzling her thigh, trailing kisses across her hip; his mouth was everywhere except where he was making her ache for it to be, and he knew it. Oh God he knew her too well. She writhed under him, her body acting under his spell.

"Please," she said softly, in between rhythmic pants of breath.

"Please what?" Came his murmured reply against the flesh of her belly. A hand crept up the inside of her leg.

"Uh," was all she could manage to say.

"Please what, Sabine?" His mouth was now at her breast, a thumb was gently parting her below. She cradled his head and ground her body against the hand and fingers making their way inside her.

"No, oooh. Oh please. You. I want you inside me, please, oh god oh please," she felt too good to even consider being mortified at her behavior. But right now it wasn't enough, it wasn't right, she wanted to be filled, she wanted to come that way. She was already there.

"How can I refuse such an entreat?" And with one slow, deep penetration her neck arched back and she cried out loudly. He pulsed with her, and she felt like it would never stop. She rubbed her hands down his back, to his ass and urged him on, squeezing him as she could inside and out, until she could feel his urgency. She loved that feeling, knowing when a man is beyond the point of no return, when he is all yours. He had her before but she had him now as he pressed his forehead to hers, their sweat mingling. She tilted her head up to kiss him hard, and he came with a shudder and several more thrusts before they became a boneless tangle of limbs lying breathless.

She couldn't stem the tide of tears from escaping the corners of her eyes, and they must have fallen upon his cheek for he quickly pulled himself up to see her.

"Are you ok?" On his face was concern, and in the blink of an eye she could see the multitude of worries that could be plaguing him. "Did I hurt you?"

She smiled, sniffled, and cried more tears.

"No, no, you could never hurt me. It's just… this happens to me sometimes, it's so intense… the feelings, well sometimes they are so strong they manifest physically."

He traced a tear and wiped it with an index finger. "Visceral," he smiled.

"Visceral," she conceded.

"I've made women cry in bed before but usually it's not from pleasure," he laughed, and kissed her face. They shifted to face each other.

He closed his eyes. "Mmm… I'm tired. You make an old man feel pretty good."

"You're not an old man," she assured him. "I don't want to go to sleep."

"Well, I may not be old, but I'm not sure I'm up for another go just yet," he joked.

She snuggled into his chest, and just said, "If I go to sleep then tomorrow will come."

He hugged her tightly. There was nothing else to say.

***
A new fantasy will commence next.

Mitigating circumstances continued

2006-01-05T23:55:00.000-05:00

Where was I before I was so rudely interrupted by Word crapping out on me? (So forgive my errors as I now draft here instead of there and may miss many.) Ah yes, some Earth shattering kissing... I might just get a little creative with my prose here. Indulge a woman, would you?

The very beginning if anyone cares

*****

He takes her hands and gently pulls her up
The tank top falls to the end of the bed
a drawstring pulled
Long fingers lace through her hair
and lazily make their way down the back of her neck
while his thumbs cradle her jaw line
and down the front
Tracing her larynx
He kisses the juncture where her neck meets her breast bone
and leans back to admire her body as they kneel face to face
Hands over shoulders, down the side of her arms
his thumbs
oh
there
yes
around and around
spanning her waist
over her ass
cupping it
fingers reach under
It's his turns to gasp
and moan

"Oh God, you really want this."

A breathless laugh
tee shirt to the ground
She plants kisses across his chest

"For as long as I can remember."

The finger lingers
it wanders, slithers, and traces
she presses against the bulge in his jeans
arms wrapped 'round him
her face flat against his chest
breathless
voicelessly
pleading

"Easy now, what's your hurry?"

Unbutton
Unzip

"We've had years of forplay"

He laughs out loud
heartily
and eases her back on the mattress

Part 4

2006-01-04T00:04:00.000-05:00

Go read the first few parts if this is new to you. I don't have time to link them tonight, I'm tired and I have a cold.

********
What was that line from the movie "The Princess Bride?"

"Since the invention of the kiss there have been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure."

She had to question if kissing had been what people had been doing all along, for surely the two of them were experiencing something no one ever had before. How often had she stared at his mouth, not hearing whatever he was talking about because she was too fixated on how his lips would feel against hers. Sometimes she was certain they'd be soft but commanding---dictating her surrender. Sometimes they'd take her breath away. The mere thought would send her scurrying from the room, flushed and embarrassingly wet. And he knew it.

The real thing was even better.

He enveloped her lower lip within his, so moist and warm, and slid across it back and forth. There was enough pressure to avoid just a tickling sensation. She responded and joined her mouth to his, and a glorious friction ensued. Dancing lips; they suckled and smacked. Her hands reached around into his hair. His tongue spoke the password, making lazy circles around the tender flesh which parted willingly. Her whole body pulsed and throbbed with life and passion as she let him his drink his fill.

*****

My MS Word is eeevuyl and corrupt. I keep getting runtime errors and it shuts down. I lost a bunch of stuff because you know, I can't save after every damn line I type. Well I guess I could. Just that took a lot out of me though. I need to go scurry from the room now. I am going back and forth with getting graphic or not. He never liked it. Well no, he loved to read it. LOL But he always thought just leaving some things to the imagination was more special, or tasteful, whatever. I just always imagine he'd be more proud to read me write something chaste than pornographic, but I bet he'd get a bit "hot and bothered" after reading something steamy (knowing it was about him) and would have to excuse himself too. *snicker*

a brief musical interlude

2006-01-02T23:00:00.000-05:00

I know I left you hanging, but that's me; such a cock tease. He thought I was. I never meant to be. For as much bravado and sophistication I tried to show I am actually very naive. (Everything I learned is from erotica. God know the hubby... oops! I spilled the beans. Yes, the hubby can't do such dirty things as perform cunnilingus.)

So, anyway I'm more in the mood for expunging my soul and indulging feelings right now rather than titillate my psyche.

Every good film has a soundtrack to it right? You need to have that to keep reading. Sometimes it's Adam from the Counting Crows crooning, but most of the time it's Bono. Bono gets me. When he sings, it's Him. Or me. Or we; we are one. (oh that's sooooo poetic Sabine!)

Ok, I'll stop being flippant and sarcastic now. Seriously, no one writes lyrics that see into my soul more than Bono does. The Song D'jour? The one that represents me at the moment? "The Original of the Species."

"Baby slow down
The end is not as fun as the start
Please stay a child somewhere in your heart

I'll give you everything you want
Except the thing that you want
You are the first one of your kind
And you feel like no-one before
You steal right under my door
And I kneel cos I want you some more
I want the lot of what you got
And I want nothing that you're not"

That's how I feel sometimes, (or used to, I've either grown past it or shoved it down deep I haven't figured it out yet) that I am the first one of my kind. And he wanted me. Where is that man who appreciated what I was?

He lives on here I guess. I'm gonna make you proud baby. I'm going to write words so beautiful angels cry. He lives on for real too, he's doing great things. I hope he's happy. I hope she makes him happy like I wanted to.

Mitigating Circumstances, Pt.3

2005-12-30T12:28:00.000-05:00

I hadn't intended mature subject matter to appear much in this blog, but I may just have to explore certain erotic aspects of my imagination. This is an impromptu warning/disclaimer that if you are under age leave.

Read part I

Read part II

part III...

It was like sinking into a deep warm ocean, just like she always imagined it would feel to be held by him. When he held out his arms, she didn't question his gesture she just went. He understood; he always did.

Why did this have to be wrong? When they first met, he asked her if people would buy the story of star-crossed lovers today. She told him she wouldn't. What circumstances could possibly make two people who loved each other remain apart willingly without seeming cliché or parody? Irony can be so cruel.

His white tee shirt smelled like Tide, fresh from the laundry. She imagined him pulling it right from the dryer and shoving in a duffle bag for this spur of the moment journey. Bare feet had caught her attention when she entered the room. Never had she thought feet sexy, but the sight of his sticking out from the end of his blue jeans made her melt into a puddle of goo. Tension threatened to pluck her from the waves of comfort, but she inhaled deeply, and when she blew it out it heated the cotton fabric in front of her face. She felt him shrug it off, and shifted his arms so that he was now more comfortable on his back and her neck nestled in the crook of his shoulder. Together their chests rose and fell in synchronicity.

His fingers were making lazy circles across the soft cotton of her tank. She focused on the feeling and drifted away with them; patterns appearing in her head as he drew them, like she was a living doodle-pad. When his finger slipped off the shirt and across her bare shoulder a shiver passed through her and he hesitated. His hand hovered then slid a safe distance between her shoulder blades.

She took her own hand and placed it flat on his chest while she nuzzled her face against him more. If she could crawl inside him she would. Then she would make time stop. She began to stroke along his collar bone and traced his jaw line with her fingertip. She felt his heart quicken under her cheek. Was she being unfair? He came to her, after all. He'd never let them get this close before. As if he read her thoughts he rolled to face her more, gathering her tightly and bending his head low against hers. She could feel the intent of his desire pressed against her. Her name whispered like a butterfly's wings flew warm on a breath near her ear, and passed through her body, melting every bone and vessel, setting her core on fire. If he didn't kiss her immediately she was going to explode.

Her wish was granted.

TBC.

Mitigating Circumstances cont...

2005-12-23T01:09:00.000-05:00

**ETA: I edited this part a bit, if anyone cares. (If anyone reads! HA!) But for the sake of accuracy, posterity, and perfection I correct.

I hate how blogger goes from most recent post then backward in time. Why can't I change my settings so you read my posts in order of their inception?

Part I.

The book sits on his lap while he leans his head back against the wall. It falls on top of the propped up pillows which support his neck. He put it down after realizing he'd read the same sentence three times without any comprehension. Any pretense of normalcy or relaxation was useless in the face of such anxiety. But what was done was done. He wasn't sure if he was more afraid of her coming or standing him up.

It is then the tumbler clicks announcing her arrival.

Of course she wouldn't knock, you gave her a key.

He held is breath.

She appeared in the threshold. She was fresh faced and lovely, wearing pajamas of all things, and she eyed him expectantly. Her lips were focused; pursed almost as if suppressing a smile. He felt like a deer trapped in the headlights.

"You're scared to death, aren't you?" She asked.

He looked down, guilty as charged. She padded over and sat at the foot of the bed.

"I don't understand; I'm so confused. Why did you ask me here? How did you know…" her voice trailed off and she looked away.

"I saw Sandra, she told me the news. I couldn't believe it." He paused a moment, but then pressed on. It was too late to hold back now. "I know what I said Sabi, I don’t mean to upset you on top of it all but I just had to see you. This is so… so devastating. I was in shock. The reasons, everything else that happened, suddenly seemed unimportant."

Her eyes looked like pools of liquid that shined, with little crinkles appearing at the corners. "I'm not upset," she said softly, "I'm just in shock myself I guess. I can't believe you did this. I'm glad you did." Her smile faded somewhat. "God that makes me such a shit."

"You're not a shit."

"He's now blaming everything on the tumor you know; my actions, my misjudgments," she said.

"Interesting. And you? What do you think Sabine?"

"I could never have made you up."

She looked uncomfortable all of a sudden, that initial boldness deflated. Levers and pulleys shifted as she surrendered authority.

"Please, just hold me tightly. Keep me safe, even for tonight."
He extended his arms and she crawled up the bed into their embrace, burying her face into his tee shirt. He encircled her entire body, and caressed her soft hair while she wept.

Mitigating Circumstances I

2005-12-14T15:42:00.000-05:00

Part one:

She turned on the shower as hot as it would go, and began peeling off clothes. How did he know she was staying at this hotel? Her mouth was dry, and her heart pounded within its cage, demanding to be set free. She brushed her teeth while she waited for the bathroom to fill with steam. She was going to be beautiful. She would smell like the bouquet did; only he'd have to come closer to notice.

The flowers had been awaiting her arrival; their powerful fragrance hit her the minute she opened the door. It was gardenia, mixed with white roses and freesia interlaced with branches of holly. It was winter, spring and summer in one bouquet. She'd walked over to them and with a trembling hand picked the little envelope off its plastic perch in the center of the flowers. Inside she found not a card with the name of the giver but a plastic hotel room key with a room number written on it in black Sharpie. She sucked in a deep breath as an anticipatory flush spread through her body.

The same warmth now flooded her core at the thought and it had nothing to do with the hot steamy bathroom. She had to stop this. He was not to be; he was the forbidden fruit. Even if he was in the same hotel and this was an invitation to his room she should not be thinking with her hormones. He's a friend—a good friend. The kind who sends flowers and once asked you what the inside of your mouth tasted like.

This isn’t quite how she thought her evening was going to go. She had planned on chasing down some friends she knew were here, do a little gambling, and definitely some drinking. Considering she hadn't planned on being in a hotel in Las Vegas until last night she supposed she could roll with the punches. You can do things like that; fly off to Vegas at a moment's notice when you find out you have a tumor in the back of your head, and your loved ones will let it slide. How ironic, she came to Vegas to avoid thinking about the one thing that could finally displace this man from her thoughts, only to have him show up as what… a distraction? A noble guide to help her face her looming reality with dignity? He knows better than think she needs a knight in shining armor, though God, it would be so nice. It would be so easy.

She took some of the complimentary lotion from the little basket and opened it. It smelled like lavender, so she put it on. She stared at the inside of her suitcase like a hungry teenager stares at an open refrigerator. A sexy dress would be pretentious and out of place. Jeans would be good—she could pair them with a blouse and heels. No, it wasn't right. None of it was right. It was right for the casino or the buffet, but not for this scenario. She had a scene that played in her mind. In it, they were like an old baseball glove and a worn rawhide ball: a perfect fit, and a comforting sight to see in the corner of the room.

Once acceptably dressed, she shook out her still-slightly-damp sandy blond hair and scrunched it a little with fingers full of gel to keep it out of her face, and applied ever-so-little make-up just to accentuate her features. Standing back she admired the results in the mirror: light pink flannel pajama bottoms and a gray ribbed tank top of the softest cotton, cut to fit a woman's shape. Not threatening in the least, but still sexy in a flirty, collegiate, intellectual sort of way. It was always an intellectual intercourse with you, wasn't it? She thought. With a deep breath, she grabbed the plastic key, along with her own, and set out for the thirty-second floor.

To be continued.

Evolutionary figments; this is where it all starts

2005-12-11T00:12:00.000-05:00

A Lingua Franca.

Let's make one thing perfectly clear: I do not exist.

This blog exists.

Obviously I have a life somewhere but for these purposes it's really not important. I could be married, or not. I could be a 64 year old man in Sacramento. This blog is for me to be whoever I want. Mostly it's a place for me to express my deep dark daydreams---the "Post Secrets" if you will, that consume my psyche. My idle mind is truly the Devil's playground. I need to exorcise it lest I burn.

If a woman writes words in a blog and no one is around to read them to they make a noise?

You tell me.