Be kind. I just started writing last night so my word count is very, very low. I'm not sure where I'm going with it but I do have an idea in mind. Going to give you a snippet. Good God, what did I get myself into?!
I woke up craving a cigarette to both calm my nerves and as an act of defiance. I haven’t had one since leaving The Literate Joe. The new Nameless Twit insisted that I not light up in his place. "It stains the white yellow," he said. "Besides, don’t you know smoking is bad for you?"
I didn’t want to argue. Going without a cigarette was hard but screwing up my chances for a night of good sex was even harder. Unfortunately, I should have chosen the cigarette.
On top of the growing need for a stick, I have this sick sensation in the pit of my stomach. Probably the penance for taking the NT up on his offer. I know it’s not the six Red Snappers or five beers from last night. My usual tab. It is definitely the guilt from my night of debauchery I’ll have to make up for when I face the Heavenly Holy One.
"Shit! What was I think? He’s not even my type." As if some Hollywood script had been written for this morning, the NT rolls over but never wakens.
"Thank God." I stand and walk naked to the living room. I didn’t get the opportunity to see his apartment last night. Like some Architectural Digest junkie, the NT has decorated the space using some designer’s white wet dream as a model.
. . .
Her mother was always very sad. Even when her laughter filled a room. Even when her voice swam in the air in song. There always seemed to be a sadness that lingered in her eyes. That darkness poured from her like sweat on a hot ninety degree day. The crinkle of her smiling eyes were always slightly moist from the deep blue that smothered her soul.
And all that the daughter could do was watch and wait. She knew it was only a matter of exhaustion before permanent sleep would overcome her mother. The tired fight thrown finally when no respite would replenish her spirit. And the girl knew it was an "eventually".
Eventually Mom would simply give up and die. Give up on trying to find her happiness. Give up on healing her wounds. Give up on wanting to rise in the morning and giving it a go. Eventually Mom would close her eyes and give up.
This sadden the daughter. She wished she could give her mom the spirit within her own body. Let her, no, make her see the light that was more intense than the darkness. She wanted her mother to know the woman she saw and loved every day.
A woman who found joy, no matter how small or brief in the simplest things. Finding a new root in a plant cutting. Walking barefoot in the mud. Laughing at the cats staring at an untouchable lizard. Picking up a rock in the parking lot.
The daughter pushed those images from her mind forward at her mother. She willed them to enter her mom's mind. She prayed that this sad woman would only see the happiness she really, truly had.
But those images seem to always hang there in the nothingness. They never seemed to move beyond the empty space directly before her mother.
So, the daughter could only wait. Wait and watch her mother torment herself with the infinite sadness. She waited for the the end. She watched with the same sadness her mother exhaled constantly.
The daughter wanted to scream out that she loved her mother but she knew the words would only be swallowed by the black hole. So, the daughter watched and waited. Watched and waited for the sadness to silence her mother's world. And her own.
Ok. I've had to modify my drawing. When I scanned it, it was entirely too light so I had to muck with the contrast and brightness in Photoshop. Bleh! Looks better in my journal.
A little about what I used and when I did it. I was bored at work one day....this is when I had my own office and a big desk with a smooth surface. We could burn candles in our space and I collected the black ash pieces from my burned candle wicks. I started drawing on the desk and writing poetry and then decided to move to my journal. So, my mystery is from simple wick ash. I sometimes use the burned ends of matchsticks as well. I have drawing charcoals but I just don't like those as much. I haven't gotten the nick of it.
And I emphatically state: I AM NOT AN ARTIST!!!!
She slid into the world quietly and unassuming. The tear from her warm liquid pocket was nothing short of shocking but she would adjust. With silent awe she had discovered new things over the last few months. In the short time of consciousness, she found satisfaction in suckling on the smooth softness of her own bits later to be named 'fingers.' She exploded in joy each time her chest jolted from hiccups. Her heart smiled from the deliciousness of stretching her growing form. So, being evicted from her bed of ten months was a bit overwhelming yet a delightful experience of adventure.
The air upon her damp skin was biting. The small cavern she had nested in for all that time had been a hug warmed by her own existence. The space outside was much roomier but she knew in time she would warm it with the sheer brilliance of her movement through it. How long would it take her? She cared not; she had no real concept of time. Everything was done at her leisure, for her enjoyment and discovery. Her electrified body stretched out in anticipation of touching, tasting, and hearing the much bigger womb she had just entered; and when the stunning emotion got the better of her, she inhaled.
The noise moved about her and she struggled to take everything in. Her ears strained to catch all the sounds which were much more than hub-dub hub-dub that always accompanied her. The hub-dub hub-dub that woke her from her dreams and lulled her to sleep. The hub-dub hub-dub that spoke to her in a language she would later discover was a secret that everyone forgets. But these new sounds? They were fantastic! They startled her and screamed at her from every direction but she attached to them with an emotion best described as love.
She was enjoying this new awakening. Only moments before she was snuggling into the sloshy comfort of her home to dream; and now she was too excited to sleep. The bigness overcame her so much that she barely noticed the swelling pain from her inhale. She also found that deliriously fascinating. She was swimming in pure bliss.
Until the push of largeness on her body surprised her. The jostling was joined with noise and roughness on her skin. A jet of cold invisbleness shoved itself into the holes that had before only allowed in the liquid warmth that had surrounded her in the darkness. She wanted to move from it. She tried to close herself to the intruder but found herself against a hardness she had never experienced before. She could do nothing but flail her tiny limbs in protest to it and allow it to enter and leave her frame at its will. There was a force of brightness into the tender spots on her face that had never been used. A stinging wet pain shoved into them. The excited love from moments before was quickly streaming out of her from her invaded orbits. The uncomfortable push and pull on her created a new sensation as her body shook with a desire to escape into the dark protectiveness of the pillow she had known. She feared. She wanted nothing more of this rape upon her body, her senses, her emotions. This capture of her. She only wanted to retreat back to her comfort and her anonymous identity. She sensed she lost the safety of her own time, her way of absorbing the new; and she wailed.
in the house, I wander;
touching pieces that were bought
to fill the space within me that is...
frame my body has become,
after years of longing for
someone to see beyond my thin...
of emotions covers my guarded heart,
that cries and shies away from touches,
that flow freely out of relationships so...
Intertwined legs sliding between each other
beneath enveloping sheets.
The press of her back against his nude chest
sealing the closeness of skin upon skin.
His body's soft S-curve naturally fitting against hers
like the last piece of a puzzle.
An arm draped protectively over her waist
with following hand cupping a breast.
Lazily nibbling lips resting on the nape of exposed neck.
The stray strands of her hair tickling his lashes
as his face buries in her tresses.
Passionate smell of her skin reminding him he's home.
A Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Hughes is one of my favorite writers. And his poem seems to fit the mood that keeps me company tonight.
Dream by Naomi
Reality can be a brutal bitch
-when you live haphadardly in your dreams.
You fear hoping that your dreams will sneak out
from the secret pockets of your soul,
and burst open like a New Year's Eve popper.
You hold that nagging bit of pessimism a little too tightly,
refusing to let your imagination run.
But your hope and giddy, swooning heart talk
those loud...screaming...negative thoughts
down to a dull whisper.
Your body and mind become comfortable,
with the thought of successful dream achievement.
And when you are too drunk
from the delight
of the possibility,
of your dreams living true in technicolor brightness;
the cruel, cold, apathetic, stark truth smacks you
until your face swells and your nose bleeds.
After several ass-kickings, you realize the torture of dreaming
I wrote this in response to our involvement in overseas events and the sense of "nationality" rabid in so many people here. But considering the outrage of our "patriotic" citizens against people who have the same rights and are due the same benefits of freedom to love whoever the hell they want and to make a movie about God, I think the poem is quite apropros. If you can't respect my friend Tim's choice to love his boyfriend or my friend Adam's right to be atheist, then you need to go the fuck back to where you came from.
My nation's colors bleed
like a poison coursing thru angry veins.
A foundation of freedom cracks
beneath the weight of fear.
Trepidation and sensibility disappear
as the mob of bigotry initiates loud voices.
"American" pushes "human" down
like a bully on the playground.
How such hate shames me-
Citizen of this world.
One of the brethern "under God."
To weep for man - black, white, yellow, red, brown -
means treason for the "land of liberty and justice for all."
To extend my hand to my foreign kin
invites cold shoulders and shunned silence.
I must forget OUR God to be true
to "red, white, and blue."
frustration at my unsurmountables
aggravation at my misdirection
palpitations at my stresses
lack of motivation at my dilemmas
Peel away my fat.
Tear down my walls.
Rinse off the blahness.
Dig away the layers.
Uncover the mounds.
…And I am nothing.
Upon waking from my cruel slumber, I discovered the world had not changed.
My self-induced coma had not erased the injustices among men.
I had done more harm to my psyche by withdrawing from the physical realm.
Dreams of perfection had clouded my mind’s eye and had only produced disappointment.
The inner sanctum of my self commanded me to attention.
Realize the world is not fair, it shouted. And make order of its chaos.
And who was I to argue?
Shoes on the glossy floor click slowly and thoughtfully, her steps meaningful and worried. She regrets this walk with self-loathing. Yesterday was tiring from the celebration. But today…
The news of his happiness weighed her down. Her body was heavy with sorrow.
How did I manipulate myself? click click How did I weaken? click…click Was I deaf to my own shouting?
She stops before the guilt-laden door. Behind the smooth wood and shiny brass knobs, he sits. She feels the heated smile that fills his face, and she moans.
“I’m going to release this,” she whispers cowardly.
“It will end,” she encourages herself.
Her shaking hand stretches out; and with forced determination, she opens the door.