Thursday, November 18, 2010

some sort of explanation

This blog is really just a sketch pad. And those of you that read, christ I am so greatful for! It is unedited and the colors are not always within the lines, but a work in progress, molding it and unmolding. Visions of June is new short story but it seems I started it a while ago, unaware that some of my older posts would tie into her story. So sorry for the confusion...but thanks for reading, because without someone to read what I write, what would be the point.

Visions of June (where are we now- parte tres)

Things were quiet these days and in the lobby of the small town therapists office I could feel that quiet completely wrap around me. Normally it is unsettling; the quiet is something to be broken. In the quiet I could see just how little of me, of June, their is left.

But today in the warmth of Jeff's office it was just comforting. A new sensation that I was not accustomed to feeling when silence held up its mirror. The last few weeks had been a tight rope walk over an alligator pit and so I slept much of the time. The candle on the dresser was down to just a nub of wax with the buried wick. My usual response letting everyone else deal with, fix and appease. The night when I lost myself and allowed Sam to walk through my door changed everything. She was something I could control only letting her in when I needed a release, when the nights grew longer, the words wouldn’t come and staring at the blank page left me with such frustration that a call for help to Sam always let the juices flow. She was what I always imagined I would be, I was so envious of her, she was beautiful, feminine and seductive with a brass set of balls. But on that night, she changed something in me and I lost control. So now I sat here listening to that familiar music Jeff always plays waiting and debating whether I should tell him. Not sure I have fully admitted it to myself yet, so how could I come clean to him, to anyone.

Jeff’s office always felt comforting; It was the warm embrace of an old friend. The low hum of Bob Dylan filled the antique decorated, oriental rug waiting room, with bits and pieces of it revealing little clues about the doc. His taste in music tipping his hand to hippie college days, no doubt pot smoking and philosophy talking. And the taste for old and expensive showed the educated man he had become, enjoying the fruits of his pricey education and PhD. All of this I took in, twisting it around and turning it over to form a complete and intimate picture of the man that sat across from me every week picking and pulling at my insides, gently though, always gently.

Sometimes sessions with Jeff were less satisfying than others, but there were times when they felt deeply satisfying like a soft game of cat and mouse, foreplay with words. His consistent boundaries lit up around himself. I could see through the barbed wire and every now and then caught him off guard, not standing erect at his post, that fence would drop, and a soft smile would cross his face. I was good at that better than most. Good at picking up those very subtle subconscious queues from people. The small smile that slips out at inappropriate times, or the insecurity that shows in someone’s eyes when they are unsure of themselves. Maybe it is the tone of your voice or the way you play with your ring toying it between your fingers when you are nervous, what ever it is I notice and this makes me very good at seeing people, really seeing people. It also makes me lonely. Today in his waiting room I know that Jason is the only one that really sees me and even he only sees bits and pieces putting me back together like a jigsaw puzzle in his mind.

Visions of June (sweet dreams- parte dos)

This would be a secret we would keep locked away safe in the old chest of drawers with the old photographs of nameless shadows and wispy ghosts of days past. The blood that Sam had allowed to run, the life that she lost, and the mess that I had to clean up now, would get neatly folded away with the blood stained underwear, somewhere in my head. The fire place was still crackling and the flames threw off a soothing glow that filled the small living room with our hand me down couch. A little vicodin, another glass of wine, and my very large, very warm blanket wrapped about me would sustain my delicate balance of calm until Jason came back home. The corset drawn tightly around my emotions, I could stay, just stay here and wait.

The chemical induced sleep that came now drew my eyes closed but always left my soul stirring, awake and actively roaming around behind shut eyes. This always made for the most fitful sleep and vivid dreams.

"Hey Babe", touching my face so gently as not to startle me, Jason's broad thick hands brushed my hair from my cheek.
"Hey" wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him down into me.
I would Hold onto him, not just with my arms, but with every ounce of myself. His large shoulders and strong back always felt like home, safe in a way i had never known before. The air had reentered the room and my lungs could breath a sigh that told me it was going to all be ok, but it would get worse before it got better.
"why are you on the couch...miss me?"
"yeah, i always miss you when you are away from me, sometimes so much more than others, but always"
"Come on I am beat, good night for tips, but I am exhausted, come to bed"

Our room felt cool, at least a few degrees cooler than the living room. The old Victorian buildings that lined Main Street here in Pennsylvania always had issues with staying warm. The fireplace only heated the small room it was in, and all other rooms struggled to stay warm from there old steam radiators, hissing, coughing and wheezing to meet the demands of the thermostat.

"what did you do tonight?" His usual question, as if to say, so did you stay out of trouble? The noise in my head was muffled from pure exhaustion and drug induced quiet. But, nonetheless it was still there scurrying around in the dark whispering to my conscious.
“You have to tell him”
“You can not keep this secret, not from him”
And then there is always Sam with her opinions still bouncing off the walls in my head.
“No, you can not tell him, it is done and he will never forgive, he will leave you, so just forget it.”
“Hey why are you in such deep thought? What are you thinking about?”
“nothing, I’m just thinking about...nothing.”
“you never think of nothing, you only say that when you don’t want me to know what you are really so lost in thought about. But that’s ok, you don’t have to tell me.”
I hate that he knows me so well, but I find comfort in the way he can read me, my subtle queues, my quiet calls for help.
“Goodnight babe, love you”
I have always been so jealous of the way he can fall into the deepest sleep the moment his black hair hits the pillow. I’ve never known that. The flicker of the candle on the dresser held my interest away from the shadows that always come out at night. The wax dripped and made it’s way down to the top of the old but not antique, dresser where there was already a pool of hardened wax from nights before this one. The candle was my thing, it was what I would focus on so I could quiet my insides and ignore the shadow at the side of the bed. The cold wax piled up as a constant reminder of battles lost to sleep. The glow of the flame widened and blured, it stretched out and touched the walls of the tiny bedroom with beams of light. And just before my eyes completely closed the flame was the only thing that I could see filling my room with a warm and welcoming glow that would fold me into sleep tonight.

Visions of June (parte Uno)

It was raining. Not hard just lightly, the kind of light rain that just mists your hair and casts halos around the street lights. It was the kind of rain that you could stand outside in and not get very wet just a layer of damp on your clothes, on your skin, on you everywhere. I didn't even notice the rain at first as i stood in complete stillness, bambi trapped by the light, and lost in silence. I was submerged from the world bathed in my own underwater tomb. The silence began to fade when i noticed the rain, when i saw the halos from the mist. Then the empty nameless faces of the people all around me. My legs began to shake and it hit, and i came up for air from this underwater place. The limbo i sometimes find myself in just before i realize i have been somewhere, or done something unfamiliar. Jason wasn't here and the warmth of the blood that flowed down my thigh had reached my calf as i stood exposed in his over sized sweater, my boots, and my hat (when did i put those on). His sweater always made me feel warm though the streets where wet and cold with November's night air.
Blood, “blood!, that is bad that is very bad”,
where was i, search the faces, the street signs for a familiar name.
“There! three blocks from home thank god, i hate this, i hate this, and the blood, that is so bad, so so bad”.

Shaking, and cold I ran most of the three blocks, but i could not ignore the pain in my belly, the nausea creeping up in my throat. The door to the apartment was open and the warmth from within pushed up against my damp skin with pins and needles. The tears welled up in my eyes, it was only 11:41 and Jason would not be home until 3am. His nights on as bar tender at the local watering hole where locals bellied up to wash away there discontent, always left me antsy. The time alone was never good and though I baked, i knitted, i cleaned, i surfed the web and reached out to any soul that would fill the void, the overwhelming loneliness was sometimes to much to keep in the shadows and sometimes it would blanket over me covering my eyes in a shroud that was often called by some other name. Who was here tonight, i needed to clean this up before he got home before he saw the blood and what had been done. what had been done?

On the sink in my tiny pink bathroom with it's Fifties tiles, lay the wrapper for that pill, the one i could here Samantha talking about taking, the one she almost convinced me to take, the one that gets rid of that beautiful life growing and rooting deep in my womb. All week I knew how upset Sam was over the news. Jason didn't even know yet, I was going to tell him tomorrow night when he had off and we could go to our spot on the roof and i could hold his hands and feel the strength of his shoulders. He didn't even know yet, but Samantha knew and she did not want this for us. It would ruin everything.
She protested holding up my fears, "the sex would suck, the writing would suck even more".
"Who can write with a kid" she yelled in my ear and whispered while i was asleep, "writers, write what they know", she told me.
"how can i write when all i will know are play dates, diapers, laundry and baby fucking Einstein"
" who will read that shit"
" no one of any interest anyway".
Part of me knew she was right, but Jason wanted this, he wanted it so badly, this bond that he and i would have. Something that he thought would plant my feet on the floor and maybe he would not have to worry so much about the nights he was gone if I had something bigger than myself to focus on.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

house in the woods

I could get lost in that room. I could never leave it again and the things that would come from there the colors that would shine from it's darkened windows and torn drapery would light up the world and cast color into the shadows where once only darkness lived. I could stay there and never come out again and lose my self to her and to him and shut the door on the cries of everyone.
Sometimes I walk around a ghost, just a shell of my self with a painted mask and puppet arms. I am not here I am in that room with the doors shut tight and drapes pulled closed so that only the glow of this computer screen lights up my eyes. So far away from home forgetting to enjoy what's around me locked with key in hand in here, in that room in the woods, the one that resides in my head, where the weeds grow tall and walls are bare.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

play time

i have left exhaustion behind and all that lingers now is this dirty haired, caffeine injected cigarrette smoking shell

i just want to be still

to sleep

and be in the quiet, just close my eyes and let the quiet in

hard now

to NOT want to just sleep for days and write and smoke
and sleep

it is hard now

to think

beyond my next fix waiting for me in the corners to come out and play

it is hard now

to move
to eat
to love
to feel
it all slips away

leaving the swollen eyed girl that can't cry

this is the hard part to move and be beyond just a few fragmented words that mean


beyond the shell of my own head

to leave this place and do more than just sit with you and type and drink and forget to eat

and forget to love my husband
and loose my children

to not want it

to not let it completely swallow me

to not stroke the keys and loose it all here
give of it freely ..... to you

the price to pay is to high
the need
to high
the longing to much

Monday, August 30, 2010

most people travel on one long path one road with no idea where it ends and no concept as to how they got on it to begin with. i have never done that. i have always seen all of the other paths around me and sometimes when i get blinded by the other passengers on this road i forget to stop and look around me.

but this, this, was one of those days, one of those times in my life when i stopped the car and not only looked around but got out and saw the long horizon drawn before me. this road did not lead to where i needed to be, it had no happy ending or house with a white picket fence at the end of it and the baby in the backseat, carefully buckled in for her bumpy ride with me needed more than this journey could give her.

i stood at a crossroads and running on empty i had a choice to make. and that was the day the moment i made it.

that was the day that Scott was going to leave my life and the man-child that my daughter Sarah called daddy for the last 3 years was not going to be luggage any more. sometimes people need to see where they have been to get to where they need to be, and today we where turning around and taking that detour.

the bills didn't get paid and with winter threatening the autumn skies, the electric company had turned my heat off for the second time and it was back to heating the apartment with the oven. I couldn't pay the bills with out Scott's income, as small as it was it did make a difference and i had no plan on how i would survive this. his many months of getting high on blow where starting to take a toll on all of us and this was the second time his stupid ass lost his licence and the police came knocking with a warrant for a no show. so the fact that we didn't have heat and had no plan was ok, compared to his bullshit.

no, this was not where i was going to stay, we deserved better and i had glimpsed better. i had seen what love is supposed to look like and how a man is supposed to behave, whatever in the hell that means. i needed to be saved and i was going to wave my flag at the white knight that i knew would come riding in.

Jason and i have been working together for about two years now. and he has come to know me almost as well as i know myself. he was a friend and great fuck and he listened to me, he would just sit and listen to me talk about Scott and his idiotic behavior and Michael and how he never really left my life though i near destroyed him and left him with scars so deep i doubted he would ever recover. he listened to it all, he got my heat turned on when i needed it and sat with me when i worked late to make sure that i was safe. he even saved me several times on work mistakes that i made in my greenness on the job that i was deeply unqualified to do. he had been saving me all along but not until that day on the road when i pulled the car over could i see him there on the other path that led away from this coke in the freezer smoke filled apartment of the adolescent I still was and the woman I wanted to be.

on that day she came, she being his ex, the girl that spent all of his days at college with him and was the object of his affections up until about a year ago. her name was Marcy, she was attractive with an athletic build, and had long plain brown hair with a natural beauty about her. and when he looked at her i could see what love was supposed to look like and he was going to give it to me.

he was the one that i wanted the one that could love me the way i wanted, no, needed to be loved and he, was going to save me and when i looked down that road i could see where it ended up and that is where i thought i wanted to be. i needed the craziness to stop and i needed to move these burdens from my shoulders and his shoulders were broad and strong and could carry the weight of all i came with.

his black hair and large build loomed above me and made me feel small and protected. and when i did finally look into his green eyes i could see the love there that i would have.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

It has been a long time since I have posted anything on my blog, not that the handful of followers would notice. This is more of a diary of sorts, than a blog I guess as there are no daily, weekly and at times monthly updates about my life, my writing, my thoughts....I do however have many, many unpublished entries on here that never make it to the publish page. They have been deemed unreadable by me and so therefore stay locked in the closet of lost drafts and random thought.

There are these long quiet times when my mind is so at ease that not a creative thought crosses it's path and then there are times when I will go days with out rest, without a quiet moment inside the confines of my own mind. When I will close my eyes and the colors will leap and swirl and combine to create an endless story but those times seem to come few and far between lately and I feel sad and lost without it, I am sad when my mind is quiet.

Always looking for something else, always searching for that one thing that may ignite my soul and let me get lost inside of myself. Always reaching for someone to understand the feeling that crawls under my skin when I can't, won't write.

Where does inspiration birth from, is it some captured memory like the fire fly in the glass, or does it move with the wind from place to place with me not far behind trying to catch it in my net? I don't know, I wish I had the answer, do you?

Tonight it is so peaceful here in the dark with only the glow of my laptop and the flickering candle. The breeze is cool and the gentle rain is lightly tapping on the roof of the canopy I sit under....I hate being alone, writing is an odd passion for someone that hates being alone. Even now with the company of the wind, the trees and Bob Marley I write to some imaginary friend, because I hate being in my head.

Friday, April 9, 2010

Selfish Mommies Club

The distractions are innumerable and the excuses well, they too are never ending. I used to, no, I still say "we make time for the things that are important to us"; that was generally in response to the fellow mom, inquiring with part cynicism and part awe just how did I make time to do the things that are for me, the things that don't involve my kids. They always wanted to know, mostly this came from a place with subtle disdain. Most mommies hate other mommies that "do things for themselves" they say they don't but they do, because it makes them feel like less, as it should. It reminds them for even the briefest of moments that they used to be someone other than just that....a mommy. That there was a time when their days did not entirely rotate around their children, the house, the bills, there was a time when they had dreams of greater things for themselves that somehow got lost in those messy ponytails, dirty little faces, dirty floors, and the needs of everyone else. They secretly hate the mom that flaunts her selfishness as a badge of honor just as proud of it as her son was of that cub scout badge or her daughter of her swimming trophy, all things she helped them earn while being selfish. We all, well, not all but most start out with this predetermined dream of what it is that we are supposed to want, kids, a house on a hill, two cars, and a husband that leaves at 6am and returns at 7pm with his big fat pay check in hand. This is what we see on TV in some variant or other and isn't this the dream the mini-van, or maybe you kid yourself by being one of those non-minivan driving mommies, whatever it is you drive you are here. When did you become one of the secret haters of the selfish moms club?

I am in that club and I do flaunt it like some imaginary badge. I wave it in the face of the mommies that sit at dance class and every week only talk about their children's allergies and what to do at the next girl scout meeting. I sit and I read Hunter S. Thompson, one week back turned to the chitter chatter of empty space. I write on my laptop and keep busy little fingers from touching the keys, I go and get my huge latte with it's double shot and between chapters check up on the three year old blissfully prancing away in her dance class. Every now and again I will engage them in conversation that always ends the same way with me bored and checked out in about 4 lines of dialogue. I usually stop asking questions at that point in hopes that their interest in me will doesn't.

I yell at my kids and make them clean their rooms and go on the occasional hike or walk with them. I don't really like the outdoors much, my husband likens me to a cat...I like to just sit in the big comfy chair in the sun, not really work up any kind of a sweat. They mostly keep themselves entertained and are incredibly self sufficient, and for that I am proud. If you are a mom then you know what a huge accomplishment that is. Most mommies at the price of themselves dote over, and involve themselves in all that their children do. Selfish mommies do this as well, just less and we know the art of turning helpless spoiled needy children into self sufficient, independent , well mannered, little people.

I make the occasional PTO appearance but for the most part when asked the answer is "NO" because I can think of about a thousand other things I would rather be doing with any amount of spare time that I create. Did you catch that? "I create" that's right selfish mommies always know how to "create free time" . Like right now, I should be doing the dishes, washing the floor, planning dinner, laundry, the list goes on and on, but what am I doing, I am writing I am doing that selfish thing, I am doing something that is only about me and by doing that it is all about them.

At the end of the day when I have had my selfish mom time I enjoy my Mommy time with them so much more completely, and can appreciate what they have accomplished on their own during my selfish time. I show them by doing that it is important to be true to yourself and that mommy is so much more than just "mommy".

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Tommie and June

The timing could not have been more perfect and he could not have been more unaware of how so. She had been feeling that itch the one that builds under her skin and wells up from between her legs. the itch that carries her from her bed late at night to write incomplete, incoherent thoughts down in a blind half slumber. the feeling that makes her eye up every cock on the street and wonder if their wife fucked them last night and if they made them feel like they were the only man on the planet. the feeling that made her look at her children and her husband with a subtle discontent and dislike that disturbed her to the bone.

June was lonley in a world surrounded by friends and PTO's, and 3 car garages. she was lonley because though she had so many friends that loved her and children that needed her and a husband that adored her she was lonley because she could see them all for who they really were. she could tell them things about themselves that they chose to ignore and when they talked to her she heard what they really meant. she could see a huge world that stretched out before her and yet she could not move from here, she could not breathe here and while they all thrived in the falsehoods of there quaint existances she scratched at her skin and clawed at the insides of her head. she needed someone, someone that could understand the need to leave the place you are in, the need that you should be somewhere else, anywhere else. she needed someone to see her.

Thomas Zane, a writer from another world, was a man that lived in the place of yesterdays for her. He was the perfect mad painting that was projected straight out of some storyline of hers. He wrote what he felt from his balls and made no apologies to the people he sucked dry in the process. A man that appeared to live on the edge of experiences that gave him the high to let his fingers fly. But to the people he called family and though there were many that new Zane there were few he called family; to those people he was just Tommie. Zane was a whore for followers looking for any and all to read his written word and have it mean something, have it piss someone off or make them want to cum, it didn't matter as long as they read it and stroked his ego in the end. And so when he came across her timid post, the one that asked in a way that caught his eye "hey there, would love for someone to check out my words" she typed; he did. but it wasn't her words that he checked out it was her pics and her big green eyes that seemed to say a thousand things in them and her long blonde hair, well that is what interested Zane and that is how we got here. Zane's cock and his ego that is what led us to this place the one where two worlds meet and shift to accomadate the rotation of the other.

he could not possibly have known that when he sent that request, clicked on that button that he would be walking through her door, through a door already doused with lighter fluid and only needed him to ignite it.

she read his words first, as she had no idea who this wild eyed dark haired, slim hipped man was, she could feel right where they were written from, as if she had written them herself. She understood his junky need to get it all down and out of his head and scream at the world to "wake the fuck up" before it passes you all by. The drowning choking feeling he probably gets when the words won't come, which is likely not often. The need to stimulate that place that drives the words forth, to stroke it and make love to it always ready to come forth and spew out over the pages and fill the blankness with prose that scream out from behind his eyes. this she could understand and her stomach lept at the thought that at last in the vastness of this place we call home she could find someone that might, just might...see her. June needed him so much more than he could have ever known, so much more than he was ever capable of giving.

She knew then that the fire had been lit and that the pull of that, was more than the need of her babies or the love of her husband. he was her heroin and the junky that had laid sleeping for so many years was awake now and ready.

Their conversations were easy, not that they hadn't been easy with others before him but they t never quite fit the bill, but these were just a bit different they weren't just easy she could feel him, she could see him as he filled the pages of cyber chat and she could walk around inside his head and he in hers. they had known one another for a day, then two, then two weeks, two months and they were old friends, the kind that understood one another on a level that was unspoken. this is how she would keep him interested. there were no shortage of girls lining up and spreading for him, he had danced in there eyes and put on his great twisted writer performance and they would bow and bend over just to have any amount of him inside them. but she, she held his interest, she could write and he, could see where she wrote from. from between her legs, from some pit in her stomach that is never filled and likely never will be. he too could see inside her head and feel her through the sterile light of the computer screen as she stroked the keys and this, this, kept him interested...for now.

the weeks moved on and though there would be days without his attention she could always feel him there through the silence and when they did talk it was for hours, entire days lost in the words of one another. Every pore ached in June's body to touch him to see him and watch the veil that made Zane fall and see Tommie in his eyes. It wasn't until his schedule turned in a queer bit of fate, making there meeting a possibility, a trip to NY was in the future for them both and like the red sun on the horizon the need burned from inside them.

New York loomed in the near distance and as it approached he gave it little thought other than who to hook up with on his stay, and readings of his work that he would have to give at the literary conference that he would have to wear his Thomas Zane suite to. Until night when it was quiet and he lay down in bed and his thoughts as usual, were not quiet and loomed heavily over his bed. the smallest fears crept in and lay in his stomach. what if she did not see the man she cast in her tale, the man that made her write with passion and lust and desire, what if she saw Tommie and not Zane...the two were so much a part of his one now that he could not feel them apart any longer. Would he see disappointment in her eyes, would he see himself staring back, in her round green eyes, she could see him through the protective web of words between them and now to stand naked in the true light of day, what would she see staring back at her?

June's thoughts grew anxious and lay like acid in her stomach the deceit the lies she would have to tell just to get high on him for a day. to come face to face with herself, the self that would have been had she not chosen another, safer, path. Her life here was a contented one, the problem being just that, June didn't do content and while it was something that many, most strived for she did not like that feeling and longed for the thrill of the experiences that Zane embodied and this is why he was dangerous to her. this is why he threatened all she had come to know, everything that she was supposed to want.

she worried not just about what it was that she stood to loose, but more veinly about what if, the woman he met was not at all the picture he had drawn into mind. the image of the blond with hair loosely pulled up and cigarette in hand, leg curled up under her as she typed her sweet words to him. the woman that was less mother and more porn star. but the fact remained that she is a mother and she doesn't type with cigarette in hand she has to leave her home and hide in the corner of the house to light up so not to disrupt the perfect world she has built for her little ones. the fact is that she has had and nursed five babies and held them close to her warm body at night keeping them safe from the shadows in her own mind. her body had a road map of scars to prove it. she did write with her hair pulled up loosely from her neck and her leg tucked in under her and with a blind fury beneath her finger tips that excited him so, but would he still see that? who would meet her there in NY who would she see staring back at her. the gentle, polite, sweet Tommie or Thomas Zane the writer, artist man-child, who wanted to just bend her over and fuck the words right out of her?

the day was cold and and gray as most winter days in NY and NJ are nothing out of the ordinary other than the story book of lies she needed to tell to escape suburbia today. and though every pore in her body screamed with excitement and the fear of loosing it all she made her way through the day without even the slightest of hints at what may be coming for her later in the day. She made peanut butter and jelly and chatted with friends about there woes and cleaned up countless messes and met the needs of everyone around her today, knowing that the little girl that was locked up oh so long ago would be let out to play today.

It was Zane that had nothing to loose no reason to worry, no fear, no life to go up in dust and be lost to the wind, to meet her and see if perhaps he had met his match or maybe just maybe would she really see him, straight through to him to that empty place that longs to be filled...nothing more than curiosity, and perhaps disappointment. Tommie had an idea of what it was she could loose by standing there with him but Zane did not care.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

dear diary

we've all got a story to tell some past that bit us in the ass and took a chunk out just enough to leave you who you are now, here, with me.
we all have shadows that go bump in the night and tug at our soul.
but some of us, some of us need to bleed instead of cry and some of us dance with the shadows that linger in the night.
for some the story never ended it never healed over to form a callous so deep that nothing else can get in. it never left your room or kissed you good night with a long deep sigh.
for some of us we can drive down the street and go to work and wear the skin that keeps one foot hold in the here and now for some of us we can get into our fuel efficient sub compacts and play the role and sleep soundly and not need to wake to empty the contents of your brain before it tears through you on its way out.
most of us can move through the day with the shadows at bay
but some, you and i, we dance here in the shadow we get high and sit quietly with them and find it hard to make our way back out to day.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

If you haven't read it you really should

"LAST EXIT TO BROOKLYN", Hubert Selby, Jr.
every word drips with honey ready to be lapped up by the soul. the cruel truths and raw energy that lurks at the corner of every page there for the taking ...take it in.

"and through a rip in the black shade she saw dancing points of gray and soon light would streak the sky and shadows would soften and dance and the soft early morning light would seep through the room pushing the shadows from the now darkened corners and candles soon would be out.....
and the Bird was blowing a final chorus, high, and the set wouldnt end, but the Bird would slowly fade and you would hang and roll in your ear and all would be love-"


I hope this doesn't seem crazy to you, i don't think it would, i think you, you would understand the scratch, scratch, scratching that goes on inside the prison of my mind

i think you could understand the noise
though my eyes are so tired now and they fight me with every word my brain won't quiet and even the shadows in my room breath tonight

i'm not crazy, no
therapy yes, crazy no, not so much anyway

I do it all i am ordinary walking through the street
I cook, and i clean, i do dance classes and recitals and playgroups and football and college visits and girls scouts and cub scouts, i even do small talk
I knit scarves for my kids and fuck my husband like a porn star
but in the quiet hours, in the silence of the room when the chaos has gone to bed

the scratching and the words these beautiful words that paint pictures with every breath
well, they won't let me sleep and so I thought
I would write you, because you might

Tuesday, January 26, 2010


If I could only steal some time, some unquestioned, no explanation time to disappear, WRITE myself straight off the page.

To drink wine and, loose track, smoke and get high
To fuck on dirty mattress's in seedy hotel rooms where no one cares if you come or go.

to write and drink, and fuck and love and eat Chinese food at 3am, and puke it all up again.

If only i could shed this skin, peel it away from me and cast it off,
to run and hide
to kiss long and hard and watch him write and go mad and sleep and love

to see me through HIS eyes

if only i could find the time to steal it back again to not wish it away, to stop begging for tomorrow and forget about yesterday

there i would find ME staring back from the lonely place

there...i would just be

Friday, January 22, 2010

Second glass of wine

his warm hands wrap longing around her waist as he pulls her closer to his side for the slow dance that was never had

the sweet smell of her skin lingers and it is her desire that allows him to falter,
for a moment,
to stumble
forth and give into his own weakness's,
his demons that are captured now, here
in her breath in her words that crawl inside of him
to that place that is hidden from everyone
the wall crumbles to the floor as he feels the heat of her embrace and the world slips away

lonely hotel rooms,
the longing for his old life ,
the quiet nights at home

all leave his side and it is only her now that lays with him tonight.

Wild Child

from behind the moon she peers out at me all big eyed and wild child

hidden so deep pushed far from light the words that rape the soul, longing to be heard to be seen to be cast out

Quiet now, my brain is so quiet now when i need it most. tormenting me with this hide and seek . She lurks around the corners...catching shadows of her only to slip away again into the darkness.I need it now I need her now so very much that my entire body aches longing to feel her touch consume me this deep need for it aches between my legs and makes my soul quake.

the colors
the touches
the smells
the connections
are electrifying, pulsating from every pore...all of it lost to her hidden away

with her,
i hate her,
i love her,
i need her...

Grayness consumes me when she abandons me so