July 29, 2005


I am a fool.

I needed to know that it was real, I suppose. That what my heart was telling me was right.

I am like a beaten dog. Flinching at your hand. I know that it’s not meant to hurt. I know that when I curl around your back at night it’s plain what I feel.

When did I get cheap with words?

Since I can’t seem to say them out loud, I will say them here in the quiet dark of confession. Hush though. Don’t startle me.

I liked you from the moment you tapped my newspaper. Invaded my space.

I crave your skin when not here. If I close my eyes, I can map the scar on your belly. (The smooth of which I find like a secret trail in your skin.)

I like how you can’t stay still when I kiss the point where your hip meets your torso.

Or how you snore too loud. (I have learned to give you a little shove so you are quiet.) I think your pillow obsession is cute… not annoying. When you are not in my bed, I don’t sleep as well as when you are there. I leave your side untouched…. As though, even in my sleep, I feel your absence.

I enjoy doing things for you. Bringing you little gifts. Like offerings to someplace sacred. Something to appease the ache inside. When you bring me things, it makes me shy. Silliness, I know.

What we do hardly seems to matter. Have you noticed? How even reading the paper together in a dingy little Mexican place is not awkward. That when I look up at you I think you are beautiful. Just you. Messy, disorganized, shoe hoarder. You.

Thank you for being the one to not be “chicken”. Thank you for being braver than me. How odd it is, really. That you, the least experienced in this, would be the one to come clean… to be real. And me, to be so cruel with your sentiment.

I don’t care if this is going to end. Right now, at this moment… I can’t contain myself. I am no longer able to be stoic and barren. I want to quit flinching.

I missed you all day today.

I wanted to see you tonight, not because I could… but because I wanted to. Because I wanted to just have you there. To just… be. It could have been washing the car… it could have been curling up in bed. Anything….

I feel silly, terribly silly. Exhilerated. Brave.


What does it matter, the fractions of things. Am I a little drunk? No, I am drunk. There are no half measures… there is only to move forward. To be terribly, sloppy drunk. (ha)

I don’t care, J. I don’t care one bit.

All I know, is today… I realized that it began while I was not watching for it to. And I don’t want to keep it as my secret.

I love you, already. (A little bit? Who cares how much.) It’s better to face myself than to be a fool.

What comes next? I don’t know. But I am sure it’s more…..


July 27, 2005


You asked “Where to from here?” And I did not have an answer.

There are always reasons. Excuses. For me, this one is I don’t want to jinx it. I am still trying to limit expectation. Still trying to keep this real, keep it slow… as to not miss the journey.

When I was a young child my father would take me to listen to the frogs sing. After dark on a mild spring night, he would walk me down the road (getting our “night eyes”) talking to me about bats and owls, night predators and how their eyes worked. I faked being brave. We had to cut down off the main road, following an old rutted road through some thin pines to the small pond. The frogs in their spring love in would still and quiet as we approached. Like a lover avoiding one’s touch, the ripple extending out as we moved closer. I was told to stand still, although the water was dark and a scary with only the stars reflected in it… my boots almost to filling with the cold water. I could hear my heart. My father’s breathing. Then slowly.


Far off at first. One frog. A tentative song. Silence. Then again.

Joined by another.

Then two more… then closer... more… closer still….

Until there would only be the music of the night. All around me. Magic. The frogs singing their amphibian hearts out and me still as stars, listening.

But. If I would shift or fidget, the frogs would stop singing. Or, if before they came close I would try and ask my father a question, they would feel us in the ground and we would have to begin again. For a child, this was a hard task. As an adult, it seems harder. There is so much to say, so much action in muscle.

Love is like those nights. The long dark walk to the pond, that I know is there… but can’t quite see. Standing still, keeping mute when required to be quiet. Hard things to do. But oh, what a sweet wonder it is when you are standing amongst a thousand small voices of love.

My heart is like that. Love starting far off, slowly. One small voice then another. Until I can no longer be still or quiet. Until I am so filled with that music that no matter how far I move from the pond, I hear it still.

Can you wait? Be still enough for me to show you how the night is something new, how even the simple frog sounds beautiful if earned by patience?

It won’t be long, love. Sometimes "where" is nowhere but "here". If you listen, you can hear them singing on the edges of the night.


In The Eye Of the Beholder...

Hidden Beach - Far


This Is A Secret I Am Tired of Hiding ~

I do
(a little bit)


July 25, 2005


I love summer drives.

Out amongst the country roads, drive-ways full of dust and weeds. Cars lining the available space, patio lanterns strung out into the trees. Coolers of beer. Wood smoke drifting out over the low slung weeping willows. Music wafting along with it.

I miss my family. (My extended family as well, the ones lost to divorce.) I think I need to grow up and quit relying on family for entertainment… or husbands for that matter.

The last outdoor party I went to, we drank too many mojitos in the sun. I think I was tipsy by dinner, which we ate out under umbrellas, pressing our napkins between our knees so that they would not blow away.

My favorite outdoor gatherings were on the island at my ex “Aunt and Uncle-In-Laws”. They have property on the lip of a pretty little valley, the sun slanting in late afternoon to the front deck where we would eat under the candelabras hung in the big beams. Then later, sit and watch the sun sink into the ocean, glass in hand… music drifting out of the open windows. It was a house made for family, for parties… for dinner guests and for laughter. Ironically, it was built during prohibition, by a man who made his money smuggling booze for such parties.

I think the thing that makes my heart keep coming back like a lost puppy to a warm hand, is the laughter. Oh, and then later, the guitar brought out to serenade the bats. Sparks in the night sky. Sleepy conversations.

Or maybe it’s that feeling of being on holidays. Lazy. Where a drive down a country road is an adventure of the sweetest kind.

Is that a corn stand?


Other Stories, Other Windows............

Along the Hard Crust ~ Anna Akhmatova

Along the hard crust of deep snows,
To the secret,
white house of yours,
So gentle and quiet – we both
Are walking, in silence half-lost.
And sweeter than all songs,
sung ever,
Are this dream, becoming the truth,
Entwined twigs’ a-nodding with favor,
The light ring of your silver spurs...

In The Eye Of the Beholder...

Hidden Beach

July 24, 2005


There has been a lot of talk these days. Reassuring talk. Soothing. But who are we trying to soothe? Me? Yourself? Our own fear seeks out resolution. Seeks the warm of reassurance. Nothing is ever that easy, is it. If only it was like flicking on the light switch.

There are things I like. Things I overlook on purpose. Things that seemed important before, that seem petty now. When did describing the shade of your eyes become more important than a pressed shirt? How easily we women are won.

The moon has been fat and overblown lately. Taunting. I ran in its backwards sunlight a few nights ago. It was the moon from Tennessee. How interesting, that it comes to visit me now. And with it, the memories. Or is it the notion that I have put myself on the slick green of the betting table, gambled myself away as I would an easy mark. I think I have left those nights behind. Well. The emotion. I still can smell the fresh Tennessee rain, hear the katydids on the porch… my heart full like that moon.

But it is the present that has me worried. Skittish.

Last night there was this wave, filling my mouth with wanting. Strong and bitter sweet. Strong and bittersweet. How many days do I have before the moon claims me? How many kisses? How many nights filled with secrets and wanting? Help me. Can you read my SOS?

I want to flee this open sky in my soul. I want to lie in the grass and count the stars… The absurdity of all this has not escaped me. I despise this indecision just as much as you.

What color are your eyes anyway? And no, not brown.

Emotion is one of those tricky things. It can be so false. Calculated on lust’s calculator. Influenced by desperation, that latest “chick” flick. (I am avoiding the theatre, by the way.) I want reality. Does it really happen, where I wake up one morning and realize that this IS real? That there is no need to fake it anymore? Fake it as in faking it NOT being there.

I sound like a rubik’s cube. Jesus. Will someone just take the stickers off already?

And now it’s time for my run. The moon is a bit broken… but regardless. Beautiful. And you know what is most lovely about it? It’s new, each month. New and unfettered by last month… last year… last time I felt like kissing someone for the sheer pleasure of feeling the soft pull of their lips… New.

I want you. I want to know I am safe under that new moon.


Something Blue..........

This is something I wrote long long ago... (I maybe should post it in "take Nothing Serious") but it still holds some truth. I am faced lately with the lingering "hair on the back of the neck standing on end" feeling. Just breathe. BREATHE dammit. And take nothing serious. Be light. Summer only has 36 more days.

`My definition of Adoration:

Adoration is hunger translated,

Adoration is how my heart feels
when you do those little things
that scream of your frailty;

Adoration is my mouth on your hip
tongue flickering, drinking in the feel
of fingers in my hair, the tensing of muscle
of nerve
of breath;

Adoration is in the way I look at you
taste you
feel you
lick you
explore you
speak you

Adoration is the butter on the bread of love.

Adoration is
hair under fingertips

Adoration is taking in your eyes,
realizing that I have not really seen you before.

Adoration is often what I speak
when really denying the truth
my heart knows.

July 15, 2005

The Littlest Birds Sing the Sweetest Songs...


In The Eye Of the Beholder...

Today I held a handgun. Fired it. Felt the reverberation in the flats of my feet.

It was like nothing I have ever done.

The range manager spent an hour with me, explaining what I would need to know. Hand placement. How to clear the weapon. How to load the clip. Where my fingers should be. What I should expect for kick back.

Nothing could have prepared me for the sensation of force. For the power. For the thrill of holding something with potential to be so incredibly destructive, but also an equalizer. I don’t think anyone would not feel the weight of it on their hip and not glean some confidence from it. To know, that if needed, the cold steel of it was there.

Each time I rise to taste the well of my dream, I come away only wanting more.

July 14, 2005

Other Stories, Other Windows............

Dreams - Fleetwood Mac

Now here you go again
You say you want your freedom
Well who am I to keep you down
It’s only right that you should
Play the way you feel it
But listen carefully to the sound
Of your loneliness
Like a heartbeat... drives you mad
In the stillness of remembering what you had
And what you lost...
And what you had...
And what you lost

July 11, 2005



The island was unchanged really. A few more B&Bs, a few more trees have come down…

I call the trip my “Galiano Magic Trick”. There is that surprise of ocean, coming down the little path to the sand. I remember the first time I saw it, I fell madly, deeply… forever, in love. It is a place that I feel with my soul. But to be honest, when J. and I came around that corner, she looked a little worn. Perhaps it’s time to find a new place to rest my heart.

I startled a nest when I was heading up to the point, a mother bird tried to distract me with much wing flapping and twittering at her young. I pointed it out to J. then went back to set up lunch. Calling me back, he pointed out the black garter snake that had clamped the little chick in his jaws. I was horrified… but did not want to touch the snake or the bird. We managed to scare it off… but the chick lay there almost gasping for breath. Is this some sort of omen? Jesus. It was disturbing.

Watching J. slide down the moss covered stone to the pebble beach below was both frightening and hilarious. It’s only too bad that it was my fault… and if he had been hurt I would have felt terrible. I bitched a little about this, but more for my own stupidity. It’s dangerous to take such uncalculated risks.

My head is full of calculations. Time frames. Best before dates.

I forget when I am actually living it. Breathing it. Tasting what it feels like to just be. BE.

I have been infiltrated.

Slowly. A CD here, a thought… there… a recollection. Hair in my sheets, a memory of scent on a towel. It only gets worse. More dangerous. But do I just release myself to it? Ease in. Like cold water on a hot summer day. It will feel so good once I am used to the water, I know this every time… but it’s still difficult going in over my head.

Makes finding a new place to rest my heart a bit tricky. I only wish summer was here. I would love to go lay on the black stone beach, sweating … knowing that the relief of cool lay at my toes, that there is silence and emptiness waiting for me as I dip my head under.

Where I am the infiltrator.

I am like those deer we watched. Smelling the danger in the air, but knowing it was too far off to be of any risk yet. Twitching my ears and dipping my head for another mouthful. Can you see the tension in my muscles? If there is a moment of apparent risk, my legs will fly into action. It’s best to stay on the quiet grass.

But please. Don’t stop.


July 06, 2005


I over reacted today.

Oh yah, I know what you are thinking. She has the tendency to jump the gun. Yes, sometimes I do. It’s called knee-jerking. My mistake though, was telling the reason I knee-jerked.

When I told my friend S. about this, his response was… awww… you knee-jerked. He knows me! If only everyone was so understanding. It’s why I love him. Easily. Simply. He gets me.

Why is it that I am so terribly good at keeping some secrets and then so strikingly bad at keeping others.

What concerns me is that I need to end this. To put a finish on what is eating at me. I can’t handle the disappointment again. If I am completely honest with myself, I say I am ready… but…. it’s not enough. I am not ready.

Scar tissue.

No, that is too simple. It’s not scar tissue. It’s a choice I have made.

I am vulnerable. And it makes me dangerous. Like a cornered animal, I could strike out at any moment.

You know what started all of this nonsense?


You see now why I have to end this? Prune it out before the morning glory squeezes it out? It’s better to make the decision than to let fate have it’s way.

But Galiano waits. Dionisio is flushed with green and the rocks on the hidden beach are as smooth as the cherries I picked in Lac Le Hache.

My soul can rest a bit. There is nothing that must be decided today that cannot wait for tomorrow.

And you, trying to sneak out the back…. be patient with me. I will come around back to reality.


Taking You to Galiano


July 05, 2005


I have been avoiding this place. Words seem contrived. Sentiment stretched.

The waves are still in me. It’s an evening ocean right after sunset, glass. What brings this on? You tell me. Is it the soothing touch of someone who makes me feel safe? Or is it that I have backed off, retracted into a more secret place within myself.

My book tick tocks. I find myself pretending, yet feeling the memories that sneak through. All writers write what they know. I have felt that disappointment. I have tasted those tears.

I have felt that thrill.

Lately I have had reminders of Tennessee. The sudden surprise of the rain, swift and violent on the roof of the porch, petering out to that smooth blue sky. How the tobacco barns are like mouths open to the field, hungry for the leather brown of fall. I remember the moon most of all. How come it seemed ten times as big from that Tennessee sky than at home? Yes, and I remember him.

More than him. I remember what it felt like to be loved.

This weekend I had some sort of talk. Opened myself to possibility. Made the choice to be less protective. But when it comes down to it, there is only so much I can open the door for anyone. Someone needs to take the initiative. Quit being so polite. We all should quit being so fucking polite.

I don’t miss love. I miss love. I think love is purchased at Wal-Mart. I think love is plastic and transparent. I think love is hard. I think love is cruel. It think love is nothing that we have a word for. Real love. It is “ “. The word with no letters. It is nothing that I can place my finger on. What I felt in Tennessee was not love. It was something that sung out in the dark like the katydids. Far more beautiful than the simple biological make up of the insect. It’s better to imagine it beautiful. Than the reality that you would not want it in your bed. In your window. In your garden. In your heart.

Quit trying to tell me what I should name this ache. It is more complex than rhetoric.

I have been seeing this nice boy. Who is afraid of emotion. It’s like a pack of rabid dogs some woman has sent out after him into the yard. I keep saying, relax. Not me. And I mean it. But I worry that when the time comes I will have gotten so used to reassuring men that it’s ok… Not me, that I will even deny my own sentiment. My “ “.

All I know. Is. That. It. Is. Not. In. Me.

(It’s ok you. No worries.)


July 02, 2005

Other Stories, Other Windows............

Your pleasure knows no limits
Your voice is like a meadowlark
But your heart is like an ocean
Mysterious and dark.

~Bob Dylan