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.
Real.
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…..
G.
July 29, 2005
July 27, 2005
Confession
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.
One.
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.
G.
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.
One.
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.
G.
July 25, 2005
Confession
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?
G.
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?
G.
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...
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...
July 24, 2005
Confession
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.
G.
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.
G.
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.
And,
Adoration is often what I speak
when really denying the truth
my heart knows.
`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.
And,
Adoration is often what I speak
when really denying the truth
my heart knows.
July 15, 2005
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