Friday, November 28, 2014

Techniques of the artist, prone.... or vertical; dictionaries in code



Days go by where I feel that I am OK. More than OK. Feel good again. And happy....

.And then.... I don't know what it is, but something is suddenly different. Something has altered --as if-- the lighting has changed subtly that it shifts my mood and perspective. It drifts across, wafting like an intangible, though tactile sense that traps me and clamps around my deepest self.

It is not that I fall back. Or that I even knowingly go back. Because, deliberately.... I boxed it all up. Literally and figuratively.

But.... something about him somehow enters my thoughts. And it isn't intentional, it is only some echo that feels to be calling me back. An echo that is returning from infinity from that wormhole. And it is like being pulled down into quicksand. It clings and sucks at me. It fucks with me. Sucked within seaweed, his voice and words that wrap around my head in a sleeping consciousness

almost like a scent.

Released from a box

that was meant to be forever sealed away.... and erased.

I was not OK before I knew him. I think I am more OK now than maybe I ever have been. I couldn't see the forest of my mind. Buried under the morass of interloping and heavy sea-logged weed. I was like drift wood or dead wood, sinking fast, swallowing and choking under the waves I had forgot to care or notice were crashing over me and pulling me down. I didn't even want to care anymore.... like that song by Nada Surf, that goes,

.You woke me from a long sleep/and I'm almost back/closer than ever to finding the hidden track/if I told you the truth/ You wouldn't like what I said/I almost believed I was dead....

I listen to that album on repeat for hours. How appropriate that it is called Let Go. It is my soundtrack. I don't move sitting on the wooden floor staring outside the window into darkness as I close this chapter of my life.

I am torn between guilt for leaving the shipwreck of my marriage.... like I am abandoning .... and feeling raw from how it was Bran who woke me up to see that my marriage was destroying me.... and then lured me to love him.

But I never wanted to hang on to some raft that would take me to shore. I always liked best those moments of inner calm when I was alone and just finding my own way. Like those times I have gone walking through woods, deep in solitude and stumbled over the inner, sacred grove.

And I was there until today. When he came to me. Like somehow he was physically with me and in the room ….and it hurt like a fresh open wound; I could feel the swell of my emotions rip me open from the inside. A jab leaping out from within like that creature in Alien. The Hole.

Encoded in dictionary form.

The apartment I am moving to is small. But the location is in the middle of a quaint, busy little village with independent shops and cafes. It is right by Jamie's school and next door to the library.

I stand here in between dimensions. Step out of one. In neither. I look in at either side and wonder if I should jump inside any or none or just stay here detached. In between. You know, I almost think I would be better off just staying here. Neither here nor there. Because I don't think I want to feel again. I would rather exist with only …. this sense or state of cerebral objectivity. This logical and very safe place of pragmatism, this place of disassociation. Not everyone is capable of becoming toughened with a thicker skin....

and for those of us.... maybe then the only adaptation to survive that exists requires ingenuity. To metamorphose into a new species or genus …. or something beyond organic.

But I have to get out of here. The capsized ship I have been tied to suffocates; an anchor that has been sinking me down. And now I have to throw everything overboard. Flotsam and jetsam. I want no more memories.

Like running from a house on fire.... and my hands cannot tie my boots up quick enough. But I don't know where I am going. I just need to leave this apartment with walls that have begun to echo like ghosts wails as I empty cupboards and closets and drag furniture to the dumpster. So at first I walk. But then turn back. I get into my car and drive. And then I find I have gone the way down Zack's road. And knowing before I get to where his studio is that.... this feels like a familiar old pattern of mine.

I shouldn't be doing this. Why am I here? I shouldn't be here.

So I just sit here hidden by hedges between his house and the one next to his. Only because it is somewhere to be. This is somewhere.... That isn't connected to what I am running from. Just an escape. A place, maybe, just to dive from.

It is now pitch dark. And creepy. But I need to be somewhere there are no ghosts where I can think. I think about Dean and that he is coming out of rehab soon. The sympathy I feel for him is far greater than the ability to forgive the fact that I could not go on trying to be his pillar. There is something missing in my intelligence to permit me ….anything. For me. Especially when I see how attempting to try this only causes me to appear cruel.

And I think of how giving into need, anyway, lead me to crash and burn over Bran. And just surviving.... does not fill the hours enough. Not when you are an artist with a soul that gets its inspiration from the pounding thrill of the highs of passion both poetic and physical.

I jump when I hear a loud tapping on the driver's side window next to me. It scares the shit out of me and I am nearly deaf by the pounding of my heart in my ears. It takes awhile to realize it is Zack leaning down to look inside the car at me through the window. When he sees I understand it's him, he grins at me that shit eating grin of his, the kind that causes grooves of his dimples to appear. He motions me to take down the window. I turn the ignition and press the window button down.

What are you doing?” he asks me, almost laughing at me. Blue eyes penetrating me with the same intensity as he uses his gender.

I look away.
I don't know. I had to get out of there. I was just driving around.” I look at him again.

He nods with a kind of satisfied triumph as he looks back at me,
mmm-hmmm.... so you came here.... is that right?”

I was....” but what was I ….?

Uh-huh,” he says and he is now, obviously, smirking at me, not even trying to hide it. “So why don't you come in then? Or were you just planning to sit in there all night freezing your ass off?”

I didn't really think about it. I guess I was just-- needing to run away.”

He reaches his hand inside and unlocks my door, pulling up the button. And then he opens the door from the inside with a kind of personal familiarity, as if he is digging his fingers into my sex.
Come on,” he says,“let's go inside,” and he reaches across me to open the seat belt and pulls me, taking grip of my hand.

When we get inside he draws me into his kitchen and pours steaming hot water into a cup. He brews me tea and then pulls me to stand by the heat of the woodburning stove, and wraps his arms around me.

You're freezing,” he tells me pulling me to lean up against him. And I wonder why it is that he is so warm in only a sweater and blue jeans and I am wearing a coat that he is now pulling tightly around me. He says into my ear, “did you come back for more, baby?” but he laughs when he says this, “how 'bout some body heat? Hmm?”

Is it the excuse to not have to examine thoughts? Because words often.... trip you up. They can be full of bullshit. All talk. No action. All talk and empty promises. Just such a lot of talk. Talk that goes no where.

You're shaking,” he says against my ear, “tell me what's wrong.”

Nothing.”

We both know that's not true.... let's go up stairs, come on,” he takes the cup of tea from me in one hand and with his other, he takes mine and leads me up the stairs to his room that smells like cedar. “Here, have some tequila. It'll warm you up fast.” There is a bottle on his bureau and a glass. He fills it and hands it to me, holding it to my lips> He says in a deep whisper, “you have to drink it all down at once, OK—ready?”

In a few minutes the cold has gone away and the magic of tequila removes much else of concern which had been troubling my mind.

By now I have become well-acquainted with his bed. And in my state, there is no censorship to impede me from making myself familiar with the warmth of it. I reach for the tea he has put on his little table that is next to his bed and drink half of it. This is not the first time he has made me tea. I think he has mastered this art because I believe I prefer his to the way that I make it. I fall back onto his pillow and feel the room swim. There is now music playing. He shuts off the lamps and lights candles.

You've been packing,” he says as he lifts my hand. My arm feels like a heavy weight of iron.

How do you know?” I ask looking up at the ceiling where he has mapped the constellations in phosphorescent paint. And it occurs to me that I can feel the motion of the earth.

Because your fingers are all cut up. I told you if you need a hand I would help you,” he says but he nudges me over and puts his arm around me, pulling me close next to him. “So what is it, what's on your mind?”

He is playing some weird music. But I like it. I don't know what it is.

I have to tell you Zack....” I begin.

Yeah....?”

But I have forgotten what I had begun to say. Maybe it was important. But I don't know. Part of it is still there, but only vaguely. It is cottony and cloudy but I know I am close.... “the thing about being close to anyone is-- maybe it is an unnatural state, you know?”

He makes a sound, not exactly a laugh, but not quite a scoff as he examines my fingers and then says,
but how can it be unnatural if two bodies can give each other so much pleasure, huh? Tell me that, Beth.”

But that's not what I mean. I mean.... you know.... Mars and Venus, there is no way even if the survival of a species is.... ensured because-- you know-- look at how we've overpopulated this planet, right? Because—”

People like to fuck,” he finishes my sentence.

But I'm pretty sure that was not what I was going to say. I mean-- don't think it was. Maybe vaguely. There was a deeper point I was reaching for. I realize I have lost the thread of it. I say,
I think that tequila shot got to me because now I can't make sense of what I am trying to say.”

That only means you need more,” he says and sits up and reaches toward the table. I hear liquid slosh into the glass. “Sit up,” he laughs because I only get half way up.

I'm driving.”

Not right now you aren't,” he assures me and pulls me up, pressing the glass to me. “That's it....easy there.... here, I'll share it with you.... You know I was going to ask you something but maybe now isn't the right time 'cause you're not going to remember any of this.” He is laughing at me.

The way he laughs makes me laugh too. What is it about laughing that makes everything else feel better? The candle light gleams gold in his hair. And then I remember,
I don't want to feel anything ever again, OK?”

He stares into me with a blue that is as warm as the Mediterranean. The kind that gives you gills and makes you a mermaid.

Mmmm,” he says thoughtfully pealing away my coat and wool sweater. “I'm not going to try and change your mind and I'm not saying you have to but.... some things aren't so bad to feel, you know? So why don't we just start with that for now?”



Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Electra's dictionary; Friends with benefits


I have come to see that I love men. Especially in the plural. And maybe the older I get the more non-conservative I feel.... and I have always been a radical anyway.

Or maybe it is facing death.

I get a call back from the doctor's office that one of my tests has come back. Something doesn't look right.

Like anyone, when you get a medical test done, you think: is this my time to die? Am I ready to?

I have to have more tests. But I have separated myself from thinking of life in the temporary sense. I think, in the end, I do want to be alone. To let go. I think I would prefer to face mortality alone rather than watch fear and weakness in someone else's eyes looking at me. So I decide to keep this to myself. Not that there is anyone to tell. And what would be the point? Am I looking for sympathy? No way. That is the last thing that I would ever crave.

I've never made heroes of zealots, I am not actually overly proud of the fact that I could never sell out my own principles. I just simply couldn't. It is either stubbornness or …. something else. Maybe cowardice. Because I couldn't face my self in the mirror if I did. Which is why I find I have lived a life more like a dharma bum than a Virginia Woolf. But my mission has never been about prestige. And I only become more clear over what my mission is as I travel it. I guess my search for Truth is more than personal. And I see as I go more along on that altruistic pilgrimage that what I choose to pursue is driven from some need in search of a Truth that I need to investigate ….in hopes to find answers or peace that is not about just me. These things that I write about. So I take you with me. And if you stumble over this by some random chance, you, my friend.... I take with me, even if it is only left dormant in your subconscious mind. Because you will have heard my voice. If only in a whisper. A whisper in the dark.

It could be because I have walked the tightrope of death before. It was long ago. And something I never talk about. The reason I don't talk about it is because I don't think most people are ready or capable of understanding what it is I would tell them.

So in my mind I prepare now. I am ready. And it is only because I have severed any dependence anyone may have on me. But when I think of Jamie.... I know that my human weakness will sooner or later become a source of bitterness to her towards me. And one day, if I am lucky.... she will forgive me.


The more time goes by, the more it feels as if Bran was just a dream. It begins to feel less and less real. Our time together. Our long talks. Even his voice over the phone. His voice. It is fading from my memory. Like his kiss and the passion we shared. It had always felt --anyway-- too good to be true.

As a writer I do get caught up in other worlds within.

And my actual dreams.... lately..... have felt so real. Like the one I had last night. Which was one of those apocalyptic ones I have been having for years.... it had felt so real.

.... I think maybe he was just a dream.

It was all just a beautiful dream.

So I am ready to come to and let it go.

And I am waking up.

The next time that I see Zack I see him differently. Is it because he is so real? But he is an artist and artists.... aren't they always dreamers?

This time when I see him..... I really look. I look at him. He walks, carrying recyclables from his studio to the curb. He wears faded blue jeans and flannel and the dim light from the sky somehow catches in his wavy brown hair. His hair that is rich, like the color of a deeply stained wood with golden lights. It falls in waves to almost his shoulders which are broad and yet lean. He is all angles. His face, his jaw, his body's silhouette. He has spent so much time in the sun that his skin seems permanently golden so the blue of his eyes are like a relief of color by contrast. I should have given him credit for being so beautiful. But I wasn't looking for it before.

You know, by now, I know my Achilles heel. Because if I start to really appreciate him..... well, it's always when I crash and burn. So instead, I quickly turn away and head straight for the studio, ignoring the quick smile he flashes at me as I get out of my car and head to his front door.

He says to me, as I get to the door,
that muffler's getting' pretty bad.”

Yeah, I know,” I say and open the door to get in from the cold. I walk through his show case room and into the studio. I hang up my coat and put down my things.

I start to prepare. I go sit on the chaise lounge and take off my boots. I feel him come over to me. I don't look up. I just unlace my boots and pull them off methodically.

I can smell the scent of him. He smells like cedar. It reminds me of his hair that reminds me of wood. His hair which is soft as silk.

His shadow falls over me. He is blocking the light. He takes his hand and puts it under my chin. And gently he lifts up my face. But I don't want to look. So I don't.

But then he kneels down to me.

So now I have to look. And he is looking up at me. He says,
let's say instead of working today we go upstairs?” he smiles flirtatiously, confident of his own masculinity. He has a sexy smile. The dimples that make me confused enough to fall inside his eyes.

His voice is deep and so very warm. The kind that fucks with my head. It is crisp, like branches snapping on a trail under your feet. And so I fall into his eyes that are like wormholes that pull you in and under. A kind of blue like the Mediterranean. Just a drop of green that makes them warm.

I don't know,” I tell him. Because I have been packing and packing up memories. It is like shoving a marriage into a garbage disposal. I am still feeling kind of raw. Like the kind that is so cold. The kind that makes you think you have become overly world weary and cynical. I feel like someone who has lost their way and walking shell shocked through a minefield, a battlefield. Empty and detached.

He reaches his hand to touch my hair. He puts his fingers into it. He pulls the heaviness of it back to look at my face. And with his other hand he touches my lips with his fingers. And then lifts me from the chaise lounge.

I belong to me. I am mine.

If you have ever had your life threatened.... if you have ever faced death..... you know that in the end it is …. just you. It is only you. In the end. There is no one else.

And if you have truly faced death so closely you know.... You know. Those things that really matter.

How all the rest is bullshit. My “dreams” were never about purposes of self-fulfillment. My dreams stretched outside of the inner world of self. And only because I lost that self ages ago. You see, the only purpose I had was for a meaning I could commit myself to in order to just hold on to life. Because I believe that life is most truly a gift. A chance. This chance to reach consciousness to a higher understanding of …. a purpose of why.

I'm not afraid to be alone.

I'm better on my own.

The bedroom upstairs in earthy and full of textures. There are rugs and only natural fibers. Just wood furniture that is unpainted and browns and sandy colors. His bed has a rust colored Native American blanket and all the colors around mirror this. He puts me down there and lowers himself on top of me. He takes my hands, lacing his fingers through mine and holds me down as he sinks himself close to me.

He breaths words into my ear. And kisses my neck. He presses his sex against me between our clothes and then kisses my mouth.

He says,

I know what you need, baby, and you don't have to ask me for it.”

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Electra's Dictionary; Burying Agamemnon



As I sit in my therapist's office, I find myself wondering where Electra has gone. It is the reflection of self, you see. The way that I call my diary 'Electra's dictionary'.... it encapsulates a million fragments of cells of self. Celves. In regards to 'self' this personification of a Greek heroine is the mirror I use because.... at the center I know I first became lost when I did not know what to call myself. Electra.... or What?

Beth who is What. What? Bastard, or unwanted, discarded child was my very first role. I used to think I should have been aborted. I'm sure this would be appalling to those people who advocate against this sad procedure. But I remember the first time I ever heard of this as a kid and I thought: it would have been better that way than to live unwanted. And so I journeyed through life in search of some place to belong. I guess it was a blind, unspoken yearning to belong to someone.

And here I find I am actually past all that now. So am I still Electra? The heroine who mourned for father....? As I sit there talking and responding to Margery, I hear myself say things that are true but that I cannot imagine that me ever saying …. only six months ago. What has happened? I have outgrown the need for father. And it is because I realize now that this void I tried to fill was always what was holding me back. I have always been stronger than I ever gave myself credit for. I never needed any father. What I longed for, really, was complete acceptance of me. But I can do that for myself, can't I? I don't need anybody to do that for me. I see now that I always changed to be accepted because I wanted to be loved so bad. That was the mistake. Only it was a child's mistake that kept me blind all these years and it came from the harm that occurs from being not wanted. There was no way to see this until I finally stumbled and fell so many times and only now can I shed this old crutch. I never needed anybody and every time I thought I did was when I faltered.

So I think of Bran and …. yes, I still miss him. My heart has not let go of him. The father figure, even as he is the same age as me, it was the brand of his affection that pulled me under his spell. His compassion and feeling and the way that he instinctively gave protection through his method of love. And this was the most dangerous to me. I couldn't help but be mesmerized by this, but it was deadly to my Self.

Suddenly, Margery says,
What really happened with Bran? You never said....”

I do not know how this woman can read my mind. Even as I told her about my new lover, she watches me now as I tell her about our hike on a snowy, frosty trail. And then she says this! She knows when I think of Bran. My mouth says Zack, but my heart still says Bran.

I look away because I knew this would have to come up. Since I have been back from Amsterdam, I have skirted this issue. Even to myself. But to lie to yourself is stupid, isn't it? Especially at this stage of my life.

I got scared,” I finally say out loud.

I haven't even written this. I've been running from this.

She smiles at me and raises one eye brow and waits.

So I nod. I search for where to begin and plunge right in.
I do what I do and have always done when somebody gets too close. I sabotage things....”

And I knew when I did it. It was a moment where I took flight. His telling me that he had to return to Wales, to his life, his family because Clair was ill-- it was like being …. left to the wolves. And the feeling of panic made me so angry. Because I trusted him. And he was turning me away. It was irrational, I know. But it set off some explosion in my mind, like a mental trigger. I had to protect myself before I let him reject me.

Finally, I say,
I started a fight and I told him he was using this as an excuse. And I believed it! At the time. In that moment, I did really believe it. And I needed to lash out at him. I know I was wrong, but it was a knee jerk reaction. And I told him I never wanted to see him again. And I said a lot of other things that I.... regret.”

No, I have not written about this. I don't know why it's been so hard for me to confront. I know he was doing what he had to do and I reacted childishly. It was like some demon leaped out of me and words just came out of my mouth. And I was that stupid girl that I was each time my father rejected me and I kept going back, always expecting a different outcome. I was angry at myself for being back in that place again after years of avoiding a true attachment to someone because I can't trust closeness. It always ends up …. dumping me on the side of the road. Left for dead, like some little squashed thing; road kill.

Maybe I am safer without closeness. I don't know. I do not know how to let someone in without it compromising the place I built within. Not that I mean to be a coward, but-- I cannot seem to get this right without fucking up. I fear dependency even as I long for it only because I never really had it but I know it is dangerous for me. Why? Because it should have been something I long left behind but instead I learned to be defensive and always awake, staying watch for the first threat of danger. And then I destroy any possibility of …. ever being forgiven. It has always been my way. And it also perpetuates the self-fulfilling prophesy: I do not deserve love, I do not deserve anything good, I do not deserve shelter, just devastation.

As I explain this my therapist nods. She says,
I thought so. But don't be so hard on yourself.... but maybe you should tell him this.”



Friday, November 7, 2014

Electra's dictionary; struggles in the darkness

Sruggles with darkness.....

There is something pleasurable
in self humiliation
a kind of power through an honesty
there is release in this total
. total submission

an honesty
.. not otherwise recognized
or admitted

I guess it is the willingness
to bare
your soul
.
to judgment....
under gestapo lights
and to be willing to die for an essential …..
meaning
of who you are.....

because pretending to be a someone who is a fraud
is worse than any death or
any other human pain.... to at least in the end have self …. left

is worth the sacrifice of …..

Time

on this planet

worth the sacrifice.

so..... I surrender

And willling to destroy
this
blasphemous misinterpretation of meaning
And


gladly

and take it with me to the fires of hell because.....

truth sees around hiding places and corners
tuth is the reckoning; inescapable and void of all human compromise

and all these excuses we make.....

are only the crutches
and masks 

we cowardly hide behind
as we decide to

not own up to

and run away

only delaying the progress which could be

otherwise achieved

but only if …..you …. are willing

willing to …. believe

in the truth of your own
.. inner voice.

Even in the face of ridicule and unpopularity because you know.....


this waste of time is the worst sort of blasphemy. 

Sunday, November 2, 2014

the Artist's fuck toy



I wish that I could go back, as if I could.... and scroll back.... as if in rewind. And delete the parts.... the parts where I let.... where I let....

I wish that I could take back that moment. That moment where I let him in. that was the moment. The moment that I faltered. Where I betrayed myself.

Of course I blame myself. How can it be otherwise? I was so stupid. So stupid. It was all obviously doomed from the start. It was all delusional. A fantasy. Something I had no logical reason to believe in and why did I? Impossible.... The self fulfilling prophesy.... I asked for it. I asked to be …. to be.... what is this? What has happened here? To me....

where was that moment where I stepped into that realm? That very vague place of blind faith.... I do not know. Why did I close my eyes and trust what my logic told me not to? Why did I believe that voice.... that voice....

I have only myself to blame. I allowed myself to be deceived. Was it because I wanted to be deceived? No, I don't think so. I think it was just.... it was just.... this hope to be truly healed.

And it was so naive.

I understand the ways of the world. I do. I know that logic and pragmatism run life. Where do I fit in to all of this? The level of agony that I have seen is not the kind that can be documented on a chip. This agony goes.... it goes soul deep. Unrecognizable by the naked eye. But does that make it invalid?

You say this is fantasy. But I know that is a lie. It is easy to discount things by diminishing everything as trivial as in some kind of of logical, lowest common demonstrator. But “real life” isn't that way. Real life deals with where you expose your soul. It is not based in terms of how this material world runs. Not where real Truth is exposed in the eleventh hour.

I do understand the practicalities of life. And if I am perceived as cruel to some I guess it is only because the level that I tread within is so deeply entrenched in some profound need in search for some ultimate truth. There is no time to bull shit. You see. There is no time. Life is so fleeting. Time passes. We hurt, we feel, and things run through our fingers like water or sand in an hour glass. It just goes so fast. Too fast.

And you know, the jabs.... they go so deep.

If I could just stop time and then go back and take back where I was so foolish to trust.... to trust this blind faith. This blind faith that deceived me. If I could.... what would I gain?

What have I gained in this knowledge of real life? That I have walked that boulevard.... where the broken dreams are like a graveyard? Or thought so. Like groping blindly. I had to trust that I understood.... from some place within my own humanity.... this terrible tragedy of loss and life --and what is the meaning of love.

How can I blame Bran for choosing his meaning of family? Or version of loyalty? It excludes me. I become diminished in importance in contrast to his weight of life's responsibility. I fall; fail; lacking in importance.

I want to go back to that moment.... that moment where I gave him

. where I gave him trust.

I want to take it back.

I want to withdraw what I was ill advised to believe in within my soul.

I was wrong. I was willing to trust in a blind faith that …. would let me down. The cost was.... it was.... that proverbial straw. I thought I had enough to bargain with. But I was so wrong. I gambled on.... what?

If I could go back and pick up that metaphorical string that I gave up into the hands of Bran.... if I could just go back and pick it up.... say to myself: no, do not, do not give it away, do not give it up....

keep it for yourself....

but I can't. It's too late. I gave it up. He took it. And then he dropped it. And now what am I left with?

I know what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but these muscles I have acquired are now even more impressive than Hercules'.

Only it doesn't fill in the void. The wound. Why did I trust him? Why did I let him in? Why did I have let myself

love.... ?

Yet I know that if I had not, I would be asking myself now why I hadn't given this the chance.

We are balanced on this precarious edge.

I somehow faltered. Holding my breath in a tight rope calm. I misjudged the distance down.

Is it some death-wish?

no....

it was far more optimistic. Perhaps even naive. I was an idiot. A fool. To believe.

So to come away from this now.... I wander and am so very lost. The brainstorm is doing havoc with my reason. I am total chaos. I seem to no longer care and let go knowing that.... knowing that.... I did my best. And was deceived. And I also think that perhaps I am perhaps even more brave than.... more brave than.... braver than whom I once worshiped. I am the gladiator and …. he has walked from the true challenge under the guise of honor. Under the guise of reason. Of logic. But in the end coward, I see.

I see that I am of some more worthy element.

The next time I saw Zack I saw him in a new light. It wasn't the kind of some deep, intrinsic imperative …. no. it was much more simple. Even as I am aware that he is deep and full of emotion and humanity, I see that I am so world weary now. I feel ready to cave.

We went to the cafe and I drank too much. I knew that I did this on purpose. I admit that now I have become weak. I am human. I let him take me back to his studio. I let him fuck me. And I found something necessary in the passion he gave to me of himself. I could not cum. But I felt something when he did. Some vicarious thrill. The energy of which he drove himself into me caused me to squirt involuntarily. And, despite myself.... I orgasmed. My body betrayed me and gave anyway. And I let him take it. Even as I kept my self intact.


But I kept the chastity belt tight around my deepest self. 

Friday, October 31, 2014

Wawr pwy yw beth; pam yr wyf yn galw fy hun Beth; Why I call myself Beth



Some thoughts on this eve of Samhain.....
Before there was Electra there was What. What. In Welsh, or Cymraeg, Beth translates to 'what'.

You may wonder why it is that I identify with the Welsh. Maybe because I understand what it feels like to be of a lost tribe. To hold to a language that best expresses all of whom or what I am. Beth who is what. Because I don't know who I am. I don't know what I am. But at least I know that I am.

At first, I think as I groped through the dark in search of self; in search of identity …. well I had to start somewhere. And without any reliable facts to depend on I had to reach within. I had to know that inner self better than I know anything else. So while I say that I call myself what.... as is what? That inner me I know honestly and fully. And so it began with the dictionary. It began there as a place to begin. Some footing, however obscure and elusive.

I have had some strange occurrences happen in my life. I don't think I would have made it without this inner council. Like Tolkien wrote, “not all who wander are lost....” and while I have sometimes said I am lost, I believe it is more in the same vein as how Socrates claimed that he knows nothing. Maps and legends, like that R.E.M song. “maybe he's caught in the legend.... maybe these maps and legends have been misunderstood....”

I search but I am aware that I am on the path. These things that seem to have deviated me have only shown me something that I have always known. It is not cynicism or bitterness that I know with all of who I am that I am better on my own. Because I don't really believe I am on my own. I feel a power within, and maybe this goes back to my tribal connection to a people I identify with. It could be an age old journey that I rely on because all things that I have experienced through my life with people has been shown to me that many and most tend to be false and undependable. That it is only myself that I can truly rely on. And often people say that I alienate them, that I am selfish, that my shyness is some kind of sign of neurotic and ill mental health, only, how can this really be the case when through time it has proven to me again and again that my happiness with introversion is my most reliable strength?

I didn't choose to be this way. But I did choose to get up each time I was knocked down. I chose to turn the thickened scars into trophies of triumph. I would never consider myself a victim, because I'm not. A victim gives up. I never have. Because I learned early that pain gets old. And it is so boring to continue as someone's whipping boy. So I decided that I don't have to feel pain or fear pain, I can decide to see it as my challenge and I am its gladiator.

Before there was Electra, before there was Agamemnon, before there was Demeter and Persephone and Oedipus and Jocasta..... there was beth. Beth who is what. It is an ageless riddle, you see. And I know this because I have seen things.

As Samhain approaches tonight, I feel the doors between the worlds opening. I don't claim to be Pagan, I only feel some connection to a kind of knowing that has always guided me well. It is not any kind of formal religion, it has nothing to do with something I've read. I have just seen a lot in my life. I have stood on the jagged edge of a knife and stayed balanced in a tightrope calm with a stronghold grip.... and have come out of the impossible. That song by Green Day haunts me lately, I Walk Alone.... but not with a heavy sadness but with a victorious wail of a torch song.


Virgin, Mother and Crone, it is a circle, isn't it? We are all on this fragile journey together and now I see that I have been successful and that I am because I amended when I had to, I intercepted when it was necessary, I never turned my back on someone in need ….and I heard because I listened to the voice of inner truth. Success isn't measured by the material gains and I have always known this because I saw how ugly the material made those around me. I also know that I cannot live my daughter's life for her, but I think I have provided her with the necessary tools to be strong and to be in sound mind and to make good decisions and this only could have been accomplished because I guided her from the purity of my love and in my devotion for her. I fought to bring her into this world and I know this world is better for delivering her to it. My purpose has not, therefore, gone unfulfilled.  

Sunday, October 26, 2014

The Wormhole; Electra's dictionary

The Wormhole

As I re-engage back into life.... and here I have to stop and think with some irony-- still life?.... I decide to come off all of my anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medications. The decision to do this is instinctive. I don't know why, but it is a personal experiment. I think that the real anxiety has been other people. It has been Dean with his unbalancing affect on me, his erratic moods that have constantly set me in a state of instability. You see, I see now that I have always been better on my own. I don't need anybody and never have. I am me, I am mine, I define, I belong to me, and I am fine. This decision is personal and I choose not to discuss this with my doctor. I want to see if I am right. I think I trust myself better than anyone, it is when I have depended on others that I have always been mislead.

It has been unusually warm in Detroit the last few days. Yesterday it was so beautiful with the trees and the leaves and Autumn in full bloom. It was unscheduled, but I got a call from Zack-- he asks me to call him Zack.... he asks me to meet him for an extra sitting. He says, “on location for a personal piece.”

Right now there are stacks of boxes in the apartment. On one side of the interior I have organized all of Dean's belongings. I have his boxes stacked neatly. I am being methodical in exacting what is mine and his. I give him most things because I think I want to have only things that are not attached to my life with him. I give him the every day dishes we have used, I give him the silverware. I keep only the things that I came into this life with him with. It is like how I have removed all my jewelry. I removed my wedding ring, the chains around my neck, I wear no earrings since the last tests I had to do at the medical facility. The bareness is part of the shedding. Like the medications I have chosen to stop using. The need to reach the core of me. To be unafraid of being naked. To be just me. Only me. Bare and essential.

My passions are often best expressed through my writing as it allows me to reach my inner vortex.... thus long suppressed. Yet now it leaves me scratching my head, lost and fallen down a rabbit hole, knowing there was a wormhole that was awakened from its long dormant state and was finally revealed. And devoured. Yet I tread carefully because I was afraid. I should have been more cautious. You know in my life, I don't remember ever being openly challenged by anyone. Before. No one ever really saw me. Or bothered to.

I see it was better to remain in shadow. I don't think the real me is meant to be exposed. Which is why I keep my words mixed up with tools of literary metaphors. My codes. My shields. My best friends. I think my message may or may not be understood. It could be by chance the way I fell upon Bronte's words at just the right moment. Sometimes the most powerful influences that change the world are so subtle that they are almost invisible. I work my best undercover. I like my anonymity. It is my true power. Why? Because it has no motive. I think people mistrust a powerful force, they believe this force is trying to control them. They believe even the most benign of positive energies have ulterior motives. I have no motives. I think sometimes I am only on this mission as some kind of duty of humanity that I feel intrinsically within. I want no satisfaction from this. I try only to touch people and leave them better, but they seem to always …. suck me dry in the end.

So as I am aware that Zack may have an interest in me more than for the muse that I provide for his work, I have no choice but to stay closed. Because it is not even a choice. It is not even a decision to protect myself. It is that I have come away from life at this point more wise. Or world weary? Well, at this point, shouldn't that be?

I arrive at Zack's studio on this crisp beautiful day. It is sixty degrees outside in late October! So unheard of in Detroit. I don't know what his personal project involves, but when I go inside to his shop I hear him call from upstairs,

I'll be right down, we're going for a drive....”

In the past, I would be curious. Right now I am like stone. Yet light enough to blow with the wind. But the air is still today.

I walk around his shop. I look at his paintings. The ones leaning up on walls, I flip through, because I have caught glimpses by now of all the others. I am impressed with his depth of color and tone, studies of layered hues and depth, his awareness of light. I am drawn to the sensitivity of his eye. I feel strangely touched by his work. It reaches some place inside me. That place that has been recently harmed. It is like some kind of soothing balm to look at his art. And I go from one stack to another, pulled and drawn. Drawn.

It is awhile before I see he is standing in the doorway watching me. I wonder how long he has been standing there. Only, had it been anyone else, I'd have jumped. Because Dean was always doing that. He was always spying on me. Looming like a skulking presence.

I notice that when Zack watches me it is with the observation of an artist. He is waiting to see something candid revealed. Not to plunder though. He only wants to capture it and internalize it before he gives it back. He gives it back. He does not seem to take.

But they always start out that way, don't they? In the end, everyone takes.

He is standing there in shadow watching me. He wears his jeans and worn out boots. He wears a denim button down shirt left open over a burgundy henley. He has broad shoulders but he is boney so his clothes fall in drapes that becomes his frame. He is tall and I can tell by the ease that he walks that he is well muscled. I don't know his age. He has one of those ageless appearances. Like those people who have found peace within themselves and move through life with accepting grace.

Yes, I am aware that he is good looking. But, you see, I am so raw. I can only note this with detachment. I don't really care. If I wasn't so fresh from a gun-shot state, I know I would have liked him. But artists have always been my weakness. Their illusions wrap me up.

Why don't you pick one?” he asks me.
I don't at first get his meaning. But his head gestures towards the stack I am looking through.

He says,
you said you're moving. I'll give you one as a house warming gift. Pick one.”

I smile and move away from the stack I had been flipping through. I turn my back to him,
I.... couldn't. I know what you sell these for....”

He walks up behind me and takes out the last one I had been studying. The one I had been studying the longest. The colors are deep, ranging in alizerin crimson and yellow ochre. The textures are so warm. He pulls this one out and sets it on the counter,
I'll wrap it up when we get back. It would have been the one I would have picked out for you.”

I start to walk to the door and feel myself burning with some kind of awkward embarrassment,
you don't have to.... I feel bad taking it--” and quickly I change conversation, “where are we going?”

Autumn,” he answers as if this is an answer. His hand reaches above me to get the door, he holds it open.

I love men who hold open doors.

I step outside. It is a crisp day. The sun is so warm and the air has the slightest chill. We walk out to where our cars are parked and he leads me to his pickup. He opens the passenger side first and holds it open for me to get in.

I don't even care where we are going. I think anywhere is better than standing still. Lately, all I want to do is keep moving. I hate standing still. A part of me wishes that I could run and never stop running. As if I could escape.... but what I seek to escape is inside. Deep inside. And it chases me.

As he drives he explains,
this woman I have befriended since I have been in Detroit.... she an odd old lady. I'll tell you some other time how we met, but-- she has this farm. It's right around here. She just grows vegetables and she has chickens which she only uses for eggs. Anyway, she's visiting her sister in the U.P. She asked me to watch her place. She has cats. So we're going over there right now so I can fill up their bowls with water and food. But there is another reason....”

The odd thing about the Detroit metro area is how fast you end up on a dirt road. How you can go from the grit of graffiti straight into deer country in a matter of minutes. As we drive I listen to him talk and I watch the beauty of foliage that is so amazing about his part of the U.S. Autumn in full bloom. So to speak.

This reminds me,
what do you mean Autumn?” I ask.

He looks blankly at me from the windshield, I see he is also caught in the colors. I watch how the light and shading outside leaves impressions on his wavy hair. I never noticed how shiny his hair is and how the light hits the waves. His hair is a warm brown, thick and alive, like his skin. He has that healthy look of someone who spends a lot of time outside.

When I asked where we're going you said 'Autumn'” I remind him.

He smiles widely as he makes a turn,
we're here...”

Off a main street, hidden behind some trees is a tiny house that sits on a nice plot of land. There are trees everywhere. The gravel we walk on makes me stumble, so I slow my pace behind him and watch him walk up to the house. I watch him walk. He walks like a hiker. And suddenly I remember that part of me. How much I miss my hikes through wood and country.

I watch him feed the cats and change their water and then he holds the kitchen, back door open for me and gestures.

Once outside he says,
when I saw the weather report I knew we had to do this. This may be the last chance we have before the cold starts to come in with the leaves this perfect. It's warm enough and no one is around here. It's completely deserted.”

The ground is carpeted with fallen leaves. We crunch as we walk. The sound of cars have dissappered. You can hear the chickens only. But even they are faint.

Are you cold?” he asks now.

I am familiar with this question. I sense his meaning. I realize he has been holding a digital Nikon camera all this time. He is looking at the shaded tree with long limbs and the very thick trunk. The amazing textures of the trunk.

I take a deep breath and say what I realize he means,
out here?”

He smiles,
do you mind? It's private property. And it's for me, I'm not going to use this for the contract. It's for my gallery pieces. I realized that I have to capture your colors. And the lighting is great today. This is probably the last day to do this.”

I don't know why it should make a difference. Out of context, out of doors.... I can't help it. I hesitate.

Or we don't have to....” he says. “We can just sit here and enjoy the day. I brought a bottle of wine in the truck.”

I think the reason I don't want to is because I know that I can like him.

And I don't want to.

But we are here now. I feel bad. If I say no, I will have disappointed him. But I don't want to. And now I feel a brick weight in my stomach. Is it guilt? Or fear?

I throw myself down on the ground to sit. I do this because my knees are shaking. And it is so nice here. It makes me think of it being a good place to write in my journal.

I'll be right back.”

I hear him walk away.

So why do I think of Bran now?

I feel my eyes fill with tears. Why does it still hurt? I thought we got past the pain. Didn't we? We covered it up. We cut it out. He means nothing to me. I think I even hate him now. I hate him for making me love him. I hate him and his memory. I hate myself for still longing for him. For longing for his voice, his thoughts. I hate how much my sex still craves him deep inside me. How much I still long for his penis. How the very thought of orgasming again would kill me. Because it is his sex that I want inside me.

I know that I will hear Zack return, so I let the tears come. I cry as I sit there longing for Bran. My inner vortex, the worm hole that he awoke from a long deathlike sleep. I long to be Ophelia now.

So when I hear the sound of gravel approach I guard up. Smear away the tears and put on my facial shield. I hear him sit down next to me but I don't look. Can't trust myself. I hide behind my hair. The sound of a cork being pulled and then popped, then the pouring of its contents. He hands me a ceramic mug. It looks handmade. It is celestial blue with silver stars. His is green and gold. We drink silently.

Are you OK?” he asks me.

I don't look at him. I just reach my empty cup for him to fill.

And he fills it.

I drink most of it.

He says,
do you want to tell me about him?”

I say,
no.”

I'm a good listener,” he says.

I shake my head.

He says,
I'm sure that where ever he is right now he can't escape memories of you because you are all colors of Autumn. You have the warmest brown eyes I've ever seen and your hair reminds me of a red maple. That's why I wanted to do a study out here.”

I think it is this that makes me change my mind. Or the second cup of wine. I finish all of it. I feel the heat from it. I get up and undress.

I am drunk under a warm, autumn sky with the bright sun over my head. I am numb. So numb. It may be the alcohol. But no, I think it is my heart. I don't care. I don't care about anything. And I like it that way. I don't ever want to care about anything ever again.

He puts dried leaves all over my body. He places them between my legs, at my sex. He stretches out my arms and turns me like I am a doll. His hand runs down my arm and leg and he says,
I love how pale your skin is. The contrast of such bold color against that whiteness....”

But I don't care. I am down that wormhole. Devoured.