Monday, January 19, 2015

New Place; Electra's dictionary





I think about getting rid of things as I move. I try on things. I don't see the point in putting things in my my closet or bringing things over that I won't ever use. It is redundant to just move it in if I will never use it or if I don't even want to look at it. Because I want everything to be fresh. I don't want reminders from anything past.

Everything from last summer is too big on me now. This astounds me. Because I don't remember losing weight. I never noticed. But that seems insane, how could I not have noticed this? And I know that it is taking forever to move in.... last night the furniture. It was such an emotional night. I feel exhausted. I want to curl into a ball and be a snail. I don't want to go anywhere.

I'm not confused. Maybe over-wrought. I don't know. Sometimes my mercurial moods irritate even me. I don't know why I am like this. There is one part of me that is over-sensitive. There is another part of me that decides to shut it all off and be neutral. And I know that the latter is just a defense. But I have no control over this when it takes over. It is my protective shell. I am submissive to this safety mechanism that has been my survival.

It was so awful last night. Packing the books. Shuttling up the stairs. The denouement of my relationship with Dean. You see, he offered to help me move. And the maintenance man from the old apartment. Hank, remember? Oh shit. What a mess. How do I bring this shit on? I don't think I do. I really don't. I don't seek this. And it isn't that I'm fucking drop dead beautiful. I'd never be that egotistical to think so. Vera said that it is my unconscious damsel in distress energy that I exude. I don't even know what she is talking about. How do I exude this? Fuck. Let me turn this off. I am so not conscious that I do this. I mean, I like to be alone. I love this day alone. I have seen no one all day. I don't even want to go out. I want to hibernate from the fucking world. I am using too much profanity. I must be angry about something. What is it?

So my therapist says that it's bad to repress things. I must be repressing anger. I don't like anger. It scares me. Maybe I thought, long ago, that I could just snuff it out. Because, you see, it was my mother who taught me to repress. She told me that if you make yourself believe something, you can make it true. I know now that she was seriously demented. So I was trained in emotions by a demented person. So no wonder I am fucked up. But no, I am not. My therapist tells me that I am actually normal! Normal? This is crazy. Crazy!

I really don't want to go out today. It's after four PM. I decided that since it was a holiday (Martin Luther King day) that toasting a glass of red wine was not only healthy (because it's red and good for the heart) but also appropriate. If I wanted to be honest with myself than I would say that I am being passive-aggressive with myself by making myself too tipsy to drive. Avoid going back to the apartment to get the rest of my shit. Avoid the hornet's nest of the maintenance guy and Dean. I mean, I explained it all to Dean. Explained because I need to be clear here over why I find the means to help me rely, often, on.... whatever may be available to me. But I would never compromise my ideas of truth. As in Truth. And I really fucking do intend to pay Hank for his help in moving my furniture. I'm just broke now and my car is falling apart. And what was it that got me out of my ticket with the policeman? Almost crying about being broke because the break lights are out and my exhaust is dragging on the ground and I just moved and I have to pick up my daughter.... I don't know, it is the truth, only. I'm not calculating the facts over what really is. This is just how the fuck it is. And this anger is only because I never wanted it to be this way. I never wanted to be an idiot who is trapped in an intellectual mind. Stupid and genius at the same time. Like why I get lost going in a straight line (am I now quoting Sting? Time for more wine....), distracted by the sights. And senses. In love with stimulus.

So I want to put up the barricades. I get a fucking message from Hank saying, “we need to talk” after last night with Dean ready to kill Hank because he is sure that Hank wants to get into my pants. Which I don't dispute. In fact, it troubles me and makes me nervous. I don't want complications. All I want is peace. So isn't it better if I hide? Barricade the door and let my phone battery die on purpose. I want to be alone. I don't want to come out. And this isn't cowardly, I think it is very tactical. I shouldn't go out. All history, all evidence shows that interaction is trouble.

So I won't. I tried on clothes and realized that everything I own is too big for me now. Even the bathing suit my daughter gave me that, with some adjusting, looks pretty good. Freaking over having to talk to the maintenance guy who resents that I text him instead of calling him back. Bullshit. But he says it's about a hope chest he wants to give me. He is giving me some furniture. But it's nice. It goes with my other stuff. And Tim is giving me a table and a chair.

Today is John's birthday too. So maybe I'm also toasting John. And sometimes I think that maybe I really do understand the meaning of it all. Why they never leave me. And the purpose of love. Because I have loved them all. All my exes. And I don't believe in bitterness. Once I love anyone I love them forever.

But I have only ever been in love once.



Sunday, January 11, 2015

Electra's dictionary; self possessed




I've let go of illusions. I want to change everything. I don't even want to see the same things that remind me of anything from my past. There is such a strong need to throw everything out.

I've spent four nights here. Is it three or four? I sleep now. The sudden realization when I wake up now and recognize my own thoughts. It feels as if I've awoken from a sort of coma. And it seems like I should feel bad about wasting so much time on the wrong path only I don't. I can't. Because I really don't think I would be here at this point if I hadn't ….wandered lost. Wondered lost. I gave up all of myself for all those years and I guess now I know what it means to be completely selfless. I really think I needed to put myself through a kind of penance for that sense of guilt I grew up with. The guilt of feeling like I didn't belong in that family. That I didn't deserve the things that were given to me.

You see, on this side.... past that other path and looking back from across a landscape that overlooks the years, the way you may see a shoreline on a slightly elevated vantage point.... it is like I am just sick of and bored of this penance now. It doesn't feel like me anymore. Not that that was really ever me. And it could be that part of this is that my mother and father have been dead for so long now, so as I depart from my old life, from the place where I once lived with my husband.... I can see why I stayed in limbo so long. At first it had been something else, with him.

I didn't realize it at the time, but I can see he was a distraction from myself. So it was intentional. I had met him just after their deaths, after my custody battle and all that loss. I needed something to fill the void I felt. Something that would make me not have to think of any of that. Maybe even not have to think at all. So the perpetual motion of life pulled me along and I drifted. Instead of being my daughter's full time mother, I became my husband's caregiver. It consumed all of me and all of my life. There was no time for anyone else. No time for me. And I see that at first that is what I wanted. So I can't blame this on anyone.

It was not a waste of time. I think I needed the extreme of having total self denial. I needed to purge my soul of this sense of debt.

You know, I don't want to be with anyone. Not really. If I need it, I know I can find sex with someone without too much effort; I know where to find it, is what I mean. Which is fine, if I'm in the mood. But the last time I did that I would have preferred not to have. I want to own myself again. I don't want to give my body away. And as hard as we may try to have impersonal sex, there is always the cloying residual film that is left like an imprint over your thoughts. And it lingers for days. It is only vanity that makes me feel good knowing men still want me, but mostly they are annoying and I'd rather they just left me alone.

And there is this one new annoyance that.... is beginning to bother me. Concern me. Which is the one disadvantage of being single now. How to avoid annoying attention. And no, he is not one of my stand-by options, he is just someone who happens to be very helpful about fixing things. Which is how I got into this and ….so I feel rather guilty. But I never implied that I considered his flirtation with any seriousness, but that is what men are like. I know I'm generalizing when I say, I've found they are all born with this blind ego and believe they are all that. While women are opposite. Which is why, I've noticed, that women usually end up being with someone less than they deserve and men always seem to get their trophy wives. I think, as women, it's really sad how we are so guilty of undervaluing ourselves.

I don't know if I will ever want to be somebody's wife again. And, if I were being completely honest with myself, I would say, I don't think I ever wanted to be. Which is why I put off getting married the first time for as long as I did.

I've always liked to say that a cynic is really just a disappointed romantic. And if anyone was more of a romantic than me, I would be surprised. At least the me I have been. But I'm trying to be honest.... I guess my ideas of romance are much different. Now. And yet, maybe they always were. I always wanted freedom. I always wanted to not have to give up my time. I like going to the movies alone. I've always loved being alone more than being with anyone. Even someone I was in love with. I am miserly about my own space. My time. I horde it jealously. And I know that this is not really the norm to my gender but it is, I think, the norm among artists and writers.

It's hard to find that inner space of creativity when.... there is someone around.

And it's hard to find that inner space of creativity when.... I'm in love.

But there is the obvious irony of the inspiration that comes with being in love. Only, does it not always end up destroying inspiration and leaving you ravenous once caught in it and then parched in the end? I think I hate love. Even as I have loved love. And lately, I see that I have only ever been in love once. And the only other time I thought I was in love it was only infatuation. Which is just as bad because the reaction is the same.

I don't ever want to be in love again. I think it made me insane. And I also think you don't know the difference between being in love and being infatuated until both are over. Because the state of infatuation goes away. Love never does. You carry it with you like a cross to bear. It follows you all your life. And nobody else ever measures up to it.

I only gave my heart once.

It isn't a choice, though, is it? Your mind doesn't tell you. You don't decide. It comes over you. Like a spell or a virus. It claims you. And I think the only reason it ever happened to me once was because I never let myself trust anyone the way I trusted him. And, again, it wasn't a choice. It just happened and I don't even know why. There was no logic behind why and I felt it the first time we met, before I knew anything about him. There was something behind his eyes, something that wasn't physically visible but it made his eyes the most beautiful I have ever seen. And I think because my inner self will always be under lock and key, I can never feel that again and I don't know if this is true for everyone or just me. But I do know that I have no wish to give that away.

Maybe there is peace in realizing that you don't have to look for it, I mean, for me, this is what I am feeling. Because now that I see how unhappy I was being in an empty marriage and my world is resurrecting, I have something to compare all these other experiences to and hold it up against that one. And this is the first time I am seeing this so clearly. I can be a romantic and be alone because I can feel fulfilled knowing that I knew what it felt like to be in love. What it really felt like. And anything less is not even worth it. I lived it and experienced it. And survived it.


I think I'm glad it's behind me, though. I think that kind of happiness hurts too much. And I'm starting to see now that the happiness I am feeling now is.... preferable. And I'm even glad about Bran too. I find that I love being really, really free. To have nothing hanging over me. This is the secret to happiness.

Monday, January 5, 2015

Free; Electra's dictionary

Fearlessly, there I go....

The world is suddenly different to me now. It feels like the beginning of something exciting. I've been away visiting Vera in Connecticut for the holidays. Catching up on ourselves. We've gone on road trips all around and been couch potatoes watching movies. Talking. Talking.  Sleeping again. I feel like a new person.

I leave tomorrow to return to my life. New life, new place. Like a new pair of shoes that don't yet have creases. 

My last day. I go into Manhattan again, this time to meet someone for the first time. He's meeting me at the station.

So far, each day past the New Year (we are on day 5) it feels like I'm passing through Purgatory; relieving a bourdon of weight each day. This morning I woke up and realized I am finally free of him. I've let Bran go. I'm free. And in doing so, I see in hindsight that in the end he was not good to me. He ended things badly. He was cruel. And I see that I have been unnecessarily hard on myself. It comes to me so clearly.

I had been distorted in my vision of peering out to the world. I was a terrified rabbit. I was a hunted rabbit. But not anymore. Those things that had felt once enormous and insurmountable feel so easy. My fears of the world have completely vanished, replaced by a feeling of thrilling adventure that I want to rush towards and leap into. And in hindsight, Bran even feels as if he is a heavy dead weight that was stagnant. I see him as stagnant now. He is too fastened to his own dead weights, I see that. He is stuck in his past and in stale emotions that, and I see in retrospect, has made him crusty and even bitter. I didn't write this, but, he had said some horrible hurtful things. He made me cry. Sarcastic and cutting in the end. Long past what I deserved for anything I did or had said. I find myself start to feel hatred or disgust when I think of him now. Which is too bad, but-- oh well, I've turned a corner and I'm so much stronger now. 

I think I am in no hurry to discover what it is I want now. I like just the calm that has finally returned with peace of mind. It feels like such a relief not to have anything hanging over me, holding me down, free of the burdens of the illusions of love. 

I am sure. And if and when I encounter a difficulty, I know I will handle the obstacle. 

Friday, January 2, 2015

invisible echo, rwyf wrth fy modd I chi

I try to not think of him. I have tried since the day we fell apart. But without choice, without intention, everything reminds me of him. 

I know he never thinks of me.

I watch a movie and there is something in the way the actor speaks.... or sometime in the day there will be the name of his city spelled in some random place-- like on the license plate of a passing car, printed somewhere or someone will say it. So I will think of him and know I never cross his mind.

There is no escaping him. It haunts and tortures. And tears. This longing. It is so thick. Just to hear his voice, or see that way he looked at me, the feel of his fingers in my hair, this longing.... and the only pleasure that exists is from the relief when tears are shed, like a bloodlet I wish that could purge. They come by the trigger of a sudden unsummoned thought, like the memory of his smile or something he once told me. I have to force the thought away, I cannot go there, cannot let myself, because the release that pours forth has no bottom and it only drains my soul.

I know he never thinks of me.

God I miss him. And I don't know why or how he found the way inside me. As soon as I fell inside his eyes. Why I let him in. So deep inside me. I should have known better. I never let anyone in, not that far. I wish I never did. I wish I never trusted him.... why did I? I wish I knew why I did.... what it was about him.... that made me deceive myself. I hate him, I miss him, hate how I ache for him, hate how much it hurts. To long for the reason of his voice.

The other day, like an apparition, it felt as if he had been with me, as if he came to me in my subconscious when I slept. I could feel the heat of his presence next to me, the residual touch inside my sex, the closeness of his thoughts. It stayed with me all day. 

But I know he doesn't think of me.

I think I am doomed to be forever haunted. Or will I one day become finally exhausted of that lingering sense of him....at last? but I fear that would be worse.... his fading echo. 

You don't think of me, I know you never cared. I hate you. Rwyf wrth fy modd I chi. Just your echo.


Monday, December 22, 2014

My room inside, Electra's dictionary

I work out on the treadmill at the gym and notice how time speeds and slows. I am in an alternate time. Another continuum. And then time stands still.

Things are moving around me but I am not there. I am somewhere else. I'm just in mind. I find that room. That room inside. It is still there. It waits for me. Like safety. Safe harbor. It is a place that I imagined and razed, I drew that window there that overlooks my favorite tree and the rolling hill and the lush green grass that would feel like moss to the touch. But right now and always when I go it is late afternoon when the sun has already begun it's descent and the shadows turn away all color. Even my room. Soft gray. So the light in the sky, as it streams in, is almost brilliant against the pretty dull, it glows with rays into my room. My room inside.

I have come here so many times. I don't even know when it first came to me or how. I stay there and time is distorted and removed. It slows and speeds.

I look at the treadmill monitor and forget I'm still here. Forget.... that I'm still here.

It is that place in between. A different state. I don't know if everyone goes there. How meditation is described by Zen masters, I guess. Phrases repeated. Like a lullaby. So peaceful here. I'm so happy here, I always hate to leave it.

Sometimes I take it with me. Wherever I go, but it only comes with me if I'm lucky. If there is no anguish pressing into my inner peace. And.... Sometimes it is years since I get to return here.

I didn't realize what my husband's impact on me was until now. I feel like I .... Don't know who I've been for so long. Just reacting.... waiting, anticipating, worried and tense, ready to spring.

I realize I've been lashing out at everyone in my life, in my attempt to erect my place of safety. To find.... to feel.... to hear.... to see ....reflection. My reflection. I haven't seen her in so long. Her voice not even a whisper. Even my senses became numb. Watching and on watch instead of sleeping, fearing what I would rather not say. It is like being on some strong narcotic, I can only suspect. To go so long without sleep. It fucks with your head. Like watching yourself do and say things from somewhere far outside of yourself.

I don't know who I've been these last years with my husband. 

And I can't remember how this happened. It was gradual. And I know I couldn't admit it to myself at first when I realized that.... he was killing my soul. I didn't want another failed marriage. I couldn't admit I'd failed again. I didn't want to believe it.

But he'd even taken this room from me. Because it is only obtainable if..... this inner quiet can be reached.

The constant crisis's created by his untreated bi-polar reality and his refusal to get real help. So how could I just walk away and let his train wreck happen?
 
Only it really is so exhausting. And instead of pulling him to the shore from drowning, he pulled me under like an anchor. And I sunk so low.

I only see it now. I see I am OK. That all my neurosis's were just reactions to the climate of living under a distorted world of chaos that constantly kept me in a state of instability.

There is calm now. And that is familiar to me. That is my true state of being. I begin to recognize myself. 

I don't want to let anyone in. 

I am so tired of how it destroys that place inside. I don't think I should trust anyone ever again. I see now that I've always done better on my own. 

This longing for love, for romance.... it has been my poison all my life. I think I'm ready to walk away from my hopeless-romantic illusions; stupid dreams of passion. It was never my destiny. 

I will not give myself away. No more. No more love. No more romance. I will take lovers. Like collections of dildos to put on a shelf and take them for their usefulness. I will have polite encounters, but I will not give access to.... There will be no access. My room inside.

Saturday, December 20, 2014

Sexual secrets

I sit before a full length mirror in my new place. It goes floor to ceiling. And I think about who I am now. To be alone now I hear my thoughts again. There are no interruptions. No dictations. My mind is quiet. I stare at my reflection and feel unafraid. 

I have thought about possession. Being someone's possession. Because that is what it felt like being married. Even my mind is belonging to someone else, like when he'd ask me all the time, "what are you thinking about? What are you hiding?" He was always assuming I was hiding some secret from him. And I guess he instilled the idea into me. I needed to have secrets because he never believed me when I told him there were none. He looked through my things all the time. He read notes to myself. He searched Google for people--men-- on my Facebook....
It made me feel like I was in a prison. Always being watched. It made me self conscious of the expressions I wore on my face. 

I am slowly getting over that constant nervousness, yet my hands still drum against my thigh and I have a problem sitting still. Still. And I think about how I was with Bran-- the need to escape to him for safety. I guess that me I was with Bran was a shell-shocked version of me. I wasn't OK in my head and I'm only getting there now.

That me he knew was.... I think.... the transition of who I am now reclaiming. Or maybe becoming for the first time. Because, you see, I never got to figure out how to not feel hunted. It was all I ever really knew.

I don't want to be with anyone. Not anymore. I want to be alone. I can't afford to let down my guard anymore. I see that was always the distraction. Men always want to take care of me and I never really wanted that. I've always attracted men who try to own me and resisting this makes them trap me into a box.

So as I sit on the wood floor and stare at myself in front of the mirror, I think of hands on me that push and pull, grab and strip me, hands that hurt, the bruises they left when I'd try to walk away. I'd try to get away. When he wouldn't stop, when he was in the manic stage and kept his interrogations going until I felt he'd driven me insane. After awhile I always felt insane. He made me believe I was. And to just think .... Just to think..... I had to get away from him. That was the only way. Just to hear my thoughts again. But he knew my moves too well and as I'd try and slip past stealthily, he'd catch me. And dig his fingers, hurting, leaving rings of purple-black, like tattooed armlets. His mark or brand of possession. It felt even that he wanted too to possess my orgasms. That, they too were his and .... There is something that happens to you when someone tells you when to come and when you can't. How do I mean that? It's sick and too private for me to even write because I don't even know how I fell into that pit in my mind where even that place you go in your mind to orgasm is no longer yours so you forget how to. 

Because it's a defense, you see.
And after awhile he didn't even care. And forgot how to. How to cum.

So when I met Bran.... It was like he reminded me how.

But then.... it belonged to Bran. That place is such a private place....I think it's been stolen from me.

So now I think of Zach.... And I think, I don't want to belong to anyone. Not ever again. I belong to me.  And I am mine.

I look at my reflection now.... I am wearing a thin, white, t-shirt. I am alone in my new place. I belong to me.

And when I look in there.... I like me better now. I'm not performing for anyone. This me I see.... is the real me. I look at my eyes, past the lenses, I see the smoky brown that looks like clay with copper lights. I see something familiar like the question that once existed staring back when I was five. Yes, it's still there. And I'm happy to recognize it.

I notice the shadows that fall on my t-shirt around my breasts. And I notice my nipples are hard from a passing draft. The fabric irritates the sensitivity there. I close my eyes because I feel something. Something I wasn't prepared for. Yet that is also almost familiar, it surprises me. So unexpected. I keep my eyes closed and put my hands there to make it go away. Press my palms. Instead I feel only more disturbed. And why? It isn't so long since I was with Zach but, it is like what I have described. That place in me that's been violated. And others' hands always move too fast away from places. They move, instead, to please them-self for what they demand or want to view. And maybe I don't talk up enough. Maybe I should say, "please keep your hand there. Please touch me like this...." And now as I do, thinking this and half consciously aware that do. And I become aware of frustration that is like a jolt. Like an electrical shock. I take my hands away and open my eyes. My face is flushed. I close my eyes and grind my crotch into the wood floor through my jeans.

Shit....

It is awhile as I debate. I tell myself to not think of anyone. Not Bran, not Zach, not even someone in a magazine, just me. 

So in my head, I let myself step out of myself and view myself as if I were my own lover. Only with the knowledgable insight of all my sexual secrets. I pretend. I see a me I don't usually see and notice the fullness of my breasts when I take off my shirt. I touch myself and suddenly wish I had a disembodied dick to plunge right into me because I feel the wetness begin to pour. Shit. Of all the handy things I've bought for my new place, why didn't I ever consider a dildo? I think this as I dry fuck the hard wood floor imaging my favorite real life dick.

Just the dick. And this beautiful dick is doing what I want, not what its owner would. And I remove my jeans to look. I look at myself in the mirror. I look there. It is impressive. I mean the view. How ideal to have a floor to ceiling mirror! I have never got to see this. I feel like a voyeur of myself. I watch myself. Even my face. I find it curious how something there appears in my face as I become erotically stimulated. It fascinates me. I never saw that before. And I never thought to perform this for anyone before. And as I watch my hand move down there to touch, I wonder why I never did this for anyone before. I never knew that.... I look this way.

And I.... that I... could.... do.... like this. I watch what happens as the wet increases, I watch like a stranger not me and not male or female. I don't know what I am as I watch. All things. Powerful. I watch as I fuck myself with fingers and wonder what it's like to be a man and fuck me. What is it like to fuck me? And warped thoughts draw me in and remove me from the presence ....but it is watching my eyes as I orgasm that makes me need to come again and again. I see a secret there revealed. My sexual secrets. 

It makes me want to perform. For someone? Maybe it doesn't matter right now. I think I like having that part of me that is just for me. I think I'm not ready to share. Or maybe I never will. I am mine.

Saturday, December 13, 2014

electra sings the blues



every book or newspaper 
           that i read
every movie that i see
        to try and forget u
only end up having 
     a reference that
               connects to u

every street that i take
       and every random thing
      i find on the internet
      they all call out 
                 ur name
                     & memories of u

    u have destroyed me,
     u rip through my heart
                o how i hate you