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.


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

Friday, December 12, 2014

All love is pain

all love is pain
      even a mother's love is pain
as soon as the door is open
       and the rush
              blows through
                  the open door
   in the desperate hours
unaware, chasing thoughts unbare
you blow in through my mind
  and i wonder why
         you were so unkind
  but no, i bare my cross,
    accept what is
          so obviously my lot
     and with the precious few i got
 what i may lack in luck
     with empty heart i fuck
 whoever comes my way
only.... i still wish that I understood
      why you walked away
                                 when it was good

Sunday, November 30, 2014

Electra's dictionary; artist's teacher's pet & the metaphysical

I must have fallen asleep because I awoke with a jolt from a dream and my unfortunate habit of calling out in my sleep. I couldn't recall the dream.


Zach was chuckling as he moved over me to look down into my face. His was blurry because I wasn't wearing my glasses.

I had a moment of shameful concern and hoped desperately that my dream wasn't either a post-apocalyptic one (my recurring one) or one of my horror movie epics involving warped plots with props like chainsaws to butcher knives. My one consolation was that it didn't seem like I had been asleep for very long, so there was no time for an epic.

So, best to get the suspense over with, I dared ask.

What did I say?” and since he was still blurry, I looked back at him bravely.

He was laughing with open enjoyment and could hardly get the words out. I could see he even wiped a tear from his cheekbone with my fuzzy vision. When he could speak at last he said, still laughing,
you sat up and called out: 'my library books are late!'” and, again, he burst into another round of laughter.

But I was relieved. That wasn't so bad. I didn't mind him laughing. But this is why I don't really like to sleep with anyone. With Bran, he knew enough about me to be forgiving of these psychological traits of talking in my sleep. I wasn't as afraid to reveal something those nights in Amsterdam or in Paris. Until that time, Bran and I had not really spent much time sleeping in bed or being together overnight.

I shoved thoughts of Bran away because the dark cloud didn't belong in Zach's cozy room of earth tones and the scent of cedar. Soft music was still playing and the candles were still glowing light.

What are you thinking about, Beth?” he asks me now, pushing me back to lay down beside him, he has angled himself to look at me. Laying sideways to study my face.

As if he knows my mind has spun backward to thoughts of someone else.

Only, I don't want to go there. I have come to see that I am tired of pain and hurt. I want to move on.

He has a way of staring right into your eyes with a steady, omniscient kind of gaze. You know, I never asked him his age. He has a youthful aura in his face but the deep groves of lines around his eyes that enhance his handsome features suggest more than a few decades behind him. So I don't answer his question but ask,
how old are you?”

He shakes his head and says,
no....” He reaches to touch my hair, drawing it from my face. He wraps it around my ear and caresses my cheek with his thumb as he keeps looking into my eyes, “no numbers, Bethie.... I don't believe in measurements, but then,” and here he chuckles, “I can afford to boast my own.”

In the dark, I blush. His euphemism is well understood by the soreness of my sex.

Then, as if in effort to distract my mind away from someone else, he says,
You have a rare and talented gift there.... how'd you learn to do that?”

I know what he is referring to, but I am embarrassed. I don't answer.

He says with a small, teasing laugh,
I got a car wash.”

I turn my face away. Glad of the darkness because I feel my face is burning.

No, I loved it,” Zach says now and presses himself intimately. He says quietly into my ear, in a whisper, “once you let your inhibitions go.... you are pretty wild. I've heard redheads are known for....” but he doesn't finish.

What was it you wanted to ask me before?” I squint back into his eyes. He is close enough now for me to see the bright blueness of them and their distinct shape that slant down in the same way that his golden brows follow.

So you do remember!” he cups my face as he studies me and keeps looking down at me. I feel him touch the outline of my lips and the slope of my cheekbone. He sighs thoughtfully. He hesitates, “You're changing the subject, aren't you? I know you don't like to talk about whoever it is that recently broke your heart. And I won't push it because it has nothing to do with ….” he gestures with his hand to express 'you and me'. “And I will admit this to you: I have things too, you know, that keep me from wanting to get too heavy. Maybe that's what it is that makes me feel at ease with you.... you aren't ready either. But.... I will tell you this-- I like you. I really do. Enough to wonder things about you.”

Oh yeah?” I smile because I am flattered.

Yeah,” he glances away and then back at me and touches me again. He puts his thumb under my chin and lifts it up to angle my face so that I look back at him, fingers going around my jaw to hold me there. “Yeah, baby, because I know you are not just a beautiful face. I see there are things inside you.... which is what makes you such an interesting subject for me to paint because I.... really like looking at your face. So, I must admit, I got curious and looked you up.”

Hmm,” I tense.

I don't remember if you told me you're an artist too.”

I'm not that good,” and I feel that feeling of shame return, trying to remember what he could find on the Internet. “It's just an outlet for me. I suck.”

Who told you that? The asshole who broke your heart?” the intensity of his expression shocks me. He shakes his head, “oh no.... no, no, no, no. You do not suck. I mean, I've studied and worked at this a long time now. And yes, I was influenced by classic art but-- I can appreciate that there are all kinds of art and all kinds of artists. The only way to really appreciate art is to be accepting of this and to celebrate the differences. Because, Beth, if everyone were the same, if everyone painted in the same style-- just think about it.... what a dull place our museums would be. Right? Jackson Pollack, Magritte, Chagall.... it's not all Botticelli and Rembrandt, you know. I would say you express something from an abstract perspective that reflects your thoughts, your writing, your personal conflicts. You are symbolic. It makes you think. And, I like that....”

I look away. I feel more naked now than I do when I pose for him.

He knows. I can tell.

He releases my face and moves to lay down flat on his back next to me. He takes a deep breath and sighs,
I have a huge job I have to do for an office building in Troy and I was hoping I could-- well.... I wanted to ask you if you would mind helping me with it. I'd pay you. We would split the commission.”

I turn to look at him to see if he is serious.
That's crazy. You're a professional. How could I accept that?”

He shrugs,
because I'm offering it to you. I suspect you could use the money. Am I right?” So now he looks down into my face. He trespasses. But I don't mind. I am willing to risk it but only for this moment because.... I guess I am only human. He is a beautiful man. And there is something impossible to.... not be drawn in by. Zachery, who is so intense, so impossible to.... resist. So there is only one way to handle this and so I just.... plunge into his eyes. And it feels like a good place. To escape to. As long as I don't remove my guard. Completely.

Tell me...” he says now, but he somehow manages to make it sound like sex words as his eyes, with their brilliance-- penetrate, “how familiar are you with air brush?”

Not at all,” I say. “I never used one because I couldn't afford one.”

Mmmm....” he makes a sound and moves over me, sinking between my thighs as his mouth turns up flirtatiously. He closes his eyes and kisses my lips. It is a slow kiss. Very slow. Very teasing. He leans down and says against my ear, “then I'll teach you....” and now he covers my mouth with his and slowly teases my lips apart and gently forces my lips open and then, using it like his sex, sinks his tongue deep into my mouth. His kiss is deep and so very slow. And fucks with my head. It makes me react involuntarily. He kisses me harder and deeper and breaks from the kiss to say into my ear, “it will be fun, you'll see....”

I argue back into his ear,
but I am an amateur. I don't even know what I'm doing. You do this for a living.”

That is where you are wrong, my beautiful Beth.... I do this for a living now, but I started as an amateur.... I used to be a lawyer,” he whispers this into my ear and bites my neck gently. Then blows softly into my ear before he says, “I guess, technically, I still am --I just don't practice any more.”

I feel my body responding to what he is doing to me, and yet I want to know more.
Why not?” I ask.

He takes a deep breath. It is awhile before he answers this question. He puts his head into the curve of my neck and says, “mmmm.....” and then it is another awhile before he answers. When he does he says slowly,
I guess you can say I had a kind of awakening....”

He becomes motionless and falls silent. After a long pause, I sense he is about to tell me something very personal. And something very difficult. He takes a breath and then says,
ten years ago.... my sister killed herself.”

Oh my God!”

For awhile he says nothing more. But finally he says,
she and I were very close.... her death affected me deeply.”

I'm so sorry.”

When she was about seventeen she was diagnosed with schizophrenia,” he goes on to tell me. “She was in and out of the hospital a lot over the years with ….attempts on her life. I tried to watch out for her but.... I was away on some business. I blame myself, of course.... anyway.... it changed my life. I couldn't continue doing what I was doing. My focus was....”

I wait for him to continue. I hold my breath.

I can feel his body relaxing into me as he shares this burden. And I find.... I am deeply moved by what he is telling me. It does not require thought to instinctively want to comfort him. It is almost a need within me to have to. I take him into my arms and hold him to me. My fingers in his silky, golden-brown hair, I cup his head to me and hold him close.

He says,
before I studied law, I had just wanted to be a painter. It was what I really wanted to do with my life. But my father wanted me to have a serious career. You have to understand, he was in the military. I grew up on army bases. An army brat. We never saw eye to eye about political views, but he was forgiving; he let me be who I was and I loved him for that. He died a long time ago.... but after Junie died.... I felt released from a son's obligations, somehow. I saw life much differently after she ended her own life.... and suddenly I felt I had to ….listen to my own inner voice. Because I just realized that in life, there is no time for bullshit. You know?”

I think he may have fallen asleep because I can only hear the sound of his breathing. His body is relaxed as it lays close between my thighs. I listen to his breathing. The pace of it lulls me and I find myself thinking.... I think about everything in my life. I think about my daughter and how much she means to me. The bonds of love and how fragile life really is. And then I find I am glad that I have met Zach because I find that I can better understand.... even Bran. And forgive him.

But then he says,
I have a son.”

I catch my breath and wait.

I was married for many years.... I miss him. I don't get to see him as much as I'd like because his mother.... well, she's a bitter woman. She was bent on hurting me and it worked. They're back in Texas.”

After a long silence I decide to change the subject and my curiosity about him compels me to ask,
when is your birthday?”


I'm trying to guess your sign.”

But he says,
I'll tell you this: it has already passed.... so you won't have to worry about that for awhile.”

I say,
so, I guess you're not a Sagittarius or a Capricorn.”

No. And I'm not a Pisces or Aries,” he laughs now and props himself on his elbows to look down into my face, with an ironic grin, “do you believe in that stuff?”

I look back at him but stay silent.

He says,
what about the eternal soul, Beth? I mean.... if you want to talk about spirituality, think about it. Do you think, ultimately, it would come down to what month you were born? See, that is my problem with astrology. It thinks too small.... no, I told you, I don't like measurements. I would rather we connect as two people. No preconceived notions.”

I think about this. And then consider his argument. It makes sense and I am willing to accept this. Respect it. Then I ask,
so... you believe in reincarnation?”

But he hesitates before he answers me. And then he smiles and says,
I believe in the eternal soul.... that is what I believe in.”

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 Zach 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.”


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 Zach....” I begin.


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 Zach 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 Zach, 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.”