Tuesday, December 31, 2013

( An Open Letter ) Yes, I Married Your Father

When will three grown up children realize that after fifteen years of being widowed, their father is entitled to a life? He's entitled to have made the very, (apparently disconcerning, disjointed and very selfish) decision, to get remarried, and to me. When will these grown up children come to understand that I am not the catalyst to their unhappiness, but rather, I am the catalyst to their father's now blatant happiness, and brimming ear to ear smile? When do they ever get the right to be judge, jury, and executionist, with my head on the chopping block? Seems a bit trite and unfair pleasantries at this stage of life, to feel you have the right to keep the ghost and haunts of your father's past life in check.....think, that maybe, he has a right to some very overdue happiness and companionship enter into his life.......even if it makes you envious and unhappy. Seems, one would think, that his happiness at some point should become paramount, against all odds.

To My Stepchildren,
You all grew up, moved out, moved onward, got married, (got divorced), had children, moved to different states, and succumbed to very content and financial well accumulated and advantageous lives.........why, of why, oh why........can't he? (your dad that is) I am not your mother's replacement, I am your father's second wife and joy. I am your father's chance of a life that he had been stripped of. I am his ability to smile, to laugh, to appreciate, to love, all over again. Yes, people can fall in love again, without ever tainting a past love. I did not take your mother from you, life did.....when will I ever be relieved of paying for that sin, that old debt? Please someone notify me when that day will arrive, if ever? In the meantime, I will continue to love your dad, as he will continue to love me, as we both, will continue to love all of you.

To My Children
You all grew up, finished college, married, moved (on and upward), borrowed money (failed to ever pay it back), asked for favors ( had them all fulfilled in the end by me), bartered and borrowed your individual selfs through relationships with me, asked of me to support your efforts with your own dad ( the abusive one to me), and, yet, you still feel the need to judge my life and decisions, by your strict moral codes of conduct (not quite the same ones I recall you adhered to in your college days, hhmmm, the ones I bailed you out of more times than I care to remember). At my age, I knew what I wanted, what I was doing, and to finally run the hell away from the haunts of my old marriage ( yes, the one I lived in with your dad, one riddled with  twenty five years of abuse). Seems it was finally time to let me out of the prison, give myself some needed air, to breath, to run, to jump, to yell from mountain- tops. When will you all realize, you have no right to judge what you did not live? That right is solely owned by me. You all got out, got away, and that was always my shared right too. A right to begin new, fresh, to take care of me, (after all, I took care of all of you for years, that's what moms do). I had a right to fall in love and get remarried, to feel alive for the first time in as many years as I can count. I had the same right to happiness, as you all did, and do. I had a right to follow through with it, and find peace with someone new.

So, please, would all of you please educate me, as to when you all felt the entitlement and privilege to wave a magical wand, and dictate to us how our life should be handled and carried on? 

New Year's Eve Renderings


As always, I am writing to you on New Year’s Eve again, where I  am mulling over evil, humanity, and healing. It feels even further from the loft space of last year where I spent many candle-lit hours writing and sunrise filled mornings processing life’s journeys. It feels far from the expensive cherry wood  floor in Connecticut I collapsed on after hours of painful and unshared empathy. This is my new floor — it doesn’t yet contain those moments, those memories.

 I moved. Again. Began life anew, again. Got remarried, in 2013.
Thankfully, I don’t have to put all of my belongings in my car. I have unpacked them for the last time in one town/village and need not to ever again unpack them somewhere else. The process is nostalgia-inducing, as it seems impossible to think without gazing at old photographs and meandering through old memories, past hauntings and renderings. The memories that fall out of boxes as I still unpack are those of times before digital cameras and shutterfly, making them feel even further away. They are other lives, past lives. The photos are spread across this new floor, waiting for a decision on which ones I will put on the wall. Which memories belong on the wall of my new life and which ones will go back into the shoe boxes they emerged from?

As you know so well yourself, part of me deeply desires the transient life. I long to move without the shoe boxes containing memories; to move with only necessities. Yet, upteen moves, thirty years, seven towns, and three children, and a second marriage later, I find myself back in the same memories I abandoned in what seems like a life time ago. I relish in the uncertainty of the newness of all of this, yet, this New Year’s Eve is different.

This is an effort — for the first time — to find (or create?) a little more certainty in my life. I joke to friends that I want to put some roots down. I dislike the terms “settling down” or “putting roots down,” even though I borrow the latter for my own metaphor of growth. I am not sure how many “roots” we have in total to put down, but I’d like to put a few down here. I’d like to feel safe, to build a life, to build a home, to watch as the next chapter of my life unfolds. It all begins with adjusting to this new floor, and view from the desk I now write from.

Do you ever enter a new space (life) and feel overwhelmed with everything that could unfold there? With the life you haven’t yet lived? I wonder, in my new writing room, what I will experience in the confines of these new four walls. Will I whisper words of love? Will I grieve a loss I haven’t yet fathomed? Will I conquer self-doubt? Will I struggle? Will I embrace self-love? Will I accomplish goals I haven’t yet set my mind to? Will I mourn my transient self? Will I long for lakeside beaches or sandy surf, or, perhaps, a log cabin retreat? Will I feel at home?
What challenges and joys will I celebrate and process in this room? On this floor where I sit, clicking away on my laptop?

I’ll start with placing the images of freedom on my computer and a past history – back into the shoebox. These photos will mix with cards filled with caring words from friends, expressions of love and anger from past relationships, and sympathy cards and apologies already contained in these boxes. If the images and the boxes containing them are tucked away, the floor space is clear for new moments, memories, and a new chapter for me to explore. It will be clear for my laptop and myself to begin to type out the beginnings of a newest life, a brand new chapter of the book of me. A new partnership, new passion, new truth, new atonement, new hope, new sorrow, a new near perfect bliss of second marriage, and how the world can sit in new light, if we simply allow ourselves to give in to the opportunity of all of it.

Monday, December 30, 2013

Bringings of 2014


laces, left, lost, and abandoned...........................
I don’t know, here on the threshold of the coming year, what 2014 will bring. Like most years, I imagine it will carry its share of pain along with the joys, and I’m sure that keeping my temper and equilibrium after one too many nights spent worrying about it all will be a challenge. There will probably be moments of exhaustion, of bleary-eyed apathy, of downright frustration.
But then, hopefully, there will be many more moments of grace, when I will just learn to breath deep, and move on. I am not so sure I believe in destiny. I think what I believe in is making better choices. I battle with the notion that things are in some way preordained. The concept of life unfurling " just as it should be," and according to some magical plan beyond my comprehension, sounds truly amazing, but, better choices along the way really rolls the plan along. Firm believer, also, that, at any stage of life, it is important to find your person. To find your beacon. Find your partner. Find your path. Just one person, who believes you are not F******crazy to want to be an astronaut, or, better yet, a writer, whom sits around nude, working her thoughts.  A person who holds your magic. And shares in it.
Someone who never, turns off the light !

Sunday, December 29, 2013

Sunday Running



The earlier I begin the day, the quieter the sound. Reverberations of my own renderings, caught in the patter, as sneakers hit the pavement. Trees lay still, sky asleep, mornings dew takes rest upon my eyelash. Sneakers thump to the sound of the trickling of my sweat, as a deer invades my secret place. A blinding force spreads out like kerosene - fed fire pooling in my cheeks, continuing in a gully across my breasts...gushing between my hipbones, as heat is driven down my torso...in the heat of the moment my sneakers are on fire. Cool crisp morning air fans my flames. Muscles tighten as tendons spring into action, expanding a needed release just above my tailbone. My head prorates forward, signaling that my brain needs to arrive before my legs.  My sneakers know to keep moving, if they stop, they'll wake from this euphoria........

Saturday, December 28, 2013

The "Hookup"


The sex still fresh, yet so are her fears and doubts that this sudden approach to seduction is even attainable. Advancing now, even faster than her heart can understand, allowing the destitute of change to somehow shrink her, as her skin absorbs, then drinks away, the last of any forgotten inhibition. Managing to stay serenely aloft he steers her through this same inhibition, as his hands and fingers navigate her flesh. Expertly slicing through her own self, into this blinding space where she is now orbiting the sun.  Her tongue still lingers, after all, he bought her countless drinks at the bar, paid for the cab ride home to her apt, he climbed six flights up the airless narrow stairwell just to be with her. This must be real, this time. His blood vessels expand, as a howl of alarm now pierces from him, as her tongue glides and rides uncontrollably. Remembering all the while that a man’s standards drop quite a bit when he is horny. Still, she allows the seductiveness of her tongue to linger, approaching and subduing the howls that still escape from him, before ending with a final kiss on his cheek. The end, she knows all too well, is much more abrupt than all the beginnings combined, the intensity of it all makes her shudder.

Days later, she will write him a letter. Without saying good-bye, without a singular word, he will have it returned to her “address unknown.”

Friday, December 27, 2013

Forward Momentum




You can only move forward in life, I learned that after a very failed attempt at trying to move backward. Backward, the roads are always blocked by huge concrete barricades, too tall to climb, too sturdy to drive your car through, too thick to ever punch your way through. Forward, is an open and endless road.......a very valuable lesson in survival !


The Craning of Sex






My bed is pressed up against the wall, doubling as my couch, a slight throbbing in my head holds me to the wine of last night, my new apt, my new life, and the wine I drank in my dreams, as I departed the bar with the man whose breath still feels slight against my shoulders. I lie in bed just a bit longer, enjoying the feeling of well – being, still perched in my dreams. Starring at the wine bottle now laid on my floor, the man reappears, his tongue probing long and hard, as I try to catch my breath. Tasting the red wine on his lips, his shadow walks back into the wall, like some riddle I am suppose to get. As I turn the page of the book I am reading, a breeze causes the curtains of my hot apartment to billow out, I stand up wrapping them around the folds of my naked body, last night feels unreal, and the dream vanished. Drugged by the morning sun, as a bead of sweat settles in my navel, and once again, I think about the sex. I discard the curtain, the sarong, and replay last night over and over again in my head. The suffocating heat has me lying back on the mattress, as the shadow of his face resurfaces from my walls, separated only by the billowing of the curtain. Giving myself more room to linger in the after effects of sex, trusting that somewhere again his image will soon appear. My nudity is now on display for all to see, as I crane my head further out the window to the street below. A man looks up, and smiles at me.

(Funny, how I always seem to dream in color)

Thursday, December 26, 2013

Self Portrait of Nakedness


My sneakers are still wet from the sweat of an earlier morning run. My throat still thirsty from my own salt, as I pour myself a glass of much needed water. My yoga mat still lies in temperament on the floor. My life, entirely made of glass. The day has overtly turned to a frigidly cold winter day, forcing my brain cells into a freezing exhaustion. Writing is always about what I know and what I see, then navigating that dark area in-between the two is what brings forth for me, the clarity. For today though, I cannot understand one ounce of what my brain is telling me. The sex and the sin, the rhythm and the verse, the philosophical, the unseen, the real, the imagined, the me, the you, the afflicted lover, the past, the future, the creative, the reserved, the fiction, the non – fiction, all are not happening today, as the cold has frozen even my ability to hit my keyboard in proper word formation.
Naked is to be oneself, nude is to be seen by others. Naked is always the self – portrait!

Depression

 a bit of sparkle


The heart was no place to leave the blades piercing her soul, slicing her flesh, as the resounding sound of madness echoed throughout her head. His footsteps hardened in the distance. His betrayal left and then carried away with the tide. She collected every sharp knife in the house, and threw each, individually, into the sea. One knife, one blade, one life, as seaweed attached itself to her lost hope, and the turning, of yet, another page. The salt from the ocean lay like bitter tonic on her tongue, as sea salt spray washed over her face in acknowledgment of falling tears. When the blood of a woman's heart is something she no longer drowns herself in; when she no longer wears self - doubt and loathing as her life vest. When life happens, life changes, and she becomes herself. The bitter sweet, the bitter blue, when all the narrative is gone, what she is let with, finally, is hope, and that hope becomes a powerful thing to cling to. When the heart beats so fast you need to run, just to keep up with it!




Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Grown up Christmas


Currently, I am a little afraid of you Christmas. I've worked hard not to let you dictate the rest of my life. However, I'm scared that by befriending you again, you'll force yourself into the driver's seat (yet again), and my life will be taken over by a ghost of Christmas past. So, as I seek to befriend you, go easy on me this year, okay? 

Merry Christmas to all my ghosts and haunts of Christmas...........

I use to think that the biggest moments in life occurred on a large life scale, - the marriages, the births, the deaths, the career milestones. But, paging through my notes on life, I am reminded that more often than not, it's the smaller moments - the tiny details, random ones, that hit the hardest, make you the saddest, make you the happiest. They all leave you somewhat changed, and thinking, forcing you to own up to all of your realities.

Monday, December 23, 2013

A Shortened Piece ( of essay)

My new life needs to be in an old fashioned apartment, quaint, with shutters, like one you would find in Paris, or inside an etched building in NYC. Where my shoes will lay abandoned near the front door, street noise will filter about the walls, and my apartment will be so hot, that the backless sundress I am wearing makes suggestion of the curve of my silhouette, as the sweat has all but the halter tie at my neck clinging to my flesh. How it will then start, over dinner, at a secluded hole in the wall restaurant, where the brick and mortar stairway leads one down to a basement garden bar. The noise of the street above, hydrangeas dancing near the windows. The chef, the waiters, the diners, will all speak in and out across the tables, across me, as I drink another glass of wine, before setting my eyes at the view at the opposite end of the bar. The smell of garlic fused with herbs and white wine will reach my nostrils, as wine travels the length of my lips. Watching him, his legs no longer able to set properly, as he shifts his weight, bearing slightly off balance as he makes his way along the length of mahogany wood. My fingernails will rattle on the edge of my glass, as I feel the warmth of his breath behind me. The interlude will begin, introductions exchanged, as presumption will overtake the both of us. Part of me will know for certain that the night will never end. Yes, that is how it will start, on a hot and humid night, over garlic smells and wine, and then he'll leave in the morning and take the metro to work. We will pick up where we last left off, a few varied times a week. Yes, that is how it will start, groping in the dark that leads to my new life, my new apartment, I will be barefoot drinking Spanish wine until I can't remember.

Tasting of Another



Their collective quiet is pulled taut, as two unknown lovers strain under the weight of some great sexual driven passion, right beneath my apartment window. They kiss in a maddened fulfillment as their invisible bond promises never to be broken. They look happily, savagely, into each other’s eyes, into what lies next. Under the streetlamp, lit with desire, as the river runs along the west side, and the sun sets on the east, quite the contradiction, as conflict now rises from the gold of his wedding band. He twists it, often and frantic, twirling it around his finger, as if not knowing what to do with it. He pulls it off, fastens it to a safety pin inside the fold of his briefcase, and in the darkness of the case the ring knows nothing. The ring sees not the forbidden embrace, the fruit of another, the tongues probing, forbidden fruit of the lover, as body parts, hug, touch and cling to one another. The pounding of his heart is for the lover, as the ring sits secure in complete epic darkness. The ring, never knows, and never tells. The love affair, it stands on the corner of 77th and Lexington, beneath the street lamp, covered in heat, blushing from fulfillment. The taste of yet, stills another.

Sunday, December 22, 2013

Sunday Blog

Bonfire by James Blunt


I tend to laugh a lot. Yes, this is most true of me. But, in my life, there are, and have been, also lots of tears. Some happy. Some irrational. Some purely out of frustration and the need to just ball my eyes out to make myself cleanse, and feel better.
 The simple truth is, there are things you never get over. Things that break you to pieces, that reshape you, you are never again, the original shape you once were, and so you grieve your own death with the sum of all of your losses. You bottle them up inside yourself, placing a cork firmly into your neck to keep them all from resurfacing, as they sometimes do, at the most inopportune moments of your days, for all of us. My inner introvert is calling me today, as I once again, tap into my quiet side, on an unending quest to keep moving myself forward. I have already today, gone for a run, performed upside yoga inversions as if my life depended on it, attended mass, and have had a meltdown. Now my thoughts are few, yet oddly comforting, as I change my attire, securing my bosoms inside the contours of my bra, smoothing out the wrinkles of my jeans, applying cream to my flawless skin, and lipstick to my never naked lips. Allowing the sun to now heat my face, as I step outside and enjoy the silence, the abundance of life again, as I leave my mark, and make it my own. The solitary pleasure is what I find in the silence of morning, when the only sound is the tapping of my keyboard and the clanking of my coffee cup. It is the sterility of first thoughts that get put to paper, my pen, the pill I now take to make the world right. So yes, solitary is part of being a writer, or at least it is, for a writer like me. All the non-solitary time is where I find the seeds in life to plant, grow and write about.
I'm most creative when I am in this solitude, where I no longer second-guess myself, when I just go for it, and take the plunge. This is the time I make unexpected word parallels from the part of my brain that stores the metaphoric as it overflows out of me. I am writer. If I were a carpenter I would build floor to ceiling bookcases, and then I would fill them with novels, memoirs and collections of poetry from the most famous, to the totally unknown. I would sit all day and read every word of every page. I would read through other people's lives. Take from the good, and drown out the bad. I would memorize every word of every poem.
If I were a carpenter I would build a staircase.....to an unabashful perfect life!
But, very few of us, are ever carpenters, so we just hold our truths in the solitary of solitude, until we have cried enough, and can move on. And, even that's okay, for pretty much most of us !

Saturday, December 21, 2013

Turn Right, Go Left

In a passion searing through flesh until it scorches my palm, in wave of utter boldness, simply to feed my unabashed hunger, I have had to stand at the crossroads and make that decision to have my sneakers go right, or turn left. Saturated in the blissful surrender of this, by all accounts,  first day of winter, as temps near 60 degrees here in the northeast. Tucked my gloves and winter cap into my waistband while running this morning, as the dew drops of sweat liberally dripped down my arms, and off of my brow....sneakers now with the perfumed smell of retched wet smelly feet....

Experience of Flesh

He had named the island after her, turquoise pool of water she often leaped into, her naked body clambering up on the rocks, breasts exposed to the sun. She could sense the presence of his body climbing towards hers, the smell of his skin as it awaited the touch of her fingertips. The rain forest fringed by white sand beaches that hid their secret, often arriving by private ferry, in complete seclusion. She had thought about the valley of desolation, the narrow path of her life that had plunged her to these gorges, the crack in the earth’s crust she had fallen in to. She had tried to back away, but bruised and blistered, she always came back to the cauldron of boiling water that held their secret and the lure of the passion, the fire each held for the other. The island held their secret, as they held one another clinging to branches, fully experiencing the flesh of one another...

Saturday Morning Dreaming

From downstairs, the noise appears again. I listen for the footsteps leading on the stairs to my sixth floor walk up. Seeing the doorknob turn ever so slightly, will he assume I am sleeping, and let himself in?  I am too well heeled to get up and let him in, so I close my eyes, and wait for the turning of the doorknob. The door begins to open, and conversely I once again, replay scenes in my head, of the wine, the bar, the sex, the meeting in Paris where we established both the familiar and the unfamiliar of one another. I ordered the fish cooked in garlic, he ate from my fork. Already I had decided then, to go beyond the first page with him. Now here I am, in my sixth floor walk up, waiting for the doorknob to open, for the turning of yet another page in our story. It will begin with wine, and end in sweat, and his fingers will trace the outline of my face. A portrait in time.  In the morning, I will sigh, and he will leave to catch the metro. I will drink coffee, running my hands down along my body, covered in vibrations of seated emotion, and he will smile politely at everyone he passes along the street. Eventually, we will make promises.......

Love is a Game We Play

My lace night shift hangs on the back of the parlor chair; bottles of perfume are erected in a straight line on my antique bureau. The window is slightly ajar, allowing the smells and sounds of the street to filter through. Scented bath salts seduce me, as I float on my back in the bathtub, watching the nightfall in darkness. He soon walks in, reaching for me the way he does. He climbs into the tub and uses his fingers and soap bubbles to make intricate circles upon my abdomen, making way for infinite possibilities. Taking another sip of wine, I relax back into him, as the light of an only candle flickers in the darkness, neither one of us wanting to fall in love just yet. The sex keeps it simple, illuminating us as we kiss, in between mouthfuls of hunger, he reads to me, as my hands disappear for a few moments, and his reading is plausibly interrupted, we both succumb to one another. Wet and clean, I slip into my lace night shift. He slips out the door into the night’s darkness. Heading to the metro, he turns and looks back, as I look back into the remaining bath bubbles. He stops at an underground bar for a martini; I blow out the candle, and finish my glass of wine in the quiet darkness of my apartment. In the morning, he calls, I let it go into voice-mail...we both enjoy the game.

Friday, December 20, 2013

Spring & Winter Play


My body heats up, sweat contained beneath my clothing. Thoughts shore up, and are then released onto the canvas of a white snow blanketing the pathway. A crackling underfoot of my sneakers, as slushy ice meets the pounding of my steps. The birthing of what appears to be a ‘winter turned spring’ sun today will soon melt branches encapsulated in a hood of ice.  My sneakers sit up firm in their affliction while crossing over the icy patches.  Flickering my eyelashes, tiny beads a cold sweat begin to cover my lids. Flakes filter down from lashes to face, melting away as they collide with my breath. Pulling my hand into my sleeve, providing it shelter from a contrast of two worlds today, as spring and winter play a game of tug - of - war amongst themselves. Wound stinging, winter still nips at my face, as the continuance of my sneakers dance along, on a path well worn, almost drunk on a silent surrender I run four miles, then return to home.

Putting My Old Life in a Coffin (for good)


I'll lie naked on my back, with idle thoughts perched on my stomach, curtains tied back, windows bare, as moonlight streams in across the flesh of my abdomen, my pearls will be loosely draped around my neck. The queen chair in the corner of my bedroom dressed in the scarf and skirt I had previously tossed there. In the morning I will make phone calls, write e-mails, make arrangements for the funeral, sign the death certificate, wipe the tears from beneath my black veil, and put my old life in the coffin just before they lower it into the ground, never wanting it to be rewarded with an eternal life. 
     In between mouthfuls of air, I'll take note of the now unrecognizable mangled corpse of what once was. I'll hear the bantering slightly irritated note in the bird's voice outside my window, as he watches yet another drama production of life pass before him, just before we both, begin again as new...

Art of Grieving


is this not the most gorgeous sunset? taken on the waterfront in Cold Spring NY
My discontent with grief comes from its blocking my boundless want. By drawing strict lines between my living and those whom I have lost, things that I have lost, parts of self, which I have lost, grief casts the world in harsh light. She makes it impossible to believe, but rather multiplies a heinous haunting that keeps you peering into the corner of the wall, blank, forgotten, restless, almost retching, so that the slate can be wiped clean, and you can begin the act of living again. Holidays are always a double-edged saw for me, one side painful, and one side sharp and shiny. It is both sides I am always left to deal with...


Against all good and reasonable judgment, life happens, to all of us. I just wish I had been in the bathroom when it came this time around, toiled blood, sweat and tears, and here I am, ready for round two of whatever life has to offer up. It is Friday, so round two just might end up a bit messy, with sea salt and chile dark chocolate melted all over my hands; it helps to soften the blow from round two.

Thursday, December 19, 2013

Books

Three favorite books to gift or give

Wanting very much for the iciest drips now pelting down the window to say something, speak to me in some brilliant philosophical language. Yates or Poe would have had the brilliance to shape the drops into poetic tongue, as I only have the brilliance to watch them drip, emotion by emotion, down my window pane, as I reach to feel the wetness of the individual tears.


*When will I stop writing? When you pry my pen from my cold dead fingers.

Expressing Myself



Looking back, it's funny the things you notice just before your life is about to change.
Just before you shed your skin, in acknowledgment that it is not you whom is crazy and tilted, but in fact, it is the rest of the world. Just before you down that bar of dark chocolate, drink that bottle of red wine (by yourself), and watch Bethany Frankel on the television, and think, yes, by god, the woman is a creative marketing genius. She went from zero ($0.00) to zillions in a matter of a few years, expressing herself like it is no one else's business. Just before you begin to think, I can do that, it's funny the things in life you now take notice of. Just before you come into your own, and begin to live. Just when you first realize that because you were still sucking in air each day, make no mistake, doesn't mean you are, or ever where, living.........it just means you were never on a ventilator, or that someone had ever reached over and pulled the plug. Looking back, it all seems so funny now, so much clearer.

Note to self: need to be more like Bethany Frankel, expressing oneself, like it is no one else's business!

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Taste of Him ( early evening dreaming at my computer)


Further provoking desire, lips barely brushing skin, as gently I lean down, my cinnamon lipstick leading a certain marked trail along his thigh. Instead of a hapless lover, a goddess of erotica frees herself from inside of me, and in insurmountable contradiction leads me to the wanting more of him. I have not touched him yet, as he expertly navigates his way down my torso, at first drawing nothing but breath, but then pressing so hard into me, leaving me in a hypnotic trance that cements to memory.
In the morning, he will leave one final abstract kiss painted on my breast, and I will slip a door key into his pant's pocket as he takes a shower. He will head to the metro, and I will smile, both of us will become predictable. Feeling a bit light headed still from the wine and the heat, and the consideration of what is still, yet to come. Leaning out my window, I let the rain fall on my face...
  >>>>>>>
The faded fabric of my couch, a few pots of geraniums, I start to open a bottle of wine, but the cork is stuck, and I look at him, a dream I can never quite put into words, as I reach for him as if entering into another life. Several afternoons a week, the bed frame clanks against the wall, without hesitation in one swift gesture, each having reached completion, as we now lie in one another’s arms. The curtains billow, I wrap myself within them, as my smell of lavender stays saturated on his skin, and the taste of him, stays forever upon my lips.

Winter Running


It has been awhile since I have run in the morning snow. I had almost forgotten the feel of the flakes; the combined feel of their coldness against my body heat, suspending me mid air as I howl down the hill, soaked to my bones. I cut through the dirt roads, my own version of the African Jungle, mist hanging from tree branches; I suck in air, now closing the door to the world behind me. I am alone on this African Safari, other than the spider whom spins a web of protection around me, as a cool and steady calm now seeps into my brain. Harboring in the shadows, gray hand of sky reaching, infusing a sense of grace as I witness the cold unfolding of another day.  Inescapably theatrical, in precarious dance, sweat pulls my emotions into a melting on the ground. Soaking up sunshine as if it is something salaciously lewd I cling to. Sneakers hurriedly dance along.........heartaches fall to the ground.




In Deepest Self - Absorbtion ( my sneakers and I )


The air so calm this morning, as if yesterday's falling snow, was a song poured down my throat. Chimes left in the wind, jangle at every corner. Sneakers echoing and sputtering up the hill. Blowing each breath back, as if I am filling balloons. Running dialogue with my sneakers, my body channels into different times and places. Sunrays aim straight toward me in an invasion of black swans on the coolest of my flesh. A hollow heard from my ribcage echoes out my spine, as a shiver travels in disguise under the prickling of goose bumps on my forearm. My pink tongue is lolling on beads of cold perspiration, as flesh becomes a paintbrush wet, glistening in the chill of December air. 
My suspicion is that the birds that flocked above me this morning during my early morning run were sent to pull me from myself, pull me from deep self - absorption. They grabbed hold of one of my threads in their beak and pulled me along, as they inched me toward complete stillness.
As I grab for my journal book, my mind unravels a thousand thoughts. I think on paper, the place I sort out my life. The place I connect all those tiny prism dots, the place with many beginnings, and few endings, the place that often allows me not to speak in tongue at all. 

FLY BY - SEAT - OF MY - PANTS KIND - OF -GIRL ***NO, I AM SO NOT!


The assumption that life would wait for me or that I would somehow arrive in Bangladesh, or on a Turks Island, or a causeway in France, has always been more of a precarious notion, than any logic assumption on my part. The adventure, the roll of the dice, sounds so fly - by- the – seat - of- my- pants, which is exactly the girl I am not, the one I have never even been close to being. Funny how I could have presumed that part of me, somehow, would ever change itself. Writing, for me, holds no geographical location, as a cave and my computer would work just as well (if not better, due to quietness) than my work space and computer do. I am methodical, pragmatic, and, well, the allure of the whole fly – by - the – seat- of - my-pants life appeals to me because it is different, new, something I have never been, am still, not. The romantic luxury of knowing I could be that girl, for a moment, for an unspecified equivalent of time, for a place I could not pry myself from, foresee my life and self without. I think if that moment should ever arrive for me, the indelible ink would remain wet, just long enough for me to transform to the fly - by - the - seat- of - my - pants- girl who would be willing to fly off, in the hope of, whatever. For a moment, a cheap second of a thought, it all sounds very doable, for a whatever that perhaps is just waiting in the wings. Waiting for me, to take off, and fly - by - the - seat - of - my - pants!

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Things I believe In...(winter is not one of them)

 Yikes....this is the 4th snowstorm for us in the past ten days here in the Northeast!

It is particularly poignant to be writing this today, on a cold, snow flaked morning, in this adopted state of mind I have such a troubled relationship with. Winter and I do not always see eye to eye, to be sure, and I let that conflict overwhelm me at times. Do I stay inside, write from a closet for the next four months, or break out the hats and scarves (rubber boots would be pushing it). Always, always, my eyes widen a bit and my first words in response are usually painted in some deep blue shade of why. WHY, oh Why, is winter here already? There's no escaping the inevitable yet ever - so - polite mention of snow - sometimes with the "oh sh**" phrase attached to it. And so here I am. Some days flooded. Most days afloat.  Every once in awhile life tries to drown me, and I swim to the top. I am wearing my flip - flops around the house today, a wishful thinking that summer will come earlier this time around. Is spring here yet? Are those tulips I see? (Sitting by the water in a sweltering heat, with my mint chocolate chip ice cream cone melting down my hand...aahhh, now doesn't that sound just blissfully wonderful, as I continue to watch the snowfall outside my window?)

 Should the occasion ever arise, I'd like to be able to rattle off a list of my truest beliefs without consulting notes or stumbling over the words.  Here’s my first draft:
Right now I'm perfectly happy, but I’ve found I’ve reached an unsettling -and somewhat surreal - time in my life. I get the feeling that being in this space, much like many other aspects of getting older is something I'll get better at with time. The world has changed. Life has changed. I am having one of those twisty conversations with myself that covers a million topics, to trace back how I got to talk about my life would require flow charts and recording devices, so I will just mosey onward with things I believe in. I believe in kindness, goodness, luck, and the importance of good juju. I believe in the Muppets, Gene Kelley, Fred Astaire, and Hallelujah, and that Leonard Cohen, is indeed, one of our greatest poets. I believe in long walks, morning runs, holding hands, and keeping the thermostat low enough to still cuddle under the blankets, but high enough, to still walk around in undergarments. I believe in hand - written letters whenever possible, but will accept digital versions if I have to. I believe in books, music, roses and doing more kissing, than actually just thinking about it. I believe in discussing / pondering plot points and characters of life. I believe in love. I believe marriage isn't right for everyone, but that everyone should consider the option. I believe in laughing every day, wiping away tears, trusting the universe (and oneself), marching to your own drummer, and appreciating the rain, cold, wet, and muddy as it may be. It cleanses. I believe Chile laced dark chocolate is better than brussel sprouts, and licking it from another's fingers is always an added plus. I believe in back roads, forward glances, sunsets, sunrises, and stopping to smell and pick the roses. I believe in coffee, girlish glamour, great shoes, and turning to check out the man you just passed on the corner. (the one with the great rear view) I believe happiness is just as worthy a goal as a corner office. I believe in saying I love you. (I believe in meaning it as well) I believe that time spent together is never wasted. I believe being alone means having the freedom to daydream, and write by lamplight until three A.M., sing along to embarrassing music that anyone in their right mind would turn off if they were there with you. But, they're not, so you can play it loudly and often. I believe in living full - throated, all - encompassing and unadorned. I believe in the journey of life, each day blowing through your entire reserve, then next day, refueling. I believe in reaching beyond your reach, where it cannot be quantified or contained. I believe in never forgetting, not the bigger things like birthdays, or even the smaller things, like the color of the dress you wore on that first date. I believe in 'quarter - life crises' rather than 'mid - life crises.' I believe in finding someone to be your daily lifeline, and keeper of your secrets. Someone to hold you up, and right your footing, repeatedly, throughout life. I believe everyone feels adrift, confused, about what their purpose in life was, or what their next step should be. I believe the markers our society uses to define success - a degree, a job, children; leads too much unneeded soul searching. I believe in finding someone to be the reason you are not off hiking by yourself somewhere, lost. I believe in giving the best and worst of you. It makes you, more or less, normal. I believe in the moment of realization - the light - bulb instant when you realize just how much purpose can be found in neglected phrases, unsolved problems, moments of guilt, despair, and long nights of feeling worthless and obsolete. Those moments make you go after things with energy and zeal. I believe to - do lists are always bigger than what is logical. I believe we are the people we meet, the dreams we have, and the conversations we engage in. That we are what we take from these. That we are each the brightest light and the darkest corner. I believe that we are a collective of every experience we have had in life. We are every single day, as existence and words run through our veins and fill our minds. I believe in letting go, and holding on, and when to know the difference. I believe everyone has their own truth, their own journey, and their own source of joy. (I believe in finding your own personal source, expanding your truths, and being unafraid to travel within your own journey)



Monday, December 16, 2013

If this isn't for you, it's for someone you know

I enter easily into another's pain, a trait I can only attribute not to some outstanding moral fiber, but rather to my adult life, which has trained my mind and soul to inhabit the skin of another in a way that little else can. In the Poughkeepsie Journal News this morning, there is an article of a 35 -  year -  old woman found dead in Fishkill, NY. Killed by brunt force trauma at the hands of her  apparent  live - in boyfriend.

"East Fishkill homicide occurred in quiet neighborhood: Neighbors say the dead end road where an East Fishkill man allegedly murdered his live-in girlfriend, is a quiet, family oriented neighborhood."


                  If this isn't for you, it's for someone you know.............
I remember the scene now, as if it were yesterday, as he brandished the coffee mug, hurling it across the room into the sink, leaving cup smashed and coffee dripping down the kitchen wall. The vision still sears in my head, as heavy fists hurled against the grey door frame of the bathroom. I'm sure I cried. I remember shaking my head and asking no - one in particular, why? As I write this I turn around and see on my shelf the faded scrapbook that contains the tattered "I'm sorry, it won't happen again," notes, tucked into a nearby shabby box are the ones that didn't fit into the scrapbook. And, together, they make me wonder, would he ever have stopped at all, if I had not been the one to stop it, by finally leaving. To finally end the trail of "I'm sorry, and this will be the last time, I promise "....... a trail of notes that seemed to continue connecting like the cars of a locomotive that went on forever. Like every other bit of my life, it has effected me for the rest of my life. It is only now that I have begun to stand still with my own memories, re - visiting a time in my life that is on a constant loop in some recess of my brain. Not that I obsess. It is just that the past is a big part of the present...sometimes memories brightly flare up, sometimes they quietly recede to the background. I feel myself fading, being pulled into a dark tunnel that was easier to stay in than consciousness. Here's another memory. He asks why I am mocking his favorite sports team. Before my confusion fully set into an organized thought he punched the wall next to my head. Domestic Violence weren't concepts I knew of yet. Because this was the most normal thing that happened everyday all the time. Each crisis was distinct and discreet behind closed doors. Obviously there were distinctions, but I never readily identified them. As we once upon a time knew, Domestic Violence creeps in silence. It is about power and control, and it often reaches death, for those that don't get out. I have my faults, some are known fully to me, and many, I am sure, are felt more expansively by others. But, Domestic Violence is not about faults, it is a a surge of physical power to control, a bullying that goes on often behind closed doors.  

Sneakers in Orgasmic Purr



A jolt of energy purrs through me this morning, in an orgasmic euphoria, as sneakers sidestep in a dance of morning ritual. I stay within the sound of my heart, in relentless tire, as my sweat covers the tiny hairs of my flesh.... sneakers in sudden shyness, sidestep a passing deer. Ornate points of my breasts erect in a formal greeting with the sun gods, as the December chill 
wraps around me as a venomous snake I choose not to escape. Balancing the active and the passive, the tuning in and the letting go. Sun glistens through the treetops, reflecting off the glaze of snow, as a deer looks on in awkwardness at my forbidden. My sneakers delivering that all - inclusive potion sending endorphins of self derived opiate to my brain. A steady breeze blows against my upper lip. Stream of pulse and breath, become as one.






Saturday, December 14, 2013

Winter Mayhem


No, winter has never been my season, never more than a cold, darkened, accusing finger pointed, much prefer the Spring to icicles between my fingertips.




      in the dark hush of my bedroom I sharpen my thoughts.
When the snowstorm comes, or the wind chill sets in, or the gusts of wind blows snow upon my door, it is then that I realize that there are some elements of life I won’t ever be able to beat, so instead, I will attempt to ignore them until Spring.






Friday, December 13, 2013

Grief Love & Life, (and The Holiday Season)






Grief, Love, and Life !
 So, here we go again. The Holiday Season is upon us. Depending upon who you are, this either means a great deal or almost nothing at all. This year, I hope you all feel loved beyond belief and that you live with a sense of joy throughout the entire year. I hope you all get past old familiar haunts the minute you once again let yourself feel. I hope this for all of you, as well as for myself. As far as thieves go, grief is the greatest one. She robs us of the people we love, but—perhaps most achingly—she zaps our ability to imagine the future. Lose a place, a person, or a love and, suddenly, measurements of time become irrelevant. Grief warps time; she renders our plans for next week and dreams for the next vacation incongruous. When we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all.
 Imagining the future is an act of boldness. The wishful imagination of a future with being alive: a wanting, a living, an expectation of something more.
 My discontent with grief comes from its blocking my boundless want. By drawing strict lines between my living and those whom I have lost, grief casts the world in harsh light. She makes it impossible to believe in forever. Instead, she injects a heinous pragmatism into sentiments that would rather be unadulterated by it. My only antidote to that has been to love – the kind of love that floods every crack and fills the vacuum of loss with the promise of togetherness. Feeling something strong enough to carve into a brick, with all the world serving as your witness. The triumph of love over loss, of affection over grief, of dreaming over pain. I am going to breath deep, even after my daily yoga session has ended. Give myself a little grace when I inevitably fall short.