For the Sunset

Every life needs a witness,
each heart, a listening ear
All weighted minds need a way to escape
so the person inside can take his own shape.

Some have voices that scream to be heard,
their message cried loud and clear.
Some have whispers so quiet and small
their message gets lost in the din of it all.

Regardless of volume, of timbre, of tone,
each thought could spark new fear.
That's why every person who truly pays attention
needs an outside party without condescention

to listen, understand, and uncover the meaning
that's hidden behind each tear.
And with every query seeming to scratch at your soul...
know my only objective is to help you be whole.

I'm thrilled that hope is now in your heart
and liberation feels so near.
And when time and shame no longer bind you,
all I ask...please glance behind you

and remember me standing in your shadows
proud of how you appear,
watching hope spring eternal in the dreams of your heart
as you take first steps for life to start.

...that's MS. Hyde to you!

I didn't make a return to the blogosphere to cry on your virtual shoulders. I came back because a few people said they missed me, and because one in particular encouraged me to start writing again. That said, in skimming through the rest of the posts I've made this year, it does sound as though I'm back just to lament the state of the world.

Newsflash: Life's not THAT bad.

Yes, I'm in an emotional pit right now, trying to dig myself out. Yes, I'm not really sure which way is up. Yes, I'm experiencing a lot more hurt and confusion than I've had in years. But things could be so much worse that it's not even funny! My material needs are met - the bills are paid...and my friends surround me. That said, they also have no clue a thing is happening, except two very observant people whom I don't know that I can trust with my self.
Which is why I'm pulling this Dr. Jekyll/Ms. Hyde routine of whiplash between posts. One flighty, one deep...one curious and one sad.

I say this because I have thoughts I want to pursue and I can't do it with people. I tried earlier tonight and one of my best friends' response was "Yep...that's a pickle. Don't know what you're going to do." So I'll do it here.

Thanks for listening. After all, you can just keep clicking through if I'm too much! :)

Phantasm

A very dear friend once told me about "fast fiction," a challenge by Warren Ellis to write a complete story in 200 words or less. So I tried it. And as I sit here digging through old files, I found my attempt. And in the darkness before dawn, it seems like as good a time as any to share. So let me know what you think.


Just friends?

tumblers fall

Bullshit!

hinges creak

I want you…right…now.

“Can I come in?”

door opens

My turn.

lips embrace with a sense of urgency, your body pulls back

“Not so fast, dearest.”

door slams

trace your collarbone with kisses until I take your pulse with my tongue

“Do you like that?”

I know your buttons…

press my thigh tighter to get your answer

“Then come with me.”

lead you slowly to the bedroom

button by button, you watch me loosen your shirt

“I love you for your mind,”

unbuckle your belt

“but tonight, I want you for your body”

Can’t keep my hands off you

you pull off my sweater

Can’t keep my lips off you

you hike up my skirt

“The boots stay on, baby”

All the better to ride you with

push you onto the bed and climb on top
ride, and ride and ride until you explode
and I collapse, barely breathing

kiss your earlobe as I get up

“Always told you I’m amazing”

pull on my sweater

“Believe me now?”

straighten the skirt

“You want more? Oh…Sorry..I thought we were just friends…”

hinges creak

door slams

Friends with benefits. Amazing, fuck-tastic benefits.

A Tale of Not-Quite-Love

At times, I use my blog as a place to think things through, a place to articulate outrage or astonishment or write open letters to someone who will likely never read them. Tonight, though, I’m taking an idea from a friend, and simply posting to tell a story.

One of my favorite bloggers has more time to surf than I do, and in his ramblings through this space we call the web, he found an amazing tale. When he read it, it touched his heart and called to him to write about the ache of first love. When I read the two of them in tandem, the pair of posts called me to write as well, but instead of first loves, it inspired me to tell my story of not-quite-love.

I was 19 and home from college for the summer. (That’s always a good opening line, right?) He was 26 and worked in the office where I found a summer job. We hit it off wonderfully! He was kind, chivalrous, mature, fun-loving yet not quite over the top in the way of the college boy who’s trying too hard to be noticed. He wasn’t the most handsome of men, but I’ve always been a full-package kinda gal…and let’s be honest here…I was slightly overweight and awkward myself. After all, 19 isn’t the height of self awareness you believe it to be when you’re living those years.

He rented an apartment from his parents to save money. I lived with mine for the whole summer, so I was at least satisfied with the fact that he didn’t live under his parents’ “roof.” He lived one hour in one direction from our office, I lived half an hour the other way, so most of our interaction was going for a bite to eat after work, or playing mini-golf with other co-workers. We had a blast!

Then it happened.

We were standing in the parking lot one Sunday afternoon, the sun was shining, we had just had a wonderful day, and he moved in to kiss me. Time slowed like a bad B-movie. I could see him tilting his head, closing his eyes, and moving in for that moment of long-pondered lip lock. The voice in my head was screaming, “Noooooooooo” in that baritone fashion voices always assume when they’re slowed down for those kinds of Hollywood moments. However, I didn’t say it. I let him kiss me. And that was the beginning of the end.

The spark was there, but the chemistry to take that moment beyond its flash point and fuel flames from the ember, was not. At first, I blamed him. I thought that he was just out of practice and the kisses and chemistry would get better with repetition. They didn’t. Then I blamed me. I enjoyed his company and we could play a mean game of Trivial Pursuit, so there had to be something wrong with *me* that his touch reminded me of a limp celery stalk, his kiss of a fish pulled from the water, flopping unpredictably and in vain as it tried to find comfort once again. So I stayed with it until he broke it off, saying he was ready for a family and I had too much school left to make that a practical option for him.

Fast forward two years later. We’ve not spoken, although we did exchange letters twice a year or so….I was on track to graduate and had found a job in my college town to sustain me while I looked for real work. He moved out of his parents’ apartment and to the town he worked in, where he met a wonderful lady. Then one day, my phone rings…he’s on the other end, wondering why I hadn’t RSVP’d for his upcoming wedding. I’m not an irresponsible sort – I had never received an invitation to start with. Not that I expected one, so it threw me for a loop when he gasped in astonishment and sent one out that night.

Put yourself in my shoes for a minute… You’re within driving distance, you have the day off, and the guy has obviously gone to trouble to make sure you’re there… What would you have done? I went. The ceremony was beautiful, and I saw a few friends before wishing the happy couple well. End of chapter, close book.

Not quite! Two years later I went to a high school reunion. I had actually tried to set this man up with one of my friends when we broke up and before he met his now-wife. This friend was at the reunion, and as we reminisced about the old days, she asked if I ever spoke to our mutual friend. I said the last time I had seen him was at his wedding.

She looked shocked.

30 minutes of conversation later, the final pieces fell into place: our upstanding chivalrous citizen…had cold feet and wanted a booty call! My invitation to the wedding never got lost in the mail. He never sent one to start with. He wanted me to come home and talk him out of it, but he would have preferred I not use words to do my persuading. How do I know this for sure? Because he spilled all to my friend over martinis one night, but she had no phone number to call and warn me. She didn’t think I would’ve gone. But I did.

I haven’t spoken to him since the wedding. I recently found something he was looking for a long time ago – I’ve pondered sending it to him with a “hope you’re well” note, but every time I come close, I think of that reunion night conversation and stop myself. If he does still care, I can’t accept the karmic responsibility or opening up someone’s old wounds for something so small. It would be so much easier if I didn’t know that – if I could just be myself and assume that he’s happily married and therefore any act of kindness on my part is merely one old friend to another, without any thing else in the mix. But I can’t.

Ah, the complexities of not-quite-love…

Words for an Absent Friend

The sun has long since set on my side of the world. In fact, only the ticking of my watch marks for me the first hours of a new day. My neighborhood fell silent hours ago, arriving at that same state of suspended quiet you hear inside when only one person tries to make a house, a home. Or perhaps you don’t hear it at all.

Outside, raindrops resonate as they fall slowly onto the city street. The clouds release them so reluctantly, if I tried I could count each droplet just by listening for the sound when it strikes the earth. Inside, the clacking of fingernails against the keys adds a rhythmic accompaniment to nature’s melody. The words banging around in my head cry for escape, coming together as inspirations and ideas that sit in my brain, half formed, until they gather enough strength and wherewithal to command my full attention. Only then will they obtain that which is necessary for every idea and concept and theory to survive – life independent.

My thoughts tend to percolate until they become a running soliloquy in my inner monologue. I search for the right words to express emotions so real to me they have become tactile, with every sensory characteristic of a living, breathing entity. Until the words are perfect, however, I keep them locked inside, and at times, even beyond then. Some nights, the words are there, but the opportunity is not. Others, the desire to compose exists, but the words have left me. At times, I’ll write just to see the words on the page, in hopes that by writing of a topic of little consequence, the greater themes will follow once the words begin to flow. Then, there are nights like this.

Half-formed thoughts swim in my head tonight. I haven’t the presence of mind to try to explain why my brain believes they belong with one another, so I won’t even try. Tonight I write to capture the moment, to use words for the pure joy of seeing them come together and provide you with a glimpse into my mind tonight. I commit this crime against true literature without premeditation, and out of sheer indulgence.

I feel the need to write something in honor of a friend of whom I’ve lost track. We’ll call him, “Mark.” Mark is, for me, one of those people we all have in our pasts – one with whom our paths crossed for far too short a time, but who made a large impact in that brief moment. Mark loves language – he can turn a phrase that is both concise yet complete, and just writing to his level improved my skills as well.

Meeting Mark was like finding a lost piece of my soul residing in the body of another – so strong was the connection, so immediate and so enduring. Or so I thought. About a month after we met, it became clear our friendship was to become a victim of a cruel temporal prank. His job pulled him away, and as the physical distance grew larger and larger, our emotional distance grew more and more tenuous. I never had the opportunity for that closer inspection that reveals whether the imperfections underneath his amazing façade would have been endearing, or repulsive. Then again, as I walk down the garden path in my mind, perhaps it’s best the blush is still on that rose.

Regardless of what could have been, I live in what is now. We lost touch, but I still think of Mark and his love of language. Tonight, I sit and write in his honor. I hope someday to find him. Until then, I continue to write. Some nights, for the thoughts…some nights, for the release…and some nights, for the process. Tonight, for him.

To missed connections the world over, my friend. Saluté.

An Open Letter

These are words scrawled on paper in the black of night, then transcribed into something legible to sent them back from whence they came. I write them knowing that you may never see them. I simply feel the need to communicate with you, even if only with the spectre of you, harboring the illusion that you still care. Perhaps I'll delude myself a while longer.

I have offended you. I am sorry. I have hurt you. I am sorry. I can't say that enough right now. I also can't say it to you just yet. You don't want to speak to me and I'll respect that desire, and extend it to other forms of communication for the moment. You're right - I can't make you do anything you don't want to do, and no matter how much I want to solve this, if you don't want to speak to me, I care too much for you to force the issue.

If anything, I'm in a catch 22. I'm a fixer, a healer...I want the people I care about to be well, and it pains me to know that I have hurt you. I want to fix it. But to fix it, I feel I would only cause you more pain by talking to you. So instead, I have to step back and, in order to do what is best for you, I have to hurt my self. Taking a razor blade to my own soul, slashing in all directions in my feeble attempts to deflect the blade from you.

We have an amazing rapport in that you have managed to break through the wall around my heart and make me feel something. Therefore, it should not surprise me that to remove that influence results in amazing pain. Three days feel like thirty as I wait to hear from you again, to discover what has created such a rapidly growing rift between two people as close as we.

You say you want me to take control, yet you ask me to stay away. Confused as I am, I shall try to respect your desires, and your space, because I respect you. I will do my best to wait patiently in this purgatory of our mutual creation, but you have taught me something - that which is worth having, is worth fighting for. When the time comes I chafe against your abrupt silence and forced distance, I may have to stage one final campaign so I know that I have truly tried everything. I owe that to myself, and I owe that to you.