The Darkness and the Light
He never let me get close enough
to see if he wore cologne
I asked him to sometimes wear it
because it kind of turned me on
He turned around and walked away
and then, still there, was gone
Though physically he still exists
a ghost lives in my home
So accustomed to the darkness
the sunshine hurt my eyes
I avoided doors and windows
because what was inside made me cry
Until I looked into a mirror
where I knew I couldn't hide
And drew a breathe and moved in closer
the light had always been inside
Friday, June 3, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Love Song to Spooky Oats
Relax. This isn't another Love Letter of Dooooooom. I've stayed true to my word and while I couldn't resist a poem a week or so ago, there are no odes to any crushes or lucky bastards I'm smitten with that I will regret in the morning and ultimately in perpetuity. I've learned my lesson which is not so much to guard my heart (still working on that one) but not to, as one wit said, announce it in surround sound. Now that I think about it, I'm failing that one miserably too but I'm TRYING!
It's true that when I care about someone I gush. I'm effusive and tell them how I feel, partially because it's a natural inclination, and partially because I've lost roughly half of the most important people in my world in the past few years, and nearly lost my own life as well. In fact, twice I considered taking my own. Not something to be proud of, but nevertheless, a fact. What I've learned through it all is that life is too short. Take a chance. Take a risk. Wing it. Say it. Say how you feel. Say what you mean. Communicate while you still can. And communication to me, especially from people I care about are little pearls. However you feel about me, tell me, because I'm telling you. That's a gift, my love.
A lot of people know who Spooky Oats is because he makes no secret of how he feels about me too. He is one of my best friends and while there may be 2000 miles of ocean between us, I trust him implicitly and instinctively and he has always, even at my most unreasonable demand, dropped everything when I needed him. I was there when he needed me and always will be and the day that one of us lands at the others' airport it will be a happy day but until now we get by via the internet's various means. He's seen me on Skype without makeup and still loves me. What more could a girl ask for?
I'll tell you. When he comes home from an exhausting day or night he IMs me and his adrenaline is so sky high that I get thrilled just listening to him talk about how awesome this or that was. I know who his heroes are. I know what makes him cry and I know his best friends' names. When he had a break-up and was confused, I hurt with him and cried and when I cried over two different men, he bent over backwards to make me feel lovable because I felt so lost and rejected. He asked for nothing in return but that he hopes he never makes me cry. He pores over my blogs and dissects my poetry. I know the words to most of his songs and watch the YouTube videos of his band religiously, proud and excited for him. He's my superstar. I'm his princess.
People think we have a 'thing' but I don't really care what people think. We make asses of ourselves posting here and there to each other for all the world to see. He says, 'You're my favorite,'. I say, 'I better be!' and he says, 'There's no competition.' There's a lot of chatter about me because when I talk, chat or write, whether it's about myself or others, my heart is open wide and what you see is what you get with me. I don't have a separate internet persona. I am as true as the words I write. And I can count on Spooky to be truthful to me even if it hurts, because I know in my heart, as flawed as he might think he is, he too is true and honest. I know where I stand with him.
Tonight I shared something very painful with him that only one other person knows and that person who I also care for deeply is choosing to remain incommunicado which had been killing me and we discussed that too. That person to the best of my knowledge doesn't ask me about myself or read my blogs and probably doesn't even know that a poem was written for him, poems that are becoming, I see, the newest incarnations of the Love Letters of Doom, jinxes all, yet still I write them, and as Spooky calls it, I am indeed a fickle woman and I asked Spooky if that person could redeem himself and he said, 'In reality no, but in your eyes, if he tries his very fucking best just because you hold less of a grudge than Karma does,' and it dawned on me that he knew me better than I gave him credit for. I didn't know that he knew how I could and have forgiven so much and let so much slide but he'd been listening and observing the whole time, patiently, ready to pick up the pieces, ready to hold me as best as he could from across an ocean.
Two out of three we have, and one day we may have the third, but you forgot one more; Gratitude. My cup runneth over.
Now write me a song.
It's true that when I care about someone I gush. I'm effusive and tell them how I feel, partially because it's a natural inclination, and partially because I've lost roughly half of the most important people in my world in the past few years, and nearly lost my own life as well. In fact, twice I considered taking my own. Not something to be proud of, but nevertheless, a fact. What I've learned through it all is that life is too short. Take a chance. Take a risk. Wing it. Say it. Say how you feel. Say what you mean. Communicate while you still can. And communication to me, especially from people I care about are little pearls. However you feel about me, tell me, because I'm telling you. That's a gift, my love.
A lot of people know who Spooky Oats is because he makes no secret of how he feels about me too. He is one of my best friends and while there may be 2000 miles of ocean between us, I trust him implicitly and instinctively and he has always, even at my most unreasonable demand, dropped everything when I needed him. I was there when he needed me and always will be and the day that one of us lands at the others' airport it will be a happy day but until now we get by via the internet's various means. He's seen me on Skype without makeup and still loves me. What more could a girl ask for?
I'll tell you. When he comes home from an exhausting day or night he IMs me and his adrenaline is so sky high that I get thrilled just listening to him talk about how awesome this or that was. I know who his heroes are. I know what makes him cry and I know his best friends' names. When he had a break-up and was confused, I hurt with him and cried and when I cried over two different men, he bent over backwards to make me feel lovable because I felt so lost and rejected. He asked for nothing in return but that he hopes he never makes me cry. He pores over my blogs and dissects my poetry. I know the words to most of his songs and watch the YouTube videos of his band religiously, proud and excited for him. He's my superstar. I'm his princess.
People think we have a 'thing' but I don't really care what people think. We make asses of ourselves posting here and there to each other for all the world to see. He says, 'You're my favorite,'. I say, 'I better be!' and he says, 'There's no competition.' There's a lot of chatter about me because when I talk, chat or write, whether it's about myself or others, my heart is open wide and what you see is what you get with me. I don't have a separate internet persona. I am as true as the words I write. And I can count on Spooky to be truthful to me even if it hurts, because I know in my heart, as flawed as he might think he is, he too is true and honest. I know where I stand with him.
Tonight I shared something very painful with him that only one other person knows and that person who I also care for deeply is choosing to remain incommunicado which had been killing me and we discussed that too. That person to the best of my knowledge doesn't ask me about myself or read my blogs and probably doesn't even know that a poem was written for him, poems that are becoming, I see, the newest incarnations of the Love Letters of Doom, jinxes all, yet still I write them, and as Spooky calls it, I am indeed a fickle woman and I asked Spooky if that person could redeem himself and he said, 'In reality no, but in your eyes, if he tries his very fucking best just because you hold less of a grudge than Karma does,' and it dawned on me that he knew me better than I gave him credit for. I didn't know that he knew how I could and have forgiven so much and let so much slide but he'd been listening and observing the whole time, patiently, ready to pick up the pieces, ready to hold me as best as he could from across an ocean.
Two out of three we have, and one day we may have the third, but you forgot one more; Gratitude. My cup runneth over.
Now write me a song.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Light-Years to Mars
I'm sorry that I'm not a puzzle
Or a cryptic and strange secret code
I guess that I made it too easy
When I offered warmth when you liked cold
It's true I'm not so formulaic
And don't know a lot about clues
I'm too busy feeling what's inside
To recall any absolute truths
You probably could say I'm a fool
For Believing and Wishing on stars
I guess there's a lot more to distance
Than packing for light-years to Mars
I never thought I had the answers
But I figured I'd wing it and try
I honestly didn't expect that I
Wasn't worth five minutes of your precious time
Well here I go burning more bridges
But it's my talent or so I've been told
Don't apologize, there's nothing to forgive, mea culpa
It's just my heart is a wide open road.
Or a cryptic and strange secret code
I guess that I made it too easy
When I offered warmth when you liked cold
It's true I'm not so formulaic
And don't know a lot about clues
I'm too busy feeling what's inside
To recall any absolute truths
You probably could say I'm a fool
For Believing and Wishing on stars
I guess there's a lot more to distance
Than packing for light-years to Mars
I never thought I had the answers
But I figured I'd wing it and try
I honestly didn't expect that I
Wasn't worth five minutes of your precious time
Well here I go burning more bridges
But it's my talent or so I've been told
Don't apologize, there's nothing to forgive, mea culpa
It's just my heart is a wide open road.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Uppity Fatty
I laugh when I hear 'conventionally attractive' and 'normal' because it's like trying to nail jello to a wall when you ask someone to define what those terms mean. Recently I heard a woman who weighs over 350 lbs. proclaim she has 'some thin privilege' because of her height (she's amazonian) and her activity level the description of which left me exhausted. How do we come up with these terms and why do we continue to use them since they seem to change direction with the wind?
When I was a kid and used to read Mad Magazine, one of my favorite recurring sections was the inside back page where one had to fold twice to get point 'A' to meet point 'B' and it would give a visual representation of whatever the joke was. In one most relative to my point, was how the standards of beauty change over time, so the original image was of a woman who was pleasant looking with regular features, bright smile, eyes and shiny hair and once folded, the visage now showed a person with a gaunt face covered in tattoos, piercings, impressively garish scars and the like with the heading, The Future Face of Beauty. The sad and scary thing is that face does in many eyes represent the face of beauty to many people and the pleasant original face is now often considered boring, bland and passe'.It's not so dismaying that the former is embraced but that the latter has been discarded and found lacking.
I suppose I could come up with a pie chart and some statistical trends that occur (and interestingly ebb and flow) to support my thoughts but that's what your fingers and Google search is for so go knock yourself out. If you want facts or factoids or things that are baloney but are stated with such emphasis and authority that they must be true, then Wikipedia is the one for you because as you already may have guessed:
Everything you read on the internet is true ~ Thomas Jefferson
At this point I probably have to also add my own disclaimers. I have 'beauty privilege' 'mouthy broad privilege' and 'are you gonna eat that cake or what privilege' because I get away with a lot that being a fat person, by conventional standards, I shouldn't be. Some say it's my charm. Some say it's my chutzpah. I'd like to think that nobody puts this baby into a corner because there isn't a corner big enough for this baby.
One thing I don't lack is self-esteem. Due to a recent cover of Village Voice profiling a couple (among others--SHOUT OUT TO MY MY GIRL 'CHARLOTTE'), one of whom was an FA (Fat Admirer or Guy Who Likes Fat Chicks) and the other, a stunning fat webmodel, both of whom I sorta kinda know in an interwebzy way, we (fatties and the ones who love us) are getting a lot of attention both from fellow fatties joining in (MY PEOPLE!) to haters admonishing that we're all gonna die of teh dethfatz. We tend to laugh at the doomsayers who also like to throw out the 'fat girls are easy' line---Every guy who never got me only wishes this, the 'fat girls will go out with anyone because there's less of a pool to choose from'--which is why Spouse has to beat them off with a baseball bat when they approach me IN FRONT OF HIM, and 'Fat people are lazy slobs who've given up on life' which um....there isn't enough bandwidth to address this one.
You don't have to like me. You don't have to like my fat. But I'm a human being same as you and you're no better than me. Oh and you over there, you little chubster who says, 'Well, at least I'm not THAT fat or I can always pull back'--you're no better either. You're one of us. One of us. One of us. You're making it worse for everyone and everyone includes you, I promise you it will come back and bite you in the ass.
And while you can cowardly hide behind the anonymity of the internet, and try to shame me because not only am I not ashamed but also have the audacity to be arrogant and say, 'No, you don't get it. I wouldn't fuck YOU.' you might want to do two things. First, look in the mirror. Then think about what you say when you're out in public spouting your shit and pseudo facts because there are a lot more of me than there are of you. We're not only getting fatter. We're multiplying and we're not going away.
When I was a kid and used to read Mad Magazine, one of my favorite recurring sections was the inside back page where one had to fold twice to get point 'A' to meet point 'B' and it would give a visual representation of whatever the joke was. In one most relative to my point, was how the standards of beauty change over time, so the original image was of a woman who was pleasant looking with regular features, bright smile, eyes and shiny hair and once folded, the visage now showed a person with a gaunt face covered in tattoos, piercings, impressively garish scars and the like with the heading, The Future Face of Beauty. The sad and scary thing is that face does in many eyes represent the face of beauty to many people and the pleasant original face is now often considered boring, bland and passe'.It's not so dismaying that the former is embraced but that the latter has been discarded and found lacking.
I suppose I could come up with a pie chart and some statistical trends that occur (and interestingly ebb and flow) to support my thoughts but that's what your fingers and Google search is for so go knock yourself out. If you want facts or factoids or things that are baloney but are stated with such emphasis and authority that they must be true, then Wikipedia is the one for you because as you already may have guessed:
Everything you read on the internet is true ~ Thomas Jefferson
At this point I probably have to also add my own disclaimers. I have 'beauty privilege' 'mouthy broad privilege' and 'are you gonna eat that cake or what privilege' because I get away with a lot that being a fat person, by conventional standards, I shouldn't be. Some say it's my charm. Some say it's my chutzpah. I'd like to think that nobody puts this baby into a corner because there isn't a corner big enough for this baby.
One thing I don't lack is self-esteem. Due to a recent cover of Village Voice profiling a couple (among others--SHOUT OUT TO MY MY GIRL 'CHARLOTTE'), one of whom was an FA (Fat Admirer or Guy Who Likes Fat Chicks) and the other, a stunning fat webmodel, both of whom I sorta kinda know in an interwebzy way, we (fatties and the ones who love us) are getting a lot of attention both from fellow fatties joining in (MY PEOPLE!) to haters admonishing that we're all gonna die of teh dethfatz. We tend to laugh at the doomsayers who also like to throw out the 'fat girls are easy' line---Every guy who never got me only wishes this, the 'fat girls will go out with anyone because there's less of a pool to choose from'--which is why Spouse has to beat them off with a baseball bat when they approach me IN FRONT OF HIM, and 'Fat people are lazy slobs who've given up on life' which um....there isn't enough bandwidth to address this one.
You don't have to like me. You don't have to like my fat. But I'm a human being same as you and you're no better than me. Oh and you over there, you little chubster who says, 'Well, at least I'm not THAT fat or I can always pull back'--you're no better either. You're one of us. One of us. One of us. You're making it worse for everyone and everyone includes you, I promise you it will come back and bite you in the ass.
And while you can cowardly hide behind the anonymity of the internet, and try to shame me because not only am I not ashamed but also have the audacity to be arrogant and say, 'No, you don't get it. I wouldn't fuck YOU.' you might want to do two things. First, look in the mirror. Then think about what you say when you're out in public spouting your shit and pseudo facts because there are a lot more of me than there are of you. We're not only getting fatter. We're multiplying and we're not going away.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Run Llama Run!!!
Every woman has had a million (hyperbole thy name is Elaine) moments of internal strife and struggle when she stands in front of her closet and says in all sincerity, 'I have nothing to wear.' If that woman is me, she will also stomp her foot and might possibly fling the nearest pillow for full diva effect because I take my melodramatic moments quite seriously.( Owing it to my adoring public of one; a small black calico who is more interesting in licking her ass than my performances. Critics can be so brutal. Still the show must go on.)
Glorious spring is here and I can already smell summer in the air, which in the country is actually quite pleasant although sometimes the fragrance from the prizewinning llama farm just down the road can get a little ripe. I do remind myself that the owner of aforementioned farm is also a philanthropist and conservationist and sells that llama hair (it's hair, not fur) and milk for a fortune and that he's also a sentimental crazy old coot as evidenced by the fact that he will only sell his llamas in pairs (because they get lonely and who wants a lonely llama) after a strenuous and lengthy adoption process in which there's a distinct possibility you may not even be approved. And for the love of God, do NOT insult his devilled eggs which are lovely dyed pink in beet juice by his manservant and secret lover, Teddy.
I get to see the llamas for free because he throws an open house once a year to the public but also a separate neighbors' get-together on the veranda (I shit you not) where we sip champagne with berries and eat organic (grown in his own garden, fertilized by llama poo) tomato and llama mozzarella appetizers while perusing pics of llamas and gossiping about that asshole who keeps building houses where the deck bannister is built into a kitchen window which renders it impossible to open or the time the deck support beam stopped 18 inches ABOVE ground. We wondered aloud who would buy such a house, not realizing the new owner was sitting among us. Awkward and here's your welcome basket.
I don't need a llama because some kid with too much time on his hands keeps going back to the private road none of us are allowed to use unless a state of emergency is called because evidently prizewinning llamas are in such demand that more than once very bad people have pulled up to the back gate of the farm with a tractor trailer and stolen some of the beloved camelids.
The boy himself doesn't want to steal them, though. He just likes to open the gate and let them run free sometimes so it isn't an unusual sight for me to see from my patio door one munching on a white pine in the woods behind my house. I call the philanthropist's secretary, she calls one of the stable boys, llama gets apprehended, I get a lovely flower arrangement (and depending on the time of year, a half ton of organic zucchini) and am ensured another invitation to the next neighbors' wine and cheese party.
We ooh and ahh during the tours and at the array of ribbons on the stalls and doors and are encouraged to take as many prints of photos as we'd like. We also get little souvenir bags of llama silk, which I'm told is worth a lot of money and I ponder how much silk it would take to make me something to wear to this First Holy Communion my sister-in-law's sister's kid is celebrating tomorrow.
I find something new and lovely with the tags still on and feel triumphant and do a little happy dance around the room while Wonton enthusiastically chews on one of the ribbons I never throw out but tie to the drawer pulls of my antique dresser because I think it looks so shabby chic but since her arrival now just appears shabby.
Spouse comments on this frequently which is why I will NEVER remove the ribbons if only to irritate his decorative sensibilities which extend mostly to wondering aloud if particleboard is an endangered wood species and naugahyde no longer exists because wild herds of naugas were hunted into extinction in the 70's.
I don't speculate on his obsession to recreate a casino in the basement (five slot machines and counting) so I dismiss his opinion on such matters with impunity.
The top/tunic is flow-y and I've found the perfect pair of faux olivine earrings to go with it (thank you Heidi Daus and HSN) but it is an off-the-shoulder top and it's too late for me to find a strapless bra in my size which is not 'plus' or 'queen' but 'empress of the universe' and therefore fittingly rare, but I vaguely recall owning one that not only is exactly what the doctor ordered BUT doesn't make me feel like I'm going to spill over and do a burlesque number every time I reach for my martini.
Now another source of contention is that I have a lot of clothes. No, really. I used to model for a short time (the putting the clothes ON, type of model) and was fortunate enough to work for and collaborate with some great designers and their advice (and perks) is priceless but THAT comes with a price; there are three closets in the room and two large dressers and except for two drawers for Spouse' tees, boxers, socks and jeans, they're all mine. There is also a large dresser in the bathroom filled only with my panties because I have a very slight lingerie fetish.
And I can't find that bra.
Okay I have other bras I can wear. One is nude and convertible but I can't find the damn extender and the clips to switch the straps always come undone at the most inopportune time, like when I'm curtsying before the Queen, so....pass. Then there's a couple that I could technically wear while tucking in the straps, because they are pretty supportive but they're all lace and will affect the appearance of the top I'm wearing so, although quite beautiful and the perfectly appropriately matchy-matchy shades....no to them too and now I'm getting desperate. Oh damn, I should have followed Ginny's advice and just bought a smaller one with boning and just mofo'd the hell out of it with extenders but I'm so freakin stubborn. SHIT.
And then....while I'm hopping from foot to foot because suddenly I have to pee but am too willful to give up my search, I reach into the back of a drawer and not only pull out the equivalent of winning the lottery (okay, okay, a free scratch-off ticket) but the little bag containing ALL the convertible accessories and I HAVE SCORED!!!!!! And I forgot because it's been so long but it's silk, like....like....llama hair...awwww...
I look for Wonton's approval to share my success but she's left the room which is unusual because of our four cats, she is MY shadow, MY confidante, MY furkid as opposed to the other three who only deign me to live in THEIR house with Spouse. She thinks they're all peasants so I'm quite content to be beloved by her only, because of her impeccable taste. My outfit for tomorrow properly assembled I walk downstairs in search of a Diet Dr. Pepper and my cat.
Evidently there is a union meeting and I wasn't invited to serve donuts and coffee. All four have come to a temporary truce and are sitting shoulder to shoulder at the patio door. Because it's a warm breezy day, it's open to the screen and four tails are twitching in unison, four rumps are hitching for a pounce. I look for the squirrel who frequently comes to visit them at the door and burst into laughter.
There's a llama on my deck.
Glorious spring is here and I can already smell summer in the air, which in the country is actually quite pleasant although sometimes the fragrance from the prizewinning llama farm just down the road can get a little ripe. I do remind myself that the owner of aforementioned farm is also a philanthropist and conservationist and sells that llama hair (it's hair, not fur) and milk for a fortune and that he's also a sentimental crazy old coot as evidenced by the fact that he will only sell his llamas in pairs (because they get lonely and who wants a lonely llama) after a strenuous and lengthy adoption process in which there's a distinct possibility you may not even be approved. And for the love of God, do NOT insult his devilled eggs which are lovely dyed pink in beet juice by his manservant and secret lover, Teddy.
I get to see the llamas for free because he throws an open house once a year to the public but also a separate neighbors' get-together on the veranda (I shit you not) where we sip champagne with berries and eat organic (grown in his own garden, fertilized by llama poo) tomato and llama mozzarella appetizers while perusing pics of llamas and gossiping about that asshole who keeps building houses where the deck bannister is built into a kitchen window which renders it impossible to open or the time the deck support beam stopped 18 inches ABOVE ground. We wondered aloud who would buy such a house, not realizing the new owner was sitting among us. Awkward and here's your welcome basket.
I don't need a llama because some kid with too much time on his hands keeps going back to the private road none of us are allowed to use unless a state of emergency is called because evidently prizewinning llamas are in such demand that more than once very bad people have pulled up to the back gate of the farm with a tractor trailer and stolen some of the beloved camelids.
The boy himself doesn't want to steal them, though. He just likes to open the gate and let them run free sometimes so it isn't an unusual sight for me to see from my patio door one munching on a white pine in the woods behind my house. I call the philanthropist's secretary, she calls one of the stable boys, llama gets apprehended, I get a lovely flower arrangement (and depending on the time of year, a half ton of organic zucchini) and am ensured another invitation to the next neighbors' wine and cheese party.
We ooh and ahh during the tours and at the array of ribbons on the stalls and doors and are encouraged to take as many prints of photos as we'd like. We also get little souvenir bags of llama silk, which I'm told is worth a lot of money and I ponder how much silk it would take to make me something to wear to this First Holy Communion my sister-in-law's sister's kid is celebrating tomorrow.
I find something new and lovely with the tags still on and feel triumphant and do a little happy dance around the room while Wonton enthusiastically chews on one of the ribbons I never throw out but tie to the drawer pulls of my antique dresser because I think it looks so shabby chic but since her arrival now just appears shabby.
Spouse comments on this frequently which is why I will NEVER remove the ribbons if only to irritate his decorative sensibilities which extend mostly to wondering aloud if particleboard is an endangered wood species and naugahyde no longer exists because wild herds of naugas were hunted into extinction in the 70's.
I don't speculate on his obsession to recreate a casino in the basement (five slot machines and counting) so I dismiss his opinion on such matters with impunity.
The top/tunic is flow-y and I've found the perfect pair of faux olivine earrings to go with it (thank you Heidi Daus and HSN) but it is an off-the-shoulder top and it's too late for me to find a strapless bra in my size which is not 'plus' or 'queen' but 'empress of the universe' and therefore fittingly rare, but I vaguely recall owning one that not only is exactly what the doctor ordered BUT doesn't make me feel like I'm going to spill over and do a burlesque number every time I reach for my martini.
Now another source of contention is that I have a lot of clothes. No, really. I used to model for a short time (the putting the clothes ON, type of model) and was fortunate enough to work for and collaborate with some great designers and their advice (and perks) is priceless but THAT comes with a price; there are three closets in the room and two large dressers and except for two drawers for Spouse' tees, boxers, socks and jeans, they're all mine. There is also a large dresser in the bathroom filled only with my panties because I have a very slight lingerie fetish.
And I can't find that bra.
Okay I have other bras I can wear. One is nude and convertible but I can't find the damn extender and the clips to switch the straps always come undone at the most inopportune time, like when I'm curtsying before the Queen, so....pass. Then there's a couple that I could technically wear while tucking in the straps, because they are pretty supportive but they're all lace and will affect the appearance of the top I'm wearing so, although quite beautiful and the perfectly appropriately matchy-matchy shades....no to them too and now I'm getting desperate. Oh damn, I should have followed Ginny's advice and just bought a smaller one with boning and just mofo'd the hell out of it with extenders but I'm so freakin stubborn. SHIT.
And then....while I'm hopping from foot to foot because suddenly I have to pee but am too willful to give up my search, I reach into the back of a drawer and not only pull out the equivalent of winning the lottery (okay, okay, a free scratch-off ticket) but the little bag containing ALL the convertible accessories and I HAVE SCORED!!!!!! And I forgot because it's been so long but it's silk, like....like....llama hair...awwww...
I look for Wonton's approval to share my success but she's left the room which is unusual because of our four cats, she is MY shadow, MY confidante, MY furkid as opposed to the other three who only deign me to live in THEIR house with Spouse. She thinks they're all peasants so I'm quite content to be beloved by her only, because of her impeccable taste. My outfit for tomorrow properly assembled I walk downstairs in search of a Diet Dr. Pepper and my cat.
Evidently there is a union meeting and I wasn't invited to serve donuts and coffee. All four have come to a temporary truce and are sitting shoulder to shoulder at the patio door. Because it's a warm breezy day, it's open to the screen and four tails are twitching in unison, four rumps are hitching for a pounce. I look for the squirrel who frequently comes to visit them at the door and burst into laughter.
There's a llama on my deck.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Let Me Not Forget
There are moments in life that are so branded into our psyches that there's no need to tie a mental string around one's finger. Like the firsts; first time I tied my shoes, first time I rode my bike without training wheels, first day of school, first pet, first A+, first time I stood up to a bully, first time my performance earned applause, first crush, first kiss, first raise, first car, the list is long because my memory is legend but also because I'm hopelessly romantic and schmaltzy sentimental.
But then there are those times that I've been hit by such an overwhelming wave of emotion and feeling that I forget who, what, when, where and why and knew in the depths of my bottomless soul that I needed to mark the moment lest I forget amidst the noise of my beating thrumming heart. And in truth, the fear of what could go wrong.
Some of it I've shared with you, gentle readers, here, there and everywhere, like the time I was kissed the way I was born to be kissed. Like Aurora in Sleeping Beauty, I waited for what seemed like a lifetime for that kiss and was taken breathlessly by surprise when it happened but I clearly recall saying in my heart as he held me in his arms, 'Let me not forget this moment, ever' a plea, a supplication to a higher being perhaps that in hours of need that I could visit upon that moment and remember for a few moments I was deeply wanted and needed and that moment was full of possibility. That I remain good friends with this man fifteen years later is a testimony to how time (for me at least) tends to filter and soften the focus of pain and disappointment and blur the memories to bittersweet treasures. That his hands shake when we see each other, still, even now, too is a treasure, a little pearl.
Speaking of pearls, they are a personal icon. The tiniest innocuous irritant makes its way into the imperious impervious lip of an oyster in an endless ocean full of countless grains of sand and countless oysters. They find each other or perhaps the current ebb and flow of life throws them together but either way the grain of sand rests and nestles in the heart of the oyster. No matter how much it tries, the oyster cannot expel the little interloper so it releases nacre to cover the grain of sand in layer after layer after layer until a pearl is formed. A precious natural jewel created from something so relentlessly even ruthlessly rejected. Oh how could I not relate? How could I not adore such irony? How could it not be......me?
Then there was the time I though God was lost to me. That we would be strangers, that I wasn't good enough and I would be a spiritual orphan because I couldn't fit into the box of 'should be' and couldn't reconcile that any intelligent God would expect me to suspend logic to believe and follow Him. One day, I joined a gathering of people and after years of wondering if it was possible, I felt a spiritual awakening. One night after many nights of prayer and meditation both on my own and with my friends, I felt as if a river was rushing and bubbling through my entire body and as I held the hands of my friends on either side, they felt it too and I said aloud, 'Let me not forget, ever, please oh please'...again a prayer.....and the tears on my cheeks even now are proof that whether you believe or not, I know that *I* felt it and needed it for whatever reason and I fully embraced it and do now. Oh, I do believe, I do believe as the Cowardly Lion said.
I am blessed. I have had illuminating moments that were joyful and some that were agonizing and perhaps because I AM so stubborn and willful I had to experience them both to learn. So many lessons learned and so many more to come. So many answers give rise to so many more questions and I stand in awe and amazement and wonder of it all. That I get one go-round on this beautiful earth is blessing enough. That I share it with so many amazing people and experiences is the cherry on the cake.
Some more Let Me Not Forget moments:
When my late mother visited me on the day of my sister's funeral to tell me she was now safe and no one could hurt her again.
When I knew I no longer loved someone but it wasn't my fault. I really had done all I could. And I was able to and did forgive him. And the one after him too.
When I was both devastated and relieved that the person I thought was my soul mate, wasn't.
When my dearest friend who lost everything she loved most still loved me and held me when I lost everything.
When a group of beloved friends had to repeatedly remind me who I was and did not let go until it sunk in.
When I poured out my heart to someone and he ran away and I never expected it.
When I poured out my heart to someone and he still didn't run away even though I fully expected it.
When a friend told me the brutal truth and I was ready to accept and embrace it.
When I finally believed it after denying it for years that I am amazing and there's nothing wrong with believing it.
When I was ready to give love a chance again in spite of seemingly insurmountable odds.
When I was ready to breath and stand on my own two feet.
When I was ready to start writing again.
Let me not forget.
But then there are those times that I've been hit by such an overwhelming wave of emotion and feeling that I forget who, what, when, where and why and knew in the depths of my bottomless soul that I needed to mark the moment lest I forget amidst the noise of my beating thrumming heart. And in truth, the fear of what could go wrong.
Some of it I've shared with you, gentle readers, here, there and everywhere, like the time I was kissed the way I was born to be kissed. Like Aurora in Sleeping Beauty, I waited for what seemed like a lifetime for that kiss and was taken breathlessly by surprise when it happened but I clearly recall saying in my heart as he held me in his arms, 'Let me not forget this moment, ever' a plea, a supplication to a higher being perhaps that in hours of need that I could visit upon that moment and remember for a few moments I was deeply wanted and needed and that moment was full of possibility. That I remain good friends with this man fifteen years later is a testimony to how time (for me at least) tends to filter and soften the focus of pain and disappointment and blur the memories to bittersweet treasures. That his hands shake when we see each other, still, even now, too is a treasure, a little pearl.
Speaking of pearls, they are a personal icon. The tiniest innocuous irritant makes its way into the imperious impervious lip of an oyster in an endless ocean full of countless grains of sand and countless oysters. They find each other or perhaps the current ebb and flow of life throws them together but either way the grain of sand rests and nestles in the heart of the oyster. No matter how much it tries, the oyster cannot expel the little interloper so it releases nacre to cover the grain of sand in layer after layer after layer until a pearl is formed. A precious natural jewel created from something so relentlessly even ruthlessly rejected. Oh how could I not relate? How could I not adore such irony? How could it not be......me?
Then there was the time I though God was lost to me. That we would be strangers, that I wasn't good enough and I would be a spiritual orphan because I couldn't fit into the box of 'should be' and couldn't reconcile that any intelligent God would expect me to suspend logic to believe and follow Him. One day, I joined a gathering of people and after years of wondering if it was possible, I felt a spiritual awakening. One night after many nights of prayer and meditation both on my own and with my friends, I felt as if a river was rushing and bubbling through my entire body and as I held the hands of my friends on either side, they felt it too and I said aloud, 'Let me not forget, ever, please oh please'...again a prayer.....and the tears on my cheeks even now are proof that whether you believe or not, I know that *I* felt it and needed it for whatever reason and I fully embraced it and do now. Oh, I do believe, I do believe as the Cowardly Lion said.
I am blessed. I have had illuminating moments that were joyful and some that were agonizing and perhaps because I AM so stubborn and willful I had to experience them both to learn. So many lessons learned and so many more to come. So many answers give rise to so many more questions and I stand in awe and amazement and wonder of it all. That I get one go-round on this beautiful earth is blessing enough. That I share it with so many amazing people and experiences is the cherry on the cake.
Some more Let Me Not Forget moments:
When my late mother visited me on the day of my sister's funeral to tell me she was now safe and no one could hurt her again.
When I knew I no longer loved someone but it wasn't my fault. I really had done all I could. And I was able to and did forgive him. And the one after him too.
When I was both devastated and relieved that the person I thought was my soul mate, wasn't.
When my dearest friend who lost everything she loved most still loved me and held me when I lost everything.
When a group of beloved friends had to repeatedly remind me who I was and did not let go until it sunk in.
When I poured out my heart to someone and he ran away and I never expected it.
When I poured out my heart to someone and he still didn't run away even though I fully expected it.
When a friend told me the brutal truth and I was ready to accept and embrace it.
When I finally believed it after denying it for years that I am amazing and there's nothing wrong with believing it.
When I was ready to give love a chance again in spite of seemingly insurmountable odds.
When I was ready to breath and stand on my own two feet.
When I was ready to start writing again.
Let me not forget.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Crying over Spilt Chocolate
In the space of less than seven years, I have lost half of my family; my beautiful mother and only sister Lisa and my sweet baby brother Donny. My father sees no reason to celebrate or observe any holiday today and I can't blame him because the loss of my brother was so recent, but I am deeply grateful for my many blessings, most especially, that I still have him and my brother David, my continuing improving health, the love and affection of friends near and far and even a couple of men who I still don't understand why they put up with me.
Today talking with David, we both mentioned simultaneously that it's 'just us' and I dissolved in tears. I don't like to dwell or wallow and don't want pity but I ache for what I've lost.
I do know that there is a future for me and a bright one at that which I anticipate with the same relish I have for the hollow chocolate bunny whose head I'm currently bashing in. Like the bunny, today is bittersweet.
Today talking with David, we both mentioned simultaneously that it's 'just us' and I dissolved in tears. I don't like to dwell or wallow and don't want pity but I ache for what I've lost.
I do know that there is a future for me and a bright one at that which I anticipate with the same relish I have for the hollow chocolate bunny whose head I'm currently bashing in. Like the bunny, today is bittersweet.
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