Just because I miss writing. And I miss y’all. But I don’t have much to say.
Just because I miss writing. And I miss y’all. But I don’t have much to say.
I looked in the mirror literally moments ago and was surprised by my reflection. Normally my eyes are a peridot green, flecked with yellow and gray. But tonight there is no green to be found. Instead they are almost void of color, like an overcast day 24 hours before storms come rolling in. They were this icy shade of gray when I was a child. The green didn’t show up until my late teens. I wonder what it means. If anything.
Shuffle. Step. Shuffle. Step. Shuffle. Step. The old woman eases down the hallway one careful step after another, the constant dance with her tennis-ball-footed walker part of the routine. Oh, the dreaded routine.
Skip breakfast because it’s not served after 9:00. And who wants to get up early for a day filled with the same nothing-to-do schedule? Buzz for help to go to the bathroom. It’s not the going that’s the issue. But pulling her pants up while holding onto the grab bar isn’t something she can do anymore.
There are so many things she can’t do anymore. So many things she misses. It’s a waiting game now. There’s still family to live for, but for how long? Each day is a tick box marked off. One more down. Not as many to go.
Jake leaned back in his chair and scratched the back of his neck as had been his habit since he was a kid when he was trying really hard to remember something. He frowned.
Pete took another sip of his beer, watching his friend. He didn’t ask the question. Men just didn’t. If Jake wanted to tell him what he was trying to recall, he would. Simple as that. The two men had spent many hours in companionable silence. That’s what you did when you had a history. You didn’t have to fill it with small talk.
A fly buzzed around the bottle of hard cider near Jake’s hand. He watched it dip and dive in the fading evening light, dancing around the rim. Just as it prepared to land he exhaled with a whoosh, blowing the insect away.
“Rebecca. That was her name,” Jake said, no longer scratching the back of his neck.
“Rebecca who?” said Pete, who hadn’t been privy to Jake’s internal train of thought.
“You know, I don’t think I ever did get her last name. Just didn’t seem to matter much at the time.”
“August 16th, 1969,” Jake said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Ahhh,” said Pete, suddenly wise to Jake’s reminiscing, “You met her on the second day didn’t you.”
“Yeah, late in the afternoon when we went down to the pond to wash some of the mud off. She was just standin’ there. Short hair. Biting her bottom lip as she looked at me. Wearin’ nothing but some jean shorts. I’d never seen a pair of tits I wanted to touch more.”
“They were something,” Pete agreed, but now he had begun his own trip down memory lane. Those four days at Woodstock had been life changing for Pete. But not in the way you would expect.
“I wonder what ever happened to that girl,” Jake mused.
“No way to know,” Pete said, as he leaned back and closed his eyes, remembering.
The Australian came to me in my sleep last night. We walked moorish hills with the sun positioned just on the horizon for hours. He held me tightly against his side every step of the way. His death was never mentioned but it hung in the air like the peircing wane of a boat whistle signaling departure.
We fell asleep together in a grassy hillside nave overlooking miles and miles of sunset cover country. As I began to wake, slowly returning to consciousness, I felt myself drifting away but could still see him resting peacefully, a soft smile on his lips.
Was it only a dream, brought on by my conversation about him with a friend yesterday? Or did the tears I shed as I listened to his recorded voice for the first time in ages call him from the beyond to meet me in the golden lit firmament between his world and mine?
You peek out from the green, leafy branches, nothing showing but your eyes and the tip of your brown nose. A beautiful wild thing you are. So brave. And a mixture of curiosity tempered by caution. Not for your safety. No.
It is your freedom that you guard with such zeal. The twigs in your hair, the dirt under your nails a badge of honor, marking you as untamed. One of the Lost Boys of Neverland.
To give chase is foolish. I could never catch you. Instead I back away, leaving you to resume your wild, roaming play.
But you do not leave. The soft sweet smelling creature you see intrigues you. You want to touch. So you come closer.
For inside the man the Lost Boy lives, forever playing tug-a-war with the opposite desires of unruly freedom and tender sanctuary.
Come. Lay your head of tangled curls on my lap for a moment. Let me gently tend your cuts, your bruises. Now, off you go. Quickly, before the comfort weakens you.
I see him you know. The Lost Boy in you. Does he see the Wendy Darling in me?
Image credits: https://www.paigeeworld.com/u/nati2015
What does it feel like when you hug a woman you’re attracted to and her breasts smash hard against your chest. I know what it’s like to be the one whose breasts are being smashed. It’s lovely. Publicly intimate. But how is it for the man? Please tell me.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a deep, rumbling laugh. I stood in the bedroom of his sprawling ranch house in Big Sur country wearing tawny riding breeches and a red sweater as we discussed which of his dozen horses would be my mount for the day. His three daughters and one son would be arriving for the long weekend later that day. But I didn’t have to do any planning. Mrs. Prill would see to it that dinner was served at seven, he explained. I took a deep breath and threw my arms around him.
“You make everything so simple!” I laughed.
The scene changed.
The massive kitchen with a giant fireplace is briming with conversation and savory smells. The children, all in their late teens and early twenties banter back and forth. They are affectionate with me. I sip my tea, taking it all in. It feels like home, but with a piece missing.
The scene changed.
The man and I were walking along the coast at sunset. Hand in hand. The memories of the day played through my mind. It was perfect. The house. The land. The horses. The coast. The California sun. The big family. The security. The tall, distinguished man. Too perfect. I felt a stab in my heart as I thought of Nathan. Where was he? Why had I left him?
I began to run. Faster. Faster. So fast my feet barely touched the ground. And then I was flying! I caught a current of air and let it lift me high into the sky, away from the man. It was glorious, like being inside the most iridescent opal you’ve ever seen, with a symphony of string instruments accompanying you.
I woke with a start, the room dark and the soft sound of Nathan’s breathing. What did it all mean? This dream outlined my perfect life. Down to the large, ready made family that I didn’t have to birth and raise. But when I realized it had all been a product of REM sleep, I just felt relief. Because I didn’t leave Nathan. He’s still right here. Beside me.
The hot shower water pelted by body, waking me up slowly, opening my pores and my mind. I ran the bar of fragrant soap over my skin… quickly. Efficiently. There’s been no time to linger over a shower in weeks. It’s become habit now. Get in. Get clean. Get out.
Nathan’s voice pierced the cloud of steam, “So, what did you dream last night?”
He never asked me about my dreams. Something had prompted his inquiry. I was instantly on guard. Had I talked in my sleep? What had I divulged?
“Why do you ask,” I responded.
“Well, why don’t you tell me what you dreamed,” he said, giving me no hint as to why he had asked. I racked my brain. And for the life of me I couldn’t remember dreaming of anything. That in itself was odd. I normally have a vidid dream life that I can recall without issue.
“Darling,” I said, “If I did dream last night, I don’t remember it.”
“Oh,” he said with a chuckle, “you dreamed all right.”
“Did I talk in my sleep,” I asked, trying to hide my alarm.
“No, you didn’t talk.”
“Well then, why on earth are you so sure I dreamed?”
“Because,” he said, coming to stand in the shower door way and watch me rinse off, “you moaned.”
“How do you mean?”
“You know how I mean. You moaned how you moan when you are…” his voice trailed off and his look became more knowing.
“No! I did not!” I said in shock.
“You did. You did so much it woke me up!”
“Well why didn’t you wake me up so we could enjoy my dream together?”
“Because you sounded like you were having a splendid time on your own. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Hmmm,” I mused as I toweled off, “I wish I remembered.”
And I do wish I did. It’s been far to long since my back was arched an genuine moans were pouring from my mouth.
If you had told me that I’d be here—here being an emotional descriptor, not a physical location—at this exact moment last year, I don’t think my mind could have comprehended it. That’s why it comes in stages I supposed.
This time last year I was in a hospital. Scared. But not realizing at the time that the grandmother I knew was gone forever. The sweet, often childlike woman left in her place is still cherished and loved. But it’s different.
The loss creeps up on you if you’re lucky.
Or it gives you time to prepare for it like it did with two of the deaths that touched me this year. I knew they were sick. I knew it was coming. But I wasn’t ready. Never are we ready, are we? Racing to bedsides. Praying that the loved one will. Just. Hold. On.
But he didn’t.
Other times the loss blindsides you. Driving in the Christmas traffic, following the trail of red tail lights through the foggy night it hit me again that the Australian is dead. A third death. The one I mourn silently. The one I never in a hundred years saw coming.
So much loss this year. So much pain. And change too. Good change. Challenging change. Unexpected change.
The me from a year ago wouldn’t recognize my life now. She would be excited for me. And a little scared. Ok… maybe a lot scared. But wouldn’t admit it.
Here’s the kicker. No one told me that when you are a grown up you really don’t have a fucking clue what you are doing. We think as kids that adults have it all figured out, but that’s simply not true. Grown ups are just big kids, who have enough mistakes under their belt to muddle through, doing the best they can to make it through another day, another week, another month, another year.
But, there is hope too. Always hope. Because through the loss, through the pain, through the change, the challenges and the mistakes, there is life. And sometimes even love.
So here’s to love. Even in death… so much death… the love lives on.
Though it may not sound like it for any of you who have ready much of my blog, today was big day for me.
I decided to work from home today and around 3:00 the urge for release hit me. So I went to my bedroom, got my trusty rabbit, and proceeded to have a lovely orgasm shortly there after. But that’s not what made it a big day.
It’s what I did afterwards that I’m still shocked by. You see, I called Nathan. And told him. I think I need to write a bit more about why this is such a big deal.
I do not crave men as I have in the past. They are in my life, on the peripheral. Fulfilling various, occasional needs. I do not mean that flippantly. Being loved and touched is still an intense need. And Nathan’s been doing an amazing job at both. But the drive to devour is all but gone. I think it is because I’m finding fulfillment elsewhere now.
The new job I took a while back is exciting, challenging and so very fun. It doesn’t feel like work. I’m pouring hour after hour into it, sleeping little.
Something just occurred to me. At my old job, though I enjoyed it, I was constantly constrained. Frequently reminded that I was in a cage. Controlled.
That is all gone now. Completely. I’m free.
Were my man-eating tendencies brought on by an attempt to have some form of power and control in my life? Was it a coping mechanism because of feeling so powerless in my day-to-day life at work? I don’t think my old job is completely to blame, but there’s something there. Maybe it caused my id to be exaggerated. Things to ponder.
My last posts before this one brought me to the brink of a close call emotionally. I was teetering on the edge of making a friendship with a man named Kevin something more than it should be. But not now. It was so easy for me to let it go. I didn’t bait him for more. I didn’t play the game.
I still think of Ian every day. Every. Single. Day. His death has changed me. If I thought I was an old soul before, I’m practically ancient now.
Maybe my dusty heart will be tempted to write again soon. Something with flow rather that the staccato thoughts that are coming at the moment. I don’t know.