In dream I lean forward into the cup of your hands, just my breasts resting there, warm as the breasts of pigeons, or baked bread. In my dream this happens silently and without explanation and your palms receive me without comment. I might just be stretching, leaning across the cafe table for this one moment when all is hushed and the world has ceased to move. There is no explanation or continuation of a theme. I lean, you receive my breasts and cradle them wordlessly, and then I move away and slip them back into my low slung top. It might never have happened, but it has, in this dream.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
2008
Now is not the time to become squeamish about my lust for my friends. If I am to flesh out the modern story, this echo of my past that is played out in fantasy on a daily basis, then i must do so as boldly as I have with the safely distant past. These intensely private people that I fall a little in love with will become a part of the fabric of my book. Names changed, certainly, but even with a pseudonym they will be recognisable to those I am closest to. I know what will make the best counter-story, the infatuation I fell into several infatuations ago, the one that hurt most deeply, and almost killed me. The one that I am now so calm about, the firm friend who will probably be there at my death bed given that I have no children to see me out of the world. That incriminating lust that ripped at my world until I was a hollow thing filled with shadowy scenes of sex that filled me with guilt. I am still not certain that I can go anywhere near that time in my life. The shrapnel from that time would sting the living flesh around me now.
There is the one that I have written about, but tat one has eased without a climax that could ever be disclosed publicly and even though I am still a little in lust and a lot in love, I am not sure I have anything else of that story to tell.
There is the current one, my playful little toing and froing and I feel like I can be less gentle with this. It hasn't erupted into anything serious and it is well documented. Perhaps this is the safest path to take.
All paths must surely try my husband's patience, my wonderful husband, my love and lover. Poor man. Poor tolerant man. He tells me that I cannot write about our sex, and I will honour that. My vow to him. Because at the end of it all he will always be there with me and for me, and because we love.
There is the one that I have written about, but tat one has eased without a climax that could ever be disclosed publicly and even though I am still a little in lust and a lot in love, I am not sure I have anything else of that story to tell.
There is the current one, my playful little toing and froing and I feel like I can be less gentle with this. It hasn't erupted into anything serious and it is well documented. Perhaps this is the safest path to take.
All paths must surely try my husband's patience, my wonderful husband, my love and lover. Poor man. Poor tolerant man. He tells me that I cannot write about our sex, and I will honour that. My vow to him. Because at the end of it all he will always be there with me and for me, and because we love.
Friday, November 28, 2008
pub
Stumble home drunk. I have built up a tolerance and yet this one time I had overindulged. It was riotous fun, the pub, and me sitting beside my latest crush enjoying the pure unadulterated joy of his physical presence and then there at home, the little confession.
Nothing to be worried about. I am content. I will not be running off and complicating things. I am content to sit quiet in my admiration, reveling in the occasional fantasy and the rush of lust.
Perhaps it was the alcohol or the late hour or my euphoria, but the misunderstanding buoyed me up. A mutual admiration. Someone that I liked liked me too. This has only happened the one time with my husband. The one great reciprocation of my life. I felt my self esteem swelling. I felt myself find my feet, feel more solid in them. I was attractive, and not just to the love of my life. I was admired and lusted after and I floated above it all. Too high. Too drunkenly high.
And for days I floated. I had less acid spite when selling a book by Leunig. I grinned at young lovers holding hands. Pretty girls stood at the counter and I did not judge myself against them. I was loved. I was attractive. Someone I lusted after lusted after me in return.
I will not do anything about this, I said to him in my ignorant bliss. I am content just to know it, and my joy obliterated his grimace.
A misunderstanding. A gross misunderstanding. He slunk around me for days harbouring a gnawing sense of guilt I suppose. His smiles were coy, and I misinterpreted this as shyness, a confession that perhaps he should not have made. An honesty that would leave us embarrassed one day.
Until he felt the need to put me straight. Honest man. Good man. I would not thank him for his honesty and yet, when the humiliation had dissipated there would be a quiet understanding.
He was a good choice. A noble choice. And yes, I would always love him, even when the sting of lust had dissipated, I would be left with this overwhelming sense of love and trust. This perhaps I can hold on to forever. This perhaps will link our fates together now and for a long time yet to come.
Nothing to be worried about. I am content. I will not be running off and complicating things. I am content to sit quiet in my admiration, reveling in the occasional fantasy and the rush of lust.
Perhaps it was the alcohol or the late hour or my euphoria, but the misunderstanding buoyed me up. A mutual admiration. Someone that I liked liked me too. This has only happened the one time with my husband. The one great reciprocation of my life. I felt my self esteem swelling. I felt myself find my feet, feel more solid in them. I was attractive, and not just to the love of my life. I was admired and lusted after and I floated above it all. Too high. Too drunkenly high.
And for days I floated. I had less acid spite when selling a book by Leunig. I grinned at young lovers holding hands. Pretty girls stood at the counter and I did not judge myself against them. I was loved. I was attractive. Someone I lusted after lusted after me in return.
I will not do anything about this, I said to him in my ignorant bliss. I am content just to know it, and my joy obliterated his grimace.
A misunderstanding. A gross misunderstanding. He slunk around me for days harbouring a gnawing sense of guilt I suppose. His smiles were coy, and I misinterpreted this as shyness, a confession that perhaps he should not have made. An honesty that would leave us embarrassed one day.
Until he felt the need to put me straight. Honest man. Good man. I would not thank him for his honesty and yet, when the humiliation had dissipated there would be a quiet understanding.
He was a good choice. A noble choice. And yes, I would always love him, even when the sting of lust had dissipated, I would be left with this overwhelming sense of love and trust. This perhaps I can hold on to forever. This perhaps will link our fates together now and for a long time yet to come.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
sex and sadness
Strange. I am happy and therefore my need for sexual pleasure is brief and intermittent. I have no time for pornography, brief little orgasms like hiccups. It is like the times I have been medicated. Antidepressants minimising the need to a few short moments a week. These moments are fine but without the glorious heights of the orgasms that are experienced in the midst of sadness and insecurity. Happiness has reduced my life to a surface gloss, icing sugar. Sweet and pretty and nothing too deep or too meaningful. Nothing seems as important as this unrelenting happiness.
I will have to trade it in for a dose of melancholy soon or my sex life will become ordinary and my writing will suffer. Today I will dwell on the troubles of the world, read Neitsze, McCarthy, read the news on-line. And eventually I will return to my normal sad and bitter self.
I will have to trade it in for a dose of melancholy soon or my sex life will become ordinary and my writing will suffer. Today I will dwell on the troubles of the world, read Neitsze, McCarthy, read the news on-line. And eventually I will return to my normal sad and bitter self.
Natural disaster
There is a sudden natural disaster. So many dead that it is easier to count the living. This is the kind of thing that sorts us out, the ones who run around rudderless, the ones who rise to their natural ability to cope under pressure. It is one of those hypertheticals to give us some perspective on our lives. What if there were a sudden disaster? So I think about it, floods, earthquakes, war even. And that brings me to him.
Yes. I would like him to be safe. Yes I would choose to have him in my bunker, despite the fact that he sometimes irritates me. Yes I say I am over it and yet, in the case of a nuclear disaster I would not be over it at all. I say I do not trust him and yet, in the case of a major catastrophe I would choose to have him near me. I have put emotional distance between us but it is mostly an illusion. Reach out and touch him and I realise now that it is just a trick of perspective. He is closer than I pictured him.
I am very loyal despite myself. My fantasies betray me. I have not moved on, I am just protecting myself from the hurt that he is quick to meter out without even trying. I am just wrapping myself up in felt and holding tight as he buffets me roughly, hoping that my hull won't crack. He does not mean harm. He is just blindly going about life as he always has half care, half careless. He does not think to be gentle because he can't see the impact of his small actions.
He smells good. This is one reason to accept him into the bunker. I hold him into my body, a quick hug and it is a comforting scent. I am still happy to protect myself from his clumsy lies and his barbed-silences, but I lie on the couch and I breathe him in and I know I will not shake myself free of him so easily now that he is a part of my story.
Yes. I would like him to be safe. Yes I would choose to have him in my bunker, despite the fact that he sometimes irritates me. Yes I say I am over it and yet, in the case of a nuclear disaster I would not be over it at all. I say I do not trust him and yet, in the case of a major catastrophe I would choose to have him near me. I have put emotional distance between us but it is mostly an illusion. Reach out and touch him and I realise now that it is just a trick of perspective. He is closer than I pictured him.
I am very loyal despite myself. My fantasies betray me. I have not moved on, I am just protecting myself from the hurt that he is quick to meter out without even trying. I am just wrapping myself up in felt and holding tight as he buffets me roughly, hoping that my hull won't crack. He does not mean harm. He is just blindly going about life as he always has half care, half careless. He does not think to be gentle because he can't see the impact of his small actions.
He smells good. This is one reason to accept him into the bunker. I hold him into my body, a quick hug and it is a comforting scent. I am still happy to protect myself from his clumsy lies and his barbed-silences, but I lie on the couch and I breathe him in and I know I will not shake myself free of him so easily now that he is a part of my story.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Happy
I went to bed happy. I woke up and I was happy. It seems no one can take this happiness away from me. I woke up several times during my scant hours of sleep and my arms had gone numb from hugging myself and I thought that perhaps I would have a stroke from happiness. That my heart would be too excited pumping its blood around my body that I might fill up with happiness like a balloon and my skin would split. But it won't happen like that. I will wake up tomorrow and I will still be happy. I am the happiest that I have ever been and I just can't stop grinning.
do and say
Not what you say but what you do.
This is what he thinks of me. I am not the nasty girl I imagine myself, full of hate and anger and passion. Instead I am embodied. I am the solid hard worker, the loyal friend and lover, the guilt driven supporter of the underprivileged. I am a noble doormat. He strips me of all my fire and erratic energy with one sentence. He takes away my anger and aggression, my sharp tongue and my sharper wall against the world with all it's embedded spines and broken glass and electric charge. Why would he love me then this way? This plodding slug, all sugar and spice. He only sees the half of it, which is probably the way it should be.
I have shown the dark side of myself to a select few, the cold ugly place all slippery with thoughts of hurt and hurting. I have chased these few away from the solid warm glow of my love for them. I have extinguished my own love with a dousing of unrestrained honesty.
I don't trust what you say, he tells me. Most people are full of shit. You are full of shit.
So I haul myself back onto his pedestal where all my most polite aspects are turned towards your view. He doesn't read vaginas and I now know why. He does not want the truth of me to tarnish his image of a girl he loves.
In act I am a saint. I support, I love, I am kind, I will never let you down.
But listen to what I say. There is another story that I am frightened to play out. This is a cautionary tail. Now you have been warned.
This is what he thinks of me. I am not the nasty girl I imagine myself, full of hate and anger and passion. Instead I am embodied. I am the solid hard worker, the loyal friend and lover, the guilt driven supporter of the underprivileged. I am a noble doormat. He strips me of all my fire and erratic energy with one sentence. He takes away my anger and aggression, my sharp tongue and my sharper wall against the world with all it's embedded spines and broken glass and electric charge. Why would he love me then this way? This plodding slug, all sugar and spice. He only sees the half of it, which is probably the way it should be.
I have shown the dark side of myself to a select few, the cold ugly place all slippery with thoughts of hurt and hurting. I have chased these few away from the solid warm glow of my love for them. I have extinguished my own love with a dousing of unrestrained honesty.
I don't trust what you say, he tells me. Most people are full of shit. You are full of shit.
So I haul myself back onto his pedestal where all my most polite aspects are turned towards your view. He doesn't read vaginas and I now know why. He does not want the truth of me to tarnish his image of a girl he loves.
In act I am a saint. I support, I love, I am kind, I will never let you down.
But listen to what I say. There is another story that I am frightened to play out. This is a cautionary tail. Now you have been warned.
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