And there was none. I think I'm allowed to go home now.
The taste was different, and the smell has changed. There were transparent patches I've never felt with my heels before. In some outward way, I pretended a timeless laughter, and yes, I'm with family again. But an evolution was in effect; I couldn't pretend that I rode with that current. I'm gone, Baby, I'll be gone the next second, and I'll be elsewhere the second after that. Who am I to grapple onto that frozen second of you, while you took those giant leaps away away away?
My toes to my brows, I'm lost in the still, and I'm lost in the motion. Why are we prone to sadness, but we can't be prone to happiness? I don't believe one is better than the other, but there's some discrimination when we reel in extremes, utilizing particular fishing hooks for these words, these phrases.
Man. I forgot about my traffic ticket.
I'm fucked.
30 September 2009
27 September 2009
Calming Effects of the Sense of Adventure
I'm staring hard at the quilt spread on my bed. There's a light hair curled up by my leg. The tips are light, then it gets darker, like a dirty blond. I know it's not my hair, but it's not unfamiliar. And because not a single person ever touches my bed besides me, I know whose it belongs to.
I'm being kept in this tourist town.
- - -
"There's electricity running through the rails down there. You're so stupid if you jump down."
I sneaked a peek at the kid at the Powell station. Where's your sense of adventure? Huy was probably on the same train of thought. "I did it all the time Freshmen year. You hop and hop." He glances down the tunnel where a train was approaching. "There is a camera though."
I anticipated the train roaring by, the force of its speed and bulk whipping a gust for the waiting passengers. I closed my eyes as it approached, and instead imagined being on the tracks, standing on the rails just as it ran by my body. Instead of hitting me, it sucked through me, and my visceral self ran with the train, swallowing the tracks, sliding on my belly. I opened my eyes and the train had left the station.
We took the L train to 15th Ave. and Taraval. After finding my car parked on the street, we drove to Safeway on Noriega. "He's disgruntled," I said of the man wrenching his shopping car from the space I was trying to maneuver my car into. "Then again, he is grocery shopping at midnight." We roamed the empty aisles and picked up chicken and potatoes. I teetered on a parking curb as Huy picked up newspapers from the bins on the sidewalks.
An hour later, we were flipping tri-tip on a raging grill, which retched fumes and smoke into a cool and clear San Franciscan night. A perfect half moon dangled right above the horizon. We danced and hooted. We were roasting our food, and it was going to be a hell of a feast.
- - - - -
I eagerly swung my leg around the bike, and stuffed my hands into Charlotte's pockets, one hand in either side. Thighs wrapped tight and helmets secured, we huffed and cracked through the intersections, making wide turns and hard brakes. "Sorry, sorry! Not used to having an extra person on this thing," Charlotte apologized. "I don't mind," I smiled breathlessly. I started giggling senselessly when Charlotte throttled the bike to a great speed as we circled downtown. The wind whipping us and flying scenery made me feel exhilarated, as if I was falling down horizontally. When we drove by the crackheads and the tourists and other currently nondescript city life, I pictured riding my uncle's motorbike in Viet Nam. I was ecstatic.
We drove along the Embarcadero waterfront. Pier 23. 29. 33. Park. We followed a trail of people in red t-shirts and waited with Jake and his cinema major friend along with a haggle of tourists in line for the Alcatraz tour. Once on the boat, I straddled my helmet, put my face against the breeze, and became conversational with Jake's friend. He was shy, but responded well. A curiosity. The city got smaller, and the island loomed. We circled Alcatraz, like a bird spiraling down to land. "What does it mean to have sea legs?," Charlotte wanted to know. We offered two meanings. Both of them are probably true.
Iphigenia and Other Daughters was conceptually beautiful. The chorus of sacrificed virgins created beautiful montages. The actors' playing space were huge steps, overshadowed by the Alcatraz prison building, with the ocean's crashing waves and an electric cello offering a constant soundtrack. As the night continued, a pit of fire was the "stage's" lighting. The actors embraced the semi-amphitheater environment. Projection and elongated movement. For this style, I appreciated the acknowledgment of a return to classical Greek staging. Unfortunately, the entirety of the show and its surroundings was not a perfect marriage. But I commend the concept, the powerful images, the push for aesthetics. Although the performances were strong, the acting was not, though I can't see how much could be brought out considering the lack of acoustics and furthermore, the playing space, except for strong commitment. I walked away with a strong image of each individual character. Teri Whipple, of course, is always beautiful.
- - - - - - -
Grilled cheese animal style. Both raw and grilled onions. Spread on the side.
Vegetarians at In 'n Out were happy tonight.
On the moto ride home, Charlotte confided in me about her heart burn.
It's okay. Earlier that night, I confided in her about my lack of interest in my own life.
The fear and worry and heart-wrenching relationships I have with some men recently has stretched me. The summer of anti-romance has ended. The love that I thought I could tuck away has risen again. How childish. The seeds we planted are still in the soil. A beauty that refuses to escape.
Perhaps it's time for me to escape. I will have two degrees in three months. I need to hop on my own motorcycle and leave. Take this baby and go. Forgetting will come later.
- - - - -
As I write this, I know I am lonely and yearning. That I had made my bed several times, had fevers, and cried in my sheets for numerous nights, I am bewildered that on top of my made bed, on my quilt, is a strand of his hair. I had thrown my purses, clothes, my computer, phone, paperwork, headphones, camera on my bed. Kicked my comforter off, twisted the duvet, switched out my pillows, wrapped the throws around my legs. All seven layers on my bed evolving and migrating each night. And there it is. A strand of curly blond hair, unmistakably his, sitting right on top of my quilt.
It's the same blond hair that is straight when short, and grows out curly. The same hair that offers a soft nestle on his thin broad chest. The bristle on his chin as we kiss, his soft bottom lip tasting irony as I bite down on it, even though he'll tell me it's metaphor. This boy who at any given point in time, has the power to make me laugh at my awkward obscenities and then wonderfully strong and prideful as he carries me onto a pedestal, loving loving loving me. One person who I had nightmares about earlier in the summer, who knifed me hard, and I still forgave him, there was nothing to forgive, because all of them - all of them hurt, all of them are assholes, all of them are boys, oblivious of our hurt. The man who I still picture holding me in ten years when we are older, and finally ready. It's less than ten years now, isn't it? I wish the countdown was faster. We grew up a little bit this past year. I grew older during my summer of anti-romance, when he was away. Is that enough yet? I can't tell. I can't even really tell how he regards me anymore. The only thing he lets me read is when we're physical, but I've misread physical relationships before, and this is why I'm where I am right now. Anxious and scared.
- - -
I'm still lonely. I still love. Not "in love." Not when neither of us are "in" anything. I like to think that I love myself too, because I get up in the morning, and I work really hard to be strong and independent and motivated. But I'm so alone, it's awful. I don't want that kind of need. I've been told it's okay to need, but I'm so human, I just want him. I'm starting to lose interest in everything. I'm not even doing anything about this maybe-pregnancy. I get spurts of moments, like riding a motorcycle or staring down at the water in the bay on a ship that makes me happy. But... I thought there should be more than that. I am a girl who is love with being in love, goddammit. I like watching Disney princess films, and I lie awake at night pining to be cold at this place in my body that matters the most.
He's a dancer in the dark. I think I'm in love with Joni Mitchell. She can't stop singing about my heart.
Maybe I'll just get a little bit bigger and not even notice anything until the baby comes out. I mean, where's my sense of adventure?
I'm being kept in this tourist town.
- - -
"There's electricity running through the rails down there. You're so stupid if you jump down."
I sneaked a peek at the kid at the Powell station. Where's your sense of adventure? Huy was probably on the same train of thought. "I did it all the time Freshmen year. You hop and hop." He glances down the tunnel where a train was approaching. "There is a camera though."
I anticipated the train roaring by, the force of its speed and bulk whipping a gust for the waiting passengers. I closed my eyes as it approached, and instead imagined being on the tracks, standing on the rails just as it ran by my body. Instead of hitting me, it sucked through me, and my visceral self ran with the train, swallowing the tracks, sliding on my belly. I opened my eyes and the train had left the station.
We took the L train to 15th Ave. and Taraval. After finding my car parked on the street, we drove to Safeway on Noriega. "He's disgruntled," I said of the man wrenching his shopping car from the space I was trying to maneuver my car into. "Then again, he is grocery shopping at midnight." We roamed the empty aisles and picked up chicken and potatoes. I teetered on a parking curb as Huy picked up newspapers from the bins on the sidewalks.
An hour later, we were flipping tri-tip on a raging grill, which retched fumes and smoke into a cool and clear San Franciscan night. A perfect half moon dangled right above the horizon. We danced and hooted. We were roasting our food, and it was going to be a hell of a feast.
- - - - -
I eagerly swung my leg around the bike, and stuffed my hands into Charlotte's pockets, one hand in either side. Thighs wrapped tight and helmets secured, we huffed and cracked through the intersections, making wide turns and hard brakes. "Sorry, sorry! Not used to having an extra person on this thing," Charlotte apologized. "I don't mind," I smiled breathlessly. I started giggling senselessly when Charlotte throttled the bike to a great speed as we circled downtown. The wind whipping us and flying scenery made me feel exhilarated, as if I was falling down horizontally. When we drove by the crackheads and the tourists and other currently nondescript city life, I pictured riding my uncle's motorbike in Viet Nam. I was ecstatic.
We drove along the Embarcadero waterfront. Pier 23. 29. 33. Park. We followed a trail of people in red t-shirts and waited with Jake and his cinema major friend along with a haggle of tourists in line for the Alcatraz tour. Once on the boat, I straddled my helmet, put my face against the breeze, and became conversational with Jake's friend. He was shy, but responded well. A curiosity. The city got smaller, and the island loomed. We circled Alcatraz, like a bird spiraling down to land. "What does it mean to have sea legs?," Charlotte wanted to know. We offered two meanings. Both of them are probably true.
Iphigenia and Other Daughters was conceptually beautiful. The chorus of sacrificed virgins created beautiful montages. The actors' playing space were huge steps, overshadowed by the Alcatraz prison building, with the ocean's crashing waves and an electric cello offering a constant soundtrack. As the night continued, a pit of fire was the "stage's" lighting. The actors embraced the semi-amphitheater environment. Projection and elongated movement. For this style, I appreciated the acknowledgment of a return to classical Greek staging. Unfortunately, the entirety of the show and its surroundings was not a perfect marriage. But I commend the concept, the powerful images, the push for aesthetics. Although the performances were strong, the acting was not, though I can't see how much could be brought out considering the lack of acoustics and furthermore, the playing space, except for strong commitment. I walked away with a strong image of each individual character. Teri Whipple, of course, is always beautiful.
- - - - - - -
Grilled cheese animal style. Both raw and grilled onions. Spread on the side.
Vegetarians at In 'n Out were happy tonight.
On the moto ride home, Charlotte confided in me about her heart burn.
It's okay. Earlier that night, I confided in her about my lack of interest in my own life.
The fear and worry and heart-wrenching relationships I have with some men recently has stretched me. The summer of anti-romance has ended. The love that I thought I could tuck away has risen again. How childish. The seeds we planted are still in the soil. A beauty that refuses to escape.
Perhaps it's time for me to escape. I will have two degrees in three months. I need to hop on my own motorcycle and leave. Take this baby and go. Forgetting will come later.
- - - - -
As I write this, I know I am lonely and yearning. That I had made my bed several times, had fevers, and cried in my sheets for numerous nights, I am bewildered that on top of my made bed, on my quilt, is a strand of his hair. I had thrown my purses, clothes, my computer, phone, paperwork, headphones, camera on my bed. Kicked my comforter off, twisted the duvet, switched out my pillows, wrapped the throws around my legs. All seven layers on my bed evolving and migrating each night. And there it is. A strand of curly blond hair, unmistakably his, sitting right on top of my quilt.
It's the same blond hair that is straight when short, and grows out curly. The same hair that offers a soft nestle on his thin broad chest. The bristle on his chin as we kiss, his soft bottom lip tasting irony as I bite down on it, even though he'll tell me it's metaphor. This boy who at any given point in time, has the power to make me laugh at my awkward obscenities and then wonderfully strong and prideful as he carries me onto a pedestal, loving loving loving me. One person who I had nightmares about earlier in the summer, who knifed me hard, and I still forgave him, there was nothing to forgive, because all of them - all of them hurt, all of them are assholes, all of them are boys, oblivious of our hurt. The man who I still picture holding me in ten years when we are older, and finally ready. It's less than ten years now, isn't it? I wish the countdown was faster. We grew up a little bit this past year. I grew older during my summer of anti-romance, when he was away. Is that enough yet? I can't tell. I can't even really tell how he regards me anymore. The only thing he lets me read is when we're physical, but I've misread physical relationships before, and this is why I'm where I am right now. Anxious and scared.
- - -
I'm still lonely. I still love. Not "in love." Not when neither of us are "in" anything. I like to think that I love myself too, because I get up in the morning, and I work really hard to be strong and independent and motivated. But I'm so alone, it's awful. I don't want that kind of need. I've been told it's okay to need, but I'm so human, I just want him. I'm starting to lose interest in everything. I'm not even doing anything about this maybe-pregnancy. I get spurts of moments, like riding a motorcycle or staring down at the water in the bay on a ship that makes me happy. But... I thought there should be more than that. I am a girl who is love with being in love, goddammit. I like watching Disney princess films, and I lie awake at night pining to be cold at this place in my body that matters the most.
He's a dancer in the dark. I think I'm in love with Joni Mitchell. She can't stop singing about my heart.
Maybe I'll just get a little bit bigger and not even notice anything until the baby comes out. I mean, where's my sense of adventure?
23 September 2009
A Case of You
Just before our love got lost you said
I am as constant as a northern star
And I said, constant in the darkness
Where's that at?
If you want me I'll be in the bar
On the back of a cartoon coaster
In the blue TV screen light
I drew a map of Canada
Oh Canada
And your face sketched on it twice
Oh you are in my blood like holy wine
Oh and you taste so bitter but you taste so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you
I could drink a case of you darling
And I would still be on my feet
Oh I'd still be on my feet
Oh I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I'm frightened by the devil
And I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid
I remember that time that you told me, you said
Love is touching souls
Surely you touched mine
Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time
Oh you are in my blood like holy wine
And you taste so bitter but you taste so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you
I could drink a case of you darling
Still I'd be on my feet
And still be on my feet
I met a woman
She had a mouth like yours
She knew your life
She knew your devils and your deeds
And she said
Color go to him, stay with him if you can
Oh but be prepared to bleed
Oh but you are in my blood you're my holy wine
Oh and you taste so bitter, bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you darling
Still I'd be on my feet
I'd still be on my feet
Mmmmmmm
The confusion has dissipated. How many times do I need to get stepped on before I grow up and learn? Joni's giving me her curing powers right now. But I didn't need to get to this empty sky. I will never put myself in this position again. I was so foolish enough to think... It's time to wake up wiser and stronger.
22 September 2009
Happy Fall
The New Year American Dream (posted by Daniel)
Over the last fifty years or so the American Dream has been constantly reexamined. No longer is the discussion centered on those who fail to achieve it, such as Arthur Miller’s Willie Loman, but rather there is a search for its meaning. Sam Sheppard has characters who feel lost and trapped in their surroundings, caught in whirlwind of the establishments’ beliefs and imposed desires and their own personal quest for self fulfillment. The idea of the typical American has changed from a blue collar white middle-class citizen to a hodgepodge of different races, backgrounds, and cultural beliefs. We have the one country whose citizens cannot be distinguished by skin color, culture, religion, or even accent. The American family image of a white suburban set which comes with a boy, girl, and a dog posing with their parents in front of a white picket fence no longer seems appropriate. We hardly know what it means to be American much less what the dream of one may entail. When a dream is lost by a culture it comes down to one of two reasons: either the dream became to fantastical to achieve and was given up by the masses, or it was achieved. The American dream which founded this country, which called to the nations around the world, which boosted our population, economy, innovation, and stature has been fulfilled.
The American Dream was a call to those who wanted a better life. It was a fresh, new start where you could create your own footing and pass it down to the next generation. It was an ideal that promised progress and legacy. Sometime after World War II when America emerged as a powerful world leader, that dream was met. Not all the citizens get to revel in success, but the middle-class, who represent the majority of a society and are the true dictators of a nation was by and large successful in achieving stability and promise.
But here lies the problem. Dreams are not meant to be fulfilled. They act as a stimulous to inspire and motivate. Once a dream is accomplished, the road comes to an end and the journey is over. So what happens afterwards? There is no book that is about a hero being home. What is left for the future generations who are to reap the benefits of their ancestors struggle? There is no odyssey for Odysseus’ son, no comedia for Dante’s children, no epic poem for the first generation of Rome. The youth is left with a desire that is superimposed. Instead of improving or advancing they are left to keep the status quo. And once the journey is complete the downfall begins.
Since being the “best in the world” America has started to lose its footing. Our education has fallen, our healthcare is weak. Innovations come from Japan and China. Our jobs are outsourced and our products are imported. The young grow up with a sense of entitlement. Their work becomes just another thing they have to do. But the epitome of how far we have fallen can be found with the change of one word: struggle.
Struggle once meant a journey; an obstacle to be faced and overcome to achieve some greater good that was waiting for us. Struggle was met with a feeling of pride and confidence. Now it is met with disdain. We don’t have to struggle. All the hard work done by our families in the past was done to remove struggle from our lives. But that removal of struggle takes away our motivation, our purpose, our pride. Work has become mundane and a nuisance. There is no big picture that we want to fight for. The youth is filled with the bottled up angst that used to fuel movements and revolutions and there is no place to release it. There is an unsettling feeling and desire for change with no sense of which direction to change to.
Maybe the recession will help. Maybe it will last long enough for us to rediscov er our passion for work, for journey , for adventure. Never has history seen such a rich society consumed by fear. And it’s a fear of struggle an adversary, of hardships and failure. These are things that create heroes and legends. These are the things that lead us to great achievements. Our society will not let another Achilles emerge. We deny the adventurers. A man who leaves everything to achieve something great is called crazy. There is a reason why we wake up from dreams before they are completed. There is a reason why books end once the hero comes home.
I pray we find our struggle and our hardships. I pray we rediscover true risk and reward. May the difficult road not be looked at as the least desirable but rather the one whose trees bare the most fruit, even if they are harder to reach. For if we do not rediscover our “American Dream” we will lose our purpose and ultimately ourselves.
On this Jewish New Year, instead of wishing you a peaceful, sweet year as is customary, I wish you all a road with challenges and obstacles and the bravery and courage to overcome them. May we earn our apples and honey once more.
Cindy Dinh
Here, the only class endangered by the economic conditions of our country is the middle class, as you've mentioned. The endangerment really is derived from redefinition; the capabilities to survive or overcome said conditions determine the footing of class hierarchy for the bulk of America. The flux, fear, or chaos of the people have ultimately been exploiting influences for our government's decisions. But look at us. We're still bawling for what we think is our rights. This health care issue says it all. We're still trying to best other countries, despite our overwhelming debt and education system. I think the post-modern American Dream that you seek - the one beyond Shepard's need to rediscover the self, individual and as a nation - absolutely needs to be disbanded. We need to be disemboweled until the value system is gone in order to return to this golden beauty of struggling that you hope for...
Cindy Dinh
This American mentality needs to be humbled much further, even downright shamed, a collapse of all systems of entitlement are in call. I think I'm a pessimist when I say that I don't think this will happen in the near future. I can see maybe a shift in the middle class where an appreciation and a younger generation of striving innovative explorers emerge, but I certainly don't see an overhaul for our nation. As our economy gets better, that want for real change lessens.
Charlotte Gulezian
If Man hold's his existence as his ultimate value, not ethics set beyond the grave, than the only proper moral purpose of a government is to protect men's rights- without property rights no other rights are possible.
Daniel
You're talking about revolution.
Cindy
No, mentality change.
Daniel
A large scale mentality change like that can only stem through revolution.
Cindy
You want a rediscovery of that mentality. I find that difficult especially with our generation.
Daniel
I want a reawakening. And yes, I agree, it will be difficult. We have been bred to take the path that lays before us like all generations are. But at some point, each generation must go their own way.
Cindy
My point is that we need a drastic shift in order for that happen.
Daniel
I disagree. We need drastic change, I'll agree to that. But first we need to realize the need.
Cindy
Yeah, but in order to realize that need, we need to experience real loss.
Daniel
That's one way. There are others. Loss is a dangerous way to experience change though. Other emotions such as anger, fear, and well, loss can alter and confuse the action.
Cindy
Yeah, and it's really the aftermath and the conclusion that begins the change. As a survival tactic, I otherwise can't see that realization for need. Even if taught, it runs against our want to be comfortable, and that's a hard change to make.
Daniel
You're talking about revolution.
Cindy
No, mentality change.
Daniel
A large scale mentality change like that can only stem through revolution.
Cindy
You want a rediscovery of that mentality. I find that difficult especially with our generation.
Daniel
I want a reawakening. And yes, I agree, it will be difficult. We have been bred to take the path that lays before us like all generations are. But at some point, each generation must go their own way.
Cindy
My point is that we need a drastic shift in order for that happen.
Daniel
I disagree. We need drastic change, I'll agree to that. But first we need to realize the need.
Cindy
Yeah, but in order to realize that need, we need to experience real loss.
Daniel
That's one way. There are others. Loss is a dangerous way to experience change though. Other emotions such as anger, fear, and well, loss can alter and confuse the action.
Cindy
Yeah, and it's really the aftermath and the conclusion that begins the change. As a survival tactic, I otherwise can't see that realization for need. Even if taught, it runs against our want to be comfortable, and that's a hard change to make.
21 September 2009
20 September 2009
Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw: Wands out!
No, no, I have no change to give, but I'll spare a cigarette or several.
This is my contribution to you, you destitute of San Francisco: take my death sticks, fill your lungs, shorten your life by minutes with each drag.
Thank you for telling me that I have a beautiful smile. I'll continue to use it.
Pound the wooden barriers, I've reached the gates of gold, and I'm here to sell you a program. Take a CD too, if you love South Pacific so much. In fact, take the whole lot of it. You heard me. SOUVENIR PROGRAMS! - CDS! - BROADWAY REVIVAL CAST! - WE ALSO SELL HATS! MAGNETS! AND KEYCHAINS!!
Confusion still lingers here. The longer we prolong this confusion - my chaos - the less sure I am. Is it so obvious as we sit in a room filled with our friends, that we want each other? It's peculiar to hear observations about our tension, when we try so hard to hide our infrequent alone-times. My intimacy button is a flexible trigger.
The ball is in your court, Sir, (so to speak), please put it into play. We left Winter with your morals, and now here we are, besmirching said moral values with this passionate want, but a want for what - the physical? Speaking for myself, I want - more - the more time I spend with you, the more that I want of you - more than just sex and fucking.
It is enough that I find myself with you, but to speak about how I feel is to give you the most charred vulnerable core of myself, and I am very frightened to let it come out, lame and barely healed. Because once I reveal my feelings, you will be overwhelmed, and you will see that I'm too much. (That was just my Fear speaking - shut it, you!)
The dilemma is somewhat clear. I enjoy your company so much that for the moment, I'm haplessly sacrificing my feelings for this moment, this moment, Now. Has it ever been this difficult to say: I want you, really care for you. Let's run to the stars with our palms outstretched until we find ourselves shrieking joy in the sea. If we race, I bet I will win, and I want to be sure that you're splashing in right next to me. Include the adventure package deal - puttering motor boats between huge pieces of landscape, walking down a farmer's market sampling fruit, riding motorbikes in the heated summer of a tropical city, making fun of statues, spectating puppet shows, visiting ancient temples, eating cupcakes, watching sunsets, sunrises, each other as we wake up, we kind of do that, we do that.
I write, I write, as I hide, and fear, and for now I cannot speak -
Please, please I am right here. I am a child and I want as a woman, and I'm growing up, but tripping on toes keeps hindering my growth. We rise, we fall, we pick ourselves up, but let's not get victimized here, no more nails and crosses.
This is my contribution to you, you destitute of San Francisco: take my death sticks, fill your lungs, shorten your life by minutes with each drag.
Thank you for telling me that I have a beautiful smile. I'll continue to use it.
Pound the wooden barriers, I've reached the gates of gold, and I'm here to sell you a program. Take a CD too, if you love South Pacific so much. In fact, take the whole lot of it. You heard me. SOUVENIR PROGRAMS! - CDS! - BROADWAY REVIVAL CAST! - WE ALSO SELL HATS! MAGNETS! AND KEYCHAINS!!
Confusion still lingers here. The longer we prolong this confusion - my chaos - the less sure I am. Is it so obvious as we sit in a room filled with our friends, that we want each other? It's peculiar to hear observations about our tension, when we try so hard to hide our infrequent alone-times. My intimacy button is a flexible trigger.
The ball is in your court, Sir, (so to speak), please put it into play. We left Winter with your morals, and now here we are, besmirching said moral values with this passionate want, but a want for what - the physical? Speaking for myself, I want - more - the more time I spend with you, the more that I want of you - more than just sex and fucking.
It is enough that I find myself with you, but to speak about how I feel is to give you the most charred vulnerable core of myself, and I am very frightened to let it come out, lame and barely healed. Because once I reveal my feelings, you will be overwhelmed, and you will see that I'm too much. (That was just my Fear speaking - shut it, you!)
The dilemma is somewhat clear. I enjoy your company so much that for the moment, I'm haplessly sacrificing my feelings for this moment, this moment, Now. Has it ever been this difficult to say: I want you, really care for you. Let's run to the stars with our palms outstretched until we find ourselves shrieking joy in the sea. If we race, I bet I will win, and I want to be sure that you're splashing in right next to me. Include the adventure package deal - puttering motor boats between huge pieces of landscape, walking down a farmer's market sampling fruit, riding motorbikes in the heated summer of a tropical city, making fun of statues, spectating puppet shows, visiting ancient temples, eating cupcakes, watching sunsets, sunrises, each other as we wake up, we kind of do that, we do that.
I write, I write, as I hide, and fear, and for now I cannot speak -
Please, please I am right here. I am a child and I want as a woman, and I'm growing up, but tripping on toes keeps hindering my growth. We rise, we fall, we pick ourselves up, but let's not get victimized here, no more nails and crosses.
11 September 2009
Right now I'm experiencing -
Funny Girl.
Sourdough wheat bread.
Organic mayo.
Alfalfa sprouts.
Romaine lettuce.
Grape tomatoes.
Carrots.
Smoked salmon.
Pepper.
Hummus.
Mango-guava juice.
Facebook.
Spring Awakening.
Happiness!
08 September 2009
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but...if desire is the standard than one man's desire to produce and another man's desire to rob him have equal ethical validity.
Human good does not require human sacrifices-the rational interests of men do not clash. value for value. Trade. The only rational, ethical principle for all human relationships.