Life's Siren

Life is capricious
moving with the grace and speed of a ballerina.

Each moment is a choreographed pirouette,
some planned by us, some by the universe.

The timing of life is another thing all together,
it has no boundaries, takes no requests, it just unfurls:

A sail pulled apart by human hands, billowed out by a gale force of wind;
taking shape with every passing turn.

"Full speed ahead" it seems to call out:
If you listen closely you can hear its echo.

6.26.12

Excerpt from Before & After : A Character Study

Disclaimer: The below is a work of fiction, a character profile in-progress. 

Is it possible to go insane from thinking about someone whom you haven’t seen in a year? Is it possible to have dormant feelings about someone without even realizing that you do? I feel like a delusional teenager suffering from an infliction of infatuation. As I remember the time we spent together I could kick myself in the head for not being more brave and jumping with both feet into the abyss of a potential romance. I would be a different altogether person by now, as I’m sure would he. And hell I could even have a dog.

So instead of doing something I am lost in a sea of emotional variables, biding my time until I hear from him…torture on email, his cell phone missing from my mind, with 13 days to go until we are physically standing side by side, across from one another.

He is obviously annoyed with me, not so annoyed to not want to clear the air over dinner. But still. I hurt him, touched a nerve with unfortunate comments and outright sarcasm. I am unused to people taking everything I say to heart.  Those words, spoken without much thought, for consequences unforeseen, etching out the bare bones of an emotion.

He is in a bad place, not texting me his arrival at a second party; not willing to share his phone # (one that I should already have ). Lying about his health, not forthcoming with any personal information really. I wonder why he has not friend'd the others.  It’s an interesting notion…and as much as I want to know that side of things at this moment I don’t want to know at all ….

I just want to kiss him I want to feel all 6’3” of him flush against my body. I want to lean into him our tongues entwined. I want to wrap my fingertips around the back of his neck, thumbs grazing the short hairs of a crew cut. Ideally his response would be mutual but I could live with one taste, knowing that it wasn’t meant for anything else than a conversation over dinner. In my heart, or is it in my groin, I want to fuck him, ride him like bull. I want to feel and know the essence of what he is, with not a care for anyone else in my thoughts, just him.

I want to caress his face and feel the stubble against my cheek.  Whisper air into his neighboring ear. I want to straddle him and rub my hands over his chest and back, kneading my fingers into his taut skin…work out the tension of his day as a trader and mine from the sea. I want him to kiss me unexpectedly where my heart is racing. I want his hand to graze my skin, brush up against my breast. I want to feel wet enough, that I might burst save for the Kegel exercises that might calm my hormones down.

I want to read a book with my back nestled against his chest. I want to grab his thigh in the middle of a horror movie while closing my eyes in fright and I want him to laugh, reaching for my hand. I want to rub his cock in a dark movie, licking his fingers, sitting side by side, only able to make it through with the knowledge of what will come when we leave. I want to awaken my sexuality and his in a way that we never knew could be. I want. I want. I want.

I want to fall in love, and I know that when I do I’ll fall harder than I’ve ever done before. And I’ll cherish whatever time I get without expectations or fear of what I might not have one day. 

I want us to argue over preferences and learn to tolerate each others nuances. I want each of us to connect, to text one another when we’re away, to remember who has our heart when the other is not near. I want to meet his dogs and I want them to fall in love with me first, to bridge the gap of time and space that is there of my own doing.

###

Stop and smell the mistletoe…

Stop and smell the mistletoe…

A lot can happen in a year, 
and this one is no different.

Moving at the speed of light, 
in the midst of a mid-decade spin  
a year’s worth of resolutions
no doubt forgotten by February

I wish for a year of dream fulfillment
and so far there have been mini wins of delight
one being less snow than anyone had interest in shoveling

Take stock and measure your lives

Celebrate life and all that is worth living

Love your family unconditionally 
And hold them close to your hearts.

 (found words in an old notebook, 6.26.12)

he is the ocean

he led me through the projects circa 1960.
low hi-rises with a view of the bleak, sunless sky.
the layout reminded me of Queens,
a road, a street, a boulevard
all numbered the same.

i had an address in my pocket,
and asked someone for directions.
Kios and his friend offered assistance,
any other time I would have said no.

flashback to the subway ride:
red and grey brick buildings,
blurry white letters on a sign.

we turn a corner, Kios turns to me.
Deep blue eyes, serious, honest.
He'll take you the rest of the way.
Then he is gone, like a ghost.

the wind and the surf stir my senses
there, a window.
Is that the ocean?
 
He holds out his arm,
and leads me through.

Dreamscape: fire

I dreamt of fire.
Silent movie screams,
the hissing of flames,
in a two room house.

I wasn't alone.
There were children, 2 maybe three.
Arms wrapped around for protection,
numb to everything but the fear.

White fire, red sparks.
The flames seemed almost human,
childlike in play.

There was a wall between us.
Smoke seeping in like ether.
We huddled in the quiet, patient and anxious.
A startling bell breaks through the barriers between here and there
And like an explosion I am awake,
gasping for breath.

6.24.12

This is me, who are you

I don't claim to be super woman
Mother of all, refuser to none
I am just me,
Dreamer of dreams,
Sorceress of light.
I wear my intelligence
cloaked in street smart savvy.

Boastfulness is unbecoming,
I claim nothing more than who I am--
perhaps that has hurt me.
I have no regrets, only faith.
In others, to see beyond the smoke and mirrors
In myself, to pursue my passions
For both of us to be strong
To carry on in the face of diversity.

With the toolbelt God has gifted
However things change as I change,
phenomenal in my own right.

6.23.12

miracle drive

We parted just before nine, each of us turning at the road closest to where we  parked. I walked on Butler Street, toward Court Street and my car—cocking my head. It wasn’t there. And I nearly had a heart attack thinking it had been stolen when I realized I was on the wrong street. 

Earlier in the evening, I felt the stirring of a migraine and popped an Aleve hoping it would alleviate and diffuse the pain. It never fails really, the one time I think I've made it through a good season, I fail to take my pills with me. And in a moment of misjudgment and pause over one of the locally sourced beverages at 61 Local--an Allagash White, my mind took a turn onto the dark side. Of course it didn't help that I stopped for groceries on the way home, for staples like paper towels and turkey for Tigger.  

 On the highway I drove the speed limit, and nearby cars opted to go around me, changing lanes. It seemed odd but nothing out of sorts. I drove over a metal plate and the crunch of the tire on steel startled me. I made it home at 9.38 – it felt as if the clock was moving backwards. And as I pulled into the driveway, without the reflection of my headlights on the garage I realized I had never turned them on!  I locked the car, gathered the groceries and started for the house, when something made me look at the car. The front passenger windows were rolled open. After all that I'd say Mom was an angel in wait tonight. 

I made it inside, feeding the cat, stowing my purchases, glancing through my DVR’d season finale of fairly legal and the beginnings of season 1 of downton abbey streamed from Netflix to the Apple TV (still trying to adopt to this newfangled technology and the erratic behavior of my Wifi). The exhaustion is creeping, the ache of the migraine behind my right eye, the uncomfortable acid in my stomach, the sleepy quality of a Zen masterpiece.  Tigger spoons to my right, and the REM beckons from the bedroom…

Channeling the Photographer Within

Rome - MMIX by Andrea G. Preziotti | Make Your Own Book

the awakening

One of my new year's resolutions is to be bolder. Bold, as in becoming more courageous in my every day life; shedding the cautious coat I've been wearing and acting out my intentions however impulsive they may seem. I can remember a time (not so long ago) when I was so much more audacious--honestly, just ask any of my friends--I'm sure they have a story or two detailing some crazy antic or another. 

To be honest I'm not really sure when I opted to scale back. It's hard to imagine that I could just blindly climb on the wagon and chug along without a thought but when I think about how much time I've devoted to my career the last few years, it actually makes sense. I guess you could say I've had my own awakening (luckily with a much better outlook then Edna Pontellier's), and for me 2012 is all about reconnecting and recapturing that spirited version of myself. 

So what am I doing about it? I'm going out on my own, attending events solo (versus waiting for a friend to say yes). I'm smiling more and making a concerted effort to make eye contact. I'm laughing out loud, and paying it forward with random acts of kindness. That last one is an exercise in spreading moments of happiness. Just last week I bought my morning 12 oz of rocket fuel from the MUD truck on Astor Place, and instructed the barista to use my change (from a $10 bill) to pay for the next 3 coffees. Dumbstruck, the guy thought he heard me wrong asking me if he heard me right, as if he had been punk'd. I laughed and said yes, and just asked that they pay it forward. I walked away smiling, it was a great way to start the week. And you know, I might just do it again tomorrow. 

Today I had brunch at the bar at Sarabeth's Downtown. It was a gorgeous day to be out and about in the city. I'd spent the earlier part of the day with Chester Doverspike, hairstylist extraordinaire--and after a persuasive chat with his colleague Jean-Vincent I went short, or shorter than the norm. The hair is off my neck, and I now sport a bit of a dovetail. And JV was right, the cut together with my natural brunette makes my eyes pop. Sultry songstress indeed! 

One of the things I love about eating alone, especially at a bar (or in this case breakfast bar) is that the odds of meeting someone and striking up a conversation increases exponentially. Sarabeth's was a bit noisier than I would have liked but I did manage to share snippets of dialogue here and there, as well as eavesdrop on a conversational rhetoric about Nick Jonas' singing talents (or lack thereof from what I could gather). Halfway through my meal, two guys stood off to the left, speaking rather candidly about their lives (to each other, not me). One of them was crashing a brunch that the other was having with a female friend. He and I shared a glance or two, and I most certainly would have broached a conversation had they not been shown to their table. So I asked my server Dewey if he would send over a drink to the black-haired gent with my business card. It seems kind of crazy making a $12 investment (Whispering Angel Rose if you must know) on an unforeseen (and highly improbable) gesture, but boldness does not often
listen to the rational side of the mind (who
promises this will not become a habit). 

.3.11.12

a little less numbing

Frightened. It's the only word that comes to mind that truly describes my state of mind before and after my consult with Dr. Foo. 

Before, because of this unmitigable unknown origin of electric pain. All my thoughts at every interval of that week were centered solely on the ache and the cringe of my right cheek. And so focused was I that documenting every nuance of what I was feeling was the only way I could cope and everything else, and frankly everyone else, faded away into the ambient background of life.

After, if only because the consult with the nuerologist did little to assuage my fears--a younger doctor, early 30s at best, a product of this new generation of multi-taskers. Dr. Foo was distracted during the office part of the visit---answering his phone, efiling scrips on the computer, switching between the two screens and my face. His focus was better in the examination room, and I soon learned of his high intelligence (and apparent cause for an undeveloped bedside manner--I think perhaps medical programs may want to institute a behavioral course that provides study for both psych interns and residents to role play with patients). He performed a series of tests that eeriely reminded me of my Dad's exam post-stroke and included facial exercises, hand to eye coordination and walking the DWI line.

A summary of my appointment noted (2) possible causes for the face numbing and tightness, #1 a stroke and #2 a trigeminal nerve injury.  Dr. Foo recommended an MRI scan be performed to rule out signs of trauma, a tumor or MS. 

Friday late afternoon, I found myself lying face up in a rattle and hum icebox of a machine clad in a flimsy gown for my first-ever MRI.  Although the technician outfitted me with a headset to drown out the noise and avert my attention from the lack of any climate, I nearly froze during that 30 minute scan. How on earth Michael Jackson ever considered freezing himself for eternity is beyond me. 

The technician instructed me not to move my head or neck so the scan could get a proper reading, and then handed over a panic button just in case the enclosed space freaked me out. Thank goodness I had not inherited Dad's intense fear of closed spaces/claustrophobia. The music pumped in as the decibel level fluctuated from the racket of a bad neighbor to the trilling of an air raid siren to the jackhammer delight of a madman on a construction site to an annoying car alarm circa 1980s to an electronica DJ session of the worst kind ending in the grand finale of a woodpecker duel. 

###

A week later MRI results came back negative and Dr. Foo started me on a prescription of gabapentin, an anticonvulsant medication most often used to treat epileptic seizures. The enclosed pamphlet listing all the possible side effects read like a wikipedia page written by Stephen King, and I was suddenly grateful that my dose was at night.