Whose bloody idea was it to go camping in December?

Max and I just came home today from a 2-day camping trip. It was Max's first official cub scout pack camp out. I don't go camping very often and since I didn't come from a family that did any camping nor was I involved in girl scouts or anything like that then when it comes to camping I am an absolute klutz. Scott was joining us on this camp out. He hasn't had the chance to do too much with Max or his cub scout activities so I thought I would be nice and invite him along. That was a month ago when we were still speaking to each other. The last two weeks have been extremely tense because I have finally started to put my foot down on certain things and Scott blew up in my face. Asshole. He yelled at me and berated me for a number of things and I finally told him via e-mail that I had no desire to speak to him ever again. I tried to get out of the camping but MAx really wanted both of us to go. Fine. We went. On the conditions that Scott and I would speak only when absolutely necessary.

My bank accounts are both cleaned out. My credit card is maxed out. I went to Wal-Mart on Friday to try and buy at least a nice tent for me to sleep in. Scott was bringing his own tent and gear for him and Max. But I was not about to sleep in the same tent with my ex-husband. My credit card was rejected at the check-out counter. I had only about $20 left in my savings account. I went back to the sporting goods aisle and bought an $8 child's Star Wars themed dome tent. The check-out lady couldn't pull it up in her computer so she only charged me $4 for it. Max wanted to sleep in his Star Wars tent but I told him that no the big treat was for him to sleep in the big tent with his dad. So I slept in a tiny kid's sized tent with Darth Vader staring me down all night. It's a good thing I'm so short. I could easily stretch out in it if I slept diagonally with my head and toes pointing in the corners.

It was bitterly cold this weekend. I froze my ass off even though I brought plenty of blankets and thick sweat shirts and pants and socks to sleep in. It was not enough. I think I slept about two hours each night. The rest of the night I shivered and trembled with cold. Plus the racoons got into our food and wiped us out of our bread, ham, and cheeses. Those fat camper fed racoons have no fear of humans anymore. They'll come in the night and destroy your campsite. The other families with kids in the scout pack took pity on us and shared some of their food with us. It was ridiculous. No food, freaking cold, and not even enough change to buy snacks or sodas from the machines. I feel like I am living some poverty tale straight out of Dickens.

The kids all had fun though. We hiked, went through the Nature Center, petted baby alligators and milk-snakes, and then last night we took a tour of the George Observatory. It was too cloudy for us to see anything through the telescope but we got to check out the scope and talk to the astronomers that run the facility. We saw a half-hour film on Mars and learned some great facts about our solar system and galaxy. The kids all worked hard towards their various activity belt loops and had a great time making smores and playing with the camp fires. The parents were worn out. When I wasn't around Scott and talking to the other parents they kept asking if my husband was going to want hot chocolate or what did he do for a living. I didn't even bother to correct them. What's the use of going through such a long, complicated, explanation of how long we were married, why we divorced, and what we were even doing camping together?

My parents thought I was crazy for even going on this camp out. We have all this drama in our relationship, we scream and fight, and then we're camping together. But how do you explain the intricacies of a marriage? It's hard to do. Well the same applies for a divorce. For the most part Scott and I have managed to tolerate each other and do things together for Max's sake. The surface looks like a normal family. But surfaces lie. Especially surfaces were you can't see the bottoms because the tops are so dark. If anyone had observed us closely they would have seen that I slept in a different tent. In fact of all the families there we were the only ones with two tents. They would have seen that Scott and I never sat together, we barely spoke to each other, and unless we were doing things together as a group such as the hike, the Nature Center, or the Observatory, we were not around Max at the same time. In fact I took a nap yesterday afternoon and Scott and Max went exploring. Then Scott took a nap and Max and I went on a longer hike in another part of the park. It's come to this now. Cold and hard. Max is getting older now and he is starting to see things as they are. He likes it when we are all together but eventually he will realize that it will be better when he spends his time with his dad on their designated times. The tension won't be so obvious.

It saddens me really because I do still care for Scott. Despite all the shit he did to me I would never wish him ill thoughts. But it's impossible to maintain any type of relationship with him any more. It's a constant fight with him to get him to see that he treats me so unfairly. All I want is for him to one day admit he's the jerk, that he fucked it all up with me, and that he was wrong. That will never happen of course. The sun will explode before he ever admits he's wrong. And I have my pride too. That's why no matter how cold and cramped I was I prefered to sleep with Darth Vader than with him in the roomier, cozier tent. The camping trip was fun but exhausting both physically and emotionally. I will never camp in such frigid temperatures again. And I think next time I can handle a camping trip on my own with Max.

When you don't feel like it and you know you have to

It's like paying for a gym membership. You have it. You're being automatically deducted for it from your bank account. You get your tub of lard butt to the gym and then you sit there on the steps debating whether or not to go in and get on the treadmill or go across the street to Starbucks and order a double expresso latte in a venti cup and hmm...that new death by chocolate slice of cake would go really good with that too. Then you remember just how much you're paying for the membership and just how big your butt is and you tell yourself "I'll go in, work out for 45 minutes, and then walk across the street and order a non-fat tall latte and get out quick before my eye sees the cake."

It's the same thing with this blog. I've got it. I am paying for it in a way because it's on my mind everyday and it's a great workout for my writing muscles. Which if I don't flex and use everyday then I have no right to call myself a writer. Number of poems written this week = 6. Number of pages written on my novel = 0. It's a great idea but right now it's absolutely dead in the water. Like the girl in the story who was found dead and pulled from a river. No one knows who she is. And my heroine is the one who is going to solve the mystery of it all but I have no idea how she's going to do it. The truth is my heroine is just not sure what the hell she's even doing in the story. So far she's stuck at a cemetery having found the tomb of the unknown drowned girl and now she's just waiting around for me to tell her where to go next. It's like she's calling out to me and saying "Hey, creator, get me out of this creepy cemetery will you? It's freaking me out." But where to send her next? What does she want? You see I have no idea what her desires are. She's single, she's lonely, she feels no one takes her seriously, and she's trying to prove herself. So I suppose she wants a boyfriend, she wants to advance her career, and she wants people to see she actually can write and not just junk-mail. Start with desire. That's always a good thing. What does she want? A career to write home about.

Brainflash! It's starting to come together. A tiny spark. That's what these things are good for. Venting and trying to figure out what comes next. Bravo, I think I can get on with it now.

The holidays are here!

Another Thanksgiving gone by. We went to Austin as is our tradition. My brothers live there and it's hard for them to get the time off work to come down and see us so we always go there. Max and the limosine of a weiner dog that is Jinx spent the week with Scott and his family up in Waxahachie, Tx. where even the vermin up there carry six-shooters...We got to meet my brother Gilbert's new girlfriend, a pale, befreckled, little thing with flaming red hair and ocean blue eyes. Such a contrast to Gilbert's darker skin, black hair, and dark brown eyes. He seems to be happy and if he's happy then we're all happy.

George still has his dreadlocks which look pretty damn good. At least he keeps his hair clean unlike some thoroughly disgusting, filthy, people I've known in the past with dreds that made me want to take their heads and shove them under a lawnmower. My dad would still like to take a pair of scissors to George's head but mom likes them just fine. The feasting took place at my other brother, Marco, and my sister-in-law Nina's house. Nina and I get along great. We usually get pretty slammed on bottles of white wine and then my little brother Marco has to practically carry both us out of whatever bar we happen to be in if we're out and about. Over the summer we went to this dive called Hanover's in dowtown, historic Pflugerville. The bar should be more aptly named Hangover's. Because that is exactly what we had the next day. But I was sucking down beer like water, knocking back tequila shots, and dancing in circles. I was dizzy.

Thursday night, after the dishes were cleared, the bellys had a chance to repose and work the turkey through the intestines as William S. Burroughs once said was "destined to be shit out of wholesome American guts" Marco, Nina, George, and I went out into the cold night. George and Gilbert were born on Thanksgiving Day 32 years ago. It being their birthdays we wanted to go out and celebrate. But Gilbert was busy with his Irish dumpling and her family so it was just the four of us.

First we went to George's house. It was in a state of shambles only because he's in the process of re-organizing the place after a certain someone moved out. We sat in his room. Got warm and fuzzy. The beer ran cold and as long as a river flowing into the Gulf. Marco and George talking about bicycles, computers, and music. Boys and their toys. Nina and I sitting on George's bed simply fading in and out of the conversation. I read almost the whole Rolling Stone magazine cover to cover especially the hot article on Madonna (the cover of her in that red dress is delecious). We finally leave George's house and head out into a cold, bleak and deserted night. There were hardly any people out on the streets. We go to this one bar that happens to be George's favorite, The Draught House, a German inspired house with a full range of at least 50 beers on tap. We sat outside on the picnic tables. It was pretty chill. It was at this place that George told me he ran into Heather several weeks ago.

There's a name I have not uttered in about four years. She was there with her boyfriend and his friends who happen to be friends with George. What a small damn world it is. George told me how he recognized her, they started talking, she dialed up Scott on her cell phone, and then my brother was talking to my ex-husband on his ex-girlfriend's phone. Oh yeah did I mention the bitch was once my friend? How she was supposed to be loyal to me and stay my friend but instead she went off and screwed my husband? So what if we were seperated at the time? We were still married and what burns my hide is that I once asked Scott if he was attracted to her. He swore to me he wasn't. And Heather swore to me she wasn't going out with Scott. The both of them betrayed me, assholes. And they still keep in touch! Scott doesn't tell me shit about his life anymore. I don't really care but sometimes it still ruffles my feathers.

Heather told George there had been drama. Alot of drama. I don't know how much my brothers know about that whole Heather, Scott, and me period but there's more than I can ever tell them. I only tell my family the half-truths. The parts they need to know. The rest is my carefully guarded secrets. Heather actually had the gall to tell Geroge she missed me. What does she miss? What does she regret? That's what I'd like to find out. I stayed quiet and looked away. I don't want to reminded about that time of my life. I don't want to be reminded of Heather. I never want to see her again. I have no choice with Scott but I should do as he's done with me and just cut him out of my life completely. At least emotionally. I hate to admit that he still has the power to rouse my anger, my hurt, my pain, and my tears. But never again my love. He killed that pretty damn good.

The rest of the Thanksgiving weekend was pretty uneventful. Marco, Nina, and I took a walk along some spooky trail by their house Friday night. I always feel like a third wheel whenever I'm around another couple. I had so hoped that Dave would have been the one to add the fourth wheel to this already tottering cycle I keep finding myself in. But no. He turned out to be just another dog of a man who called me on a Tuesday at midnight probably because the dog got horny and wanted to come lie down with his bitch. Asshole. I didn't bother to answer the phone. He left no message and I have not heard from him since. I am not going to be some asshole's booty call at midnight on a Tuesday or any day.

I had no desire to go back to work this morning. Already I could feel myself being crushed under the enormous weight of feeling like my talents are being wasted in this position I am in. I pray to God every day to deliver me from this job and get me one were I can truly shine. I hope it happens and soon or Max, Jinx, and I will find ourselves back in my parent's house.

Ciao! for now.

Something dodgy this way comes

That jerk Dave has utterly pissed me off now. My so called "boyfriend" has not called me since Saturday. I haven't seen him in over a week or really talked to him. The last time he was here was Mon. the 14th of Nov. I didn't see him this past weekend because he said it was his weekend with his daughter. Perfectly understandable. BUT, I attended a conference at Montogomery College in the Woodlands this past Saturday. He told me he lived in the Woodlands. After my conference let out I called him and he said he was just at home with his daughter. Did he invite me over? No. I told him I was off all week (one of the perks of working in education) and that we would have more time to see each other. He said this was a bad week for him, work, closings, work, daughter, blah, blah, blah... Then I told him I was leaving Thursday for Austin to spend Thanksgiving with my brothers and my parents and I would like to see him at least once before I go. "When do I get to see you, daddy", I asked. Laughing he answers, "We'll have to put it into the court order."

He has not made any effort to contact me, to see me, or even to find out how I am. I resolved not to call him. And it's been three damn days, again, that Mr. Mysterious has ducked out of the picture. I am beginning to have a nasty suspicion that either he is married and lied to me about it or he has not overcome his Type-A workaholic personality. Damn him. See, asshole, this is why I don't date more men. What for? They turn out to be lying, cheating dogs. If he had just shown more interest and tried a little harder then I would have accepted him despite the obvious differences between us. But no. He came, we went to bed, and now he's gone.

That's okay though because I am not shedding one tear for him. Or blaming myself for anything because I did nothing wrong. I am pissed off but I wish he could see me now. I am not waiting by the phone like some deranged Japanese girl waiting for the call back from the Audition (film reference) I am making plans with my friends everyday this week, and getting ready for my weekend in Austin where my brothers always show me a good time. He once told me that his ex-wife got pissed off at him for some infraction he did and took a pair of scissors to one of his best $500 suits and cut it to ribbons. Oh, poor baby. Some silk and thread got mutilated and he was hurt. I don't need to use scissors to cut up men's suits. Why? Those things are replaceable. Far worse to use my barbed wit to cut him deeply where it hurts the most and from which it takes longer to recover. Straight to the ego, pride, and heart of him. Fancied yourself a good lover, eh? Truthfully, you were so, so. Not that I didn't enjoy it but it could have been better. Well, now you will never know just how good it could have been. Your loss, dear Dave. Not mine.

And so I move on. I know that one day I will find the right man for me. Not all men are lying, cheating dogs. Look at Michael W. He wanted to but resisted. That's who I want but since I can't have him then I will ask for one just like him but stipulate that he must be single and available for me. Too bad I can't clone him.

Confessions of a Madonna fan

I'm at my brother's house and he just bought Confessions on a Dance Floor. We've been listening to it all afternoon. And I am happy to say that my Madonna has reinvented herself yet again. I have been a Madonna fan since the 8th grade when "Holiday" first hit the airwaves back in 1983. All through high school Madonna was my idol, my icon, the woman I looked up to, and tried to emulate. My best friend from high school, Shirley, and I wore Madonna outfits to school. It wasn't easy given that we were attending an all girl's private school and had to wear uniforms. But on those rare occasions when the nuns let us have free dress day out came the bustiers, the black lace gloves, the rosaries, and bracelets worn on both arms from elbow to wrist. The nuns were none too happy with us. Often times we had to button up our blouses, hide the rosaries, and try not to look so scandalous.

For our gym project in our Jr. Year we had to learn a dance routine and then teach it to the rest of the class. Shirley and I came up with the idea of copying Madonna's Lucky Star video dance steps. We studied that video for weeks, we practiced it every day after school and when the big day came to perform it we were the only girls in the class who had thought to do a modern dance routine and dress up. All the other good little girls did fox-trot, waltzes, and square dancing while still in their uniforms. We wore our lace, our mesh tops, and dance boots. We were smoking. Our picture appeared in the ad pages of our Jr. High yearbook.

Ever since then I have bought all the Madonna albums, her posters, and some of her movies. When the Sex book came out it sold out so fast all I could get my hands on was the French version. No matter. I don't need to speak French to understand pictures. In my eyes Madonna can do no wrong. Okay, her movies haven't been all that hot, but her small performances in lesser known movies have actually been pretty good. In any case she's a dancer and musician first. That is her professional training. That right there is where she has far surpassed any of those old 80's pop stars who have been regulated to the bargain dust bins of the local Sound Exchange. I don't care how much she's been crucified in the media, she's still hot, she still sells albums, she still manages to have a red hot career while being a wife and mother. No fool Madonna.

And as far as all that crap Sharon Osborne said about her here's my two cents: have you looked in a mirror lately? Madonna can play any role she damn well pleases. She's earned that right. She's never had the drug/alcohol problems as so many other of her contemporaries have had. I admire her absolute iron-will control, her take no prisoners attitude, and her fierce determination to be the only master of herself. So what if she dresses like a school girl, a librarian reading children's books, a hot cabaret dancer, a disco diva, and et all? She's got class, chutzpah, and a great body for a 47-year old. I will be listening to Madonna when I'm 60, 70, until death do us part. I can only hope she's still doing music by then. If all those necrotic, aging, mummified, rock stars of the 70's (Ozzy I'm thinking of you) who are only still walking around in their tight leather jeans due to the pickling in their bodies from too much booze and pills can tour then so can Madonna in her pink fishnets and sequined dance heels.

"Confessions on a Dance Floor" is a bloody brilliant album. I love it that she has gone back to her dance roots. I am probably the only person in America who actually liked American Life. The album was mostly ballad driven. Some of the songs were very personal and I can understand why people didn't get it or like it. I think they just didn't give it a chance. Or is Madonna only there to flaunt her body and is not allowed to have a deeply spiritual mind and heart? She could have just chucked it all but she doesn't let negative publicity get her down. She thrives on it and it only makes her stronger. Every song on "Confessions" is fiery, making you want to get up and dance. It's hard to decide which one is the best, but so far I like "Hung Up", "Future Lovers", and "Forbidden Love". The last song on the album, "Like it or Not", is her way of thumbing her nose at all those vicious critics who love to cut people down a notch or two because it makes them feel better about themselves since they have no talent to speak of.

And as for people criticizing her for singing about a rabbi I say get a life. If she sings about God, Catholicism, Kabbala, she gets crucified. If she doesn't then she's a godless heathen. I think that in a time when our society is moving ever more towards a spiritually bereft condition to have a celebrity actually say she attends services of what ever faith is to be applauded not derided. I don't see Brittany Spears, Lindsay Lohan, or all their ilk attend services or even proclaim what their beliefs are.

Madonna, here's to you.

TV's a wasteland

And I am here at my parent's house wasting my mind on watching cable. I would rather be at the movies. Or at home doing some real work. Such as writing. Reviewing the material I need to submit soon to various literary journals around town. Sometimes I wonder what more can be written of love? Or money? Or sex? I've actually got a real burning curiosity to know what goes through a man's mind the very first time he sleeps with someone new. Does he remember all who came before her? And why do some guys feel they have to ask if they measure up to the last significant one that came before them? Do they really want to know? Or do they simply want to hear something that makes them feel good? Dating is a minefield but an actual relationship is a is a big bang waiting to happen. There is an ancient manuscript that proposes that God is really a woman and that she fell in love with that elusive man. She pursued him, she made love to him, and their orgasm was the big bang and thus the universe was created. I like that creation story. Try teaching that one in the schools. Pure hearsy of course. Or is it?

Thoughts now bursting on the cyber-page

Dave called me Monday evening after five long days of almost complete silence. Does a text msg on Sunday count as communication? I suppose in our technologically advanced world it does. No more waiting a month or two for the Pony Express to deliver the kiss of death letter. Dave came to pick up me and my son and he took us to dinner.

His excuses for not calling:
Busy. Work. Cell phone was dead. Busy. Gambling in Louisiana. Traveling. Missed you. Thought about you.

My responses to him:
I thought you were dead. I thought you were with another woman. You went back to your ex-wife. You're dead. Should I call the hospitals? You regret asking me to be your girlfriend. You're afraid of me. You think I'm too much for you.

Dave: I'm sure you preferred me dead than being with another woman, right?
Me: I can not tell a lie. I would rather be at your funeral than at your wedding.

Later, after dinner, drinks, and my son tucked safely in his bed.
Dave: You're so far above me. You're so great. Why don't you date more men? You have pursuers. I know. Who's calling you at 10:30pm? You still have feelings for your ex. You have a connection. I don't have an intellectual bone in my body. Why are you so nice to me? You've been nicer to me in one night than my ex-wife was to me in three years. You have the magic touch. You have the face of a model. You're great in bed. Where did you learn all those things that you do? Am I better than your ex-husband? Do I measure up? Do I please you?

Me: (Please note, things in parenthesis are my own thoughts, not things I actually said to him)
It doesn't matter that you're not an intellectual artist. I don't date more men because I'm too busy and broke to go out and meet anyone and when I do meet them they run away because they suffer from an inferiority complex around me. (Or he is a married man who I absolutely crave but can not have) Yes I have men who call me and who pursue me. (But not in the way you think) I have no feelings for my ex-husband. I'm nice, modest, and great in bed because I am happy to be alive and I exude my happiness and sensuality through every pore in my body. (I can not help it nor stop it. You might as well ask Niagra Falls to stop pouring over the majestic ridge it falls over. I am beautiful and confident in my size 16, 38c cup, voluptuous, well rounded, body. I have a mind sharper than a razor blade and it cuts just as deep when any part of me is hurt) Don't ask me where I learned the things I do in bed. I'm not going to tell you. (But let's just say there is something to earning your education by reading Anais Nin and Henry Miller, watching highly charged erotic films, not porn, there is a difference, and having a mind that grasps every event, past, present, and future. Plus I am a Scorpio and everyone knows that Scorpios are the best lovers in the whole zodiac)

Dave spent the night but I had to boot him out early the next day. When will I see him again? Dating is such a minefield. And I am sick of stepping on mines and blowing up. How many phone calls in one day is too many? How many days without a phone call is too much? When he spends the night do we make a date that very morning for our next encounter? Is he my boyfriend? He said he was. How much should I expect from my boyfriend of only two weeks? How about three? How about I just ask him to marry me and then I won't be so hung up on all these crazy thoughts? How about I just ask him to shack up with me? Or even better, why don't I just keep stepping on the damn mines and see which one will be the one to finally want to blow up with me. Like a supernova.

I haven't even told you the best part. Last week because I wasn't talking to Dave I called Michael W. We talked for almost an hour. I told him about Dave. And he told me what a lucky guy to have such a beautiful, young girl like me. But when I told him my trepeditions because of some of the things he said about me being so much smarter than him Michael W. told me how much he loved it that I was smarter than him. Then he said how much he loved being around me, how he learned so much from me, and that if he had stayed in Texas much longer he would have had an affair with me. My jaw hit the floor. He admitted it at last. My validation is here. Michael W. basically told me that he left Texas and moved to Florida to resist the temptaion I posed for him. Well, isn't that something? I've never driven a man across four state lines just to get away from me before. Then he goes on to say how an affair would have messed up everything, how we had to do the right thing, and something about God, yadda, yadda, yadda...

Oh hell, the wicked side of me wanted to jump on a plane and track his ass down in Florida and let whatever happened happen and to HELL with the consequences. He as much as admitted he was weak and if I showed up and tweaked him just right then he would have been jello in my arms. That is only if I never heard back from Dave. But I did. And I'm staying put. And I am going to give my relationship with Dave a chance. I feel I have to. Michael W. has to figure out just what he wants. If he wants to continue to suffer that train wreck that is his marriage for some lofty ideal of "it's the right thing to do because of my children, God, blah, blah, blah..." then so be it. I gave up on those lofty feelings a long time ago and became a little selfish. You have to otherwise you will lose your mind. And he is close to losing his but he won't admit it, idiot. If Michael W. showed up on my doorstep tomorrow, bags in hand, and divorce papers freshly printed then I would accept him. But I am not waiting for him as he vacillates between me and his wife. He has to decide. I have already decided. And the window of opportunity is closing. When it shuts only a blow torch will get it open. Let's see if Michael W. has the cojones to follow his heart.

In the meantime I do like Dave very much. I'm happy to be in a relationship with him. It's still very new so I am not all twittery in my belly like some 16-year old on her first date. I am trying to relax. The sex with Dave is great. But it's only been twice and in the comfort of my home. Let's see how he rolls out in the wild. On a sandy beach. In the breaking surf. Dancing with the temptress (that's me) under the pale of the full moonlight. Oh yeah, that's right. He doesn't know yet about my witchy ways. Hmm...I told Michael Angel all about my new relationship and he is happy for me. Of course that also means our fun and games have come to a stop but he did ask me "So you're planning on bombing him bit by bit with all your wild ways instead of just nuking him all at once?" He makes me sound so bad. I can't help what I am. Men can't help falling for me. I am just a girl searching for love. And when it hits, oh my, when it hits, the recent hurricanes have nothing on me. One day I will find true love. But will true love be strong enough to take me on?

Thoughts swirling like in a Cy Twombly painting

I am more confused now than ever. What is happening to me? My man Dave has not called me in four days. What is up with that? He comes over last Sunday, takes me and my son out to dinner, he really likes him, we talk, we make out, he asks me to be his exclusive girlfriend, I accept, and now I have not heard from him in four days. Tuesday was the last day I really spoke to him. He told me he might go out of town for business on Wednesday and to call him. If I got his voice-mail then more then likely he was out of town. But hell even if he is out of town he can't call me at least for five mintues even once in four %^&*#$ days? What the hell is the matter with men? They say it's women that are the emotionally charged, indecisive, don't-know-what-they-want, types, but I say men are more so.

What am I to do? I've called him twice, left him a couple of messages, texted him as well, and this is what I get? No freaking response in four days? I know we're not teenagers anymore nor do we need to spend hours on the phone talking to each other every day. But I would appreciate a damn phone call at least once or twice in four days. SHIT! Why does this keep happening to me? I never have any problem meeting men. My problem is keeping them. As soon as they begin to see and know what I am all about they flee. They think they are not as good as me, as creative, as talented, as intelligent, or whatever. They get intimidated. I am sorry but I can not be some demure, sweet-looking, smiling pretty, and non-talketive type of woman. I am out there. I wear rings on nearly every finger, bracelets on my wrists, five ear-rings in each ear, I like art, music, film, theater, opera, literature, and I am extremely well-read. And to boot, I'm a wild party girl who likes to knock back the tequila shots, boogie all night on a platform to techno, and have fun. Those girls on Sex in the City have got nothing on me. There is no way I can down-play any of that no matter how hard I try. And I shouldn't have to. I am who I am. I love being me. And I am not going to let some asshole try to dictate what I should be. If he can't handle me then it's his loss. I am pissed off. I really wanted a relationship with Dave to work out. I thought he could help me forget the two Michaels. Perhaps I wanted the relationship too much to cover up what truly is in my heart. But even so I would have put my entire being into it.

Oh it's not fair, it's not fair
That an artist should create a chair
In which I can not sit
But to which I want to submit

Oh it's not fair, it's not fair
That he can't run his fingers through my hair
To which I say "Life is for the living,
Do it anyway and never stop giving,

Into your desires
Burn up like the fires
In these forests of my mind
Dark and light open and wide

Music at work

My feelings on the subject are these:

If you work in an office with many people than either play something so mind numbingly boring that your brain simply absorbs it and then dumps as quickly as possible or don't play anything at all. Case in point. Take my new job for instance. All I could find to work in was as a clinic asst. at my son's elementary school. Me, a degreed professional, is now making less than the poverty limit. Thank you very much Mr. Bush for your #$%&* No Child Left Behind *%^&*@# legislation and those !@$%&* tests teachers now have to take. But I digress. The school nurse that I work under is actually a very nice lady. A very nice, wholesome, Christian lady. And very nice Christian people love listening to Christian music. And then other very nice, holy-rolling, wholesome Christian people who walk through the clinic prick their ears up when they hear Jesus being praised in song, can you give me a halleluja! And then these people bring in their cd's of Christian Praise and Worship music that has made the rounds in the whole church, in the families, and is now spreading like an oil slick out into the working world.

It never ceases to amaze me how these nice people then turn around, look you straight in the face, with these huge grins on their faces and ask you like eager beavers "Don't you just love this?" I stand there with my jaw slightly dropped and my teeth clenched. I don't want to offend anyone so I try very hard to smile and simply say "It's oaky." Listen up all of you nice, wholesome, Christian people. I have nothing against what you believe, how you believe, and how much you love the Lord. I am a deeply spiritual person and I love the Lord too. But Praise and Worship music grates on my ears like sandpaper being rubbed over the hood of a car. I absolutely hate it. More boring music this world has never seen. Even the Catholic litanies and songs sung in the original latin at mass have more feeling than these cookie-cutter songs. And then they bring it to work, where my heathen ears have to listen to it, and I swear I burn as if holy water had been dripped on my forehead. Why do Christians assume that everybody is into this music? And why do they have to bring it out into the work-place? Do I go jamming 50-cent into Mass on Sundays? NO. And I don't expect to hear all this bland music where I work. It's hard enough getting through the day without adding the extra torture of listening to something I utterly detest. But I am a sly one. As soon as the nurse goes away I shut it off. When she returns I play dumb and say the cd finished. I think they're beginning to catch on. They must be scratching their heads thinking, "Gee, I could swear this cd is a lot longer."

I have my own style of music that I love. I am not about to bring it where I work because I know not everyone will like it. So there. Keep your music in your own house or in your car. One day when you become master of the universe and we are all your slaves then torture us with bad music. Until that time though, keep the Praise and Worship at home. Preferably buried under a pile of moldy laundry in the dank basement.

I can move on now

I met someone two weeks ago. It was at my birthday celebration. It was like something out of a romance novel. Two people looking at each other across a crowded room, making eye contact and feeling that instant connection. I was sitting in a restaurant with all of my friends that came out to celebrate my birthday with me. We're having drinks, we're laughing, and I see this handsome man walking back and forth towards the back of the restaurant. He was sitting at the bar but because of where I was sitting a column was blocking my view so I could not tell if he was with anyone. But on the next trip down my way that he took I looked him directly in the eye and smiled. He smiled back. Later he came over and introduced himself. He ordered me a drink. He asked what I would like. I was so flustered feeling like a teenager again that I said "I'd like a red cab." He looked around and said "Hmmm....I don't see any red cabs. Hey bartender, do you see any red cabs out front?" He smiled and laughed but in a good way. And I am blushing redder than a red cab. "What I meant was I would like a house cab. Duh. All cabernets are red. stupid," I was thinking." I was trying to be all smooth. Instead I slipped and fell right into the arms of this great guy who I later met up with and we spent the rest of the night dancing, talking, having more drinks, and eating pancakes into the wee late hours.

Then this past weekend we went out on Friday night and I had the best date in I don't even know how long. My guy's name is Dave. He's 47. I have never dated anyone so much older than me. Well except for that crusty, white-bread, little man six months ago who met me for lunch and then proceeded to tell me how rotten his ex-wife was. Dave has a few ex's of his own but then so do I even if I wasn't married but to one of them. In this modern world it seems like husbands and wives no longer have just names but numbers too that come after their titles.
Hello, my name is ........ wife #3
And my name is ..........husband #2

Dave and I made an instant connection. And part of me is seeing stars. And the other part is wanting to run as far away as possible because I am not used to being treated so well. But no I will stand my ground. Dave asked me to be his girlfriend Sunday night and I accepted. Exclusive. That means all this other crap that's been messing with my head must all end. NOW! All this going back and forth with the two Michaels must end. I will not tie myself to an impossible. I will go for the real. Dave is real. He likes me, he says he loves being with me and I will respond. I've already responded with my body and my heart. Don't ask me how or why. He is not artistic nor creative in the sense that I am with all the things that I do. But so what? No man is the perfect man. And what do I want with someone who is exactly like me? Even I can't stand me sometimes to where I just want to take off my skin and shake it out like a rug. I need someone who will balance me out. Dave can do that. He's handsome, responsible, has his own business, is smart, sensible, and well, let's just say 47-year olds can still go for an hour and 45 minutes just like a 27 year old can.

Ah, wicked girl. Thinking of what occured after the drinks, the sushi, the dancing, and the trip back to your house of love? Oh yes.......and I hope to repeat it this weekend. A new chapter is being written as we speak. The pages are smudged with the ink from my pens. My fingers are stainded with all the ink I spill. My words burn within me. Dave has come at last into my life. And I do not say this to be a doomsayer, but even if it doesn't work out then I still enjoyed the ride.

I can publish what came before

I was reading over Imaginary Lives/Week 5 and actually it's not that bad. I realized this morning that I am doing it again. Hiding behind my web of words because of fear. I won't live in fear anymore. I am being honest with my feelings. Michael W. has two choices. He can either reciprocate my feelings or reject them. If he reciprocates then I will be estatic. If he rejects them then I will be hurt but not destroyed. It won't kill me. I'll move on and chock all of this up to another grand experince for me to write about. I guess I simply want validation that all of the things we shared last year were not one-sided. His phone call to me two weeks ago and his brief response to my e-mail are proof that it wasn't. He never once mentioned his wife to me. Someone else would have said different things to let me understand how impossible this situation is. And he did and he did not. I know, it's confusing. But that is the nature of the beast of love. Capricious, erratic, turbulent, and highly charged.

Perhaps I am setting myself up for a huge disappointment. Ah, well, then the things that aren't worth fighting for aren't worth it period. Are they? But Michael W. is worth it. He is worthy of me. What do I do? Call him again? Pester him? No, I tell myself, he has to come to me of his own free will. So, I sit back and wait and wait patiently. But I will not wait forever. I have the patience of a saint but not all the time in the world. I will move on.

In other news the Astros lost last night but the game is not over until the fat umpire sings. My very best wishes go out to them to play an excellent game so they can win the World Series.

I can not publish what came before

I know I've been lax in keeping up with my blog. But lots of things have been happening in my life that have my head all in a tizzy. I have a full time job but it's only paying me $11,200 this year. I am below the poverty level. A highly educated, intellectual, degreed professional. That's what you call poetic irony. It's rather amusing and tragically sad all at once. But I am keeping my head above water. I haven't drowned yet.

I just finished writing another blog. But I can't publish it. Not yet. It's rather revealing. It's about Michael W. And I can't bring myself to expose it in case he still comes around occasionally to read these meanderings of my mind. All I will say is that I miss him, that I think about him every day, and that no matter what happens I want him to be happy. He completely changed my life. He may never know to what depth but given the chance I would tell him in person.

Hey, tonight's the first game of the World Series. Go Astros! You can do it and prove Houston is a bad ass city to live in.

Imaginary Lives/Week 5

Okay, so I've been a little lax in keeping up with my blog. Things have been happening in my life that make me question whether or not I've pissed off the universe so badly that I am paying for it in spades. I'm crying blood tears at the utter frustrations life has thrown at me. I have a job that pays me less than a grand a month. My ex, even though he should be paying me more in child support, won't pay it until I submit all the proper paperwork through the courts to make it legal. On the one hand I can understand it, but on the other I am struggling, he knows I'm struggling, and he won't volunteer the extra money to help me out. I basically have to get into a ring with him and duke it out. We scream and insult each other and then calm down. He'll usually give me some token thing, like an art book, or a DVD, or a music CD to placate me. And I am just to tired too keep fighting with him. Anyways, somehow I am managing to get my bills paid. I tell you though poverty sucks. But at least I still have my house, my car, the clothes on my back, and my son and I are eating. It could be alot worse. I simply have to do without certain things. Like cable, a cell phone, new clothes, new shoes, going out, eating out... People take things for granted. I don't belive that I do. All these things are happening to me for a reason. And I am not cursing the universe for any of it. Or God for that matter. However, I have been seen lately in my backyard striking the goddess pose under a full moon and simply asking why?

Michael W. finally called me after nearly two months of not hearing from him. We talked of the ordinary things happening in our lives. And afterwards I felt that so much more could have been said but we are holding our tongues because what good would it do to admit our feelings for each other when his situation has not changed? Although, he did say he missed Texas and all of his friends and family and that he has had a very rough time in Florida. He also said he might come back. And he might do this or that and what of it? What about us? Is there an us?

Since last year when we began riding together and we got ever so much closer I underwent a complete reversal of what I once was. I no longer wanted empty, casual relationships based on sex. I no longer wanted my heart to remain cold and barren. I no longer was interested in simply going out and hooking up for one night with some stranger. In fact I was pretty much celibate until Michael Angel came along. And even though I have been with him twice in the last six months since he reappeared in my life I don't want him either. In fact he has been calling me pretty steadily in the last two weeks and I've turned him down three times simply because I am not interested in making the effort to see him. I am done with him. So I have had sex exactly twice in the last year and three months. And though I am burning for it I am not giving it up. I am saving myself for Michael W. Perhaps it will never happen but if it does I want to be ready for him. Oh, god I hope he doesn't still come around and read my blog. I'm posting out for all the world to see but I don't think anyone is even reading it. Which is fine with me. My blog is my personal page to the world that says here I am but you don't know who I am.

I know what I want now. And it may very well be that Michael W. and I never formalize our relationship or consumate our feelings for each other. I think I can live with that. I know deep in my heart, however, that he was the influence and guide I needed to turn my life around. For that I thank him and I will always love him. Perhaps that was the only reason why he came to Texas from so far away and why once the mission was complete he went on his life's path again. But the tiny flame of hope still burns within me. As long as that spark exists then I will keep the possibility open that he is the one.

What does all this have to do with an imaginary life? Hmmm... Okay, I want to be a Desperate Housewife. I want to be hot, sexy, melt my man's heart with my wild ways in bed and act out every fantasy with him. My husband. My partner. My soulmate. My Michael W. I am desperate to get even one kiss from him. I think about it. I dream about it. I hear his voice in my dreams. And I know I could really focus my energy and thoughts and cast a spell to get him here. But I don't. In fact just thinking about it could have reprecussions. But I can't help myself. I am truly smitten. Damn. Love hurts. It's such a bitch. But totally worth it. Come, Michael W. Jump into the volcano with me. We will undoubtedly burn. But if we don't we gain the world.

Imaginary Lives/Week 4

I sent an e-mail to Michael W. and in it I told him in no uncertain words how I feel about him. So then I guess this weeks imaginary life is a life with him. In it we are married. We are raising his two daughters and my son together as one big family and we have more children of our own. We have a nice big place to live in, we're both working in education so we have our summers off to travel, experience things, and we love each other very much. We're totally devoted to each other and we support each other in every way. We're helping each other heal from our broken marriages and we are facing a future together in which we grow, we evolve, we move up the ladder until we are one again with the divine light. There is so much more I wanted to tell him, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I felt I had already revealed too much. I am afraid he won't respond. I am even more afraid that he will and that he will deny everything and "let me down easy" as in "Gee, I am flattered but I already have a wife who loves me..." Oh yes. Guess what? I loved my ex, too. So much that I hurt him at every turn and he hurt me and all we did was weave a toxic web of hurt, betrayal, making-up, making love, and having our good days and then the vicious cycle would begin all over again.

Being with my ex this past weekend (we went fishing with our son) made me realize and face the root of the reason why our relationship didn't work out. We don't trust each other. We never did. I was always waiting for him to betray me. And he did. And in turn I betrayed him. Over and over we did this. Now in this imaginary life I have with Michael there is complete trust although that feels to me like I am walking over the chasm of the Grand Canyon on a tightrope without a net. It was much safer when I felt nothing for anyone, I could pick and choose my lovers, and discard them when I was finished with them. This whole past year being around Michael opened me up like a lotus flower floating on a lily pad out in the middle of a still lake. I am open now, more beautiful and powerful than ever, but still alone because I don't know how to swim ashore. And I so desperately want to come ashore. I want the reality-tale; I want to be married, I want to be in a loving, committed relationship, I want to raise my son within the constructs of a family unit, I want to sleep every night pressed up close to my husband, and wake up to his scratchy face rubbing mine raw. I want our children to grow up and I want to watch them become strong individuals. I want to make a difference in the world and have someone by my side who can support me in all my endeavors and I in turn will do the same for him. Without all the jealousies, the screaming, the arguing, the utter crap that pulls society down and is turning our world into a psychic, negative, toxic, waste dump. I want my soul to soar and sing and I want to do it with my soulmate by my side. I wish with all my heart that it was with Michael W. That is what I want!

Imaginary Lives/Week 3

This week I have decided to pursue the man of my dreams. In order to do this I must travel to the enchanted oasis that can be found in the high deserts of the west and look for him at the golden pyramid. I first laid eyes on him 14 years ago and recently saw him again. He has not changed one bit. He still wears an all black suit and is painted blue. That's right. I want to be the wife of a Blue Man.

Obviously there will be some kinks to iron out. I mean when you're the wife of a Blue Man you have to put up with certain things. Such as him not talking with words but spraying day-glo colors out of his mouth when he wants to communicate. I'll have to get used to paint, gobs of marshmellow, and crushed Captain Crunch all over the floors of the house. Not to mention put up with bedsheets permanently stained blue. Oh, yes and the pantry must always be stocked with Twinkies, vanilla pudding, and gumballs. Not much of a diet, I admit. And the furniture will be all PVC pipe...hmmm...not very fashionable either, but the payoff is being married to a delicious blend of performance art and high tech music. I can do this.

"Honey, what to do you want for dinner tonight?"
Blue Man: orange streak of paint sprays across the table.
"Gumballs gain? Why can't we go out for dinner?"
Blue Man: red streak of paint splattered on the couch.
"What do you mean you don't like people staring at you? You are a Blue Man. It's part of the package."
Blue Man: yellow streaks down his cheeks.
"But, darling, don't you love your job?"
Blue Man: yellow streams of pudding exploding from his chest.
"What will you do then?"
Blue Man: marshmellows dribble out of his mouth.
"Ice-cream vendor? after all these years of performing? And you want to be an ice-cream vendor? Are you mad? What will people think of you then? Washed out Blue Man! That's what. No, this is just a slump you're going through. You'll get over it. So, about dinner?"
Blue Man: Gets up, spins a small canvas, streaks of red, orange, and yellow form perfect circles with just a bit of spatter patterns.
"That's my big Blue Man. I love you darling. Kiss me."
Blue Man and Wife: blue greasy paint smeared all over both faces.

Paradise.

Imaginary Lives/Week 2

I am a taxi-dancer. It's the 1920's, the Jazz age is in full swing, and I've just gotten off the bus in a bright and dangerously new city that is always being written about in the back pages of my hometown newspaper. I ran away from home. My mom will miss me and I do feel bad for her. I'll call her at the end of the week if I can scrape up enough for the phone booth. I have exactly ten dollars in my purse. It's all the money I managed to bring with me. I didn't realize the bus ticket would be so much. I tried not to eat too much but after a day and a half on a crowded bus I finally had to put something in my stomach. I've got exactly one nice dress and a pair of high-heeled shoes in my bag. I saw the ad in the newspaper as I sat in a diner drinking watery coffee and eating a slice of stale toast. Now here I am in a dancehall dancing every night for ten cents a dance.

I started out at a nickel but because I was willing to stay the extra hours my boss gave me a raise. It's not too bad. My legs and feet are swollen by the time I get home at 3am but at least I have a clean room and my own private bathroom. My boss fixed that up for me. I can sleep until 2, get a bite down at the corner deli, and be at work by 6. The men aren't too bad. I've gotten used to the smell of whiskey on their breaths and old cigarette smoke in their clothes. I just hate the ones who don't shave when they rub their scratchy faces against mine. They leave my skin raw. At first it was really annoying but now with one look to Henry, the dance-hall keeper, he comes over and pulls the guys back by their collars. It chokes them some but after a while they get the idea.

I've made a few friends. Henry is great but I don't like him that way and I've told him this many times. Shirley and Bonnie are quite a pair but they allow the men to do other things and I don't want to even though it might mean less hours on my feet and more money in my pocket. I save every dime I can. When I have enough I'll move on to New York City. I want to be a real dancer on the stage, and sing, and act. I have to act every night now as it is. I have to pretend I like these men that come in and dance with me. I have to pretend that I'm their girlfriend every night. I've come up with at least ten different names that I know they like. It's tiring. You have to keep it all straight in your head. Luckily I have a good memory. So I know I would make a good actress because they have to memorize all those lines. Yeah, when I get to New York I'm going to be a star.

Imaginary Lives/Week 1

I've begun a new journey which is an extension of the one I took back in June when I went to Santa Fe. I've been reading The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. It's a book that fuses the 12-step program for recovering addicts and a spiritual journey to recover your lost sense of worth and creativity. It's a 12-week course in which each morning you must dedicate time to writing three, long-hand, pages of stream-of-consciousness writing. It's a bit like Natalie Goldberg's ten-minute writing practices in which you pick a topic and then blitzkrieg writing on it for ten minutes. Both are fabulous techniques. And in fact Julia Cameron sites Natalie Goldberg's
Writing Down the Bones as a must read in the Appendix of her book. It's amazing that I've had Natalie's book, I studied with her this summer, and when I came back and finally dusted off my other creativity inspirational books I find her name in many other writer's reading lists. It's all synchronicity.

Okay, in week one of TAW, there is a task called imaginary lives. If you had five other lives to lead what would they be? Here is number 1: Actress

I want to be a villainess on a Mexican soap opera. I watch all those novelas every night and I have to admit that the evil woman who wrecks havoc throughout the entire story line is gorgeously bad. I mean vile. She gets to sleep with all the leading men. She tricks them into doing whatever she wants, she's beautiful beyond words, deadly in every thing she does, and is not above using every dirty trick in the book to get her way. She doesn't shy away from murder and mayhem. I want to be that persona so I can be evil for just a little while, but know deep in my heart that it's all pretending. I want to be revered and feared at the same time. Loved and loathed. Vilefied and deified. My name will burn on the lips and in the hearts of all people who meet me and yet I know that my regin of terror will one day come to an end. And then I can step out of those satan-on-heeled shoes and become me again. I want my face plastered on magazine covers, followed my paparazzi, and catered to at my every whim. I want to walk the razor's edge of life in the fast lane but maintain my well of goodness. Is that possible? Acting is all fantasy all the time. I want to act out my fantasies. And my biggest fantasy of all time is to be the world's most reviled bitch, but one who never-the-less commands the respect of all who cross my path. Why do I want to be such a bitch? Perhaps to make up for all the times I wussed out and was run over like roadkill on the side of the highway of life. At least bitches get to speak their minds before they get their comeuppances.

I suppose I could speak my mind too. But it's more fun to write about it. I'll be a bitch with words. Actually I am that already. Let's call a spade a spade shall we? In my private journals I rip to shreds those that have hurt me though I would never dare to tell them to their faces. OOOOOH, now I see the purpose of the exercises. Dig deep and see what's there. It's what I was taught at the writer's conference. I was hurt in the past. Now all I want to do is hurt back, twice as hard, all those who ever hurt me. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Now I see why my heart has turned to ice. And how do I melt it? And who will be strong enough to still be standing when all the melt-water floods the terrain?

I don't really want to be an actress. Because in a way I've been acting my whole life. I've been pretending that everything is fine instead of voicing my true opinions when something was bothering me. Everything is not fine right now. I have no job. I am still alone. And I still hurt. Okay, now that it's out in the open I am going to work on making it better.

Is it possible to be haunted by a name?

Yes. And the name that haunts me is Michael. The warrior arch-angel who slayed the dragon. The being whose name means "He Who Is Like God". A fierce force to be reckoned with. My first serious boyfriend was named Michael, but I never called him that. He was always Mike. Mike was a dullard. We were together for nearly two years. I almost married him. He was white, from a mediocre middle-class family, the youngest of four children. He had no ambition, no inspiration, no creativity in his soul, nothing to distinguish him from the huddled masses, but yet I loved him because I was young and foolish. The sun set and rose with him and to me he was like a god. The sex was good, but after a while it became routine and boring. I ignored it because I felt that love would conquer all. He broke up with me and that pain drove a knife through my heart. It was intense. It was a consuming pain that hurt me deeply for six-months. And when he came to his senses he came groveling back. In triumph took him back. But it was an empty victory. I realized after a few weeks that I didn't want him anymore. Another six months went by and I gave him back the shiny bauble he had given me to seal our fate. I left him sitting on a pebbly, dusty drive-way, and have never seen him since. He will always be Mike because he never gained the status of Michael.

The second time Michael came through my life he was in the form of a tall, icy-blue eyed, dark haired, lean-bodied, well-endowed male. We met through work six years ago. And to further drive home the mystical allure his middle name happens to be Angel. I thought truly this is a gift from heaven. Michael and I began an affair that still continues to this day even though we have had numerous relationships, months, even years when we didn't so much as touch each other in- between the times when we do come together because we are like a drug one to the other that we can not give up. Oh we have tried. We have stopped speaking to each other, we have had other relationships as I said, but in the secret afternoons, in the dark, cloudy, stormy, rainy season we come together and the connection is not just about sex anymore but something else we don't say out loud. I love to kiss his full, bee-stung lips. He loves to mold himself into my body. We don't need words to express our true feelings. He has always been Michael, never Mike, never that common, cheap name that means nothing. Michael is my secret. A deep secret that I let out in bits and pieces to my friends. And since my friends are so scattered and varied than none of them have the whole piece that would complete the puzzle. And so Michael remains just for me that same guy, frozen in time, when I saw him for the first time, and felt true desire for another man. I finally dared to break my marriage vows with him. He was and is my drug. I have loved him like acid. He burns away at me. Then he fades out when things get too hot for him. He fades out because he is the one falling in love with me and he can't face it. So he takes a time out and I look up one day to discover that it has been a month, then two, then three and I haven't heard from him. I feel his absence like noticing a piece that is missing from a broken glass. But inside I know that he will call again because he can't stay away forever.

And so it came to pass that last year he faded out and another Michael took his place. Michael W. was a another white, middle-class, tall, blue-eyed, sandy-haired, handsome man that I happened to work with. Just as Michael Angel stepped out for roughly nine months Michael W. walked right in and went beyond what Michael Angel could give me. Michael W. began as Mike to me. Just another colleague. Another administrator I felt I had to be wary of and whom I didn't trust. But as fate would have it we began a car-pool. And that led to an intense friendship. And that led to an emotionally charged affair of the mind and spirit. At first he was just Mike, another Mike, another coincidence in my already crazy life. Then we began to spend more and more time together; lunches once or twice a week, trips to the museums or a walk through a cemetery, walks in the park, swimming during lunch periods, a foreign movie one afternoon, coffee-shop breaks, trips to the ER and the hospital, professional development workshops. And through it all we discovered how much we had in common, how perfect we were for each other, how alike our minds were but how unstable our personal lives were. Sometime during the year he dissolved from plain old, dull, one-track mind Mike to dynamic, inspirational, deeply profound, creative, highly intelligent Michael. A shining being in my mind who finally lived up to the name of "He Who Is Like God". I believed here was another gift from heaven, but one that came with a heavy price. Michael W. is married with two children. And though with me he felt things he'd never felt before it still wasn't enough for him to give it all up to follow me down my path. We never consumated our physical relationship, but there were plently of hugs, hand-holdings disguised as moral support, and longing looks in our eyes. An affair purely of the heart and soul. Now Michael W. is leaving me to pursue a different path. A path that is leading him to Florida. Will he forget me and the hot summers of Texas? Will he regret not having stayed and followed that tiny voice in his heart that said "Maybe, just maybe it can work with her"?

And as if to further drive home the point that he is leaving and I will probably never see him again Michael Angel drifts back into my life at the same exact time and we come together for a few hours every couple of weeks. And as I look up at Michael Angel's face and stare into his blue eyes another set of blue eyes momentarily take up residence and I yell out "Michael, Michael..." And sometimes I don't know which Michael I am screaming for but it doesn't matter to the Michael in front of me because how else can a woman simultaneoulsy disguise and have out in the open two such grand feelings for two different men and neither be none the wiser? Why, by having both such men share the same name. And neither knows about the other. For I have never discussed my personal intimate life with Michael W. and though I used to talk about it with Michael Angel I don't any more. So he has no idea I developed such a deep connection to Michael W. I am a deep well of secrets and sometimes I feel that I will collapse under their weight and drown.

I should hate him

But I don't. Instead I feel nothing for Scott anymore. After all this time things finally start to fall into place. The asshole lied and cheated on me always. He was never there for me. He used me. He kept me working at a job I detested because I earned more money than he did but prevented me from going any further because that would mean I had to work nights. For the record I will state it here. I supported him. I worked my ass off our whole relationship while he did his art. I put his ass through the master's program. And I actually believed him when he said he wasn't fucking his models, our friends at the time, Tiffany, Heather, and Annette. Now he is finally earning the recognition he deserves. Great for him. He is a talented artist. But a manipulating, coniving, lying, hypocritical bastard one at that. It was all jealousy on his part. Oh, Scott is a sly one. But one day the truth will all come out. Oh I will be dragged through the mud too. I did have my flings with Heather and Annette too. But which came first the chicken or the egg? In this case it was the big fat chicken whose name is Scott. Damn but it feels good to finally get some of this crap off my chest. I will stop feeling so bad that I did crazy things in the past. I will stop beating myself up for my marriage going all to hell. I will stop feeling sorry for that asshole who really doesn't deserve it. I will stop trying to always be the one who bows my head. For this one time only I will not take the high road and try to be the gracious one. Fuck that.

Hmmmm........I need to to start fulfilling the role of the bitchy ex-wife.

Let's see......a hypothetical conversation between me and my ex-husband.

L: Do you still love me?
S: What? Excuse me?
L:It's a simple question. Yes or no?
S: Do you still love me?
L:No. I used to. So much. Crazy, obsessively, and beyond imagination in love with you I was once. But not any more. One day I woke up and found that I couldn't even stand to be in the same bed with you. Your very touch made my flesh crawl.
S:I don't love you either. You hurt me. You left me. You took my son away from me. In fact I hate you.
L:Hate implies that you once felt very strongly for me and it proves that you still do. Feel very strongly for me. Only now it's hate. But I feel nothing for you. Not even hate. There is a hole in me where you used to be. It's scarring over now. But the hole beneath is still there. Funny thing about holes. They don't always have to be filled up. Take the Grand Canyon. It's a majestic, beautiful, national landmark. For it shows the unbelievable forces of nature in all its glorious and furious passion. Forcing water through its cracks, like tears falling from the eyes of mother earth, to gouge out another mark, to show how immense love can be. And what happens when it turns to destruction. Love is awesome. But fearsome too. It takes you to such grand heights. But when it crashes it crashes like stones hitting the earth and then all that's left are the holes. I'm happyu now with my hole. Mother earth is still alive. And so am I.
S:You make no sense. That is so stupid.
L:For you of no faith and no love yes. For me it means that love is still within me. But no longer for you. Never for you again.

My faith is keeping me alive and strong despite all the crap I am going through. Jesus did say to forgive your enemies. To turn the other cheek. Oh, that is a hard lesson. I don't think I have forgiven Scott. But I must learn to. If for no other reason than I can't carry this toxicity in me any longer. Hmmmm...........must learn to forgive..............

A slow summer heat

My summer is coming to an end and I face an uncertain future. I was forced to resign from my job at the high school where I worked because I have not passed a test that says I can be a teacher. Amazing. The states are in an uproar over education. Budgets are cut every year and school districts everywhere are crying out that there is a shortage of teachers. Gee, could it be because Dubbya's No Child Left Behind is a monster that has finally ripped off its mask to reveal its true horrid face? Could it be that teachers these days shy away from the classroom because all they do is teach to a test and the teacher certification standards are now based on passing these horrendous tests? Because teachers don't go into this career for the money. 15 points on one test is preventing me from having a job in the state of Texas. 15 points separates me from a classroom filled with kids that need me. 15 points is making my life a living hell. It has left me jobless. Damn it all to hell.

On another note my writing is taking off. Oh I had my moments when I came back from my trip where I literally did not leave my house, or eat, or do anything other than stare at computer screen playing mindless games instead of writing. But now I am energized because that means I am this much closer to acheiving my dream. It is a really wonderful dream. One in which......Ah now wait I can't give it away just yet.

Let's see in other news my son Max turned 9 on July 15th. Wow, he is getting so big. Alas, his birthday always falls in the summer month when he spends it with his father out in West Columbia. During the summer months I see Max every two weeks. I usually have to schlep myself up to West Columbia and I end up spending one or two nights there. At first it was awkward. But this is reality. The reality is Max's father, Scott, and I divorced four years ago. Every summer Max spends it with him, but Scott, never being one with much in the way of trying to keep a decent place to live, takes Max to his mom's house in West Columbia where Max stays for two months. Scott lives there too on and off throughout the year and during the summer. Since it is an hour and a half's drive each way from Katy I spend the night. I either sleep on the couch or in an extra bed in Max's room. This is the house where Scott grew up. Where he spent his entire childhood, his school years, and where as an adult, with me and Max a year after he was born, we lived with his parents. And now I am the ex-wife coming down to visit her son. Scott and I and Max do things together as a family for Max's sake. But I am always struck and awed at the incredible distance between Scott and me. If it wasn't for Max, Scott and I would have nothing to talk about or any reason to see each other.

It's as if we were each on a tiny island with nothing but vast amounts of sea and space between us. We never speak of the past, we never speak of our present, and we never speak of our plans for our futures or for Max's. Sometimes it still fills me with sadness that we spent 11 years together but when we are together now it's as if it never happened. The only proof that we have that there was ever a bond between us is Max. And Max makes it all worth it. He is the only really good thing to have come out of my marriage to Scott. I don't ask Scott about his life or who he's seeing or what he's up to. He never asks me either. I don't care anymore what happens to him. But I do care that he doesn't take care of himself or do enough to try and make a more stable home for when Max is with him. When we are together I sometimes treat him as I have treated my lovers in the past. Cold, distant, and trying to just get through the day. We say really mean things to each which we disguise under sarcastic jibes one to the other which Max doesn't pick up on. But one day he will. Max is not a fool. He will figure out one day that his parents have a barely tolerable relationship now.

My divorce, even now four years later, still has deep reprecussions. I don't hate Scott, but I am still filled with such anger and bitterness at how things were between us and the way they ended. These feelings are there simmering beneath this glossy surface and I have to admit that I still have issues with my marriage and that is why I have been in such a deprived, emotionally sterile place these last four years. But I am through trying to cover up a bad marriage and trying to excuse some of Scott's behavior. I am sure to his circle of friends I am the queen Bitch of all bad relationships. But fuck it all. He fucked me up and that is the truth. I am sure I did my share to him. But now I really want things to be better with my relationships and I want to do things the right way. I want to fall in love again and marry again and have more children. I want that very much.

A trip to the desert

I have just come back from an extraordinary trip out west to Santa Fe, NM. I participated in a week long writer's conference studying under Natalie Goldberg. The focus of this conference was Creative Non-fiction. Through my work with Natalie in her workshops, and her methods of writing practice I am developing m,y own strong writer's inner voice. It was an amazing journey. I had to reach deep down and pull out the essence of me. It was emotionally charged at times but it has left a lasting impression on me.

I should reveal a truth here. One that I came to on Wednesday, June 15, while sitting in the garden of St. Francis Cathedral. I came to this writing conference hoping to meet a man. I knew that I would benefit greatly from all the workshops, but secretly I was hoping to meet a man at the conference that would be revealed as my soulmate. That struggling, tragic, writer/poet, that would share all my grief and sorrow. I was hoping to meet someone of like mind and same depth. Imagine my surprise and disappointment during the first night when I saw that the conference was composed of mostly middle-aged to older women and two men who were also older than I expected. I thought great there go my chances at romance. Sitting at St. Francis I had my epiphany. I wanted to meet someone because I have been so lonely lately and I feel that time is slipping away from me. And that if I don't meet and marry someone soon then I never will. I cried on the bench facing St. Francis statue and prayed for some peace. It dawned on me that something extraordinary was happening to me. As the rest of the week wore on I realized what it was.

I am alone becasue I don't let anybody into my heart. I reveal nothing about myself yet people openly reveal themselves to me. I met the most courageous and extraordinary women at this conference. Each one of them in my workshop has been hurt, has suffered, has overcome great obstacles, and have continued to forge ahead. The revelations in their writing was honest, real, and raw. I came face to face with my own fear of being revealed. Why? Nothing can be as bad as all that. I came to admire and love these women for all that they were able to do. I left that conference feeling that I made some real connections and life-long friends. Now I must continue to work at getting over these fears and self-doubt. The Monkey Mind that is never quiet must be taught to stay focused and positive.

I will continue to write more of my adventures in the desert.

The Power of Love (Pt. 2)

Last night I felt it. That spark, that kindling flame, that love indeed will come back to me. That I am very capable of feeling it. I just have not found the right person yet to give my love to. But he is out there. Waiting for me. Probably asking himself when his love will be returned. My hope was reborn through the friendship I have developed with another man who has become very dear to me. I have imagined a life with him but I recognize that he is not free to love me. Yesterday afternoon when we spent considrable time talking of his troubled marriage that tiny hope was lit like a flame. But the flame that burns twice as bright dies twice as quickly. Then this morning that flame was put out. And yet I feel very relaxed. Very confident. I may not be the one for him. I may only be here to offer him the moral support he needs. I can love him for a tiny bit. It's something. Not all that I want, but in the grander scheme of things, this tiny bit will open the door to more.

And who's to say that this love won't blossom into something greater on down the line? I honestly don't think I can wait for him to decide to leave his wife, start his life over, and hook up with me. That is such a long process but life takes many turns. All I do know for sure is that I don't want to see him die. I would rather see him shackled to that horrid marriage than see him dead.

What I am trying to say is that my faith in love is slowly returning. I never expected it to be in this form but it is returning. And perhaps that is why God put him in my path. To help me see that all is not hopeless. That faith and love will win out. I love you M.W. Just a tiny bit. That's all I can manage. I will not come between you and your wife. I will not wrench you away from your family. I will not give you any more of me other than my friendship. And this little tiny bit of love that you have sparked. And for that I thank you. I don't want you to know about it however. So hopefully you won't read this. But if I didn't write it down I would forget.

Tired of my own skin

Ever have those days when you walk around and it feels like you're tramping in the same muck? You move in circles and see that the bottom of your shoes are filthy from the same treads you've made a thousand times. Oh to lay down fresh tracks! I so desire to get out of my own safe circle of being and explore a new place. A few days after school let out I found myself at home. I slept late, I moved about my little house, content but so very angry and uncontent. I wanted to go somehwere but I couldn't think of a single place in this huge city that I live in that I haven't seen hundreds of times before. This city, my city, it is my second skin. I live it and breathe it every day. I walk among its streets and trees moving within the elastic of my body. I stop to admire the views but it is still the same view that I've seen.

I want to experince something new. Each and every day I want to feel a different sensation upon my flesh. I want to breathe smells coming up from ground I haven't trudged upon. I want to see visions that come from a place I discover within the confines of this sprawling city with its limbs spread wide but still by its sides.

I want to live a different life from my own just for a short while. I know I would miss my own life and I would want to return to it but I really want to try out another life. Like a new dress. I want to wear a different name for a day. I want to be Rebecca. My clothes would have to change too. Rebecca wears designer clothes only. Coco Channel. And she wears high heels, red lipstick, and gets her nails done once a week. She is utterly insupportable. She barks at every one around her, she orders people around like they are her own personal slaves, and she expects the world to grovel at her feet. She came home one day and found the maids trying to fix a huge mess they'd made in the kitchens. Rebecca screamed at them for 20 minutes, reducing them to tears, and ordered them out of the house and never to return. She didn't pay them their last wages, she didn't even let them get their belongings. She is a horrible person indeed. But the worst thing she ever did was to whip her pool man with a leather strap. The man actually left one leaf in the pool and when he tried to reach for it she caught him across the right cheek with her strap. He fell into the pool and when he came up he was bleeding and crying. Wrethced woman he yelled. He pulled himself up from the pool and staggered away still cursing her name.

Rebecca woke up with a frightened gasp. She'd been ahving such terrible nightmares that she was this awful, rich, despotic, bitch that everyone despised. She reached over to pull on her terrycloth robe, a bit frayed and worn, but still her favorite, and walked downstairs to the kitchen. She started a pot of coffee going while she went to the front door to get the newspaper. She brought it back in, poured herself a cup of coffee, sat down at the table, and opened the paper. The coffee cup fell out of her hand when she looked at her own face blaring up at her from the newsprint with the headline "Heiress arrested for murder of magnate husband."

The power of love (Pt. 1)

I have been thinking lately about the nature of love. PArt of the title of this blog is love and yet I have skirted around the issue for fear of saying out loud what is truly in my heart and on my mind. I have been questioning myself for the past two years on whether or not I can truly love someone else. Love is such a multi-dimensional and complex emotion that I can not simplify it into a black and white issue although my tough outer shell says "I either love you or I don't".

I have been in love exactly three times. The first time was to man I thought for sure was my soulmate. I will call him M.R. I loved him dearly and blindly. I almost married him. We were together for two years. I did everything for him. And when he left me I wanted to die. Never had I felt rejection so keenly. It was a knife to my heart. I begged and pleaded with all the gods in heaven to return him to me. And he did come back. And swore he wanted a life with me. After a while it was me who wanted a life without him. I don't know why. I don't know what happened. All I knew and felt was that all this immense love I felt for him dissapated into the ether, carried away on a hot wind one summer afternoon when I told him it was time to say good-bye. He calmly accepted it and the last memory I have of him is him sitting on the dusty driveway of his home watching me drive away. I have never seen him since. It's been 16 years since that day and I have not regretted the decision I made. That love died.

It was reborn in my husband. Again, that intense, passionate, all-consuming love that I was capable of came bubbling to the surface. A hot, tumultous, whirlwind of love that swept me up in its throes and raced me to marry him. I loved S.B. like no person has ever loved another. That is what all the romance novels state. And it is true. Each and every person feels that his or her love is exactly unique. It is and it isn't. It is the ultimate paradox. Every person feels love differently yet I believe that at the very core love is the same. It is our mortal flesh which twists it into those intense feelings I have experienced. I loved my ex-husband to the point of insanity. To the realm of obssession. And he loved me the same way. We each gave it 100%. And I ask myself "Why then, with so much love to give and to have been given, why then did love die?" It was love but it was a conditional love that knew only limits, restrictions, terms, and sorrow. It was doomed to fail. I believed with all my heart that it was forever. I told myself that no matter what happened this was FOREVER. And I tried with all my might, with all my body and soul and heart to make it forever. And one day I woke up and realized that forever meant death. It was the most horrific experience I have ever gone through, but I realized that in the midst of giving away all my love I had stopped loving myself. Even though my heart was shattered into a thousand shards that pricked and slowly bled me I had to walk away from my marriage and from that love. Now I look at my ex-husband and feel absolutely nothing for him. Open me up and you will not find a shred of that immense love that was once there.

The third person I loved was M.F. But right from the start I knew it was doomed to failure because that was a toxic, poisonous love that came from a very dark place inside of me. A place that wanted revenge for all the hurt, pain, and sorrow I suffered. A black love that was returned by M.F. in a tie that bound us, for three years, into an affair that brought us together, flesh melding with flesh for the sake of satisfying our bodies and lust only and in the knowledge that all we had to do was call the other and we would come running no matter who else was in our lives at the moment. It was such a dark love that it drove me and him to subject another person to our will. After that our lives began to change and I realized that this love would only bring me ruin. And I made the painful decision to leave him behind. He knew it too and he stopped seeking me out for a while until he appeared in my life again a few weeks ago. We may have been together for a few hours but I felt nothing for him. That love now too is dead.

I am afraid to love again. I don't want to love this way anymore. I want to be able to love completely and freely and unconditionally but I don't know how. What does it mean to love unconditionally? I did that with my first two loves. I gave them everything. All they did was take and take. I was left with nothing. Now I don't want to love because it will mean I will give my power away again. I have hardened my heart and I have not allowed anyone access to it although I have had many chances in these last four years to open it up. But I haven't. I have locked it tight. I have deliberately sought out casual relationships based on sex only so that I don't have to love anyone. But I am losing myself again. In trying to keep my love all to myself I am once again dying inside. And each and every day of this past year has been a stab to my heart. I want to be in love. And I want someone to be in love with me. I want to feel that immense power again but I don't know how. I no longer want casual relationships. I no longer want to give my body away. It precious as is all of me and I am learning my true value and worth. Now I need to find someone who sees that value and will give me what I deserve.

Dreams of blood and sugar

I have been experiencing the most vivid and disturbing dreams lately. I feel sucked into a strange world each night where all the darkest things within me reside. I have always enjoyed dreaming and I record my dreams when I can in my dream journal. But the last couple of nights I have been dreaming of blood. At first the dream seems so innocuous. I am trying to find games to play with children that I am looking after and then the dream turns into a search for items to be used in a ritual. I see a man with a long beard pour blood into bowls of sugar and then he begins to eat it. I am disgusted, repulsed, but fascinated as well and I can't look away. And everywhere in the dream, on the walls, and on the floors, I see strange markings. The man calmly looks at me and continues to eat.

Then last night I am dreaming that I am in a sterile white office, a doctor's office, there are so many people in there, too many for one single visit. I am watching as this woman is being told she has to have a blood test because she is diseased. I stare, again fascinated and unable to look away, as she tries to understand what the nurse is telling her, that she could have HIV and they need to draw blood to run a test. I watch as the blood is taken out of her and put into a glass bottle, not a tube, but a large bottle. The blood is red, it's roiling with clots, moving in the bottle as if it were alive, and the woman is asking how soon will she know the results. I turn away from her and there seated at another end of this white office is a man I know. He's from school. He's smiling at me and I at him. He just appeared there and just as quickly disappeared. He had no part to play in the dream, he had no reason to be there. He simply was there. As if my mind pulled him out of his sleep and deposited him in my dream for the briefest of seconds and then he was gone.

I can always tell when my dream is not a dream such as in that instance with that person. I can usually tell when my dream is just a dream and when I become aware of it then all bets are off. I can do whatever I want, fly if I wish, have sex with whoever I wish, stretch out my hand and change all the world around me. If I dreamed I was holding a rose in my hand and if when I woke up I actually had a rose in my hand would I then think that the dream was still happening or would that be the proof that my dream world and my waking world are in fact one and the same and I can do whatever I wish? When the dreams become nightmares I am powerless to stop them. All I can do is wipe them from my mind. I want to uncover what my mind keeps hidden from me.

Sometimes it is safer to live in the dream than it is out here. As long as you know it is just a dream and you can always change it when it doesn't go your way. But then again you can do that out here too. Hmmmm..........strange worlds we live in.

Dear Dr. McS.

There are a few questions I've been going over in my mind that I would like to ask you. Let's cut to the chase and I'll start out with why are you such an asshole? I look into your washed out blue eyes and see coldness there. You are the head of one of the largest urban schools in nation's 4th largest city. But do you really know what happens in your school? Did you know that one of your AP's lets certain things slide when it comes to a particular teacher because of a personal relationship that cropped up between them? However, if that AP caught me doing something out of bounds you'd definitely hear all the details. Did you know that the students of the school know about your shower, your nice ice-chest, and all the other little perks in your office and ask me why their classrooms are so over crowded, why the desks are falling apart, why there are holes in the pipes, the AC breaks down and we all suffocate while you relax on your laurels in icy comfort? Do you care that your teachers all suffer tremendous amounts of stress due to over-crowded classrooms, insufficiant supplies, the seeming neglect that they get from the administration, a technology dept. that doesn't work, APs that don't give a rat's ass, and the overwhelming discipline problems they face on a daily basis?

Oh yes, I heard you say once that you worked very hard to keep all the BS from reaching our ears so that our lives will be easier. If this is easier then I would rather hear the BS because honestly it couldn't be much worse. When was the last time you walked into a teacher's classroom and actually observed teaching going on? When was the last time you stopped and talked to a teacher that you normally wouldn't speak to unless you were reprimanding her for some transgression? Do you know all your employees by first and last name? Do you know who is married? Divorced? Who has kids and how many? Do you know their birthdays? Their triumphs and their sorrows?

The fact is our school is an exceptionally large one. I realize that it must be very hard to run a school that large and keep your sanity. But if you ran it like a human being instead of a business and saw people not data, numbers, percentages, and sucsesses/failures than you actually might have a school with a staff and with kids who gave a damn. I am angry and bitterly disappointed with the shabby treatment I have gotten from your "exceptional school" over this past year. I have worked my ass off for you for three years. I have sponsored clubs, organized banquets, chaparoned dances, covered other teacher's classes at the drop of a hat, actually went to the Bridge to talk to one of my students going through the program, and I question if it was all for nothing. That is three years of my life that I will never get back. Three years in which I could have been somewhere else but I wanted to be a teacher so I could make a difference. And I know I have in all the little ways that your grandiose ideas could never appreciate. That has made my three years worth it even though for the past month I have questioned my very reason for living and have lost my faith in people, the educational system, in love, in compassion, and in justice. Damn you for shaking my faith and beliefs this way. And thank you for being such a jerk because it makes me appreciate my true friends all the more. You will not destroy me. You can knock me down. You can fire me. Put me out on the street with no recommendation but I will survive this. My faith may be shattered but it's not completely gone. I will get it back. But look in the mirror sometime and ask yourself if you could ever be so lucky.

I like going out but hate the negative attention

It's a Saturday night. My friend M. and I are out on the town. We go to a pub that plays live music. It's a Poison cover band. Hilarious. That took us back to our wild 80's high-school days when these hair-glam bands were all the rage. I personally hated the music but thought the boys in the band looked good in their tight leather-studded pants and lace-up black combat boots with more rivets than my pair of Jordache jeans. Then these two weasels come sidling up, stale breath exhaling through a puff of even staler cigarette smoke, drinking a watered down pitcher of pale beer. They offer us some and I steadfastly refused to drink the dregs from that pitcher and instead insisted that weasel #1, who was hitting on M., buy me a Shiner, which he did. Weasel #2 was shoulder to shoulder with me and rubbing the back of my velvet dress. He gave me the creeps. Weasel #1 leaned over, put his arm around M. and gave her a kiss. She told him where he could go. In no uncertain terms we let them know we weren't there for a quickie and we left.

It is a cruel game we play with a double-edged sword. My friend M. and I love to go out, have drinks, talk to guys, but then things get weird. The weirdest freaks come up and start talking to us. If these two weasels had been cute cuddly bunnies instead would we have fended off their advances? Would we have gladly given up our digits? And then there was one who seemed to be a prince in the guise of a frog who I kept smiling at. He ended up next door at the next bar we went to. The smiles and eye-contact continued. He came up and began talking to us. We smiled some more. He was an older guy, tall, blond, gold chain around his tan neck, big white straight teeth, kaki shorts, deck shoes, a casual green shirt looking like he was about to catch the next boat out of the marina and go sailing on a moon-lit ocean stream at midnight. Then he opened his mouth, started talking about his thoroughly menial job without inquiring what I did, and the spell was broken. He was just a frog after all. I should have known it by the green shirt he was wearing. He left and I let him get on home to the podunk town he lives in.

An intellectual, an intellectual, my kingdom for a long-haired, bespectacled, brainy, literary, tragic poet type who weeps at obscure films by directors with unpronounceable names, intellectual. Where the hell is he? Lost in a dusty library? Can't find his way out of the labyrinth?

It's only life

Let us just say that my faith is shaky but not gone. I still have faith but perhaps I need to take a step back, take a deep breath, and a huge risk, and simply let the universe take measures for my future. I will continue as I always have. My faith in people like my best friends is very strong. They don't let me down. Ah I don't know anymore what I'm raving about.

Today has been a better day. The weekend is almost here which means that copious amounts of alcohol will be consumed. It's the end of the school year. It's the end of another saga for me. My future is uncertain. I feel like I am dangling on the edge over a black abyss. I should just let go. I have gotten used to the whirlwind that is my life and usually hit a point where I say "Enough" and then I start over. That is what this will be like for me. My summer will be one of hustling my ass to get another job. I suppose I could beg my present employers to let me stay here but I think I would rather swallow hot coals than do that.

A loss of faith

I have lost my faith in people. I find that most people will not do the right thing or stand up for others. I have lost my faith in my career as a teacher and in the public educational system. I have lost my faith in love because every night I go home and I feel my heart breaking, splintering into tiny fragments, like shards of glass, and they catch and tear at my vulnerable insides.

I have not lost my faith in God or in spirituality but it is being shaken to the core. I still believe that this crisis will pass, but I have been telling myself this over and over again for years. When will it pass? When will I stop waking up in terror every night? When will I learn to fuse all my fragments together so that I can be whole?

How do I get my faith back? How do I get my confidence back when at every turn the universe seems to be against me? I am equally blessed and cursed. I am thankful for everything I have. I realize that it all comes from God. But I am floundering in a world that rejects my values and is determined to lay me low. It is easier to just fade away, become a shadow, lose myself in the multitudes, and never so much as squeak or make a peep. Sometimes I wish I could just shake this rotten world tree because people need to be bothered, truly bothered with everything they fear. Including me. What I fear more than anything is losing myself and losing my faith completely. When that happens I will die.

Chaos of desire

The crisis seems to be passing. But I know that it will only be for a short while before the maw of despair opens its black mouth to stare me down again. And I shall face it again and come through it again. This vicious cycle for me will never end.

On another note last Friday night at an open mike poetry reading I got the courage to stand up and read my poetry and prose for the first time in public. There were maybe 12 people in all in the dark, upstairs room of Helios. I was received with applause and praise even though my voice trembled, my heart beat furiously, and all I could do was stare at the page in front of me instead of at the audience. But I also felt elated. That night I felt like a true writer for the first time. I know I have been one my entire life, since I first learned to spell my name and read a sentence, but something about bringing what's deep inside of me out into the open felt really good. And terrifying. Because there's always this little voice that tells me I'm no good, all I write is shite, and that secretly people are laughing at me. Sometimes the only thing that will shut that voice up is writing more sentences on top of sentences that say "Fuck you! I am good, in fact real good, and there is nothing you can say that will keep me from writing. You'll have to pry the pen and paper out of my cold, stiff fingers before I give it up. And since I don't plan on giving up ever then I guess it will be a hot night in hell before my fingers ever get cold." That and alcohol works pretty well too.

Before the other people arrived at the poetry reading I was actually sitting at the bar downstairs at Helios drinking a whiskey and coke, tying a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue and teeth, and writing a poem. Here it is:

Blazing Yellow

Flowers on a street corner
In a small patch of earth
Surrounded by concrete
And the blur of cars rushing past
Only there to amuse the vanity of
The wealthy owners of that corner

They still grow, bloom, smell sweet
Attracting the bees and the hot breeze
On this day they were noticed
By her as she walked along the sidewalk
She stopped, she looked, she smiled
She closed her eyes and breathed in
That fragrance so sweet

She tried to guess the thoughts
Of the blazing yellow flower
Whose image now seared her memory
Whose language now echoed in her thoughts

Connecting a color
To a phrase
To a man
To he who said
Blazing yellow was his color

In my notebook the essence of the poem is exactly the same. But when I just wrote it here it changed and formed into what you've just read. There is another part to it. I see it now. It will have to be written at its own time later.

After the poetry reading my friends and I went to a place that I have been going to for over a decade. That particular bar deserves its own page but I will have to find the right moment to divulge its secrets later. Suffice to say that every person I have ever taken there had never been there before. Each person leaves with his or her own impressions. My friend M said that if a guy ever took her there on a first date she would be pissed off and wondering what he wanted from her. Her date J, I could tell, will be coming back there some day with a date who is more willing. And I smile my work to see. How I influence those around me.

But something even more interesting happened. Before my friends got there they popped into a palm reader's house on a whim and forked over $10 a piece to have their fortunes told. I laughed at them over my Stoli screwdriver and told them I could have read their palms for free. J stuck out his hand and said go ahead. I took his hand in mine and peered at the lines there. Almost every person on earth has the same basic lines. I looked at them for a few moments before I told him what he had just paid $10 to hear. So who is more credible? Me for not charging him or the palm reader for being a professional reader? It's tricky isn't it? M wanted her hand read too. Which I did but I hesitated. Friends are harder somtimes to read for because there are certain things you know about them and the rest is easy to guess. I happened to guess right. It wasn't their lines I was reading. It was them. This is hard to explain. I just know things sometimes. It comes through like small voices talking to me. Or waves that break over me in subtle ways. Sometimes it's actual mental pictures that I see. I don't go around talking about this, though. Voices and pictures in the mind sounds crazy.

It was an interesting night.