A Time and a Place

There’s never enough time in the day, or the week. Or a lifetime. At the end of almost every day I hear myself say, “There’s just not enough time to get everything done.”

Our days (by ‘our’ I mean both men and women) are fleeting. I’m afraid of that morning when I’m in my th-th-thirties and I look in the mirror, and there’s nothing. I’m gone. I’m gone and I didn’t finish that long To-Do List.

Today I yelled at Vivian. I was so busy cleaning, baking, and dealing with Mikey, and she kept hollering for me to look at something on the T.V, or watch a particular scene from her show. I couldn’t keep pulling myself away and I just wanted QUIET. I wanted CALM, PEACE, and fucking QUIET. Because it’s not until everything is done that I can relax, but the trick is completing that “everything.” I’ve noticed that the “everything” has a sly way of multiplying itself, and increasing, and intensifying, and swelling into more and more and more, and never ending. To conquer the To-Do List is a monumental triumph. And to complete it while you’re still human – Evolution my friend.

Evo-fucking-lution.

Later, when I had a moment to relax, and write this blog, the guilt set in - the guilt of not spending enough time with my child (and children are the most important things). I suddenly remembered a very specific memory of my mother (and mothers are the most important things) . . .

I suppose the wise man would find balance amongst the chaos of strings pulling the frazzled man in opposing directions, and kudos to that motherfucker. There is power in finding that calm, peace, and quiet. Absolutely.

The Money Pit

Love is like money, everyone wants more. In 1986 a movie came out starring Tom Hanks, it was called 'The Money Pit' and the premise of the movie centered on being too stubborn to cut your losses short and throw in the towel. In the process of trying to rebuild a once beautiful house, a couple continues to waste thousands of dollars fixing what is destined to be unrepairable, making themselves miserable along the way. The money pit  -  a starving, never-satisfied parasite that feeds and sucks the life out of its host. Love is like money, and the relationship is a pit.

Men

You men are delicious to look at -  with your tall physiques; the firmness of your long bodies pressed against ____ ; rapid pulse during warm, slow, determined, pulls; strong nose into the curve of some soft neck, wide jaw against the bend of some back ---- but, ouch! to the heart.

See?

I was once a young girl, searching for Heathcliff, years ago. It’s a funny thing – Want. Need. Silly young girls are fools who hopelessly grow into foolish women. Don’t read about your prince in books, in the fairy tales written by fools wanting more. Charming is long gone, replaced with the shell of Illusion – a cardboard cut out of lovely, loveliness. Let your eyes drink in the beauty, let your heart lap up the promises, let your lips contort smiles of splendor – never take your fingers off the pulse of the Illusion…it's fading fast.

I've decided to date that guy . . .

Because I stole a glace at him with his shirt off I realized just how wide his back was, how large his biceps were, and how blue his eyes. I began to entertain the possibility that I might just cast away the complex restraints held fast by "being in a relationship" and plunge into that pool, take that leap, cross that line. I would date him. I would rub the glossy film of repetition from my eyes, and drink in that exhilarating thrill of New. I would feel fresh with him. Alive with him. The Everyday would give way to the New, and give me a reason to smile. To smile in the kinda way I did when we first met - fourteen years ago. I think tonight, I will introduce myself.


"And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow."
                      -Kahlil Gibran, On Marriage.

Fourth of July

I want to never want again. I want to never again long for that which I cannot have. I wish to never again yearn for the unattainable, or pine for the impossible. I wish to never again ache for the unfathomable, or cringe at the feet of impracticality. I wish I had never bedded 'want,' 'need,' or 'appetite.' But, above all, I wish I had never befriended fervor. Fuck fervor and its timelessly tightening grasp on youth's residue. Fuck fervor and the gaping cavern that tragically awaits its replenishment. Fuck fervor and all the fireworks, sparklers, and colors that go along with it - fuck fervor's reds, pinks, and fuchsias . . .