It's time now

Neediness

    I could hear him breathing as I lay there clutching my soft brown teddy. I had a choice; I could forego my neediness and let my beloved teddy fall to the floor in efforts to proclaim independence: I am not the twenty six year old who needs a stuffed animal to sleep with, I am quite well on my own, thank you very much: or I could cradle my desire to be held while sleeping and simply let teddy fulfill that for me. Because the sleeping man next to me couldn’t do this...it wasn’t in his nature to cuddle, even after lovemaking. My friends said he had Mommy issues. I blamed his ex. 

  In the mornings he would wake and jump out of bed immediately. It startled me every time, I never understood his urgency to flee from our sleeping sanctuary so quickly—like his whole body was on fire and the hardwood floor was a soothing pool of water to dive into. I longed for him to kiss my neck just once before he raced for the door. If he did give me a peck, it was my cheek and it was only a signal of his departure; a polite gesture to excuse his abruptness. He never had time for coffee or tea or pillow talk. He had things to do and soon enough he would become so busy that he would forget about me entirely. I projected this fear onto him. I think that’s why he kept his distance. He knew I wanted far more than he was willing to give. 

  So as I lay there listening to him breathe I had a choice. I could cuddle up to him for a few moments before he would stir and roll away from me...but it would be a few cherished moments that would help me sleep better...or I could seep my face into my darling teddy, let go of my insecurities and confidently hold his little fluffy head and pretend that I had someone real who loved me. I would wish for this while lying there, so close to someone who possessed only lukewarm feelings for me. I would wish for kisses and cuddles and dream of a life where someone wanted to hold me close to them always.

small black- sophie

forever meant nothing when we had nothing...

Royksopp- something in my heart

Ben Whishaw

"Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness." -White Oleander

the bookie joint

  Eric stumbles over a pile of books as he makes his way to the back to do a restock. Shit. His shift is just beginning and he’s already dreading the massive amounts of  reading material that will be brought in to sell, usually by seniors cleaning out their basements and libraries. He picks up a box on the floor and and starts arranging them by category. Science Fiction. Biography. New Age. Poetry. He’s been working at the Bookie Joint for seven years now. He was planning on quitting after he finished his masters, but the owner promoted him to manager and his schedule is easy enough. As he cleans off the dust on the ancient  pieces of random literature, merely books that would inevitably sit on the shelves for years while hipsters would browse through the philosophy section trying to look cool, he thinks of Angie. She never picked up anything to try to look cool. She picked it up because she was doing research for her life. 

  He wonders what could have happened between them if he had only thanked her for the cd. They could even be married by now, maybe with a kid. He pictures her delicate frame pregnant, the two of them reading together in bed, cuddling in the morning and thinking to himself this is love. He would bury his face in her silky chestnut hair and it would smell like a lavender field he used to pass on the way to his aunt’s house in Delaware. They would talk about how lucky they were, how they could have missed each other but no, she came into that bookstore and he professed his adoration and now look at how happy they were. IF. 

  That day she came in Eric was a mess. His landlord had decided to skyrocket his rent that month, so he was pouring over Craigslist ads for another studio in his area, for about the same price he had been paying for the past five years- to no avail. He barely looked up from his laptop when she walked through the door. He heard her clear her throat. “Do you have any Ginsberg?” He looked up at her, the platinum blonde hair, eyes like a sparking ocean. Her voice was raspy, sexy, confident. He took her to the back and they searched for good ol’ Ginsberg, the way people should search for scintillating literature: together. They talked for hours that day, about music, philosophies, life, family. Before she left she told him she would make him a mix cd and bring it by. And she did, a week later, after he had gotten the news of impregnating a girl on a one-night stand. How could he reach out to her now? His life was ruined. 

  So here he is, almost three years later, with a two year old and a wife he never wanted to have. Sure, Lucy’s a good mother. She cooks on occasion and sometimes they have sex. But he feels divorce is looming on the horizon. They got married for the kid, for Adam. Eric continues to sift through the pile of books in front of him. And even now, whenever he comes across anything written by Allen Ginsberg, he sets it aside for Angie. She could stop by one day, one grey afternoon, and they could run away together and be like those lucky people. Maybe one day...

If writing isn't clear, it's nothing

Air Time

Can I live inside the piano 
and the trees and the clouds?
run in slow motion towards
your idea of love?
a sweet release
a chance to be believed...

could I sing your song with you?
only healing like a fool
live amongst the living ones 
lay down for mercy doves
begin at the idyllic time
be sure what's in it 
is mine?

a cumbersome way about you
could mean what's right to me
a little lie you whisper
would be the truth to set me free

throw me up like one of your whims
frankly I don't give a damn
there's a certainty inside of me
like running through that silky breeze
that ocean keeps on risin'
and fallin'
with me

oh love
can't you see the curtain's closed?
can't you tell the faded winter
has melted every thought of snow?
a price to pay
every thorn and needle turned
every little ounce of heartache
surely spoke of what it's worth...

a cumbersome way about you
could mean what's right to me
a little lie you whisper
will be the truth to set me free 

He looked at her, and she looked at him, and they both knew without having to say anything at all...

my brightest diamond

teen daze- garden 1

gem club- first weeks

the ruby suns- closet astrologer

phantoms

The real thing takes time

The Couch- excerpt

 It all started with the couch. The green couch with its smooth velvety cushions, the Victorian design, how perfect it fit in the tiny studio apartment that had been my cave of solitude for months. This couch was going to save me, I was sure of it, save me from days of finding it impossible to get out of bed, of needing to multitask so perpetually that I never got anything accomplished. Yes, this fine, well-made vintage piece of furniture would be the start of a very promising future.
  See, I had always thought of myself as an actress. I always knew it was what I was eventually going to become. The summer before 4th grade was when I wrote my first play, “An Indian Enchantment”, which I also played the lead heroine. It was well received by my theater group and prominent adults in the community. It even got me an audition with a traveling theater company for their rendition of “Alice in Wonderland”. After landing the role of Alice, my mother politely declined to the director and explained to me that she simply didn’t have the time to cradle my desire to be involved in theater. A week later I pulled a knife on her in the kitchen. But that’s another story. 

Reading is a rapturous event. - me

wild ones- from nothing

Standards do not define you

dry the river- bible belt