Solitude, solitude July 9, 2010

I feel like I am wading through a thick grey fog wall, trying to find my way back home, wherever that may be. Through fog and mist I stumble, trying to stay on the sidewalk and not tumble over the rails into oncoming traffic, or trip over tree root cracks in my way. I hold onto the brick walls of other people’s buildings for support, the same ones he and I used to kiss in front of, on a night not unlike this one. And then suddenly, I remember where I am and where I’m going–back to Seattle.

More and more, I feel like I’m really drowning, real drowning, not fake movie drowning. I’m not screaming or flailing my arms; instead, I’m sinking below the water line, and all I can concentrate on is breathing. I don’t call for help, I’m not sending out an S.O.S., I’m just trying to save myself from a cold, dark spiral. I’m trying to tread water, but the sea envelopes me, and it’s almost soothing to just give up and go to sleep.

Sometimes I feel brainwashed, but I’m not sure who did the brainwashing–him, or me, or a bigger picture. Sometimes I am an automaton, smiling and standing up straight because it’s what you do. I want, I need, I want, I need–these things become replaced by I can’ts. Sometimes, though, I am myself, and I do strange things like dance alone or watch bad t.v. or act like a Santa Cruz hippie, and I am unconcerned with what you think.

I am trying harder. At all things. To go home. To stay alive. To be myself, and not hide my tattoos. To be myself and smoke my Parliament Lights and drink my Newcastles. To be myself and kiss him hard against the wall. To be myself and not justify my actions and decisions. Mostly I’m just trying to breathe.

One day, I will tie up my belongings in my kerchief and stick out my thumb, and float through the fog and waves until I reach my golden castle, where I can just be, all by myself.

My sex could be on fire… December 14, 2009

Lay where you’re layin’, don’t make a sound…

that’s like asking the steam on the shower mirror not to drip down in lines as the cold air trickles in and goosebumps begin.

that’s like expecting me to sleep in pajamas, to act coy, to be somebody’s sweetheart. that’s like asking me what i like to drink and thinking i’ll say vodka tonics. that girl faded away. this girl drinks her whiskey straight up, down the hatch. in a word: swallowed.

and the music plays, and the valium is ingested, and i throw my head back, playing my laptop piano, singing at the top of my lungs, because there’s no other way, vibrant and true, hoping beyond rationality that you’ll remember me, hoping beyond hope that i’ll forget you.

So, in an effort to get off tonight, i looked for some inspiration, just like a guy looks at porn to get off. i realized that i deleted all the pictures of my lover, and even the picture of my boytoy, and that nothing is going to turn me on, except music and the touch of my own body, and the thoughts, memories of where i’ve been and where i might go. thinking about who i used to be, a tiny little girl, not fully developed, and how it took broken hearts and thousands of miles and many years, but i became a fully actualized woman comfortable in her own skin and brave beyond belief, not to mention flexible in more ways than one. In short, i wouldn’t want to waste my time with someone who didn’t know what he was getting himself into, and was ready for a challenge, for one hell of a ride.

Where is this coming from, right? From a long time without sex, without the possibility of sex, without even so much as a crush. The last person I thought was “hot” was the same person that I bled myself dry for. I’m not lonely, but I’m bored, and I miss the days of making out with some random dude in front of a skater shop, and I miss the random days of hooking up in the back of some dude’s truck, or bending over the bathroom sink while drunken party-goers are waiting for their turns in my best friend’s bathroom. I miss the mystery and desire and thinking that everyday has the chance to be something unexpected.

Instead, all I ever hear anymore is “you didn’t miss much,” while I stayed home reading alone. I figured I wouldn’t miss much, but sometimes I like to be wrong.

I need some mystery, some drama, some excitement, some possibility, some face to picture in my dark nights. A crush.

Until then…I will admire my pale skin stretched over my 5’8″, 160 lb frame alone, tattoos, piercings and red lipstick kept to myself, and take solice in knowing that I’m not settling, and that my sex will be on fire, eventually. I will still down my whiskey and stand naked in the shower just a moment longer than necessary and not wash off the mascara, just because I can.