Hearing The Music in the Tinkling of the Keyboard.

When I think about you, I think about you in the sound of music. Sometimes I think you are a big band tapping out a rythm while ladies float by in dresses that go on for miles. Sometimes you are a rock band and we are in the crowd bobbing our heads and cheering for the radio hits. Sometimes you are a child, learning how to play the piano, hitting false notes but beaming at the triumph over the weight of the keys.

Sometimes I compare you to other poeple I've known or loved. Sometimes I smile at your beauty, your strength, your height. Sometimes I admire your social, literal and mechanical intelligence. Sometimes I love how you seem to just know my mind.

In comparision:

You love my thoughts. You hunger for and hang onto my words.
You have a respect for my wisedom, however small.
You know what is important to me.
Honor, trust, honesty, and love hang in your every atom.
You see my small attempts and grant them room to blossom into fruitful endeavors.
You are sincere in your recognition of my beneficial traits.
You help me change my undesirable faults and follies.
You introduce new thoughts that are tailored for my ability and understanding.
You encourage my being- my song, my writing, my life, my love.

Sometimes I look at you and see something of time and life and tomorrow.
Sometimes I look at you and I just see plain sunshine.

The Love of a Home.

This morning I woke up with a familiar aching in my heart.

I took a shower, I brushed my teeth, I fumbled through my morning routine, but i couldn't shake it. I couldn't overcome it. I couldn't reconcile myself with it.

Sometimes I wrestle with my need like a warrior with a voracious lion. Sometimes I lay my will at it's feet, I curl up under it and admit defeat by one so much more commanding than I.

Sometimes, I soar on the wings of an eagle- or an Oriole to be more precise- because of my love for one so alive, it's heart pounding a beat in my soul.

Once, the Boy and I had a discussion about the Red Hot Chili Peppers- "Really," He said incredulously, "How many songs can you write about one city?"

About this city, My Friends, I could write a lifetime and never cease the flutter of my heart when I look out on it. Rain, Snow, Wind, or Sunshine, Baltimore glistens for me like newly dewed grass. She calls me out with familiar sounds, smells, tastes, loves. She wraps me warm and safe and promises, quietly, "Tomorrow, My Child, Tomorrow." And Tomorrow breaks upon my and deposits it's wave in my sand, washing away the old and giving to me the new, innervating the life that I have.

Tomorrow ebbs and flows and doesn't think or feel, but My City thinks and feels and breaths an grows with me. My Balitmore crashes against me, changing me, smoothing out my rough edges.

When I was in Fells point this weekend, I was dreaming a dream aloud I always nurse, a dream to own a piece of my city and to work it for It's benefit. To use this city as it uses me- carefully, and to benefit every tomorrow. My acute longing stung me bitterly. The timing isn't right for my desires and my hopes falling, my City whispered comfortingly, "Tomorrow, Child, Tomorrow..."

It may not be the right time, but I will wait, patiently- as patiently as a bridegroom waits for his Bride- for Baltimore to tell me when tomorrow is come.Then I can be glad a rejoice in it, a revel in our Gains and Graces.

Lips of an Impressionist

"Young, have you ever been in love before?" Benny turned up her face to glare at the flickering light, as if willing it in her glance to turn out completely, or shine on brightly to illuminate her words that sat on the thick midnight air of the diner. Seeing no effect on the light, she turned her eyes to Young, impatiently waiting his thoughful response. Why did he always keep her waiting for him?

"I have... but I don't know how much it matters." Young thought back to the beauty, the pain, the love of long ago dreams and in an instant they were gone and his vision cleared. He watched Benny raise her coffee cup to her lips and noticed somethign that in all their friendship he had never seen before.

Benny's lips appeared to him, carressing the coffee cup with a pillowy soft fullness. Out of some far off corner in his mind, Young remembered a dream he had had- something about loving her. Something about taking her up in his arms and holding her close for a midnight kiss. As instantly as his mind removed the slide show of past loves, hurts and follies, Young was suddenly finding the smallest things about Benny to cherish.

The flush of her pink cheek stuck out in his mind. Had she been a painting in motion, a perfect pastel Renoir, floating before him all this time? Had her eyes always glittered back from her smooth complexion, sending a sparkling glimmer over the upper half of her face? Had her lips always seemed so perfectly tinted, turned just so as they were in a thoughtful smile?

"Yes Benny, I was very in love with a girl once who broke my heart." Could it be that in her soft natural beauty, Benny had tamed Young John? Was she holding reins that belonged to her all this time?

"You know, Young, I think that is the very first time you have ever told me what was on your heart."

I would tell you every thought I ever owned if you would just let me hold your plump sweet lips in a perfect kiss long enough for my soul to escape my body and capture the embrace on the canvas of my mind, in a carefree impressionistic way.

Woebegotten memories, paving the road behind me

"You can't dwell on it Louise."

"I know, Boy. But I can't get rid of it either."

Sometimes I feel like I should affix a Vaccumm cleaner to my tail, and wiggle as I walk to be sure to leave no trace of where I've been. If I can't see it, maybe it doesn't exist. If I never had anything to look back on, maybe these nightmares would subside and I could have a clearer view of what I wanted to see ahead of me.

WARNING: The rest of this post is me. Just me. No Young John. No Benny. No lies. No vague, veiled or poetic musings. Just me.

I remember the night you threw your fist through the wall, and the day you blamed me for it. I was so frightened. Frightened of you, frightened of the mistakes I had made, frightened of what tomorrow meant. If I woke up tomorrow, it would only be worse. It would only make you more real and me more hateful of myself. What had I become?

Just a year before, I was a young, stupid, innocent girl. Struggling with my self-image, I was muddling through ok. Just ok. I worked hard and regretted not partying harder. I loved hard and regretted actualizing my dreams so early. Why hadn't I stayed Innocent? Why hadn't I pretended to understand adult relationships in that simple way we do before our youth is compromised?

Now, here I was, sitting in the bathroom, watching your face turn red and hearing the sounds of fury flying from your strong hands. It was easy to displace myself and forget the things you had said before and the wrongs you had already done, but now... Now you were busting up your own bathroom and swinging a piece of trim over my head like a banshee. Now you were smashing my watch, sending my rings flying into the sink.

Now, shit was real.

Not long after, I had packed my bags and set them at the door. You had left at eleven, quite literally howling at the moon. No answers. No reason. No one would explain to me what was wrong with my new husband. Why he preferred to disregard me. I had gone for a four a.m. run in the foggy river town in pitch blackness. I was so foolish to think I could find you in the dark. I was so foolish to think I wanted to find you. When I saw your car in the drive at the local bar, I was so foolish not to march right in and tell you to go to hell. To pack YOUR bags.

When you did come home that morning, you were furious at me. I don't even remember why. I do remembering imagining what it would feel like to jump in the river and float on down stream. Would it hurt to just stop breathing? Would it hurt to just keep running? In the dark? In my flip-flops? Without you? Why wouldn't you see why you hurt me?

All I had wanted was an explanation. A rational response for one god damned minute. Instead you went out with god knows who and did god knows what and then yelled at me for asking questions of you. For fearing you. For fearing myself, slipping fast down a slope headed in on direction: the death. The death of me, of my heart.


I will never know more truly than I did then what it is to lose your senses.Too consumed with the ever slowing and tired sounding thump of my heart, I forgot to pray. I forgot to listen. I forgot to see.

To pray for God's will and deliverance, even though I had sinned in marrying you in the first place.

To listen to His answers, answers that came pouring in from the Holy spirit, my friends and my family calling me to home and to safety.

To see the path before me straying from what I had wanted all along.

The goal quietly pushed aside, I lost all frame of reference. I married you because you said you loved Christ. Because you said you would protect me. Because you said you would love me. The moment I heard you say I do, I looked into your crystal blue eyes and realized I had married a dangerous, unfeeling serpent of Satan. I realized your grip on me would tighten and squeeze and pull at every nook and cranny, every crack and crevice of my heart until it burst, until I disappeared, until you won.

Why can't I get you out of my head?

Because you owned it in that brief fiery storm of my youth.

But I am a Phoenix.
Strong.
Proud.
Rebuilt.

Pummellos, Lilikoi, and Star fruit.

She smiled over at him while she pushed the cart through the crowded grocery store.

"Young, I don't know."

"But Benny if you don't know who does?"

A quiet, mousy man leaned in over her shoulder and nearly inaudibly whispered, "Have you ever tried one?"

She didn't know if she answered aloud or if he read her mind that no, indeed she hadn't. Young noticed him, making his strange floating presence much more concrete than she had felt.

"I thought maybe you would know what they tasted like, " the man half repeated, half stammered a response.

"No, she's mostly useless. I tried asking her that when she insisted she had to have one and her answer was 'I don't know, they just look fun'" Young winked playfully at her and the man nodded in response, fondling the fruit Benny left behind.

Benny smiled, embarrassed as usual by Young's preference for her. His gaze always fell on her, bringing a flush to her cheek and, inevitably a twinkle to her eye, even while buying citrus at the grocery store.

She shook her head as he moved through the crowd toward the rainbow chard and thought, "I would rather be buying produce with Young John than be making love to Romeo, or sailing with Blackbeard, or flying with Peter Pan."

Benny, since when are you so fanciful?

A Life in Parts.

There are a few things that I have left out.

Nay- that I have even lied to you about my faithful followers.

Please allow me to apologize. I didn't realize until just now that my omission or disguising of the truth may have hurt you. Or that my telling of the truth may have bought you some peace- an inward peace of knowing that I am ok, an outward peace in knowing that those of you out there who know my pain are not alone in your decisions or needful prayers.

I still do not possess the strength or the peace of heart to tell you everything, but I hope that, in a few installments, I may tell you as much of my heartache that you should care to read. I hope also that you will learn from me. That you will learn to comfort and deal with the lost ones. That you who are lost will feel less alone and maybe even invest some hope in my success. That you who have been where I am now may share your strength with me and help me further my progression. That maybe you too will share your story with bravery to someone who is in need.

I will begin by telling you who know and you who do not know that I lost my virginity before I was married. It broke my heart and my spirit and began my descent into one of the most bizarre and frightening times in my life. I no longer carry the same shame with me that I initially felt, nor do i bear the same irritation at my ignorance. I have seen why I made my choices and were the lead.

This was a trauma to me because my chastity was something I valued highly. When Mr. Hamster loved me as much as I loved him, we joked that our relationship would not be consummated until long after our wedding day because, well, in short, sex is a huge commitment. The breaking of blood in something no one should take lightly. Speaking frankly as a lady, it hurts like hell, too. And there is a reason for that. But, regardless of how I felt, I gave in to the serpent in my ear and gave up my only chance to start from the beginning.

I didn't know why I did it. And it was a horrible experience. It was with a man twelve years my senior at a time when my life was consumed in doubt. I wanted to be loved. I knew he would never love me. I wanted to be held. I knew he wasn't the type to hold. I came to the odd conclusion that it was time. That I should let go of my childhood fantasies of meeting the right man, falling in love, getting married and sharing that first moment together. Besides, no man is a virgin when he is married, so why should I have taken my purity any more seriously?

Something that made my decision even more difficult was that everyone thought I was unchaste to begin with. I suppose because I wear my shirts a little low cut, my skirts a little high cut, I laugh loud and long and I wink freely, I must be a whore. And besides, the only man I had ever loved truly to this point thought I was a whore, so why bother? Why save myself when you were the only one i wanted and you were never going to smile on me again? Your peace was never going to be in my heart? Your hand never upon my shoulder as you examined and corrected my work with loving assurance? You were no longer my truth, Mr. Hamster. And I was already broken.

I'm not blaming him. I made all of my own decisions. I am merely explaining them to you and myself.

So I gave it up. I died a tiny bit in my soul. I cautiously approached the funeral pyre, laid down my pride and my chastity upon it and with my own hands, lit a fire that could only be seen by it's charred mark on my heart and memory.

Looking back, it was a foolish misstep that I could have easily prevented. Had i stop and listened to the Peace of God whispering my ear, I could have found the strength to walk away.

More accurately, had I stopped listening to my foolish pride and envy, I could have resisted the temptation.

I made a choice to forge ahead. Against God's Will. Against my love for myself. Against the things I knew to be true about my friends who had made the same choice.

In the end, it hurt more than words can describe, he disrespected my gift and my body more than I thought possible, and I made a hundred more missteps that- had I abstained, had I resisted- would have never occurred.

Then maybe you would see an unbroken heart here before you.

This was only my first mistake. Allow me to revive my memory from it's weeping, and I shall give you more of my soul later.

What makes a girl do the dirty deed...

I have recently caught myself thinking about sex more and more. It is no secret to you faithful reader that I have long since struggled with my id based, sinful, sexual desires and their balance in my life. I also struggle with the "right" kind of sex and sexual expression.

After reading this enlightening article from (of all places) AOL news, I realize that, as a nation, we struggle with sex daily as well. Sex sells and it sells easily. If we Americans have no way to sell, we have no economy. And we're all worried about that, even if those among us never give a second thought to sex.

But here's something new you have never known about me: I have considered how easy it must be to sell yourself. And I have often considered mine to be of a temperament that could sustain periodic detachment of the mind and soul from the body long enough to supply carnal favors to someone I barely knew to upwards of $200 an hour.

Terrible, you think? Disgusted with me, are you? Well I have a question for you.

Am I terrible, or is the man who made me feel like my sex was a commodity a monster?

Am I disgusting, or was the woman who set the price before me tempting me with her success and my failure?

I have given my love away for free for years. I have kissed without being kissed, I have loved without being loved, I have wasted my affections, flirtations, and desires on unwilling and uninterested men and, sometimes, at prostitution or the profession of "call girl," I think, wouldn't it be ideal to have men seek ME for companionship? Forget the fact that they would be paying me, they would seek me to satisfy them.

Many men who do use prostitutes don't do it just for the sex. Sometimes, it is simply about being with someone who will not judge you. Someone who, for an hour or two, feels obliged to indulge you.

I would never be a sex slave. But I see how those women who chose to be could.

But aren't I already a sex slave? Haven't I already chosen my clothes and perfume based on that which makes you look at me? Haven't I already learned to push out my chest sit up straight and catch your wandering glance? Don't I sigh in your ear and tell you my deepest darkest desires in order to get you to hold me and love me and stop judging me even for a moment? Isn't this what the media, you men, and the women before me told me is necessary for survival?

I know I may seem unconventional for admitting this out loud. But I just didn't see any point to making those of you out there feel like you're alone.

The weight of the sin of desire is one too heavy to bear alone, so for you I have given a piece of my soul. Judge me if you will, but know that I know your secrets for they are mine too.

Things that must be remembered, no matter how painful

Propped along the side of her tiny house was a wobbly ladder she didn't even like to use to clean the pantry, let alone painting (something she'd never done) her own house (something she'd never had) all by her lonesome (something she never wanted.)

As she sured the feet of the ladder in the soft heather below, she prepared herself mentally for the ascension, breathed deeply and calmly, and thinking about Ponies, Rainbows and other paraphernalia of pleasantries.

Climbing slowly, with her wet paintbrush in her back pocket and her pail in her left hand, the white knuckles of her right hand gave her away. First step, then the next, all five mounted one by one until she was sure she couldn't look down. Then she tilted her body in the most awkward fashion, in order, she thought to steady herself, remove the paint brush and begin her task.

To her suprise, the time passed quickly and soon she had succeeded in painting a good portion of the upper half of her tiny rancher. When she thought she would faint for exhaustion and repressed fear, she decided to finish with the current paint in her small container and call it a morning, resigned to doing something she actually liked, such as tending the garden, feeding the animals, or folding the laundry. She, so absorbed in the task at hand, barely took notice to her changing surroundings. A noise starttled her out of a workful coma. Now, more alert than she wanted to be at such a great height, she surveyed the ground below. No movement or further noise answered her search, so she continued.

Then, she felt her rickety ladder rattle at a push. Dropping the paint brush and taking care not to throw the paint in a panic, she grasped the side of the house and hugged her body close to the ladder. Hearing a snicker, she dared to look down again.

"Steady Ben, I won't drop you," Laughing, he shook the ladder again, this time, much more violently.

"DR, please, you know how scared I am up here. Let me down, please..." Her voice trailed off. For a moment, she forgot who he was and almost felt relieved that a cougar or bear hadn't been shaking her post.

"Ben, trust me," another violent shake. Another maniacle laugh. Benny had nothing left to hold on to, her stability lost, she began to retract her step from the top of the ladder.

Missing the third step, she hit the ground with a brutal thud and felt her stomach leep, her heart sink and worst of all her ankle snap.

"Ben, I told you to trust me, now look what you've done..." DR motioned to the paint she dropped, and the smudge she left on the upper portion she had just finished painting, "Don't you know how much that paint cost me?"

Tears being worthless, she hobbled inside to lick her wounds, and sulk in her own secret misery. A secret, because no one can hear you cry if they don't believe you're human.

Wanted: Young John

For the greater portion of the working population, our job descriptions typically match our personal description. Ex.:

WANTED: Organized, professionally minded individual

capable of assisting, full time, a busy Law Firm.

Job Req. include office management, shipping

and receiving of confidential information,

assisting in staff prep. for meeting and transactions

and proper direction of a voluminous call center.

.

The above want at represents a need for a highly organized, helpful, personal individual with experience in an office setting.

Typically, the person for this job is a grumpy, ornery, overweight older woman, unmarried for a reason, who never says anything rude (without a smile.)

So then, you ask, just who is this Young John caracter? Have you any guesses? You have seen him here for over a year, had a chance to learn his deepest desires, some secrets, and some gossip about our not-so-hero. Is he a construction worker? A doctor, a Pastor, or a Lawyer, a clerk, or a pizza delivery man? Just what is he?

Does Young's profession define him, or does Young John Define his profession?

I will remind you of what you already know and let you decide for yourself.

Young, well versed in all musical styles, impacts, and artists, movements and sources, does not indeed, play a piano, guitar, fife, or cello himself.

Young, with a great respect for the written word and a love of classical and modern literature, who is not without a conversational understanding of French, Spanich, Latin, Yiddish, Jive and Russian, does not spend his days writing or teaching nor in analysis of literature as a greater part of his general profession.

He does not conduct a train.

Or deliver flowers, confections, medications, or advertisements.

Young would never expect to be hired as an executive chef,

No matter how greatful one might be to eat at his table.

He has not wasted years of schooling stocking shelves at a local Wal-mart either.

Young doesn't NOT have a job.

Young simply happens to be on of the very few stand out men who forms his own description, who rises above his mere position to grant the world a view of an unencombered Young.

Young works diligently to support his new bride.

Young loves his career as if it were a tactile extension of his very being and nature.

But Young is so much more and often times viewed as less than the tasks he performs to pay the bills.

Can you say the same?

Freedom?

I have been stewing about this for a few whole years now, and you get to see the result of all this pent up aggression. And yes, aggression is the correct term for it all.

If you know anything about me at all you know that while I am generally placid, I have my quirks. Some topics of which that are guaranteed to light my fire include:

• Oogies in my Orange Juice
• People who insist on asking stupid questions in lecture
• Chemical birth control

I have finally decided that today is the day i resolve my feelings, forget my pain an move on. And I'm not talking about confronting a pulpy orange juice, that is just disgusting. And you stupid question askers, you will feel my wrath for at least another 6 months. It is time to let go of my hurt and anger and horrible associations with "The Pill," "The Ring," and "The Shot." Here goes a lot of stuff...

Yesterday I read this article in the Baltimore Sun which just added on more delightful reason to my ever growing list, "Why I hate Chemical Birth Control (And why you should too.)" It is a simple, mostly harmless article about birth control and how it deadens our logic as women and causes us to prefer the pheromones our first cousin gives off to that of a person with completely different genetic make-up. A mistake that can lead to a host of awkward conversations at family events as well as the increased potential for miscarriages and birth defect and diseases such as Tay-Sachs.

After ingesting this information, I, in my usual way, shook my head, crossed my arms and sucked my teeth.

You see, I hate birth control and everything it means. I think it is the most ridiculous answer man has ever given to a question no one should be allowed to ask : What to do about that pesky side effect of Nature, conception? Touted as the answer to Women's Lib, we have been told for nearly 50 years that birth control is a sign of our freedom.

"We finally have a choice! To be pregnant or not to be pregnant, that is your decision! Don't count on HIM."

HELLO? Did anyone go to health class? It was our decision from the beginning. Long before you heaved that sigh in his ear and kissed that french kiss, you had a choice. Regardless of the moral consequences that the freedom to terminate an enumerable amount of lives has caused (In case you didn't know, the pill and the ring and other estrogen based birth control methods allow for eggs to be fertilized and grow into tiny, thriving blastocysts-yes, little babies- and then flushes them from your body like nuclear waste at the end of each cycle.) look with me for one moment at the physical side effects women put themselves through:

• Blood clots
• Hormonal imbalances
• Sterility
• Heart failure
• Low/ High blood pressure
• Anxiety, Depression, and thoughts of Suicide
• Extremely long/ short periods
• Weight gain
• Nausea
• Vomiting
• Headaches
• Dizziness
• Fatigue
• Bone Density Loss.... ETC ETC ETC

Why you crazy women choose to do these things to yourselves, I will never understand, nor will I try to. And this isn't even about you. Go on. continue to feed you ovaries caustic materials, if you don't mind, how can I?

This is about me, and how I feel, and the fact that this keeps me awake at night, strains my relationships with some people and really just ends in me embittered towards them. i have to resort to the old model of communication for how this makes me feel:

When you... Tell me to keep my opinions to my self

It makes me feel... sad and worthless

Because... I have thoughts too.

The system in our culture is imbalanced and tilted AGAINST my favor. It is acceptable and even "responsible" to use hormonal birth control, but for those of us that prefer to wait until they are capable and secure enough to support a child to have sex, we are shooed to the kids table while the adults go on Sex and The City and parade themselves around us in a high and exalted fashion. Or (gasp) those of us that, while we see the allure in another's eye, and while we fall in sexual sin, choose not to alter our bodies natural chemistry and opt for barrier or spermicidal measures of safe sex.

Why is it ok for you to mock, shame and even make me feel left out of the cool club because of my choices? You truly don't know enough about me, nor do you care enough to have the right to treat me disdainfully.

And your answer to me is "Well, keep your opinions to yourself and no one will judge you"

Excuse me?

You can flaunt your choices left and right, throwing your judgement on me if i don't follow suit, telling me about your health issues while I sit, lips pursed unable to solve your problems for you? I don't judge you, I just tell you the truth and how I feel.

But you? You can judge me?

Sorry for caring.

Do you care? Have you ever once asked me why I feel the way I do?

Perhaps you said that I am an extreme conservative when I say that if you don't like condoms, maybe you shouldn't have sex, or you should be in a committed and stable relationship and place in your life.

Perhaps you tell me that I only adopt my views to threaten your manhood, and that I would gladly give into the next man that comes around.

Perhaps you don't listen to any of my outcries and you threaten to take away your approval of me if I don't comply. Maybe you're the one that holds my arm down on the table and forces me to make a decision I will regret for the rest of my life because you want to break my spirit into a million indeterminable pieces.

Maybe I am just an old-school, back woods, baby loving extremist.

Or maybe, I am a respectful, loving, calm, truthful heart with a story to tell that if you cared about for one moment-who knows- I might change your life.

Sleep Dreams, Sweet Well.

After a series of terribly fitfully nights of sleep, I have come to a few conclusions:
I am too much in love.
I want things from you that scare, worry, and even embarrass me.
I need to go to bed earlier.

How can you be too much in love? Being too much in love is when your heart is ahead of you. Being too much in love is needing something from another person that you can't put into words. Being too much in love is representative of every challenge in my life.

I spend most of my day in a sort of half-reality, daydreaming about you. Which is useless, in my opinion. Daydreams serve no purpose other than distraction.They can't bring into being all the things I wish of you. They can't be representations of real truth in any way.

They are just the idle wishes of a girl very much in love who sees a great many things on the imaginary silver screen of her life with you.

Idle wishes and thoughts that take me more than a few miles ahead of you ad your patient heart that I love so much. Lofty ideas of grandeur.

My daydreams don't help you.
Or me.
Nor do they make you're life any better.
And is that not what this love is about?
Loving you positively, putting you first in all things, effecting you for successful change.
Is love only useful when is produces a positive change?

And what do I want from you, Boy? Everything. I even intimidate myself with that admission of need.

I don't think I can do this. I just don't think I have it in me to love you- well anyone- this much. I don't have the capacity to give you everything. I already tried this and he just ran with my everything. My dreams, my realities, my love, my heart, my future were wrapped up in him. What if you run too? What if you take this little bit I offer with you? My simple, sweet trusting soul? My time, my energy, my patience.

They always do go, you know, Boy. They never want me for a family. They never want to commit. They never can bear it for long.

But if you want it-
If you will truly take everything I have and stay right here with me-
I will flourish.

I will find more and more everyday to give you. I will shower you with gifts from my heart until you have no where else to hold them. I won't even beg much of you. Just be here. Just take what I give you with the understanding that ever breath I breathe on your neck, every kiss I bestow on your lips, every dream a whisper to you on a Sunday morning when getting out of bed is just a fruitless effort because we two are much happier there where we can hold eachother and hear every smile and sigh every sigh together, is precious.

I just want you.
And that is why I am too much in love with you. I want things from you that I can only assume are impossible because no one has ever attempted them before.

Love is...

Warm.
Quiet.
Calm.
Sharing moments together.
Expressible in 160 characters or less.
Sunday Mornings.
Sunlight in your hair.
Long lonely drives down a rainy highway with rocking tunes blarring.
Trusting you from the moment I laid eyes on you.
Knowing what we are is right.
Feeling sad because someone hurt you a mllion moments before I ever knew you.
Not needing to argue. Ever. About anything.
Telling the truth, even if it means getting in trouble.
Unassuming.
Being unable to talk, think or write about anyone else.
Trusting me to party on my own.
A Rocking chair in the bedroom.
A kiss on the hand.
A lost moment.
A lingering eye.
Ticklish.
Being excited to be alone with you.
Young John.
A long beautiful song.
Tennis rackets.
NOT never having to say you're sorry, BUT knowing WHEN to say you're sorry.
Frosty beverages.
Open minds, open hearts and most importantly, open lips.
Simple.
Scrapple.
A smile that says as much as, "I love you and need you and can't wait for you."
Quietly admitting me into your life because it works.
You.

What We ARE Doing

is simple, and clearly meaningful.

The Boy and I had a chat last night in the afterglow of my television on XM Lucy.

I am learning a lot about him and liking what I see more and more.

After a very delightful weekend of essential nothingness (hanging out in the mall, dinner with the family, lunch with the friends, a movie that we loved together etc.) we were in the midst of a very nice feeling and we began to just chat about everything. And I admitted something very candidly for the first time out loud.

It's something you and he probably knew, but I wasn't admitting just yet (just in case) In case of what, you ask? In case he didn't like it, I suppose.

"I just see a lot of potential in this relationship."

Because I do. I am very much looking forward to the forward motion we are achieving. The "I like hanging out with you" to the "I like you" to the "I love you" was such a smooth set of transitions, that the "I am so glad I found you" to the "I want you around for a very long time" to the "Look what we did with our love" phases are just a thrilling thought.

Very thrilling indeed. I feel like I am flying, but this time with a net and a parachute and tandem.

Dear Mrs. Anybody...

A letter for Benny, but not to you.

Have you ever walked past someone and thought 'Well, at least I'm not as bad off as such-and such?'

I am more than sure that you have and that you know what I mean, For I am a woman and so are you and we two are not as different as you would make us out to be for that reason alone.

Say, perchance, you have an encounter at a grocery store. After you retrieve your bruised artichoke heart from the produce floor because some one was in such a rush they narrowly missed you in their search for the perfect beet, you think,

'At least I'm not as rude and inconsiderate as she is.'

You slam on the brake in the middle of a busy intersection while the rain beats out a rhythm on the hood of you civic because some jerk ran a red light and you think,

'At least I am a more cautious driver than that guy.'

You feel uncomfortable in your 'skinny jeans' after a weekend off the diet and you proceed to eye up Jennifer in your office that just can't seem to shake the baby weight and think,

'At least I'm more attractive than that.'

It's okay, I've done it too. Just today, as a matter of fact,

I saw a picture of your tentative wedding dress and read the invitation with the hearts and dove and flowers. I saw your registry for dishes and sheets and baby clothes. I skimmed a blog entry where you gush about the new adventure you are headed on with your never ending love in tote, and I thought,

'At least I'm not about to be Mrs. DR'

Good luck.

Really.

You'll need it.

Signed Mrs. Nobody Special, Who is in love with Mr. Young John, Esq.

My Cigarettes and This Old Dirt Road...

Last night I was so tempted to buy a pack of cigarettes and drive out to the boondocks with The Wreckers blaring like I used to when I was... Well, when I used to get worked up.

When he used to come around.
When he used to treat me like I didn't matter.
When he used to scream and cry and fuss until I hurt inside and just wanted to drive until I could feel again.

The Boy and I got in an argument. No, that's not really true.

I got in an argument with The Boy.

Because he isn't perfect. And I forgot for one minute that I have no right to expect perfection.

I got home from a long weekend of crying. Aunt Maryann's memorial was this weekend and it was difficult to say the least. How do you say goodbye to someone so amazing? So perfect? So a part of you and what you are?

I remembered something about her that made me cry hot wet tears that were heavier than I expected. When he was here and a part of this whole thing, He actually accused me of being a witch. And my mother. And my Aunt Maryanne. His words? "What is she, 412 years old?"

I wish she would have lived that long. But no. She was just a woman. A tiny frail woman with a big heart and a great rhythm who could out-tap Fred Astaire with a smile as big as the sea. Just a woman who clung to Christ when everyone blamed her for everything. When everyone left her. When there was no other choice.

Any how, The Boy.

The point is, he isn't perfect. He didn't show up when I needed him, he didn't hold me like I wanted, He didn't ask me about here or how fantastic she was or how I got a picture from her bedside that I painted for her that she must have seen everyday she woke up, and what do I deserve to be so honored? He just didn't know.

And secretly, I hated him for that.

But I hate the sun for shining when there is no one important enough to shine for. And I hate the rain for raining when the world is already dark enough without her. And I hate just everything for moving on so smoothly when that is that last time for a very long time that she will ever impact change.

I just hate it.

But I also forgot that The Boy is not so tragic. And that he does try. And that he loves me, even in my moods.

Oh Boy, I am sorry I am so complex.

Don't you know I don't mean to be?

Young sets out to make her understand.

"Am I mistaken? Did I just dream that or did you really just ask me that?"

He shook his head at her. "Oh Benny, you are beautifully mistaken."

His smile betrayed him as he held her even closer than he was wont to do and kissed her eyelids in the soft summer moon light.

"Young, I just don't understand you sometimes." She almost sounded harsh as she held his face away from hers.

"What is there to understand, Love?" Something as sweet and pure and Young Learning to Love was indeterminable at it's core, let alone for her.

"Well, for one thing, just last week, you scolded me for mentioning that we should plan a vacation together and now this?"

And he had. Maybe it was wrong of him, but last week he was scared of her and, all of a sudden, it became clear what he needed. He needed Benny, and there was no amount to pretending and no more waiting to be done. All he needed now was to ask her and have her say yes. So he waited, he held his breath, he pressed his strong hand around hers, holding it for fear that she might turn into an ephermeral mist and disapear as had been her tradition so many times before when things were too perfect as they were in this late night moment.

"Oh Benn-
"Yes Young, I mean, go on..."
"I only wanted to tell you that you don't have to answer me now. You can never answer me if you want, I only just-"
"I know what I want to answer."
"Oh, then, by all means, Yes, Miss. Benny?"
"I want to be Mrs. John."

And with that, the end of the middle of a beautiful song had found a climax while they lay together, tightly intertwined in a moment only lovers know. A moment that signifies the begining of something bigger than one person's love for another, A moment that begins all families in all ways, A moment of true love's passion coming to fruition.

A moment which Young had never felt more free, and Benny never knew more peace.

I am a selfish brat.

I want her to be here.

This weekend, the world lost a great soul.

And I just don't think it is fair.

But seeing her, quite literally, wasting away, broke my heart from end to end. It definitely helped to know that after you die there is no more pain. I never want to see any one in that state again, but I am sure it won't be the last.

But are we not just souls with bodies, and is there nothing in this world so great that we should leave it for the next with a shred of regret?

I love you, Mima, and I will miss you until I come Home.

DR seeks the End.

"DR, why would you do this?" Benny wiped a hot tear from her cheek as she lifted her eyes to meet his.

This scene is long before Young, the baby, and her happiness. What follows is about Benny, her formation, and one she loved with all her heart, despite what he had given her in return. Long before she thought of salvation, or freedom, or peace.

"Do what?" He smiled a cruel smile at her as the pile burned behind them. True, it wasn't a very large pile. But everything we love seldom amounts to much of anything.
He flicked his cigarette into the flames as he turned his back to her and swaggered towards the flames.

"Is this a joke?" She examined what little she could see of the base of the fire through the thick smoke and light of the fire. What he had done and why never would make sense, not to you, or me, or Young or anyone else that loved Benny. If it were a joke, no one but DR would have much to laugh at. And if you asked him today, I'm sure he would shrug and blame Benny.

"Is what a joke? You see it, it's all there. Every last piece. Burnt. Scorched. Finished." He spit into the flames and she swore she saw fire come from his mouth. Whatever the case, no matter how hard she prayed, the crackling heap kept on burning.

"Why did you do it, what did any of it ever mean to you?" I know you didn't want to assume what was in the fire, and truthfully, neither did I, but I will tell you here. I will tell you in this recount of her story, while she isn't around to remember everything she lost.

DR was burning everything Benny ever owned. Every prom picture. Every diary entry. Every handkerchief. Every memory. Everything.

"I don't want it." was all he ever said to her.

"But I- But DR, I just-" He never could let her finish a sentence. Oh, what brilliance did we miss from you Benny the years you were under his thumb? What thoughts must have stayed locked away in your fair head, thoughts that Young can never tire of, thoughts that do nothing but benefit everyone who they are for?

"You just want your things, I know. You are attached to it all. But not any more. Now everything is gone and we- you and me, Benny- we're going to start over. Isn't it all too thrilling?" She thought, if she stared long enough and hard enough, she could see herself in the fire, knocked out and tied to a chair, smoldering away.

"Thrilling? Start over?" She was stunned, dazed, and a little sun-drunk. She reached her hand out in a very dramatic fashion. She was very dramatic for a long time if only to attempt to impact him. I know, she isn't like that now. She is much more the Benny she was meant to be, but you will learn all of that about her some other time. This is just a mere retelling.

"You don't need any of it anyway. You're not Benny anymore. You are mine." And with that, he kissed her. A kiss she grew to fear. A kiss that meant she had lost.

A kiss that meant Benny had two choices:

Run

Or Die with him.

What is a girl, who is in love with a monster so much that it hurts her to sleep for fear he should eat out her heart while her eyes are closed, to do with her grief and pain?

Benny did run, but not before she lost everything she was.

Now, there is just a little matter of who to become.

Do you say "Thy will be done?"

Or does God say, "All right then, have it your own way"?

For a long time, and maybe even a little still, my life resembled the latter statement. Oh, I prayed earnestly for God's guidance in my life. I prayed and waited for His response, for His word, for His command. When I received it, I turned away , on purpose, just to see what could possibly go wrong, and did just the opposite.

When I prayed in the face of sexual desires, I found myself giving way to all of my sexual instincts. My biological imperative took over.

I started being sexually active, then I prayed about a marriage. Because I never wanted sex without a marriage, or a marriage without sex.

I got married and had sex, a lot of it, and so did my husband. And not always with me, and certainly never with a prayer.

I prayed about my broken heart, and God rescued my life. I cried, a bawled, I never wanted to breath again. And God said, "Oh, yes you will breath. And live freely in my love. And love again."

Life, love, these things are far from easy. But they are glorious gifts.

Sure, my wrong doings haunt me with guilt.
Sure, I still cry about the things I did or didn't do with or without God.

But I would rather be humble and sad a wary then pompous and proud and indignant.
Atleast I realize the mistakes I made in ignoring God.

I am trying to change. Will you be there when I'm all better?

I don't typically fall in love,

But you're no typical boy.

I don't want to write about how much I like him.
I want to cry and run away and forget about him.
I feel he deserves so much more than I can give.

I want to list some setbacks I have had this week.
And some triumphs.
And a few panics.

I shall label them, and here is your key:

SUBJECT:
T- Triumph
S- Setback
TP- Triumphant panic
SP- Unhappy panic

LIST:

T- You missed me while I was away.

TP- I missed you while I was away.

SP- I had a dream about not wanting to get a divorce. I woke up in a panic that you could read my dreams. Then I remembered that my dreams aren't listed on my forehead, and they are no shame, just an odd mash of life without order.

S- The divorce.

S- The Jeep.

T- Kissing you for the first time since I left made me very happy.

TP- You make me very happy.

S- I wish you could have met me in Paradise and I could have never had to come back to the Big Grey City.

TP- You really are a nice boy and you really do like me and I really want you.

I will organize these thoughts and talk in more complete sentences, this is more just an outline of what I wanted to tell you. And we all know how tongue tied you make me.

Young and a love song.

"Young, you know, I don't know half the songs you sing to me, why do you suppose that is?" Benny smiled at him, looking across their tiny bedroom while he took off his shoes and hummed an old tune he loved so much it made his heart dance.

He watched her, six months pregnant folding the laundry and thought of a million songs to sing to her about how much he loved her. Instead, he answered her with his usual evenness "Oh, Benny, I'm not sure, perhaps you have heard them you just don't recognize when I sing them to you."

She stopped folding socks for a moment. I recognize your heart when you sing them. And without another moment, he scooped her up and hummed to her as he twirled her down the hall, a very un- Young moment. But a positively perfect thing to do.

Do I want to be with you as the years come and go?
Only forever if you care to know.
Would I grant all your wishes and be proud of the task,
Only forever if someone should ask.
How long would it take me to be near if you beckon,
Offhand I would figure, less than a second.
Do you think Ill remember how you looked when you smiled,
Only forever, thats putting it mild.

I love him, and that is the begining of everything.

I am speaking, obviously, about the impact of dreams and wishes and fairy tales on one's perception of reality.

And I love it.

The Boy and I had what I would like to call an amazing weekend. I would like to call it that and I would like to write and speak a million facts about why, but I must limit myself. We musn't get too carried away, for sanity's sake.

Here are a few things I loved about this perfect set of days and a few things I hope never change:

1. Friday night was short and sweet and real. The Boy came to the dance hall where I work on Fridays and Fridays only while a live band strums out a hundred perfectly acceptable covers including things from Dino and Rob Thomas, the Four Seasons and Diamond Rio. He met some of his familia there to join in dinner and the festivities of the evening. They are real people. You know about real people, right? Messy people with great stories and knowing smiles who make mistakes and make you laugh and, in his case, cry a little in a good way.

He enjoyed his time from what little I saw of it and then he did something he has a million times told me he wouldn't. He took my hand and lead me out on the floor. While I was drenched in sweat and had a myriad of things to do, he twirled and whirled me with the best of 'em and I tell you I was smitten. He's a good sport to spoil me and not a half bad dancer at that.

1A. Saturday night we attended the wedding of a dear friend of mine and he was a fantastic date. He calmed me when we were late and lost, he let me fret over forgetting my battery for the camera (instead of telling me not to worry about it and hush up,he just let me be bummed. It's nice to have someone empathize with you and indulge in feelings once in a while-- real messy uncomfortable feelings) Then again, he was happy to dance with me. Sure he chose the song, but I can't blame him there. Sure, I tricked him to boogie-woogie, but he's good enough not to blame me.

2. He just held me. Saturday night we spent together after the wedding, just talking and dreaming and musing out loud and he just held me. In a few ways too. Sure, he wrapped his strong loving arms around me and pinned me to the bed with a leg here and his lips there, but it was more than that. It was nicer than that. He held my attention and my loving glances. He took what I said to heart and he made useful comments about me and life and where I fit in. This is what it means to be held, and to know what a promise is in real time

3. We had some cool, typical unforgettable moments together. Getting lost-ish, running around in the freezing rain, dancing, waking up next to someone you can't get enough of, lazy Sunday's, and an Ikea date. It's nice. Just plain nice to have someone to share those things with that you know doesn't take them any more or less serious than they are. They just are. They just spend time with you knowing that they are building toward the same calming rush that you are looking for, a peace in love. So say Whitman, "Peace is always beautiful."

4. I just like him. I just like the fact that he's real. And honest. And he lets me talk. And he wants me to be happy. I can see everything amazing about him that I like in the simplest things. In the way he lets me just turn around and kiss him whenever I want. And the way he lets me say things that sound like "future" love ideas. The way that he tells a story so that I understand it. The way he will answer me every time I ask him what he's thinking. The way he makes me want to be calm and sweet and always thinking about what is best for him.

Oh love. Oh peace. Oh Boy.

"Love does not cause suffering: what causes it is the sense of ownership, which is love's opposite”- Exupery

"DR, I really wish you would-"

"You wish what? That you could have a say? Benny, that's not what you signed up for."

And here it was, Here they were. Right back there they always left off, the same old argument. He was readying his most condescending tone to tell her that she was to be quiet and trust his decision making skills and she was bracing herself for the cold hard truth all over again.

"Now Benny, we agreed, you will remember, that I will be the head of this household." And I will break you yet, he smiled and held her close so she couldn't see the storm in his eyes. The constant rolling clouds that darkened his face when he thought about the joy of owning her.

"But DR, I just want-"

"You want to feel important, I know. You want to rule the roost, I know. You want to wear the pants, I know. But we agreed." He kissed her on the head and thought how easy it was to convince her to submit.

Delighted, he held out her arm.

"Now this won't hurt-"

"But DR I don't want-"

"I know, you don't want to submit. But Benny, we agreed-"

"But DR we didn't agree-- not on this!"

"Benny, now listen, we agreed that I would be the head of this family and that you would respect me. If you can't do just this one simple little thing, there is no point to loving you."

"But DR, I just want-"

"You just want what? To be alone forever? To be with a push over? No, NO Benny, I will not relent. I will have you and you will stick to your promises."

And then the nurse came in. Teddy bears smiled back at Benny from her smock. The nurse took her by the arm and shook her

"Mrs. John! Mrs. John are you ready? The doctor will exam you now, if you're ready..."

Where had she been? In some clinic, five years back. Crying. Wishing to be free. Wanting to be loved. Feeling no way out. She wiped her eyes and realized that the nurse was holding her hand.

"Mrs. John, it's ok... You and the baby are going to be just fine."

And then she remembered she was free now. Free to love and be loved. Free to breath on her own. Free to want her own way.

Sweet Freedom.

How much are you worth?

I have a new personal mantra which I like to share with everyone I meet, in hopes that they will benefit from my new found self assurance. It is simple:

You are worth it.

Whatever it is. That nap you never take, that vacation you've been planning, that alone time in the bath tub, the steak dinner you fix yourself.

But more importantly :Love.

You are worthy of love. You are worthy of respect. You are worth being treated as well as you treat others.

I have adopted this new saying to get myself through some really difficult recent events. But I am pawning it off on you so that you can make better personal decisions about how you use your time.

Is your time worth being beat? Is your time worth working for someone who doesn't appreciate your skills?

If you love someone and you want to spend the rest of your life with them, you are worth having the same devotion from them. If you don't, you need to ask yourself 'Am I worth it?' Am I worth love? The answer, of course, should be yes, yes I am.

I thought about this as I was reading a friends blog. The same young man has been flip flopping his feelings as frequently as I change my underwear on this girl for atleast 6 years now. And all I can think of is: You are worth it. You are worth love. You are worth marriage if that's what you want. You are worth the lifestyle you want.

Why can't this girl see it? Maybe because she has been lied to all these years. Maybe because she has been told to wait her turn. Maybe becuase he has convinced her that this is all she deserves. Or maybe because she never asked herself 'What am I worth?'

Hemingway's blank verse

" "
! : , .
, , , .
, ; !
,

"I think you need desire"
Desire! For what is desire: To want, hoard and miss.
And I think you need it to make you feel whole, lovely, human, &c.
Desire, you say; But what you mean is lust!
And what of it, Sweet love

Conflicted.

I had a minor panic attack last night.

It all started Saturday, when I got the baby look. You know the baby look. You've gotten it before. That look when a single woman is holding a baby that she gets from the mother of the baby, her SO, some other male of procreating age that says, simultaneously, "You look good with a baby" and "My, wouldn't I like to be held like that" It is a subtle, yet often times creepy look that freaked me out and sent me into a downward tailspin of conflicting desires.

I should be happy. I should be married and pregnant and baby full and happy. I am happy, but I am getting ready to get divorced from a man who promised me the world and gave me bills instead. He promised the world that I wanted, or thought I wanted.

A world where a woman could be just that: a woman. A world where I could work hard at child rearing and house hold duties including but not limited to pie baking, gardening, canning, quilting, and floor-mopping. A world where I would respect my husband and in return he would make the best decisions for our growing family, with me first in his mind always.

Instead, I am starting all over again, with a Boy who has never promissed me anything. A Boy who says simply "I love you" not "I will love you forever and you will be my queen and we will live forever in our children."

Can I really be in love after all this? Can I really forgo everything I wanted and live without the dreams I used to have? Can I really finish school, start a new profession and fall in love with someone who is totally different than anything I have ever wanted?

I am willing to try. But I honestly don't know. I am scared. I am hurt. I am in love.

Within a secret, without a cause.

A noteworthy passage from Benny's diary about something she misses most of all.

"... but what of it? So what if I am never loved again? would that be the end of Benny? No, I would go on. I would continue to exist. I would continue to breath and live and write and have desires. So what if they were unfulfilled?

I don't miss DR. I miss the prospect of love that DR represented. DR and I had the same last name. DR and I said that we were in love. So what if he never meant it. I meant it. I loved him. I loved the idea of being with someone forever, even if he treated me abominably. Maybe I deserved it. But enough of that.

I miss the fact that we might have been a family, a real family. I miss the prospect of children. With each passing day I think 'what if i would have put up with it for another month, or year? Then maybe I would have something to show for it' But that is crazy. Are you a family just because you have a child? Are you worthy just because you have a child?

But I can't dream of children again. Or a family. Or a marriage. I just can't. A man like Young warrants atleast that. Atleast the love of an unwounded woman. Atleast a woman who could trust him enough to give him all of her dreams. As I am now, the experience with DR has me so fearful of falling for treachery and perfidiousness that I run from Young everytime he might love me. Young does loves me, I know it. But at what price and why?"

Oh Benny, will you ever relent?

A soft down pillow with your arm propping it up.

The Boy and I talked for hours last night like we love to do and here are some of the more simple things we came up with:

1. Love is as easy as you make it.
2. Communication is key.
3. Count to ten before you assume they are late/annoying you/uncaring on purpose.
4. Forget what you think you know.
5. This is new territory. Love this person as if you have never been hurt before.
6. Not everyone is a psychopath hell bent on destruction.
7. Love is creationism.
8. If it is important to you, it is important for me to listen to you.
9. Love can mean swapping beers.
10.Babies are a product, but not an accessory.
11.Hard work is something to be revered.
12.Small doses of loving affection serve their purpose well.
13.Love is only as demonstrative as you are observant. (See number 9)

He's not the world. He's just a boy.

A boy who treats me well an listens to my fears and joys all the same and wants me to be happy and is pleased to tell me every thought he thinks because I want to hear it and know it and hold it in my mind, valued as a diamond in the rough landscape of the mind and a heart that has been beaten. I wear this diamond of thoughtfulness and sentimentality on the ring finger of desire, never taking for granted the simple love, the quiet love, the no nonsense love he has for me. Always remembering that to be loved is a gift to be cherished and to love a God-given right to those with a heart. He may not buy me flowers, or jewelry or name a boat after me but this Boy, this man of love says "Thank you" and touches my shoulder and asks me what i need to be happy and where I want to go for the night and kisses me as if he loves the privilege.

He looks at me and I can almost hear him say "I do love her."

And I fall asleep thinking, "He does love me."

Blurring the Barrier Between Benny and Being

A continuance.

"So... You love me?" Benny tilted her head. Her brown hair fell flat over her shoulder. It had seemed to be the millionth sunny day they had spent together and like the hundreds of times before this, he fell in love again with the glitter that seemd to beam light from the tips of her soft, straight locks. That something so simple as hair could captivate him was something beyond expectation.

"Yes, I love you." And everything you are whether you like it or not, he thought.

"But what would you want with me, Young? After everything you've seen--"

I have seen love.

"What have I seen, Benny?"

"The things DR did to me, to everyone around me." Why would you want some one even he couldn't love, she thought.

"What has DR got to do with anything?" He has so much of her, he thought.

"I thought you would think I were crazy for loving him. For being sad when he left. For--For falling for it..." I think I am crazy, But I have no choice but to live with myself, she thought.

"Oh, I do think you're crazy. But I don't think you give yourself enough credit." Love me, he thought.

"Oh Young, you're crazier than I am." And I love you, she thought.

More night terrors...

For the first time in a long time, I woke up out of a dead slumber last night to racing thoughts and a pounding heart. I didn't know where I was, who I was, or that I had been sleeping. I may have even screamed a little.

In the wake of my best friends engagement and my never ending legal entanglements with my own failed marriage, wedding thoughts, doubts, and anxieties have been lurking around in my brain. Mounting up to hellish night terrors of a particular sort: dreams about weddings.

Fine, say what you want. Tell me you love weddings, the cake the flowers the dresses, I don't care. I hate weddings and I always have. They make me nervous and frankly, I think they are tawdry and gawdy. Tell me I am just jaded, but I truly refute the fact that I only dislike wedding because mine was such a bust; oh no friend. I didn't like yours ten years ago, and I will not like the next 25 I attend in my lifetime.

What was so wrong with my wedding, you ask? Should we start with the groom and end with the dress?

Here's what I always wanted:

I wanted and off-white even champagne dress with a simple wrap design. I wanted my long brown-black hair to be in big sexy curls and a tiny tiara holding in a simple veil down the back. No train, no frill. Just simple. Red roses and candles everywhere. Ladies in Red for my processional. Men in red vests. My groom in a champagne vest with a single red rose in his pocket. Night time, quiet, reserved ceremony. Before pictures of my mom centering my tiara and fluffing my dress. After pictures of my groom holding me tight for a sweet kiss. An all white square simple cake with red roses trailing down the side. A champagne fountain.

Since I knew I would never ever ever in my wildest dreams have precisely what I wanted, I said nothing. I wanted nothing. I literally wanted to go to the court house, say thank you and be done with it. And then return to work.

Heres what I got:

I wore my prom dress to a church I had never attended but twice and was wed in front of people I barely knew. My dad wore a hawaiian shirt to give me away. My mom made the flowers, which were beautiful, no lie. One bridesmaid, my new sister in law. (Not the initial choice, she ran away a day before the ceremony) I made the carrot cake and iced it with blue icing (to match my prom dress) the day before. My groom cried like a baby and didnt understand a word the pastor was saying. Then he got so drunk, he didn't sober for four full days after the wedding.

My night terror was just that, only worse. I was facing marrying my now nearly ex husband again, but I was the me now. The me that is terrified of him. The me that gets sick everytime I hear his voice. I was preparing to knowingly marry the devil. And the dress wasn't much better. I actually, in my dream could not find an outfit to wear. I was busy trying on skirts and dresses I own now with the knowledge I now possess about him and us and this and the whole time I am thinking, "Can I survive a jump out of this window?"

What saved my phantom marriage? Rain. It started raining in my dream and the courtyard flooded. I swam out of the place, everyone looking for me, creaming my name, lamenting the ruin of my wedding day. While I am thinking, "God I hope they don't notice me..."

I know it's childish, but it is just another thing. It is just another sign that I made a huge mistake and it's not over yet. It is just another sign that I should still be sleeping alone. It is just another ulcer. Another headache. Another tear.

And when I say I'm never going to marry again and the Boy cringes inside, I just add it to the growing list of why I am so inadequate for... well, for anyone.

The more I like him, the more I want to run at him screaming, "Don't you know what they say about me? Haven't you heard the rumors?"

Doesn't he know my own family doesn't think me worthy of marriage?
Doesn't he know, before I was born, my father cast me off?
Hasn't anyone told him I am "certified pre-owned?"
Hasn't he guessed by now that I will never be right again?
I will never not have nightmares about crack and whores and weddings and the devil.
I will never love him with a full heart because I haven't a full heart.

I know I am jumping the gun, but just as you have an obligation to warn people that you have an STD or that you've been to jail, Am I not also obliged to mention that I am not whole?

That someone has made off with half of me?
That I have issues?
That I might, for the rest of my life, hate weddings?

Am I obliged to say, years before we're ever ready to be truly in love, years before we want eachother as permanent fixtures in eachothers lives and hearts, that I may not be as available as you want?

That I may change my mind, but as of right now I never want to get married or have babies or live with anyone else ever again?

And is that even true?

Can I overcome this? Can I love the Boy fully and rightly? Can I things stay this perfect, this warm, this free and easy? Can he always love me without expecting anything from me? Anything much greater than a hug and a kiss and "I love you" and "Have a nice day at work"?

Because that I have. I have love. Just not what I think he deserves. Not new love. Or completly devoted love. A quiet, second hand heart that wants him but knows too much to demand him.

Help. I love a boy but I am haunted.

Benny, The truth about her demise

"So this is it then? You're just going to walk away from everything we have and forget about me? Forget about everything you said you wanted, every dream we built, ever kiss I ever gave you?" DR was an emotional man, set on a hair trigger for disaster. She backed away from him slowly, refusing to look him in the eyes as she had for months now.

If she did, what would she have seen? Would he have appeared less mad than he sounded? Would he have broken down, asked for forgiveness, and held her like she needed? Would she have believed it if he had?

"I just-" She rallied her senses and took a deep breath while he filled up the silence-

"You just what? You just don't love me, You just want your own way? You are just everything I ever thought you would be? You just want out?" He fired so quickly, she could barely see straight let alone think straight.

"I just want you to give me a moment." Another tear, then another, then she felt that feeling once again. That feeling that starts at the base of everything you are and comes out of your ears. That pressure. That moment when you are so emotionally distraught that you can feel your physical systems shutting down. All the blood races to you heart and mind and you are incapacitated from the inside out. That moment when you can feel your intestines kneading themselves and your stomach falling.

That same feeling she felt every time he hit her, every time he left her, every time he told her what she was worth and what she owed him and what he knew of her and what he wanted from her and what he knew she would never be.

That same feeling crept up from the pit of her stomach every time she looked in his eyes and saw a half crazed demon. Every time she realized that she had made a mistake. Every time she thought about all she had seen and heard from him that had made her realize he was the devil or at least possessed by one.

It didn't matter. Breathing didn't matter. Loving didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Like so many times before, her sobs overtook her and all she wanted was to lay down and to die. To lay down and to compost into the ground and never live again. To stop hurting and stop living and stop loving him.

But DR relented and left her to cry alone. Which hurt most of all.

Words for thought.

I just read my first blog ever and giggled slightly.

What was I thinking?

It was crap.

But I suppose I have to write crap to get to where I am today. Where am I though? Am I any more of a skilled writer? Does what I say now have any more weight than what I said then? Do I care?

I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday about what qualifications a freelance writer would need to have in order to make money off of their pieces. I secretly decided that they would need to be a phenomenal writer, but lets face it, you need to have more than just literary skills. Persistence and a college degree in journalism to say the least are the necessary tools for a skilled linguist.

Which basically means I write crap. Unskilled, uneducated, unadulterated crap. But do I care?

Why do I write if I know in ten years no one will read it?

Because I must.

I just must. I must or I'll bust. I must because I lust for words that fill a need.

That. That right there was crap. But I had to. Something inside me said, "Go for it, Super Footwear Girl. Just do it, because it is what you do."

I wonder how many other things I do in my life that are comperable crap but that I just must do?

Do I love as poorly as I write and with as much importance on humanity?

Everytime I say "No thank you" when a cashier asks me if I need a bag, is my conservation of plastic a useless as my words?

Is my speeking as ill used as my writing?

Or do you care? Do you read this every time I make a new post and without an exception leave with something new? A new perspective, a new thought, a new view of me or the world through me?

Do I care? Should I care?

Should it matter to me that when you read it you think "Well thats four and a half minutes of my life I'll never get back?"

Or should I write because this is my life and no one else will put words to it if I don't?

Hold your own, know your name, go your own way...

Thursday Thirteen... on a Tuesday because I rule the world of Louise.

Thirteen things I have randomly thought of lately that I don't care whether or not you apreciate.

1. My Last name. If everything goes well, the end of next month will find me divorced... and yet again nameless. You probably don't take your last name very seriously, but I do. Your last name identifies you. It tells people whether your Welsh or Italian. How often you introduce yourself using your full given name denotes how proud you are of your heritage and family. Your last name is your first introduction to a big bright world. Before they've named you, it is more likely than not that one thing is for sure: Your Last Name. Who are you? Mr. Smith. Or Mrs. Smith. Who am I? Who knows, without a last name? Don't get me wrong, the divorce will be a huge relief. But seriously? Four name changes in four year- I'm worn out. And don't even ask to see my signature. Half the time I forget how it begins.

2. Le Divorce. I'm anxious. And happy. Relieved. And scared. I have had about a hundred dreams and ten times as many daydreams about it and everyone is the same. Judge Lamdin asks me to describe our marriage. I excuse my mom from court, because even in my dreams I can't put her through everything that truely happened. Then I cry. And there is no one there but Judge Lamdin to comfort me. (Yes call me obsessed, but I like the guy. He is fair and dad-like.) In every case, Mr.Not-such a great hubby drops and anvil on my head. Or holds me at knife point. So much for dreams...

3. The Boy. Who is amazing and awesome and scary in his own right. I just... love him. In a weird way, a weird natural way that makes me never feel anxious. He is just there. Which is kind of intimidating. It's strange to think that when he takes me out he is thinking of my hapiness. It's strange to think that when he asks me if I like something, he is filing my answer away for the next time. It's strange to think that when I am silent and content, he is thinking that maybe I need something or want something or what would make me happiest next. It's strange to think that he wants me to sing not to glorify him but to insure my hapiness... All very peculiar.

4. Writing. In general. I want to do it. I want to commit to it. But I never can seem to. I can never seem to think that what I write is important or skilled enough to compose a full novel. But I see it when I close my eyes.

5. The Boys friends. I almost don't want to like them. They are supremely awesome and different and just all around nice. He knows a lot of real people. You know, people who really smile at you when they shake your hand and who really say "Wow, what a nice girl" when you walk away. People who really like you just because The Boy likes you and smiles when he talks about you, so you must be a good person. So what if I love this whole network of people and what if he takes it all away one day? What if he doesn't love me and then I have to forget those people? Those real, vibrant, different, fun, weird, inquisitive people?

6. Music. And my song. I really love it. I just love singing. I love even more the thought of enjoying what comes out of my mouth. I don't so much care what you think, I like it.

7. I love College. I can't believe it took me this long, I feel like a dolt for having waited. But everything I needed to get here I have remembered and everything is falling together perfectly and I love it. It is perfect for me. I can't stop thinking about lab and language and math homework. And, best of all, I am succeeding.

8. I miss getting dirty. With paint that is. I need to get a good set of oil paints and go to town. Any donations, call me :)

9. Living at home. I moved out for a reason and that reason punches me in the face atleast once a day. They drive me crazy. But I don't have a choice so I shouldn't whine...

10. Baby Marshmallows. If you know what this means, you are entirely too close to my shoulder when I write in my journal. Or you're "Anne," In which case, pray for me.

11. I want to live inside you where ideas grow and start and flourish and grace the lips that I love from the inside out. I want to touch you close and tight where you like it most. I want to spend a day with you and here you and see you and know you like you were me and we were one. And then, to retreat, having known you, having had you, having felt you that close to me and in my heart so far that I can't hardly mistake you, I want love.

12. Scholarships, deadlines, bills, loans, credit cards and much much more.

13. In case you never knew, Sex.

Sex is an emotion in motion.

Here's something that crossed my mind over the past few years.

Why am I so afraid of Sex?

Why am I so scared to talk about it, even here where i am free from identity?

I can even us the fictional building blocks i have constructed to carry out my thoughts and dreams and malingering thoughts about sexuality and sensuality, but I always avoid it. Why?

Why am I often times veiled, incomplete, half represented half admonishing my own flesh?

Perhaps because when you read this you often times judge me.

Perhaps because I am just naturally shy about Sex and all things relative to the most inner parts of my soul.

Perhaps because when I do, you always think too much or too little of it.

Sex is important.
I do think about it.

I am not a drone, programmed to ignore my own instincts. Yes, for sure I am a woman. Yes, my life is extremely complicated and therefore not conducive to the time needed to think about, discuss and theorize sex and sexual appetite.

So there you have it. I want to talk. About Sex. About the dirt and grit and sweat that goes with it. About missing it. About wanting it. About getting it.

I want the freedom to talk about these things while knowing you won't hate me. Or leave me because of it. I want to know you will still love me and stay tuned to my show even though I am being honest to a fault. I want you to express how you really feel too though. i don't want you to hurt me while doing it, but i care about you and I want your feedback. Just not your judgement.

If anything, this thing, this journal de vie, is mine. It's about my life. And my life is not loveless. It is not exanimated. It is not colorless. It is not flatline.

I am vibrant and demanding and loud and happy and when I cry it is real pain and when I laugh you can hear it in the stars and when I kiss you lightly in the dusk because my heart tells me I have no choice you can feel my soul brimming beneath my soft lips. And I want you. And I want to sing to you, and write to you, and love you.

So just take me. Take me for what I am, sex and all. Please?

Now that I am done being real, I can be Young.

A lot of complete sentences to finish and incomplete thought that may have hurt or surprised you.

I have said all of these things to you in a half a dozen incomplete thoughts, but when I am alone, when it is just me and the monitor and keyboard, I can tell you everything, even the things I know you don't want to hear.

Like the fact that I really like you. And I knew I would. I also knew that this time would be different. This time I wouldn't cry. Or want you. Or make you into something you're not. This time, I took you for what you are worth. A decent guy with a quiet way who just likes me.

But now you don't "just like me." Now you don't just want to hang out with me sometimes when the mood strikes you and delight in my company or get bored of it and drop me off when you're done. Now you don't just want to chat every now and again and introduce me as just me and talk to other girls at bars with me a a security blanket.

Now you really think I'm something. Now you really say meaningful things to me. And you compliment me. And you are proud to take me out and talk me up and share me. Now you love me. And you are making propositions to love me for more than just today. For more than just the great quiet times.

But what if you don't?

What if I lose my luster?

What if I lose my mind?

What if when I am no longer this cool unfeeling quiet controlled woman you realize you never really even liked me?

So what?

So I really like you, that's what. You are so different than what i expect from life and love. You aren't a tiger, ready to pounce with passion and grief. You aren't a bear, cuddly looking with a fierce hunger. You certainly are not a fish, flaky and dry. I don't know what you are. You're a Boy.

A Boy I really like. A boy who I want to see happy. And well off.

What if you being happy means you not being with me?

I know, I've said that before to you. I have told you and cried my one tear and moved on. But you don't know the me before you. I me that was scared to be alone. And needed to cling to the idea of someone greater than I thought I was. Someone who would carry me and protect me.

You know the new me. The timid but awakened me. The me that can read people and who knows what she sees, even the most evil, is true. The me who has learned the difference between KNOWING a person is truly worthy and good at heart and BELIEVING that the best of a person.

With this new found self worth and agenda, I no longer need someone like you. I can now truly just want someone like you. Someone who isn't afraid to just be with me. Someone who doesn't own me. Or restrain me. Or need me.

The new me is also much more realistic. So what if we're not in a love to write home about? So what if we don't spend every waking moment together or wanting to be together?We are still a valuable asset to each other whether we have to be sitting close enough to touch or not. Whether you say at every moment "I love you more than soggy peaches."

Realism is sometimes disappointing and messy though ,isn't it? Being realistic is saying to yourself "There are things about me that this person hates. And there are things about them I'm not too fond of." Realism is compromise. It's realizing that no, you can't always have every quality in a person you like.

Life is the often times never ending search for that one other person for which you provide the necessary means for homeostasis.

That one other person whom you don't excite into a fluster, or sedate into a stupor. The person who you don't wait up for, because they are always home when they say they will be. Not the person you trust with your life but the person you trust to take you out next week and kiss you softly and say "I'm glad to see you. Let's go get a drink"

Real life is knowing that you are free to go. And i am free tog o. If things get too messy or too hard or just plain uncomfortable or boring or if you want something more or less out of life, you are free. You are free to love me as much and for as long as you would like.

I am free to see the insanity in holding someone forever. The utter silliness in the idea that there is that one person to whom you should shack your piece of life to and become one with for all eternity. Call it jaded, call it dismal, call in unchristian. But I don't expect you to love me and only me forever. I'm no longer blinded by my need for validation through another.

I am me and you are you and as long as we work out, we will keep this train going.

And, by having said all of this, I hope with all my tiny can-do heart, I hope you know how much I do esteem and value you. How much I want for your happiness. How much I see in you. How much I love you.

But I love you with a grown up heart. A battered, war-torn, sometimes sad heart. A heart that needs nothing but itself to evolve, but wants your heart near to compare notes, see the same pictures from different points, to hold.

I do love you. And I am excited to be in love with you. But I should hope I would never want to own you.

Good Timing.

"Are you sure?"

"Benny what do you mean 'am I sure'?" Who says that? Who thinks that? Why did I say that?

"I just mean are you sure you really feel that way? I would hate for you to say it and not mean it about 800 miles more than I would hate it if you never said it. Please, YOung I just... I just don't..."

Oh God. What had he done? Had he ruined it? Had he changed everything? Had he ruined that sweet soft moment with something he could never take back? Had he damaged that easy free way Benny looked at him and thought about him and drove in the car aimlessly with him while listening to music he knew she didn't love just to make him happy. He was sure of what he said, but he should have been more sure of how she would have reacted.

"It's umm.. wow. No, sorry I didn't mean... I only meant- I just feel a lot for you Benny, you know that."

"Of course I do. I know it so well, and i feel the same, it's just... When people put it like that, Young, it aways goes wrong. Just plain wrong."

How could loving her be wrong, ever? He just kissed her forehead and made a move for the door, pushing back a secret tear and wanting to run.

"I would just rather say that you make me feel like summertime and lemonade and babies running through a sprinkler and the sunlight kissing our bare skin. Or like the moment just before the first snow fall when the whole world is holding their breath and waiting for the silence that follows waking up to a white morning in the middle of December. Or like the first welcoming hug after returning from a trip you didn't want to take in the first place. Please Young, I just don't ever want you to change your mind."

How could anyone stop loving her, ever? He just kissed her forehead and understood in the same moment what he was always feeling when she was in his arms. That she was sad and lonely and just wanted what he wanted to give her.

I want to write you a book.

About everything. Which would you prefer?

A coming of age story chronicling a girls navigation to adulthood while dealing with an oppressive father, stories of incest, all while supposing her mother of money laundering and other mafia-esque escapades.

An exhausting narrative of a kidnapped woman. Following her wedding day, she breaks down on the side of the road and is knocked unconscious and delivered to a labyrinth of evil by the man that stops to change her tire.

A love story about a man who waits patiently for the love of his life to find a happy medium between her split personalities. He's not looking for her to make a choice, he loves all of her. He just doesn't like it when Madison, her hard core porn personality forgets to untie him from the bed. Or when Toby, her tobacco chewing chauvinist smacks him and forces him to make her dinner.

You tell me. I probably won't listen, but i will try.

In closing your eyes; of things forgotten; Vulnerability.

"Benny," There was a sweet smile with nothing behind it. Nothing but a sweet afternoon kiss in the twilight after a sweet nothing day ended in a sweet nap.

"Yes Young?" She peered at him, eyes barely open, unfocused. Only able to detect his sweet nothing smile with his perfect teeth, she smiled back, rememebering that he'd just given her a sweet kiss, soft and light on her pillowy and delighted lips.

She, for once did not smile to make him smile. She smiled for Benny. She smiled from the inside out. She smiled to herself and thought, what beauty, what delight there is in falling comfortably asleep in someones arms and not fearing waking up with them. Be awoken with a soft sweet kiss in the orange glow of a perfect day.


*******************************


They chased lightening bugs and watched a storm roll over the far reaching plains as the daylight faded. She rocked in a swing as she looked at him, standing and picking at a piece of cornstalk.

She thought, how nice to frame him, just as he is now. Vulnerable. Watching. Seeking. Content in knowing whatever it is he is certain of. Deep in thought about a great deal of nothing so important.

She saw the turn of his hips under his khaki's. She noted to tweak of his muscle under his plaid shirt. She remembered how it felt just a few minutes ago to be so consumed in his arms but to be so herself, so free, so unowned. She noted this all and remembered it when things were unperfect. Not so sweet. Undone.

Because now things were just right. In the setting sun, inspite of the gloomy clouds and mosquitos, with ice cream running down her hands, while he smiled at interior dreams, yes- just right indeed.

Thank you Young, for sweet vulnerability.

"You could get me to agree to anything when I am just like this now..."
And your smile says, "But would you love me?"

We should leave our mark on peoples mirrors with lipstick.

And rearrange their furniture.

Ten thoughts about the Boy:

10. The boy and I had a delightful weekend doing Boy and Chick stuff.

9. I saw a paper on the floor of my car. It was a receipt. I picked it up. It said "Boy's Chick" in the Invoice area. I smiled.

8. He hates ice cream but indulges me.

7. He wants me to smile all the time. Not to make him happy, but to insure that I am happy.

6. I like when I reach over and run into him.

5. Maybe he's gay. Or maybe he just let's me annoy him and laugh with him and touch him and sing to him.

4. And I will sing to him, each spring to him, and worship the trousers that cling to him.

3. I want him to be happy. Thats why I smile at his corny jokes and wink when he looks at me, and send him bits of things I think he needs.

2. He doesn't love me. And I like that. Too often, to be loved is to be possessed.

1. He just is. And he lets me be.

Minding my own business, of which there is not much to mind

I had a strange moment full of eerie feelings this weekend.

On a delightful trip to Nowhere Virginia with the Boy who is slowly becoming someone, I got a simple text meesage that both hurt, shocked, offended and made me think.

It truly wasn't anything important or meaningful or surprising. It had nothing to do with gas prices or natural disasters or politics.

It was a hurtful thing said by an artful person with malice in their hearts who never says anything without a smile on their face or without following their insults with a giggle.

I won't tell you what they said because it should have never been said. It was an insult to my new found hapiness and an attempt to shame and mock me.

I am so sensitive to this that I cried. I bawled my little eyes out while the helpless Boy just shrugged and pet my arm and looked at me with big brown eyes telling me it wasn't that serious. Which maybe it wasn't. Maybe to you. Or her. Or him.

But to me, this person might as well have said,

"You are a sham. Everything you do is obnoxious and over the top. You do not deserve even a shred of peace. I hope that by saying this, I rob you of not only that which makes you smile, but your pride in yourself as well... I'm just kidding, of course, you should lighten up and learn how to take a joke."

The really horrible thing is that they didn't even say it to me. They said it to a friend. Who was visiting with someone I hardly know. Who knows nothing about me. This friend barely knows my situation.

The worst part? I wasn't there to defend myself. I wasn't there to refute the rumor. Or to support it. Or to cry and ask this person why would you embarass me in front of people I barely know, people you surely have nothing to do with?

Now I am just hurt. With no recourse. No avenue to say "Hey please don't treate me like this. It is unnacceptable and if you choose to do this, I will have nothing to do with you."

No way to let them know that their actions and words are often just plain hurtful, malicious, mean spirited and unnesessary.

And now maybe The Boy who is nothing if not tolerant and quiet and sweet and calming very well might think I am a little on the looney side. Maybe a little jilted. And I am. I am a little hurt. And slow to mend. And still picking myself up from the past few years.

So maybe this was a good thing.

Maybe him seeing me breakdown will show him that I am not impenetrable. That I am a real live girl full of songs and sweets and sentimentality.

Or maybe he'll just run the other way.

And maybe that's all I get.

When you think of her smiling, does it make you smile?

"What do you mean, Young?" She tilted her head and squinted against the bright sunlight that was invading his bedroom. From the corner or his pillow, he peeked out at her and saw a world enraptured in light.

"I mean, what do you want Benny?" It was always better to allow her to form her own opinion, especially about tender matters of the heart.

"What do I want? I want... I want..."

"Do you want to be happy?" It was always better to lead her heart to form the right opinion, especially about matters concerning her hapiness.

"Of course."

"Does he make you happy?" This was before he knew how utterly sad she truly was, and how it hurt her heart to lie to him.

"Yeah, of course."

"Well then be with him, but if he doesn't make you happy, if thinking of him doesn't make you smile, if kissing him doesn't make your heart fly, then I think it is time for you to reconsider..."

"Reconsider... what?"

It wasn't worth making her cry.

This was an opinion she would have to form her own.

A Chapter in Which Young John Lets Her Down.

I knew this was coming. I could feel it. Things can't be perfect forever.

Everyday, we make small sacrifices for eachother. We let die in our selves small desires the other doesn't share and fan flames of attraction that we share. She started wearing her hair down and reading modern literature for me, I shaved and watching romantic comedies for her. No, no they're not life. They're not moving across country or buying a house with a white picket fence, but they are the humble beginings to fruitful relationships.

These small allowances are the solid beginings to respect and dedication that two poeple need to communicate their deepest secrets and desires to one another. They are the starting line. The first stone to a long road of hapiness and simple attachment.

And then I let her down. And then I saw a small tear fall out of her eye and heard her sigh and I couldn't undo what I had done wrong. I couldn't make her feel that i never meant it. i couldn't show her how terrible i felt to have made her so.... so...so despondant. So untrusting of this thing we have. This "like" thing we are nursing. This relationship we are building on respect and comfort.

There she was, leaning on the edge of the bed, holding back a deluge of discontent and all I could do was sit in silence and wonder.

Why couldn't it be a simple fix?

I suppose if it were simple then she wouldn't be sad and I wouldn't feel as though everything I did and wanted for her were feeble attempts at making myself the man I thoght she wanted.

Maybe that's all we do. We just all of us pretend to love what the other loves and want what they want until neither one of us exist.

Or maybe we work together to become on flesh that wants one future and one life.