Some Of My Friends Are Astute


I received a text message this afternoon regarding my blog.

Meaning.

I got a text expressing that I had not written a blog last night, nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

When the blog’s away the cat is at play.

I guess you could say I had a good date last night.

Ayup.

I really don’t know how much I want to write about it.

I mean.

Duh.

Fuck me.

I want to write my pants off.

Which, in case you were wondering, did NOT come off.

Just saying.  Just putting that out there.  Just letting my people know.

They could have however, there was certainly heat, passion, a slow steady heady simmer of a slow roil that consistently threatened to roll over the top and sweep me away.

But I get ahead of myself.

Yes.

I didn’t write last night.  Although I made up for it today, I woke up earlier than I expected considering I hit the sheets a little after midnight and I was a bit feverish and wound up, I wrote four pages long hand before work.

I remember looking around my environs and feeling like, did that just happen?

I wasn’t about to switch on my computer, fire up the laptop, type it all out in a furious deluge of words and images and capture it all for prosperity and the few hundred folks that might read this.

There was temptation to do so, to catalogue and list and wonder, I mean really wonder, how does the man have such soft lips?

Did he exfoliate them.

Do men do that?

Softest mouth, softest kisses, until they weren’t, but again, I rush ahead.

When there is no rushing to go anywhere.

He’s not my boyfriend, husband, lover, partner, he’s someone I met and connected with.

And made out like teenagers for hours, but um, more of that in a moment.

He’s a person.

I’m a person.

And there was chemistry.

Heaps and loads.

Now.

Is there, are there other things?

It does not hurt, in fact, it’s damn helpful, that we speak the same language, that we have a common experience, a common solution, a common fellowship and community of people that we are connected to and bound by.

That does not always mean sparks are going to fly, because I have dated, and not dated as the case may be, in this group of people and those sparks are often missing, and the language, though common, may be of a different accent or dialect and I have my druthers around what works for me and what doesn’t.

Sounds like I am talking in circles, let me just say simple like, we got the same brand of it.

And I really like that.

Makes a girl feel good that I am attracting that brand of man.

It also makes a girl feel good when a man who she, I don’t know why I’m speaking in the third fucking person here, perhaps I am trying to give myself a little distance for perspective.

It made me feel good to see that look in his eyes.

That look that says, I want to rip off all your clothes and ravish you.

However.

There was restraint.

Restraint of lips and mouth not so much, but restraint of other things, yes.

No clothes were removed, well shoes, but I don’t suppose that counts.

I am pretty sure my top shirt dress button came undone, but that was not intentional, I think it just got frisky and popped open.

I told him I was thinking about not blogging about him again.

He said, “why?  It’s your life.”

Touche.

I like that.

It’s my life, my art, is my creation, it’s also, let me be transparent, bravado.

And a little bit of a front, I can hear the voice of my blog in my head sometimes when I am riding my bicycle home through the park and the dark night air rushes coolly over me, the crisp yellow curl of moon rises over the trees in the park and I am flying, so present, so alive, wind rifling over me, thoughts quiet, all feeling, no thoughts and it dissipates, this person, this persona.

This bravado takes a back seat to my heart and my being and my soul.

I like to titillate.

I like to have experiences and write about them.

I have a persona, a creation, I am my blog and I am not my blog.

I am confident and sexy and strong and yet, sometimes, a wreck of nerves and shy and coltish, aware of being transparent, having no poker face, being vulnerable.

And I want to be vulnerable here.

Yet.

I want to hold some things close.

I want to keep them to myself.

There is the fear that once things are out into the world that things will change, if I post that picture, what am I saying, if I write those words, what am I alluding to, what does this line of poetry from this poet coming from my mouth at this moment mean, how can I tolerate this and not manipulate and be me.

Authentic.

I am myself I love myself I am true to myself.

That is all that matters.

Not this crafting of words.

Though.

Let me not be untrue to my art, this too, is my heart and my love and I throw things out here in this venue that I forget about until someone sends me a message about something I have written and I am awed, my words, impressed someone.

Not impressed as in they are taken by my words, but the experience is informed by something I have written.

The seal of wax on a letter, embossed with the pestle as it presses it’s mark on the wax and  the soft warm wax is pushed into a different shape.

I want with great reverence and intent to live the life of the artist, to feel, to be ruined with beauty to be broken open and have my heart impressed, embossed with experience and feeling and love.

There is so much love that is outlining the edges of me as I walk along this journey.

The information that I garnered from him, other than the visceral, the feelings fleeting, the softness of a kiss of a mouth on a mouth, the disheveled hair pulled into his hand, my thumb sweeping over the bones of his face, being swallowed into a kiss and coming out the other side another kind of woman.

The information gathered?

I am on the path and the journey is lovely.

Life it gets better and all the hard work I do pays off its dividends.

And like the gaunt prospector hoarding his gold, I must to give it away so that I may continue to reap the benefits of the gift.

I still have room to grow.

And I look so forward to it.

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