Could it be?

Almost a year since I last wrote on here.  I’ve been over at Myspace, and I’ve been struggling with some inner turmoil over “Social Networking.”

Why do we write?  I spend more time writing about that question than I do actually writing about anything worth a lick.  The debate between selfish and selfless keeps coming up.  This writing that I’m doing, right now, is selfishly driven, because I would not write it for myself.  I write it for public response - I hope for adoration, or merely a compliment.  Even if the writing is garbage, I will be validated in your eyes.  I will BECOME a good writer, where before I may not have been one, if only I can reach enough of you to get a response.

The problem with that, besides the obvious one, is that people are not honest.  I have been handed pure garbage before, and seeing the look of hope in my friend’s eye, simply could not shatter their dreams.  Granted, that was then, and I wouldn’t hesitate to send them down a different path these days, but the point still remains.  Every time we post something into a blog, we are expecting a comment.  That is the purpose of a blog, or else we’d make all our posts private and disable the comment feature.  Some of my posts are so precious to me, I literally hold my breath waiting to see how you will react.  These are my works of art, my little babies, and a hint of criticism could shatter me, not to mention threaten to change my writing style.  And to ask you not to lie to me would really defeat the purpose, because I shouldn’t be seeking your approval to begin with. 

Besides, who’s to say what makes a good writer?  How dare I put the burden on you?  A friend of mine and I share common tastes in authors, but there are a few we just don’t agree on.  I may be an excellent writer to some of you –  others may think I’m too self-righteous and cold.  Part of it is what’s popular at the time, what kind of writing people are used to and prone to.

All in all, the measure of my literary worth should not be how many people I can fool into thinking I’m a good writer, but how my writing makes me feel, and then I’ve reached another problem – If I write something I feel is amazing, I will simply have to share it with you, because I couldn’t let something so beautiful go to waste. 

These are the thoughts and fears that keep me away for so long, at times.  So now, my internal battle rages on, and I am simply left mute.

 

Down so long

Too long gone from this place, and the familiar green is tugging at my senses. Open pages, blank pages, so many possibilities and every word is a chance, a hope come alive. If there is no directive, no inspiration pressing urgently to the surface, my intent is always to simply create, to solidify something memorable here.

They say you cannot be a great writer until you are first a great reader, and while I see the logic in this, I also feel it is a double edged sword. How can one be confronted with greatness, with any type of literary genius, and come out unscathed in the end? It’s a trip back to the memories and horrors of middle school, where you are torn between wanting so desperately to measure up, and your need for unique self-expression. It’s all been written before, yet there are still authors that can floor me with their brilliance, and the perfect structuring of a six-word sentence.

“For sale: Baby shoes; never worn.” ~Hemingway

As my worst critic, I am often disgusted with what I write, if I can even get past the writer’s block. After several months or years, however, I find I am able to look back on my own writing with appreciation, as though it was written by a stranger. It’s with this that I continue, this hope that if I just keep writing, one day perhaps I will write something that floors my future self.

Something tells me today is not going to be that day.

 

In heat.

There are times when I am nothing but my cunt, swollen and expectant at every glance. Every touch becomes an extension of my desire, my hand lingering too long on your shoulder, my eyes conveying too much in my gaze. These times, I am nothing but my sex, driven and inspired only by the thought of coming, for you and with you. The way my clothing feels on my skin, restrictive yet stimulating, the fulfilling smell and taste of my latte, even the cooling scent of impending Autumn can make me swell, silently pulsating next to you as we walk, and you talk of everyday things. Should I whisper to you, “here lover, take me here, no one will notice,” or risk the slightest cooling of my flames for a more secluded hour? These are the times when I shower too long, when I imagine you smelling my desire, when every thought is of your shoulders, your arms, the way your body climbs over mine. I expect that you can hear me, see my thoughts, and every word is suggestive to my ears. “Want to go eat?” God yes. Please, let’s eat.

 

Slow

I wrote this on a napkin the night I met you, fumbling in my purse for a pen, spellbound at the sight of you.

You took the stage like a normal girl, but once your lips parted your truth was revealed. Warrior. Lover. Angel.

Please don’t be a real woman, don’t tell me your name, how old you are, or whether you like the rain. I would have you immortalized, adorned in icicles, my goddess of the north.

I watched as your dazed eyes fell on the crowd. Our eyes never met. The careless patrons drinking their wine laughed at something unrelated, and I watched as you took that laughter in and made it your judgment. You took it as a blow, a denial – and yet you pushed harder. Your fences went up and you simply let go, cupping the mic like a lover’s breast and singing with complete abandon. It didn’t go unnoticed, not by me.

Gentle thank you’s seemed out of place from the gut wrenching wails that had graced your lips, yet you muttered them, polite and trained. The end of every song brought us both back to reality, the crowd breaking the silence you created.

No, don’t be a real woman, let me keep you in your green satin frame, with the ice of your blue eyes glancing unimpressed upon my shadow.

 

indigo. . .

I think it’s Winter, the bitter cold and wind whipped hair that makes me remember her. The date that still throbs in my memory is coming again. You’d think after so long I (we) could just let go, move on, forget the past, blah blah blah, but almost daily something passes my eyes, my neck, my lips, my sense of smell or self. . .something that reminds me of her.

Yes, it’s the cold that does it, when my neck feels empty from a scarf worn long ago, and just as quickly lost, which I never did retrieve, as hard as I tried.

Now a dozen wishes upon a million stars can’t seem to change the path we’re on. Sometimes I feel like I could reach across the distance, which isn’t really so far, is it honey? I could reach across and somehow my fingertips could grasp the tip of her wicked little tongue, and I could control her words like some erotic ventriloquist, and make her say the handful of syllables that would release her to me. We would meet on some street somewhere, and each step would be energized and driven, pulling each other to the point of combustion where finally our lips would meet again, solidifying that which we both know is true.

At this point in our lives. . .sometimes the secret is unbearable.

 

X-posted: Thoughts on moving.

Things are getting hectic, with the move in two days.  I keep finding myself not wanting to pack certain things, because I’ll need them.  Need them when??  It’s not sinking in yet that I won’t be sleeping here in two nights, and that everything I own will be surrounded by new walls.  I’ve been here five years, and I leave with a heavy heart, though so excited for the next step I can hardly wait.

I have my comforts here, my soft living room with the candles and perfect lighting.  My back porch where I sneak cigarettes.  My beautiful purple bathroom.  It’s so silly, because these are all things I can bring with me and make even more beautiful in the new place.  I know when I leave, I will be so relieved to be out of this house, as I am every time I move out of here.  Part of me is afraid that the city will be too loud for me.  Isn’t that silly?  I will miss my cats.

But today. . .hmm, today I went and bought things for our new bathroom, which fulfills me in ways I always forget about until it comes time to buy that stuff again.  I’m domesticated in minor ways, where I find great pleasure in an unopened bar of soap or heart-shaped baking pans.  I’m also a hippie in many ways, loving the smell of incense and beads hanging in the doorways.  There’s this strong adult in me as well, the Pottery Barn loving classy girl who needs an entryway table.  Yet, it takes all of my will power to not put posters up of my favorite bands and have beer bottle salt and pepper shakers.

How on earth will I combine all these personalities, meanwhile blending with the solid nature of Luke?  It’s partially those moments, when we choose to go with blue or brown for the bathroom, that I look forward to.  Facing those challenges (and much more important ones) is part of the excitement of moving in together.  And having someone to remove all spiders is pretty great too.

Meaningless things carry much weight with me.  I’m equally terrified and thrilled at the prospect of having a change jar for laundry.   You mean, I have to pay for clean clothes?

I’m really just a little girl still, kind of afraid of being an adult.

 

Thank you blog gods. Blods.

We got the apartment!!  I’m so excited.  I think fate had a heavy, heavy hand in this one, as it was the ONLY place we looked at and there were a lot of threads that had to be spun just so. . .

So for the first time in my life, I’ll be living in the city!  I’m sure it will be a big change, but one that I’m really looking forward to, and I’ll be living with my amazing boyfriend, which makes everything that much better.  We got a two bedroom with big fat rooms and little quirks and chair molding and one of those old bathtubs!  It has huge windows and a master bedroom the size of my living room.  The only thing missing is a backyard with room for my tomato plant, but we’re one minute away from a community garden, so that problem’s solved!  There’s a huge playground a block away, and my business partner is just as close.  It’s right by the REI building on Eastlake Avenue, for you locals.

We’ll be having a housewarming party eventually, after we get the furniture in to make sure we can fit people. 

 

The building was built in 1907.  It’s old and kinda dingy and has a shitty kitchen, and I think I’m in love.

 

Cross your fingers!!

I’m all anxious inside right now, waiting for the phone to ring to see if we got the apartment we want!

Oh yeah, we’re moving in together, my sexy man and I (and of course Audrey).

This was the first apartment we even looked at, and I love it. Luke “like like’s” it, which means he’s pretty much happy with anything, and this place is close to where he wants to work. The landlord has taken a particular liking to us, and is jumping through hoop after hoop to get us in there. Only one more phone call remains to be made, and my head is spinning waiting for the answer!

So send all those hippie vibes or positive energy bolts or whatever the hell it is the power of a blog creates

Thank you!!

xoxo

 

Mawwiage.

Well, my sister got married yesterday, and I want to document a little part at least, so I leave you with my speech at the reception:

As Kellie’s older sister, it’s always been my job to give her advice – even if it’s unsolicited.  But when it comes to Kellie, I’m not *completely* hopeless – I often lead by bad example.    Seriously though, one of the strongest bonds my sister and I have is the years and years of talking, either in our bedrooms as children, or on the phone for hours as adults.

I knew my sister had found the right person when the tables turned – and I was the one asking for advice.

Kellie and Paul have amazing communication, and a way of making each other feel safe that I’ve  never seen before.  My sister has been my best friend my entire life, and while I’m not willing to give up that title, I’m proud to share it, because it’s obvious Kellie is truly marrying her best friend today.  You both have all my love and I wish you the very best.

Yeah, that about sums it up.  It was really a beautiful day.  I cried the whole time, pretty much.

 

Review in the Stranger.

Finally.  I’m glad it was good.  For us, heh.

http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/Content?oid=291222

Content:

Every Thursday night, Noc Noc (1516 Second Ave) hosts the Sinner Saint Burlesque show. The crowd is more lascivious than Can Can’s; there are frattish men paging through swinger magazines and skeezy guys with long-lensed cameras trying to arrange private photo shoots. But the dancers are fantastic, and things get about as risqué as the law allows. Standouts include The Shanghai Pearl simulating masturbation by fingering a giant novelty rose that barely covers her crotch, and the shocked look on Ravenna Black’s face every time she sheds a piece of clothing.

Dane Ballard, a modern-day Mr. Entertainment, hosts the Sinner Saint Burlesque. In between acts, Ballard tells corny, blue jokes about MySpace and handjobs. He even strips while singing a song called “Here Comes the Snake”—the only performer I’ve seen who manages to sing and strip at the same time, making him a perfect candidate for a bi-lesque or boylesque troupe.