Little Pieces of Nothing

Little Pieces of Nothing

Allison

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too good to be true	[Jul. 9th, 2007\|10:29 am]
and don't ask me to put words. to all the silences i wrote. don't ask me to put words. to all the spaces between notes. in fact if you have to ask, forget it. do and you'll regret it. i'm tired of being the interesting one. i'm tired of having fun for two. just lay yourself on the line. and i might lay myself down by you. but don't sit behind your eyes. and wait for me to surprise you. i want somebody who can make me. scream until it's funny. give me a run for my money. i want someone who can. twist me up in knots. tell me, for the woman who has everything. what have you got?. i want someone who's not afraid of me. or anyone else. in other words i want someone. who's not afraid of themself.
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my life right now, in t&s vision	[Jul. 8th, 2007\|03:34 pm]
Is there more to life than love and being together? I'm calling out I don't really care for your city anymore (You) spend the night I lay awake and miss you when you go What will bring me home What will make me stay, stay I am disappointed Every morning that I wake up I'm not alone No, I'm just on my own
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2006 in a nutshell	[Dec. 30th, 2006\|04:38 pm]
Take the first line from the first blog for each month in 2006. This is your year in a nutshell. January: I don't even know where to begin. It's over. February: It never ends. Just when I think I get a handle on things, something else gets thrown in my face. March: "Most people come to Paris to fall in love. You came here and got slapped." April: So hanging out with Brandon last night was a bit awkward. May: Once again I find myself asking why are girls so fucking difficult? June: SweetNoodle 2002: im meaning to myspace u my unfinished rough draft of my utopia July: So Im back here in this journal again. I just can't seem to stay away for long, much as I try. August: --- September: I am wandering around campus beneath trees torn to shreds. October: men so capricious that you acuse women without reason without seeing that you are the cause of that which you acuse, that with desire like no other you solicit their misconduct, why do you want them do do well when you convince them to do wrong? November: So I finally figured Heather out! It only took me about six months. December: you are what I want in this world that you are
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(no subject)	[Dec. 7th, 2006\|07:08 pm]
I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as certain dark things are loved, seceretly between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries hidden within itself the the light of those flowers, and thanks to your love, darkly in my body lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving. But this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when i fall asleep it is your eyes that close. Pablo Neruda, Sonnet XVII
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Eres (You Are)	[Dec. 7th, 2006\|07:07 pm]
eres lo que mas quiero en este mundo eso eres, mi pensamiento mas profundo, tambien eres, tan solo dime lo que hago aqui me tienes. eres cuando despierto lo primero, eso eres, lo que a mi vida le hace falta si no vienes, lo unico preciosa que mi mente habita hoy. que mas puedo decirte, tal vez puedo mentirte sin razon, pero lo que hoy siento es que sin ti estoy muerto, pues eres lo que mas quiero en este mundo eso eres. eres el tiempo que comparto eso eres, lo que la gente prometo cuando se quiere, mi salvacion, mi esperanza y mi fe. soy la que quererte quiere, como novia soy, la que te llevaria el sustento dia a dia, dia a dia, la que por ti daria la vida, esa soy. aqui estoy a tu lado y espero aqui sentada hasta el final. no te has imaginado lo que por ti he esperado, pues eres, lo que yo amo en este mundo eso eres, cada minuto en lo que pienso, eso eres, lo que mas cuido en este mundo, eso eres. ~cafe tacuba you are what but I want in this world that you are, my thought but deep, also you are, so single tell me what I do aqui you have to me. you are when wide-awake first, that you are, which to my life needs to him if you do not come, the precious unico that my mind lives today. that but I can decirte, perhaps I can mentirte without reason, but what today I feel it is that without you I am dead, because you are what but I want in this world that you are. you are the time that I share that you are, which people I promise when she is wanted, my salvacion, my hope and my faith. I am the one that quererte wants, like fiancèe I am, the one that llevaria you the sustenance day to day, day to day, the one that by daria you the life, that I am. aqui I am to your side and I wait for aqui seated until the end. you have not imagined what by you I have waited for, because you are, which I I love in this world that you are, every minute in which I think, that you are, which but care in this world, that you are.
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(no subject)	[Oct. 24th, 2006\|02:53 pm]
ACCETING GINA by Bernadette This story is dedicated to Maria. * * * * * * Paul left me months ago. Six long, lonely, dreary months of endless darkness and gloom. The weeks of crying, the days of yearning for a phone call, the nights of empty wine bottles and morn- ing headaches were all behind me. I was healthy now, ready for a chance at a new begin- ning. Life was looking fresh again. The sun was bright, the air was clean. I was finally whole without him. I had loved him so deeply. It had been unnatural, unsettling, and uncontrolled. Now I could find the paper and pen before me through the fog. I could see the vision and the words. I was writing again. Looking back, I realized the bad times were barely lingering, whereas the good times were painted like a portrait in my mind. But a portrait painted by a clown, not an artist. All that time, what did we talk about? I remembered the drinking, the parties, his friends, the football games. All of it was one big celebration. We laughed, we had sex, and we laughed some more. I could not single out one time we had a serious con- versation other than an in-depth analysis of his team’s fortunes on the field. Paul left me the night my sister was tragically killed in a car accident. He couldn't handle the intensity, my emotions, and the horror of it all. He was gone when I needed him the most. My memories of that night are vague: a dinner party at my parent’s house, the phone call, and guests leaving quickly. Lying in the grass and vomiting. The sounds of shattered glass. Shattered pieces of my heart. Shattered pieces of my sister. After six months of therapy, I was finally able to talk about him, but not Gina. My therapist told me this was my way of shutting down - something about misplaced emotions, the loss of my baby sister, substitution, and obsessing over a man that never really loved me. But today, the sun was shining and I was doing this for her, and for myself. I was joining a local poetry critique group and writing again. Gina would be proud. There were about sixteen people in the group, ten women and six men. The group leader was an older woman named Kira. Kira had fled the Communist regime of Soviet Russia many years ago, and her poems had been published many, many times. She was a kind, older woman with sparkling gray eyes, and obviously had experienced life to its fullest. I took my seat next to a woman who looked about my own age, perhaps a few years younger. It was hard not to notice her because of her striking features: unruly black hair, porcelain white skin, and big, green luminous eyes. Kira led the group in an icebreaker game. We took turns introducing ourselves, which was fun and awkward at the same time. Most of the people there were insecure amateur poets, who were simply looking for something to do with their spare time. When it was "her" turn, she spoke with a bold confi- dence and radiating energy I immediately envied. "Hello, my name is Cassandra. I am here for a one-year appointment because of my husband’s job. I am from Tasmania." Her accent revealed she was obviously not from this country. But it was more than that. It was the way she said it. She sounded so exotic, so mysterious. So distant. "I have written over twenty poems, mainly dealing with passion, desire and courage -- in particular, sexual courage," she continued. Sexual courage, I thought. That’s a familiar concept. "The poem I am working on currently is called, 'En- twined.' It is about female bonding, intimacy and friendship in today’s world. I am very proud of it and I hope you like it as well. I look forward to sharing it with all of you." She sat down and looked right at me. I assumed it was because I was next. But I couldn’t help but feel an attraction, the feeling that she and I would become very close friends. I needed a best friend about now. Mine were both gone. It was my turn. I didn’t like speaking in front of even small crowds, and I was acutely aware that my hands were trembling. I miraculously found my voice. "Hi. My name is Jessica Preston. I am from here. I. . . I . . . started writing poetry when I was seventeen. Most of it is of course, unpublished, but I hope to learn some things from being here." I quickly took my seat. However, Kira was not done with me. "Jus-ik-aa," she said in her Russian accent, "what is your, ah, latest? Hum? Or perhaps a current project you’d like to share with the others?" "Well, I. . . I haven’t written anything in six months, although I was published last year in The Poet’s Haven. A small literary journal." "That’s wonderful!" Cassandra blurted out. "What a great magazine! Wow! I have never been published. What was it called? The piece, I mean?" "Oh, it was just a little piece called, 'Unconditional' It is about, well, unconditional love," I stammered and blushed. I sounded like an idiot. "Splendid! Will you read it to the class?" Her face was lit up like a Christmas tree. "I don’t see why not. Sure, I guess I will." I felt so self-conscious, though a part of me was eager to share. Kira cut in, reasserting her leadership status. "What is your next piece?" Cassandra eagerly looked at me, her eyes shining with interest. I paused for what seemed like eternity. Then I said it and sat down. "Accepting Gina." * * * * * She made me forget the loss. Over the weeks, we be- came the dearest of friends. Cassandra was married to a successful financial consultant named Simon, who was assigned to spend one year in the United States. She had been suddenly uprooted from her country and found herself here. Since her husband traveled frequently, she was alone much of the time, just her and her poetry. And now, she had me. We began our relationship at the coffee shops, reading and critiquing each other's work. Slowly, more per- sonal topics began to emerge, such as relations with the men in our lives. She loved her husband very deep- ly - something else I admired and envied tremendously. "Simon is such a wonderful husband," she once said. "He allows me to do my own thing. We got married quite young, too young I must say. But I am very, very lucky." I told her about Paul, but never Gina. I found myself so relaxed, so open around Cassandra that I could talk about anything, everything but my sister's untimely and clouded death. I was too ashamed to reveal the details of what really happened that night. Even to Cassandra. Anything but the secret, the truth. On the many nights Simon was out of town, we went to dinner, had a few drinks, and talked for hours. Cassandra grew to hate Paul and everything he stood for. "My dear little Jessica," Cassie would coo. "What an absolute oaf of a man. My precious angel, you can do so much better. If you ever come visit us, there are a few sexy little devils I could introduce you to in my country." The thought delighted me! Handsome, sexy devils from a far away place who spoke and sounded as exotic and mysterious as my Cassandra! "Besides, was Paul ever really good in bed? Really?" She smiled. I giggled. Cassie had such a cute, infec- tious way of saying things. I tried to remember what it was like. Sex with Paul had been a roller coaster. Hurried, fumbling, hardly a word spoken in passion. It was animal lust. I remember longing for sweet words spoken in whispers, a gentle caress that would’ve made the difference. I found myself telling Cassandra all this. I had never told anyone. Why was I telling her? "And," I giggled again, "He had a crooked penis." We burst out laughing. I thought beer was going to come through my nose. "There was a crooked man and he had a crooked smile, had a crooked penis and he walked a crooked mile!" she began to sing. We laughed and laughed. She was holding my hand under the table. It felt like high school all over again. * * * * * I had a date! For the first time in eight months, I had a date! I met Joshua one night, while out having cock- tails with Cassandra. He was of Syrian descent, with a smooth, olive complexion and long, dark hair worn in a sleek ponytail. Joshua was a professional musician. He taught classical guitar at the local university. A Greek god. A male muse. For the first time since Paul, I was attracted to another man. Excitedly, I went to Casandra’s to get dressed. We drank champagne and I borrowed her sexiest little black dress. It was made of a clingy fabric that went so well with our hourglass figures and ripe cleavage. Cassie and I both shared these attributes, and although she was a few inches taller than me, the dress fit per- fectly. We arranged to have him pick me up at her house. Since I met him in a bar, I was a little cautious, but Cassandra didn't mind. So I planned to spend the night there. She had given me the key, even told me to invite him in and said to feel free to use the guestroom as "I pleased." Joshua arrived in all his exotic glory. We were both flabbergasted. He was wearing dark pants and an expensive crisp, white shirt with a charcoal tailored jacket. I winked at her as I left, and she gestured back. Simon was on a business trip and I hated to leave her alone. She would never have thought of coming along with us, but nonetheless, I felt terrible about leaving her behind. The evening was exquisite. Joshua proved to be a charming, cultured, artistic man. We had a romantic dinner at a quaint Greek restaurant, dancing at a local jazz club, and sipped on expresso afterwards until the wee hours of the morning. Our conversation was very natural. We talked about everything: fascinating stories of his parent’s native homeland, Paul, his ex-girlfriend, even our views on sex. Joshua was very open about this topic and I realized he was a very passionate person. It was starting to intrigue me more and more. We went on and on, about everything but my sister, of course. What would he think if he knew? "So, Jessica, do you have any brothers or sisters?" he asked politely, but sincerely interested. "I have one sister, well had." I stopped. I still wasn’t used to speaking in that tense. "Had?" He look a bit confused, but not pushy. "Well, she died in a car accident about six months ago." He never used the worn phrase "I am so sorry." He simply took it matter-of-factly, as thought it was as simple as, "She is a senior in high school." "What was her name?" "Gina." "Ah, Gina. A pretty name. Any other siblings?" His ease at accepting the topic was unexpected and a welcome relief. "No, just Gina. She was the only one." "I am an only child," he casually added. It’s just me and my uncle. My parents were killed in a terrorist bombing while visiting friends in Beruit, Lebanon." "Oh, Joshua, I am so sorry . . ." I caught myself. Now I was doing it. He never paused. "My uncle is an amazing man. He came to this country shortly after I was born. He and his wife, Alla, were taking care of me while my parents were vacationing. I was ten. They raised me." I sat speechless. Despite my loss of words, I felt bonded in ways beyond my comprehension. Losing both your parents at age ten. Joshua had offered details of his story but never asked for mine. He never mentioned Gina again. At the door, he leaned forward to kiss me good night. It was light, faint on the lips. His lips were warm, as warm as the Mediterranean Sea. "Thank you for a lovely evening," he said. I must have snapped at that particular moment, because I leaned forward and began to kiss him hard on his full, inviting mouth. The fire in his eyes matched the fire on my lips. He responded eagerly, and I could feel the passion unleashing rapidly through his hot, Mediterranean veins. We kissed for what seemed like an hour. I was well aware of the familiar longing, aching and desire I had not experienced in a very long time. The well was no longer dry. As he lightly fondled my breasts through my dress, he whispered something in a very low voice. I was gently pinned against Cassie's front door. I knew I could’ve easily moved if I’d wished. Before I could speak, he abruptly pulled away. Had I offended him? He took my hand and stared so deep into my eyes, I felt he could see the secrets I tried so hard to bury within me. "What?" I whispered. "I want you to know something, before this goes any further. Let me preface this by saying that I am very attracted to you, Jessica. I can see a future in this, if you are willing and interested." I could hear my- self swallowing. "But in order to be completely honest with you, there is something you need to know. We talked a lot about sexual intimacy tonight and I was so comfortable with you. You are truly sensuous. I desire you. But, I have had some experiences that you may or may not be comfortable with." I knew what was coming. I felt in it my stomach. My hands began to shake. "I have had sex with a man. Several times, the same man. It was for my girlfriend, a couple’s thing, experimental." "Are you gay?" I found myself blurting out a blunt, rude and forthright question. My voice was like a bullet. "No, I am not a homosexual. I love women. I love men. But I am not saying it will never happen again, I enjoyed the experience. I take it you have a problem with it." Silence. I was flabbergasted. My Mr.Wonderful, Mr. Right, was bi-sexual? He was so manly, so handsome, so . . . how could this be? I felt something else too. My guilt came flooding back. The half open door, watching them in the soft glow of the night-light. Knowing what was happening, feeling aroused. I knew what he was going to ask. "You’ve never been with a woman?" "Yes, I mean, yes it does bother me, Joshua. And no, I have never been with a woman." My answer came more defensively than I expected. I paused. "I am sorry." "I am not ashamed of my experiences. If they repulse you, then we must move on," he said. His big, gorgeous brown, disappointed eyes stared deep into mine. I felt angry, confused, and most of all -- guilty. I wanted to explain it wasn’t him - or was it? "Friends?" He offered his hand. A muscular, brown hand that I would have loved to have touching the inside of my thighs at that very moment, bringing me to the destination I’d desired for so long. "Friends." I managed to barely whisper. I took his hand and squeezed it. Then he was gone. * * * * * I never intended to wake her. She walked in on me unexpectedly. I was changing into my satin nightgown. It had been a gift from Paul. For some reason, I became aware that she had caught a glimpse of my naked breasts. It gave me goose bumps. She was so cool, so relaxed, so beautiful and so brave. Cassandra. She came and sat on the edge of the bed. Her short, dark hair was a bit rumpled from sleep, yet still sleek and shiny. Her complexion glowed without make-up, her green eyes were alive as lightening on a hot, summer night. I noticed how naturally feminine and lovely she was in one of Simon’s old cotton shirts. Cassandra. What a provocative, erotic name, I thought. Cassandra. She was asking me in her endearing accent about Joshua, the evening, the details. I couldn't concentrate any- more. The zombie feeling was taking over. She finally asked me if I was okay. She was strong. Courageous. I was a coward. At first, I told her about Joshua. But it wasn’t really him I wanted to talk about. It was Gina. Joshua had stirred up something deep with in me. Something he said reminded me of Gina. My darling, baby sister whose death - I was convinced - was my fault. The guilt was overwhelming. I had to confess to someone. I began to tell her the story, as tears flooded down my face and into lap. She never flinched. She just sat there and listened, stroked my hair and held me. I told her about Joshua and what he had told me. How I hated myself for being shocked at his bisexuality. I wasn’t a bigot. But somehow what he told me brought it all back. About Gina and Cindy. About me. She held me close and whispered it was all right. * * * * * It was a stormy night. The Gulf Coast fog was as thick as molasses. My parents were having a small, elite dinner party at their home for several important friends including Paul’s parents. Paul and I were there, putting on our usual act, masquerading as "the perfect couple," with our polite, witty, and charming banter. My younger sister, Gina, who was only seventeen, had invited her best friend over to spend the night. Cindy was a pretty, delicate girl. They were inseparable. The party was dull, but Paul was in typical form with a scotch in one hand, talking about the stock market and sports, while impressing my parents and everyone else as usual. My father, who was a stern, conservative man, had gone upstairs to check on the girls. They were in Gina’s room watching television. Looking back, I'm not quite sure why he went up there. Surely a good host would not abandon his guests so abruptly. Perhaps he sus- pected what I was certain of? Suddenly, he came down the stairs and asked to speak to my mother in private. His face was white as the color of her fine linen. After a few moments, the yelling began. My father’s protests rang out, loud and furious. I heard my mother’s muffled crying. The guests were hushed. Then the back door slammed and I could hear the sound of a car speeding down the street. After what seemed like an eternity later, my mother and father descended from the stairwell as though nothing had happened. My father addressed the crowd in his most composed speak- ing voice. "I apologize to everyone present. My youngest daughter needed a little discipline. Please excuse the fuss." The party continued. Quietly, I slipped upstairs. Both Gina and Cindy were gone. I figured my father had punished her for something, and she and Cindy had fled the house. What could have been so awful? The hospital phoned about an hour later. The news was surreal. Both Gina and Cindy had been killed when their car spun off the highway and into a tree. The guests left quickly. My mother became hysterical. My father approached me, tears streaming down his face. I had never seen him cry before. "Did you know about this? Did you know your sister was having sexual relations with her little friend?" The shock of my father’s brutal words were too much to bear. I had known, watched in silence. It aroused both my curiosity and sexual desires. I never confronted Gina. I never told anyone. I just didn't know what to think or feel about them. Somehow they made me terrified about my own sexuality. It made me run to a "man’s man" like Paul, as if to reassure myself that I was normal. I ran upstairs to Gina’s room. Surely she was still there, perhaps just asleep in her bed? This was all a terrible mistake! Her room looked the same as it always did. Cotton candy pink walls, Winona Ryder posters, pictures of her favorite rock bands, school banners, cute little framed pictures of her and Cindy holding hands and smiling. Teddy bears and lace pil- lows, nothing unusual about it. As I was leaving the room I noticed a small pair of white lace panties lying on the floor. Cindy’s panties? I was overcome with a feeling of entrapment, confusion, and frenzied emotions. As my head swirled like a whirl- wind, I ran down the stairs, tripped down two and nearly fell. The pain unnoticed, I managed to throw the heavy wooden front door wide open and run out into the blinding rain. I vomited in the azalea bushes as my guts tried to expel the grief, the shame, and the guilt from my body. Wrenching violent sobbing seized my body as I fell, a limp heap onto the muddy ground. My legs were no longer capable of holding me up. After a few minutes I heard Paul’s voice. He hadn’t left earlier with the other guests. I looked up at him from my pathetic fetal position in the wet grass. I wanted so badly for him to hold me, just hold me until the pain went away, if it ever would. Instead he spoke with an indifference that shot through my veins like an icy needle. "Look, I need to go. I am sorry about your sister." "What?" I managed to speak. "Now? Paul, I need you. Don’t leave me now, Paul. Please." His eyes were cold, lifeless, and ashamed. His lips curled as he said his final heartless words. "You knew didn’t you? You knew your sister was gay. God what a family! I suppose you will be tempted too. My Dad always told me it was genetic. It’s bad enough if your girl goes with another man. Imagine what it will do to me if you end up with another woman. I’ll be the laughing stock of the locker room." I curled up even more, each word a blow to my heart. I wept uncontrollably. "I said I was sorry. But I cannot stay. Goodbye, Jessica. Goodbye." "Paul, please . . . please come back. Paul?" * * * * * Cassandra spoke gently, comfortingly. She understood the guilt and fear. She understood my confusion. "Sex is beautiful, Jessica. It gets ugly if tinged with guilt. It is to be free and natural. Sexuality is a preference. Like everything else. If it gives you plea- sure and happiness, comfort and understanding -- then you take it with your heart and body, just as you give these things to your partner." It had been a long time. I finally felt safe, secure, and loved. I must have looked awful with swollen, puffy eyes, tear-streaked face and dry, chapped lips. I couldn’t help but notice that she was erect through her thin, cotton shirt. I stared at her nipples. They were a work of art. I was again jealous. Most of all, I wanted them. In my mouth. I'm not sure how it started exactly. I was crying, she was stroking me, holding me. Then I felt her lips on mine. They were soft, lush, like tiny pillows. She tenderly kissed my check, my mouth, my neck. Friend- ship had turned to driving fire -- a burning sexuality neither of us could harness. Not tonight. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I heard a little voice begging me to stop. This was Cassandra. My best friend. She’s a woman. Stop. Paul was right! But I ignored that little voice and I gave in to my desires, my fantasies. I knew this was natural. So what if this happens? I liked men, but should that stop me from liking this? I knew all along, I had wanted her -- from that first day in the poetry group. She began to lead, for which I was grateful. Cassandra touched my breasts in only the way a woman would know. Not like Joshua and not like Paul. Her touch was tender, soft, and sensuous -- and was as wonderfully exciting as anything I have ever experienced before. Ever. Cassandra, the lovely Cassandra. There was something I could see in her eyes. She pos- sessed a mysterious, burning hunger. Indistinguishable, unnamed, deep within her, a persistent need calling out to be heard. Did she genuinely desire me? Did my eyes reflect my wanting? Does she sense how I feel? I realized I hadn’t had sex for more than six months. This was more that sex. My pulse began to race. I wanted to embrace her, to feel her body, to caress her skin, to encircle her gently and passionately in my arms. I gazed hungrily, longing to seize her and kiss her fully on those red lips -- to explore her lips with mine, to explore her mouth with my tongue. Then she smiled. I knew it was right. I grinned back, and she knew I was ready for her. She stood and un- dressed before me while my eyes took her in. She was so smooth and soft, so very much like me. Cassandra reached over and carefully lifted my champagne colored nightgown. She did it so delicately, as though it were made of fine bone china. The satin gown I would never wear again. She sat next to me on the bed, and I touched her cheek. Looking into her eyes, I kissed her nose, then her chin. I moved down and kissed her breastbone. I felt her shiver as I licked her stomach. As I moved down her body, my kisses became more passionate, more willing. I was no longer afraid. I heard the rhythm of her breathing, soft and fast. I pulled her close, and her arms surrounded me. We kissed again, this time more feverishly than ever. Our mouths were starved for each other. I felt her tongue in my mouth, and I sucked it gently as I heard her groan. Then Cassandra took one of my erect nipples into her moist inviting mouth. I gasped at the sensation. Why does this feel so good? Her lips were like home for me, a warm, cozy abode. I wanted more. Cassandra’s hands began to move up my legs, which I could feel slowly parting as she teased me with her fingers. I could not believe this was happening. I was making love to a woman. And it was wonderful, so very delicious. I found myself whimpering softly. She seductively ran her warm hand between my legs to experience my precious secretions. To see if I was ready. I was. She lightly coaxed my legs wider apart, and they fell open effortlessly. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined a woman going down on me. Cassandra did so -- willingly, wantonly, eagerly. Her tongue was more skillful than any man's had ever been, she seemed more patient, more deter- mined, more at ease. I could feel her breath lightly on my blooming garden, now exposed to her, no secrets held back. No more secrets. I wanted her inside me, deep inside my body, my heart and my soul. I wanted her to consume me. It was different from the desire I felt for a man. Chills of pleasure racked my body as her tongue found my pearl. To my vast astonishment and delight, I reached my des- tination rapidly. After a while, my breathing calmed, and she gazed at me and smiled again. I knew what to do, itwas her turn. I wanted to know. I wanted to know what Gina knew. I ran my hands up her soft, silky smooth thighs. She eagerly spread her gorgeous milk white legs wide as I explored the unknown. It took courage, but I found it. Her special little spot, her secret treasure, her sex- ual joy. Cassandra felt as soft as expensive velvet. It was not frightening or foreign, merely an extension of myself. She felt just like me. I briefly thought of all those dreadfully empty nights when I thought of Paul and touched myself. After my climax, I always cried. I cried for Paul. Most of all, I cried for Gina. I caressed her with every ounce of passion, love and tenderness I had within me. I caressed her for the beautiful gift she had given me. I caressed her as though it were my own. It was. I gently probed her mouth with my tongue and Cassandra exploded in my hand. The same tongue that read my work. The same hand that produced my art. Cassandra in my hands and in my mouth was a climatic chorus sung in poetry. Poetry in motion. But most of all, I was at peace with myself. I had accepted Gina. * * * * * It is April. The weather is cooler now, not as harsh. The one-year anniversary of Gina’s death has come and gone. Cassandra and Simon are moving back home to Tasmania. Drake and I have an open invitation to visit, one we plan to take advantage of as soon as we get the money. Drake is my new lover. He is a wonderful man who loves me dearly and treats me with more respect than I ever imagined. Most of all, Drake accepts Gina. No questions ever asked. He loves her memory as much as I do. We talk about her every day. We smile and laugh. Gina would have liked him. I heard through the grapevine that Paul is getting married to his much younger secretary. Cassandra and I kiss each other goodbye. We kiss light- ly on the lips. Drake and Simon shake hands. We have our secret. We both love our men with equal intensity and we love each other. We are friends forever. Poetry in motion. * * * * * "Accepting Gina" by Jessica Marie Preston My guardian angel watches over me From the heavens, My soul mate, my mentor, my guide. I feel her presence Surrounding me like a soft glow, A misty haze, She is my light. I look in the mirror I see her behind me, Wings spread wide, ethereal. I open my hands, As she reaches for me. Her touch, a rush Of unconditional love, courage, acceptance. I feel her through me Consuming my soul A loving force, a flame. She is with me always, I am in her hands.
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(no subject)	[Oct. 24th, 2006\|11:58 am]
"Out of damp and gloomy days, out of solitude, out of loveless words directed at us, conclusions grow up in us like fungus: one morning they are there, we know not how, and they gaze upon us, morose and gray. Woe to the thinker who is not the gardener but only the soil of the plants that grow in him."
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(no subject)	[Oct. 16th, 2006\|12:15 pm]
" Being an artist means, not reckoning and counting, but ripening like the tree which does not force its sap and stands confident in the storms of spring without the fear that after them may come no summer. it does come. but it comes only to the patient, who are there as though eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly still and wide. I learn it daily, learn it with pain to which I am grateful: Patience is everything!" ~ Rainer Maria Rilke
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(no subject)	[Oct. 16th, 2006\|12:13 pm]
"hombres necios que acusais a la mujer sin razon sin ver que sois la ocasion de lo mismo que culpais si con ansia sin igual solicitas su desden, por que queries que obren bien si las incitas al mal.........Que humor puede ser mas raro que el que, falto de consejo, el mismo empana el espejo y siente que no este claro? con el favor y el desden teneis condicion igual quejandoos si os tratan mal; burlandoos, si os quieren bien. ........cual mayor culpa ha tenido en un a pasion errada: la que cae de rogada, o el que ruego por caido? o cual es mas de culpar aunque cualquiera mal haga: la que peca por la paga o el que paga por pecar?" ~Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz men so capricious that you acuse women without reason without seeing that you are the cause of that which you acuse, that with desire like no other you solicit their misconduct, why do you want them do do well when you convince them to do wrong? which humour could be more queer that that whom without advise himself fogs themirror and then feels like it is not clear? with disfavor and disdain there is no way to please you, complaining if they treat you wrong and laughing if they treat you well...... who is the one that is more to blame in an erroneous passion? the one that falls for the begger? or the one that begs to fall? or who is more to blame even though both are wrong? the one that sins for pay? or the one that pays to sin? ...like them for whom they have become in your shadow or do not shadow them and let them become who you want them to be for you the man are arrogant and your promises are for an instant and you compile, the devil the flesh and the world.
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Ruby

[Oct. 13th, 2006|09:08 pm]

[

mood

warm and fuzzy

]

Things are not all so comprehensible and expressible as one would mostly have us believe; most events are inexpressible, taking place in a realm which no word has ever entered, and more inexpressible than all else are works of art, mysterious existences, the life of which, while ours passes away, endures. -Rainer Maria Rilke

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(no subject)	[Sep. 14th, 2006\|09:16 am]
I am wandering around campus beneath trees torn to shreds. I am waiting. I am standing in the rain waiting to be picked up from school. My mother is passed out on the couch. I am the lost child. I am floating face up in green-gray water praying that I don't get run over by a boat. I am left behind. I am perpetually sitting by the phone. Possibly because its always in my pocket. I am unfulfilled. I am disappearing into shadows of gray. I am invisible. I am living out my most carnal desires. I am empty.
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(no subject)	[Jul. 5th, 2006\|09:46 pm]
So Im back here in this journal again. I just can't seem to stay away for long, much as I try. Life has been crazy of late and I've used that as an excuse not to write for a while. I don't know what to say because I don't know how I feel, still. This roller coaster is making me nauseous. -one day at a time- So yesterday I must admit it felt pretty good to get hit on by two people in one day. Well, hit on really isn't the correct term. I'll have to pay tribute to Eddie Izzard and say I was "chatted up" lol. But it did wonders to alleviate much of my current lonliness. It felt even better to smile and say goodnight knowing I have something better waiting for me. Tonight Heather is on her date with her one night stand girl. I'm honestly surprised at my lack of jealousy. Perhaps I'm lying to myself like I do so well. But for the first time I am sad that I won't be deprived of my sleep by her constant texting. That is all
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[Girl] Meets [Girl]	[May. 13th, 2006\|02:50 am]
So instead of hanging out with the numerous people who invited me out tonight, I'm pretending I'm already in albuquerque and I'm going throught the entire book Boy Meets Boy and writing down all the great lines before I have to give it back to Heather tomorrow :( "What's wrong?" "I can't say," he tells us, and we know what he means. That nameless empty. I love this scene, this floating reality. I am three notes in the middle of a song. Sometimes you just have to dance like a madman in the Self-help section of your local bookstore. All I can feel is this intensity. My mind beating in time with my heart. My steps keeping sway with my hopes. I am a firm believer in serendipity: all the random pieces coming together in one wonderful moment, when suddenly you see what their purpose was all along. [She] has become my until. Sometimes I feel like fate is dictated by irony (or, at the very least, a rather dark sense of humor). Riding the train is all about moving forward; our conversation moved like it was on tracks, with no worry of traffic or direction. I think they have compatible silences. The subject of "us" is dropped back into signals and longing. They defy gravity, as good books should. [Her] mood reflects indigo. We stay this way until twilight colors the window I can tell from [her] notes that we have a compatible randomness. This is my life. I am an accumulation of objects. Most of the time, I feel like a perpetual smudge. My lines all curve. I tend to connect the wrong dots. At this moment, every conscious part of me is in the hand that [she] holds. I want this all to be the truth. We pencil-sketch our previous life so we can contrast it to the Technicolor of the moment. Its moments like this that I feel like I live in the middle of somewhere. My somewhere.
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(no subject)	[May. 12th, 2006\|10:49 am]
I'm supposed to be studying right now. I can't help but get distracted every time I'm in the vicinity of a computer. Amazing the affect one person can have on your life. I'm amazed at how five people with such conflict between them can set everything aside, pull together and create such a force of energy. Its incredible. And despite all of the pushing and pulling, there was one moment in the middle of everything where it all came together absolutely perfectly and I felt myself reeling from the momentum of it all. Its interesting in both a tragic and freeing way that the moment she asked me for help was the moment I realized that I truly love her. The last of my doubts faded in a moment of dire need. I am so glad that I was able to be there for her when she needed me. I would do it again in a heartbeat. I would do anything she asked of me. I'm realizing that that is what true friendship really is. Yet at the same time I still feel as though it was too little too late. Story of my life. I have to leave for Albuquerque tonight. I was going to leave first thing tomorrow morning but I don't know if I can handle a night of such stillness, knowing what awaits me come dawn. For the first time in my life I depart for home alone, and for the first time in my life I don't want to go. My separateness from Randi hit us both very acutely last night. And yet even in our separation we are connected by a bond that can never be broken, even now after everything that has happened. Through all of our distance we are connected and we always will be. This past week I have been burdened by such a sense of loss I can hardly describe it. I never expected or imagined I would feel this way. With all of my logic and sense and reason I can't explain this feeling. It just is. And I find myself relishing it, dwelling in it. Here's to a summer full of hard work, horses, friends, and family. With new worries, new excitements, new hopes, new heartaches, and most of all new experiences.
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(no subject)	[May. 9th, 2006\|01:20 am]
Whew. I think I have finally reached normality. Or at least some sort of equilibrium. I've had an epiphany. This changes everything. I've come to terms with the fact that I could never be what she wanted or needed me to be. I hope she can forgive me for that. She had this perfect idea of me that I could never live up to, and when I didn't she got disappointed. I suppose its best that it happened sooner rather than later, though I still regret the time we never had. I'm really glad we're still friends, because I still think she is a truly amazing person. Even though for the past week I have been seeing a different side of her. It does kinda make me wonder though. She is a totally different person now. So who was she when we first met? Was that really her or was she just putting on a show to get me to like her? I don't know, these thoughts just run through my mind. Who knows where thoughts come from, they just appear! Anyways, the darkness has finally lifted. She showed me her painting. She's only halfway done but I must say I was impressed. I stayed to watch her paint. When she paints, its an event. She completely imerses herself in what she is doing (literally!). She attacks the canvas with such vivacity, passion, and emotion that it creates an almost accidental beauty. Then she picks at it and the magic dissolves into the backround. Its still there, it just becomes part of the rest of the piece. We talked briefly about what happened between us. It struck me that she seemed so entirely unaffected. She hasn't been not sleeping or beating herself up or crying. Has she even shed a tear for what once was or what might have been? I don't think I'll ever know. Maybe she's just too angry. One of her silent protests I imagine. Well, like I said Im really glad we are friends and I look forward to paiting with her. For now, its more sleep for me.
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(no subject)

[May. 8th, 2006|03:45 pm]

[	mood	\|	exanimate	]
[	music	\|	Hindi world music	]

Its one o'clock am on Sunday, May 7th 2006. It would have been Randi and my sixth anniversary. I didn't even realize that until I typed out the date just now. It hits me, not like a ton of bricks but like a gentle wave that crashes against the constant turmoil in my heart. I am walking in the dark, writing this in my mind and I am utterly alone. The smack of my cursed flip flops follows me wherever I go like a phantom, constantly reminding me that I am here. I wish to be stalked by something more tangible than the darkness that once again seeps into the corners of my forever broken soul. I shouldn't be here, yet here I am. I'm not even sure why. All I know is I need to write and something is preventing me from doing this. I've heard vague rumors about there being a 24 hour computer lab on campus. I'm not sure where it is though. The first place I try is the door where she and I first "met". Actually, its where she first saw me. I didn't see her though, being as she hid behind a car. I can honestly say that I've never had that affect on someone. Afterward she told me that I'm beautiful. The words flow from her lips -ahem- The words float across the screen of my cheap flip phone as though they are absolutely true, simple and direct and I don't even consider contradicting them. That's what I liked best about her. She could always manage to floor me with a tiny, two-word statement. No hesitation, no second thoughts. just here it is, take it or leave it. She never had trouble saying anything. Except when she knew it would hurt. Anyways, the door is locked. The sign reads "After 10:00 pm, use the west entrance." West entrance? The only one I know of is inside the building, which is obviously locked. I can see inside. There are definitely people there. But how do you get to what's inside? I try the other doors nearby. All locked. So I decide to drive around to the west entrance of the building. Success! The doors are open. I proceed to the stairs, only to find that once again I am blocked by locked doors. It seems hopeless at this point. I figure maybe the other computer lab is open and decided to walk over there. The darkness is perforated by amber fluorescence. I am once again pursued, not by darkness this time but by a scorching spotlight that lays bare my every fault. The light burns like a drop of sun piercing my skin at 299,792,458 miles per second. I deliberately do not hurry, because to do so would make my fear apparent. My lack of concern for my physical well being strikes me at this point. Some would consider it careless or even dangerous for a woman to wander here in the middle of the night. Still, I won't let fear get the best of me. Not any more. So I stroll casually up to the circular building and wonder briefly if there is any chance that her best friend will be working right now, and if so would that change my decision or is the need to write too great to be so easily shunted? Upon entering, I gaze across these dimly lit, hallowed halls and think vaguely about how dismal it looks here, especially at night. Alas, this computer lab is also locked. It seems I will never be able to accomplish my mission. At least not this night.
Now at present I sit in a cafe. She sits across the wobbly table reading the book I gave her. She absentmindedly grasps at the ends of her hair as she reads, her amazingly bright hazel eyes downcast in her absorption. I wonder for the billionth time what she is thinking. I know if I asked her she would tell me without hesitation. She is just past arm's length yet I don't dare reach for her, as much as I might want to. Her proximity is at once comforting and painful. The space between us grows until she becomes unreachable. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Or was it? My head swims with remembered laughter, conversations, and embraces until it is brimming with emotions that threaten to escape through my already reddened tear ducts. What is to become of us? Nothing, and that is my greatest sadness. I find myself biting my thumb to distract from these thoughts that plague me. From a bed of endless possibility grew nothing but distance and resentment, all due to my fear and lack of impetus. Perhaps it is for the best. Or so I tell myself. In any case, it is done and no amount of regret will change that. Somone told me that everything happens for a reason. I believe that with all my heart. Now I need to figure out what that reason is.

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(no subject)

[May. 8th, 2006|03:44 pm]

[

mood

morose

]

It does not bother me to say this isnt love
Because if you dont want to talk about it then it isnt love
And I guess Im going to have to live that

But, Im sure theres something in a shade of gray
Or something in between

If its love she said, then were gonna have to think about the
Consequences

She cant stop shaking and I can't stop touching her and.....
This time when kindness falls like rain
It washes her away and Ally begins to change her mind
These seconds when Im shaking leave me shuddering
For days she says
And Im not ready for this sort of thing.

But Im not gonna break
And Im not going to worry about it anymore

no, no, no, no, no...

It seems like I should say as long as this is love...
But its not all that easy so maybe I should just
Snap her up in a butterfly net-
Pin her down on a photograph album

I am not worried
Ive done this sort of thing before

But then I start to think about the consequences
Because I dont get no sleep in a quiet room and...

This time when kindness falls like rain
It washes me away and Ally begins change my mind
And every time she sneezes I believe its love
And oh lord.... Im not ready for this sort of thing

She's talking in her sleep-it s keeping me awake
And Ally begins to toss and turn
And every word is nonsense but I understand and
Oh lord... I m not ready for this sort of thing

It's moving me along and Ally begins to fade away

It's chasing me away. she dissappears, and oh lord...
Im not ready for this sort of thing.

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Katsup	[Apr. 26th, 2006\|11:13 am]
The weekend was awesome. I didn't realize how much it would affect me to hear my parents say their vows to each other. But it was absolutely beautiful. The ceremony, the atmosphere, the words, all of it was perfect. I even stood up and gave a toast, despite all of my fear. I just wanted to tell them how thankful I am to have such wonderful parents. On Friday I came out to my mother. Previously she assumed that I was bi or that I just happened to fall in love with a girl temporarily. But I told her about how every time I have been kissed by a guy this siren goes off in my head screaming stop! and about how every time I have kissed a girl it is completely the opposite (so right). So I have come to terms with the fact that I am in fact a lesbian. Its comforting to finally know, to be rid of some of the confusion that has always ruled my life. My mother asked me if, when I kiss a girl, do I want it to lead to more? The answer of course is a resounding yes. After much thought she turns to me and says: "I must be bi, because I feel comfortable kissing both." I couldn't wipe the rediculous grin off my face so all I managed to say was, "Wow, that's so cool." Which it is. Anyways, I told her all about Heather and it was, overall, a great conversation. It felt so good to finally say it out loud. Im definitely making progress. Other than that, the weekend was wonderfully relaxing. But all I could think about was Heather. What she was doing, how she was doing, if she was thinking about me, what I can do to make her happy. And then Sunday night after I got back to the LC I finally got to see her. We stayed up all night talking and kissing and touching. My god she is amazing. I love the way I feel when I'm with her. I love the way we are always on the same page (even though we don't always think we are!) I love how she is always questioning everything. I love how she is always completely honest, even when she doesn't mean to be. I love the way she knows what I'm going to say, not because she's heard me say it before, but because she understands me. She gets me. We are the same, and yet we are so different. Its like she knows my entire history and I've never spoken a word of it. I feel like I can completely be myself around her, yet at the same time I still feel like a nervous wreck. Even so, she gives me this confidence I've never had before. She makes me feel brave, invincible even. Very strange, but I love it. The first time I stayed over at her house, she asked me why I wanted to sleep with her. Interesting question. She's full of interesting questions. I love that. Anyways, my answer was because Im attracted to her, I want her, she turns me on, and I love being with her. But lately I've been realizing that none of these answers except the last one are really good reasons to sleep with someone. It shouldn't just be about personal physical gratification. It should be about sharing yourself with the other person, giving them something that no one else can give them, making them feel special and wanted and worthwhile. I have no idea why it took me so long to realize this. I know how selfish I have been in the past, and I really want to change that. Yesterday we had another "us" talk. I hope I made her feel better about our near future. I don't want her to be scared. I don't want her to think that I would ever just up and leave her for no reason. I don't want her to think that I'm not as emotionally invested in this as she is, because I am. It took me awhile, but I am. And that doesn't scare me. It actually makes me insanely happy. I mean, christ after our conversation I was driving to work and I was singing at the top of my lungs and when I got to work I was bouncing. I haven't bounced in over 5 years. The other day Randi asked me why she is everything I have been looking for. At the time I didn't have a good answer (I hate being put on the spot like that) but I've been thinking about it ever since. She's different from everyone I know. And even though she worries too much, she doesn't let her worries stop her from doing anything she wants to do. She just goes for it. She doesn't hesitate to tell people how she feels or what's going on in her life. She's completely open, and in doing so she puts herself on the line. That takes guts. A while back I wrote a blog on here about what I was looking for in another person. She fits it to a tee. So tonight is the big date. I'm holding my breath....
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(no subject)	[Apr. 18th, 2006\|12:05 pm]
Drops of mist shadow the paper thin sails of my time on earth As people continue to count and try to keep track Of how many times the clouds shift and shade my destination I mutter my hopes to the sky in the shape of lucky pennies Please, don't let the poetry be gone by the time I get there Eyes open or not How can anyone see with their eyes a destination that is covered in fairy tales, lies, and all looming shadows of those before them that failed? I'm different because I'm only using the sails of a dream The world can watch me from the ground As moon sails away into an ocean of tiny golden dots… ~HV
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