“No one is judging you, hon. Least of all me. That’s all I’m saying.”
Stella looked at her. Her thoughts competed with one another, her feelings, the desire that remained caged and simultaneously managed to run rampant until Zeke backed her into a stall, or the tack room – “He takes,” she said to Cynthia, her eyes on him and Libby; when he was with the horse, he was all give. Everything in his body, his hands, sang of rhythmic elasticity. The low sun pulled brightness out of the Gypsy mare’s shining white patches, and threw the dark ones into inky contrast. Her combed mane and tail and feathers flowed like ribbons, or water. She completely drew the eye away from Zeke’s flannel and blue jeans and dull scuffed cowboy boots. She was porcelain. He was dusty.
“I would imagine. But you like it?”
Stella shrugged. “Yeah, it’s good. It’s release.”
“But it’s not entirely you, is it?”
~Stella (a working title)
Sometimes that desire is there to simply impale oneself on a penis. As though it will take away the shittiness of the day, or erase all those times one didn’t impale oneself. Those missed chances, they follow you around like a bad smell.
What about the man? Does there need to be a man attached? Yes, it’s helpful. Self-serve just isn’t the same, yet it seems to be all there is these days. That feels-like-real silicon cock is just a click away on Amazon – what’s more, they’ll even finance you.
There needs to be a man attached. But he needs to not have feelings. Or eyes. Hands are good, if he knows how to use them, and so many don’t. Like a woman is something to be tuned for clearer signal – hey, buddy, those are breasts, not dials. How about a blindfold? Because it’s the eyes, every time. He looks at you and, regardless of the color, regardless of how badly he’s using his hands, suddenly he’s a person. Emotional. Vulnerable. Fucking interesting.
It is not the roar
To silence our deepest fears
Were whispers of peace.
Today is ArchiveDay over on Twitter. I love it. I think it’s a great way to get some of those older forgotten posts back out into the light to be appreciated by a whole new audience. With social media, your audience is forever changing, and always staying the same. Wait, that makes no sense.
So anyway. Today I am focusing on functioning. I live with a lot of pain. I don’t talk about it, because I think everyone on the planet does. And I think it is likely there are too many people in far more pain than I at any given moment. I’m very much a mind over matter person, at least 75% of the time. If I want to do something, I don’t care that my back aches, my head aches, my knees ache… I don’t care that it feels like every nerve ending in my body is shooting fire… I’ve always been about pushing myself, physically.
It’s the emotional pain that cripples. Because when it’s there, it very much becomes matter over mind. Everything over mind. The mind crumbles, and lays in a heap in a corner with a blanket over it, and waits for the world to end.
Today, for whatever reason, it’s the physical pain. For which I’m thankful. I can push through and handle it. I once drove a car 30 miles with a severe hip tendon injury, after being thrown from a horse. Life goes on. You either lie down and die, or get up and go. I’m usually a get up and go person. I’m a bit on the fence today. Maybe it’s the cold weather. I don’t want to die, but I don’t really want to get up either. I’d rather just sit and watch the world go by. Maybe I’ll be hit with some massive inspiration. Maybe I’m supposed to just sit here today, and listen.
Y’all have a beautiful Saturday,
I think in terms of missed chances. I think about why I want what I want, and why I don’t want the rest, and what I’m missing out on by not wanting. I think of children. I always knew I didn’t want children, I grew up surrounded by them. They were always needing, always wanting. I was a child, responsible for children, when they got hurt it was my fault because I wasn’t paying attention. He used to say, ‘Just get your damn head out of the clouds and pay attention, do the job you’re given. It’s the least you can do, to help us out.’
When the toddler fell in the drive that day, he hit his head, right between the eyes, on a smooth flat stone. He lost consciousness. We’d just been going for a walk in the drive on a sunny day, and I let his hand go because he could do it himself, and I was tired… twelve years old and so tired of arguing with children. So I let him go and he ran ahead, laughing. I had the little one on my hip, and she was smiling and pointing at the monarchs, they were everywhere. Lighting on the swaying Queen Anne’s Lace, hoards of them turning the meadow beside the house to fluttering, breathing, fire orange.
He screamed as he fell. I ran to him, I set the baby in the grass, and I rolled him over, I screamed for Mom. She came running, and she grabbed him up, demanded what happened. She ran to the house with him.
I didn’t follow. I sat in the grass beside the baby. When I started to cry, she crawled into my lap, wrapped her arms around my neck, and said, ‘Mama.‘
Stella – (a working title)
I hear your whispers
Inside empty rooms
Where your feet once tread
Every evening’s retire
In this bed I now share
With only the faintest
Scent of you there
I thought it your shadow
That darkened the door
Certain your footsteps
Were creaking the floor
My heart livened lightly
My breath tripped and caught
And my skin could feel you
But you, it was not
What I hear calling out
Is only the wind
Is the sigh of a memory
Of the places you’ve been
The kisses I feel
The flush that creeps up
They’re just as much you
As the you, they are not
But I still hear you whisper
With each gloaming anew
On warm kiss of air
“I will always love you.”
Cynthia rode quietly for a bit, and Stella sensed she was gathering her thoughts. “You know,” she finally said. “When I’m standing over some broken boy with a flogger in my hand, watching the welts rise on his skin, watching the tears run, the snot, watching him break,… honey, that’s an experience I don’t think there are even words for. But a transcendence of humanity comes pretty fucking close.”
~Stella (a working title)
It was a long time before he came upstairs. She was already under the covers, with them bunched tightly under chin, her face hidden. She felt him sit on the edge of the bed beside her, felt his hand on her shoulder. She cringed. “I told you, I just worry. I want you to be safe. I don’t want you to leave me.”
He meant death. He didn’t want her to die and leave him alone. He had no idea how close he was to the reality that she could leave him anyway. It hit her hard, that reality. Hard enough to steal her breath. She’d not thought in those terms, either. It had never been an option, not while she was locked inside this house with no friends who didn’t come through the screen of her computer or phone as yellow smiley faces.
She thought he needed to know. Needed to know that the enemy he faced wasn’t a horse. It wasn’t death. The enemy he faced unknowingly had opalescent fangs and seductive yellow eyes. It prowled for flesh. And each time denied, it grew angrier, larger, stronger.
~Stella (a working title)