[Writing Prompt: Revisit a famous book title, time = 30 minutes]NOTE: I actually got choked up writing this. Dayumn.
The tea shop seemed the ideal place to have Brian meet me. After all, it’s where he was Skyping me from all afternoon two weeks ago. I sat, legs pressed together tightly, with two chai teas, one for him, one for me.
And hark, along comes Brian.
This time around I’m going to approach the opportunity for a relationship thusly: don’t be too abrasive up front, let him drive the conversation, and, by all means, don’t roll out the ultimatums before the check is paid. He smiled his shy smile of relief, and I complimented him back with my appreciative, wide grin.
Brian proceeded to chastise me, accusing me of avoiding him these past few weeks. Although I tried to defend with thoughtful retaliations, his peaked eyebrow of disbelief suggested I give it…
If you follow me on Facebook, I let you know as much details needed. The good news is, I’m home now and enjoying being in touch with the spirits of the home, as Jung encourages us to do soon after separation.
Here’s some poems I crafted during my descent from psychosis. Please critique in the Comments section. Love you all.
I did tell a long distance friend once that if my blog goes more than 3 weeks without a post, it’s a sure sign I’m dead. 😀
Haven’t been able to keep my regular writing schedule due to my laptop failing. I have enough motherboard life to collect my master files. Pics I don’t worry about; aren’t they already in WordPress? So to keep up with my proof of life promise, I’m using the tablet today; apologies in advance on formatting. The laptop issue I saw a’comin’, but what comes next, completely thrown off!
Labor Day Cimmi Red took a Hulk Smash! to the roof and the windshield by a large tree branch. My insurance company gave me a Toyota Corolla to drive for five days. As I cruised about, I left the radio low so I could listen to the whoosh! of the wind sliding over its aerodynamic curves. Pretty and fuel-economical as it was, the Corolla’s pick-up was laughable! Meeeeeeeeeee…
Cimmi and her growl is back, new roofed and windshielded, and I’m pleased with the repair, although the deductible could have paid for a new laptop. And then I could migrate my work files. Then I could install Scrivener. Then I could update my website. And then and then and then…
I can’t dwell on what I have no control over. So I’m reading Lisa L. Kirchner’s novel, blazing trails with long walks, and planning my next life-adjusting chapter..
My friends and I believe I met an angel in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Here’s the story…
We’re at the Center of The Universe! The festival, that is, although the psilocybin and cannabinoids and diazapam coursing through my body makes me feel as if I’m standing on the sun. Arms swinging gaily, feet bee-bopping as my team travels towards the main stage, I am feeling rather…superior.
Riding the wave of musical enlightenment, I spy from the corner of my eye a herd of blue boxes. I stop walking and proclaim, “Necesito mear!” which means,I need to pee. My girls round the bend and lean against a poster-bedecked wall while I experience the rare joy of no line for the port-o-potties!
I exit the pee terminal and locate the wash stand. Now this is cool; a foot pump to deliver the water, a touch-less soap dispenser, ahh hands-free technology! Fulfilled by this first world wonder, I then open my backpack to search for hand lotion. The bag’s darkness mixed with my intoxication fills me with desperation. As the harried search continues, I notice a group of festival-goers carrying on in laughter and play. Without looking up, I feel one of them drifting over.
“You’re just digging away in that bag!” he comments merrily. I offer an apprehensive look. His hands are behind his back.
Suspicious, I declare in my head space, “Go ahead and try me buddy, I’m fucking Wonder Womanright now!”
The jovial stranger, taller than I, lowers his shoulders so we’re face to face. In a contented voice he says, “I want to give you something.” His hands flutter from behind his back to his temple, removes blue eyeglasses without lenses, then waves them towards me.
I smile and refuse politely; in turn, he’s sweetly adamant. I shake my head as I take him in: wide smile, dark blue fitted ball cap matching his eyes, endowed with a Bruce Campbell chin. His body is immaculately sculpted. Madre de Dios…this dude is HAWT!
Inside I feel a wash of achievement: it’s now natural for me to notice a person’s energy before I notice his facade.
“Sweetie, I don’t want your glasses,” I insist.
He gestures towards me, “Take them!”
“But I already have glasses.”
“You’ll look great in them…”
“But I need glasses to see,” I explain, “there’s no lenses; how am I gonna see?” I smile smugly, then squeeze my eyes shut, remembering to hydrate my contact lenses.
When I flutter them back open, he’s wearing the saddest look of dejection! I kick myself internally: aww dammit, I did that thing again where I say something that makes sense to me, but comes off dickish to them! Puppy eyed, tail tucked, he starts back-stepping towards his friends. “Come here,” I sigh, widening my harpy wings to encourage him back so I that can deliver an apologetic hug. “Come, come,” I insist.
His smile beams to the moon and back. His huge arms wrap around my tiny torso, then I feel, undeniably, the purest form of authentic happiness pierce my cynical skin and invade my corroded heart. Time splinters in fractals, gravity is no more, our bodies rock in synergy. I tighten my hold as if we’ve known each other for lifetimes.
Forever returns to right now. We pull apart.
I’m relieved to find my demonstration of loving kindness has restored his playfulness. He reaches out his hand. “High five!”
I extend my hand to flatten against his.
“Now stick out your thumb,” he instructs.
I flex my thumb outwards. He does the same.
“Now bring it in…”
I wrap my thumb around his hand. He does the same.
His face touches mine. “Hand hug!”
I smile. He smiles. Tears fall like cleansing waters.
What an accomplishment! Three miles on the treadmill and a half mile in the pool! I bike eight miles to Five Guys for my double cheeseburger reward.
The mass of moo-ey goodness is sweating liquid fat and spices, cheese, dripping off the sides with a come-hither shine, the grilled ‘shrooms and onions resting like Tiffany diamonds upon a New Money bust. “Here we go!” I proclaim as I mash the delectable lady to my face. Why I’ve anthropomorphized my food into a female is inexplicable, yet feels right. I sigh as I swallow then tilt my head back, eyes all aflutter, hearing the calories I just burned off pile back on with every gregarious lip smack.
Screw a napkin. I wipe her essence – spread over my nose, cheeks, mouth and chin – against my sweaty sleeve. As I drag lips towards my shoulder I catch a whiff of healthy odour. Hoooo weeee!
Right then, out the window, I catch a view of a couple sitting in their parked vehicle in the lot across from my table. She’s narrow-eyed and flitty-handed in the passenger seat, while he wears a glum, defeated face. She points with a pink talon towards my hallowed restaurant; in response he opens his door, exits the truck, and strolls into the Guys.
He fascinates me: spine and shoulders so straight despite his bent smile. His eyes are hidden under a ball cap, offering an air of sweet mystery. Sculpted calves and tanned thighs indicate Mr. Fuckable’s an athlete, maybe even, a model. Yes, there’s a shirtlessness to this guy. Perhaps a footballer or volleyballer…something having to do with big balls.
My soppy girl slips out my hands as I hear him order in practiced English with a Portuguese accent. I’m destined to see him naked, I am sure! I glare back to my competition, the expensive hamburger patty in the passenger seat duck-lipping several selfies, adjusting her pneumatic boobs after every angle. As if the gods so declared it, he sits next to me to wait on his meal. At that moment I wince knowing my cumragged arm faces him. My true love has to meet his queen in such form? Fiddlesticks!Ī
He smears an agitated hand from chin to forehead, tipping back his cap, revealing natural blonde hair and soft brown eyes. He. Is. Beautiful. A distinct plume of sandalwood escapes his cap as he fans it over his face before returning it home. Mmm, I smile to myself, letting the smell of our sex pheromones intertwine.
“Is it good?”
Yes, I exhale as we switch positions, now me on top.
“Is it…delicious…is the word?”
Our hips mash rhythmically, “Yasss!” I moan towards the ceiling.
“Is this the wrong word, ‘delicious’?”
Oh shit. So busy fucking pretend cock I ignore Real Cock talking to me!
His caramel body is facing mine, his shiny eyes are facing mine, his blonde wisps spike my way. The best I can manage is a “hermmuhhmyeahhh.”
The Guys call his order, he waves as he rises, grabs his bag then leaves.
I look down at my whore, all asplay against the table, laughing at me.
ĪWe were writing at Parkside Cafe. The booth behind us was full of Midwesterners trying to remember a restaurant’s name by CONSTANTLY repeating it to each other in question form: “Is it Fiddlesticks?” “Fiddlesticks maybe?” “It can’t be Fiddlesticks…is it?” Oh if only I had my mace…
What up homie! Long time no speak. I know, I know, but the Internet works both ways!
Me? Oh, been up to all kinds of things. See that picture? Those glasses are not ironic; I really can’t see! But man, are they clearer than my last pair.
Good timing that my Michael Kors-wrapped Coke bottles came in right before we left to North Carolina. Seen the pics I posted during the trip? All shot with my Galaxy S5 embedded camera. I know, right?? Got more to share, but there’s been a hitch in my giddy-up, hence why you haven’t experienced any of my money one-liners and blatherings as of late.
Now, don’t get upset but…the Scribe is dying. Yup, my faithful Samsung is on its last electronic relays. In order to get ‘work’ done, I have to maximize the 20 minutes he’ll give me before blacking out. Every application started, every web page opened, is like flaking off tiny morsels of the last of the cookies I shouldn’t have been scarfing down in the first place. This moment with you now, I savor like the last chunk of chocolate chip covered in warm dough.
There’s also been a development, mental health wise, to the positive. My intuitiveness has peaked interests in my local spiritual scientist community, so I’m going off-road, treatment-wise, to explore empathic intuition. What does that mean? you ask. Well, I don’t know yet. I’m gonna work on that. Then I’ll come back and tell you all about it, cool?
This Memorial Day weekend, I’m preparing two write-ups: a share on WriteBitch and a picture story of my time in the mountains. No stone tablets yet, but awesome nonetheless.
While Scribe enters hospice and I create his progeny, follow me @VonSimeon on Twitter for my latest mad antics!