The Fabulous Ms. M.

200 days

2012-02-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

days go by. 2011

"This is the biggest mistake I could think would save me. I wanted to give up the idea I had any control. Shake things up. To be saved by chaos. To see if I could cope, I wanted to force myself to grow again. To explode my comfort zone."

- Invisible Monsters, Chuck Palahniuk

Would you ever give into the idea of chaos? Let go? Could you stop a regular habit if it meant you might never be able to do it again? In essence destroy what you think you need to do to in order to see what else there is. What has really been left behind? Is it worth continuing to focus on? Needless to say it was worth the risk to let go and find out.

Someone once insisted that I give up "the fantasy" of it all for Lent... ie: 40 days. And I couldn't do it back then. At the time I think I believed that meant giving up "Hope" and it isn't that at all. There is something that happens when you stop trying to control things and it isn't a lack of Hope. You see, as long as you're alive you have Hope.

With that in mind...

For the last 200 days I've given up a handful of things for 40 days [more or less] each. Walked away from these things that I thought would define me or destroy me. And they didn't. The first thing, it was truly the hardest to give up and the longest to be without, the writing. It's been 200 days since I've penned anything original or new. Sequentially other things followed one by one. The last thing to go happened to be the blog. It's been 40 days. Would you like to see it change? All things must come to...

What's to come? Anything is in the air... How about you? What could you, would you or will you do to change things up in your own way? Just remember change is a good thing. Quarters or pennies?

kisses.

-m.

my favorite things.

2011-12-29T10:50:00.000-08:00

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things
my favorite things - the sound of music.

A few of my favorite things from 2011... People do like to remember things visually. Some are old, some are new and sometimes there are very good reasons for nothing new. There isn't a lot of new after having some personal tech burgled a month ago. That loss reminded how many memories I hadn't kept track of before. I have to admit while all these things are not new they remind of places or things that I spent time going to do or people I spent time with during 2011. Hope your 2011 was good to you... And 2012 brings everyone what it is they want. What do you want from 2012?

kisses. m.

Imaginary trail to the Secret Garden. San Francisco. 2009

Nayo. Blue. Estacion de Madrid Atocha 2004 memorial.

Blaqk Audio. San Francisco. 2011

Art in the Streets. Art Gallery. MOCA. Los Angeles. Banksy. 2011

Life is Not a Fairytale. Los Angeles. Art gallery of Photog Tyler Shields. 2011

Kylie Minogue. San Francisco. 2011

Whose's Driving? San Francisco.

make it anything but interesting

2011-12-28T05:45:00.001-08:00

Interesting day? Interesting story? Interesting song? What's interesting to you? Is that enough that it is interesting? Or is it more to you? Tell me...

Ever want more than simply interesting? When does interesting become routine? And you're no longer convinced that interesting is good enough what happens? Even the most interesting job can become quite the bore without a change. I hear change or rather innovation is what keeps it all new and original. So... interesting or anything but? here's an excerpt, from that lil ol "thing" formerly titled the perspectives. As a warning, it's more than a little risque without the extraneous language. enjoy if you've never read it. kisses. m.

5am.
(9-2-2010)

My bare skin is cold. It’s 5am when I wake up. I look over at this interesting naked man in the bed who is only wearing smeared lipstick and too much eye make-up. He looks more like a member of The Killers circa 2005 than just some guy. I roll over and start pulling the newspaper off of my arms, my face and out of my mouth. He kept trying to put this tissue paper in my mouth last night. Something about eating my words that I can’t remember. It’s not more than two feet away I see the blunt force object that he wanted me to hit him with. Flashbacks of screams pokes and paper being shoved in my mouth are at the front of my headache. He rolls over to reveal that he’s still hard. I just want him to leave already and let this be over.

I keep thinking how the mornings after the interesting nights are always the hardest to clean up. Comings and goings at all hours. Mornings though are usually spent with men in this fashion. The interesting ones, who aren’t at all concerned with why I’m spending time with them, where it’s leading, and this one is the worst kind. He doesn’t know. He thinks we are connecting. Bet he even thinks this is my place. Damn. He’s awake. Wanting more. They always want more. Maybe he’ll roll over and fall asleep again afterwards.

It’s almost always 5am. When it happens. When I wake up. I could complain like other women about being alone, but typically I’m not. I could complain that it’s another man and another bed, but I won’t. Even while this one is wanting, giving more and screaming out her name, it’s all ok. Although I want him to leave so I can be alone, I let him stay because he doesn’t know.

Its evening, another night, and another place. Its 5am somewhere else I suppose. Eight hours from now in the future that has happened yet. The bed is completely saturated in a thick sticky wetness and I’m still wearing a very large strap-on. Rolling over there’s an older man in the bed with his hands bound by leather cuffs. Next to him there’s a young boy face down with fresh contusions running up his bare back. Between his legs there’s a cord and a stop. I can feel the stickiness in my hair as I pull it forward. Pieces of my blonde look black from this wetness. I wipe the stickiness from my face and remove the brace from my mouth while getting out of bed to step out of the leather garter belt. I need a shower and a cigarette.

There’s a man standing in the bedroom doorway when I come out of the shower. He’s waiting while another man removes the boy from the room. The older man is looking out the window at the brightly lit view of Paris and masturbating. He yells in Mandarin that the view is beautiful, his favorite. The man at the door is speaking Mandarin. He is doing this for that man’s benefit. I ask him in English “what do you want me to do?” and he yells in Mandarin for me to come see the view. I go and see the view. The man at the door keeps watching. He touches my hair before telling me in Mandarin to spread my legs and lean up against the window. I do. While he comes close to finishing up, the man watching steps in and closes the door. It’s at this moment I’m pretty sure I don’t get paid enough.

It’s 8am. Adrian’s awake again. This time he wants me to sit on his lap while we eat breakfast. Tells me something about being able to connect. I don’t want to eat after he says this. I don’t want to eat while doing this, but I do. I ask him about her, the one he screams about while we’re eating breakfast. While I’m sitting on his lap, connecting I ask because he doesn’t know. It’s ok to ask because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t’ want to talk about it and finds another way to ruin breakfast for me.

After I’ve showered again and removed the pieces of cereal from my hair I call the airport for his flight change while he rinses the pieces of toast and eggs off. My instructions were explicit that he leaves town today between three and eight. The airline rebooked his flight for 3:15 and I’m trying to find his passport when I find something interesting in another pocket of his jacket. The other interesting thing peaks my interest as I read the name from his passport to the woman on the line. I flip it over and try to figure out why he’s holding it in his pocket. The woman confirms the flight and he comes out of the bathroom as I hang up the line. I ask him about her again, Felicia. He drops his towel and asks me if I want another shower. I think why the hell not. If we’re going to go another round it may as well be in the shower.

It’s 10am and not long after another shower when I surprisingly feel more connected to this man. It’s after a moment of raw emotion that he shared instead of using me. A moment when he trusted me and confided in me some of his war-torn damage experienced at the hand of a woman he loved.

“You want to know about her?” he says between biting and pulling at my bottom lip.

“Uh-hmmm,” I moan while water pulsates against my back in a circular pattern.

“6 months.” His tone changes along with his hand movements.

“And…”

“I thought that was...” He gets a little rougher.

“Don’t.” I hold his face to stop him from pushing. “Just tell me.”

“There was always… always another.” He stops and I understand there’s pain.

There’s nothing left to say when this man breaks. No words to help with this release. I just wrap myself tighter around his body and hold him, letting him fall through the cracks.

We’re lying on the floor and he’s playing with my waist. Telling me about the imaginary lines that come out of my abdomen and lead me around in the world. Leading me to him. Then him to me to another shower. There’s laughter instead of tears when he’s telling me this. And I’m glad he doesn’t know.

Somewhere it’s 5am when I’m naked, standing on the edge of a balcony in the middle of LA. Its 80 degrees and a man behind me is whispering in my ear and pressing himself against me. Telling me that he’s only happy when it rains while he leans in then wraps his hands tighter around my waist. Another man is spraying us with a large water hose while he leans in further. I try to shift my weight while his happiness interferes with my balance. The water feels good on my warm skin while the man’s laughter hurts my head. But he’s so happy. And this is what that feels like.

The happy man isn’t happy for long and decides that Vicodin chased by a hand job from a Korean Masseuse is a better idea instead of me, the blonde from behind on the balcony while he pretends its raining. The masseuse arrives and he decides that I can’t watch but the man with the large water hose can. I’m in the hall calling back the woman who arranges these things. I’m on the seventh ring when the happy man is on all fours getting spanked by the large water hose man while the Korean girl is trying to do her job. I turn away to handle my business.

“Annie, it’s me.” I whisper in the line.

“I’m glad you called. I’ve got another one that’s interesting.”

“I’m tired of interesting.”

“You’ll like this one. It’s in France.”

“Why France?”

“This one travels. Business.”

“Why me?”

“He has some specifics that… you’re the only one of my girls that doesn’t have restrictions. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Has anything changed? No. I’m just tired of interesting. When do I leave?”

As I hang up the Water hose man and the Korean girl are the outside of the happy man’s sandwich. This is what happy feels like now.

Lunch is in a tiny sandwich place around the corner from the brownstone in Brooklyn I’m supposed to live in. Adrian seems happier today than yesterday. Much more like a person. I think this is the first time I’ve called anyone by their name afterwards. Or had lunch with them. He smiles a lot and I think it’s charming. He tells me about his friend Alex and mentions a girl Jemma he used to date but is friends with. Tells me about going to LA. Then he talks to me about Andy and asks how I know him. I tell him the truth. That we’re associated by some business. He keeps smiling and so I tell him about Rembrandt instead of Van Gogh to change the subject. He loves discussing art and I’m not ready to ask about the interesting thing I found in his pocket this morning.

We’re walking around the park talking about the Met, my work and then he somewhere between two trees he kisses me. I don’t know what he’s thinking but it’s nice. I decide that its time I asked him about the interesting something from this morning. That tiny piece of paper that rested so neatly between the two folds of his pocket has a story to tell and there’s no way it could go unnoticed.

On the flight back from Paris I realize that it’s actually 5am somewhere I used to be. I keep thinking about the colors in the morning when dawn breaks across the horizon as I check my email from Annie. She has another interesting job that I might be able to help her with. I respond that I need more money for that last job. I’m ordering a Vodka Martini from the steward when her response back tells me it’s already in the account and that I need to make verbal contact with the client before taking the next job. She says it is interesting and sends her apologies. I phone the client who isn’t shy about the details. He says his name is Andrew W. and that I must call him Andy because everyone does. Then he tells me that I’m for a friend of his, but he can’t know about it. He needs me for about two days and that there are specifics I must be aware of. I tell him I’m in because specifics are what I do.

It’s a little before 5am when a man picks me up at the airport. He brings a bag of clothes and tells me to change. I do. Then I ask for Andy. He says when we get there you’ll meet him. He tells me that I’m going to be pretending to be a friend of Andy’s and that I’ll be staying at a place in Brooklyn before telling me I work at the Met for the next two days. He hands me a Louis Vuitton bag full of cards, incidental money and keys with an address for the place in Brooklyn. A place where I’m supposed to do whatever is wanted and things will get interesting. I pull on the remaining pieces of the ensemble when he wants to know more.

“What’s your name honey?”

“Is that important?”

“It is if you want to get paid? Full service. Full name.”

“Can’t I just use a fake with your friend? It isn’t like he’ll know.”

“Look, honey. Quit playing games. Just tell me your name...”

Chelsea Raye Grant. That’s what my mother used to yell at me when she wanted me. Sometimes it was when I would be out by the pool working on my tan instead of going to school. I don’t know why but when he asks for my full name I’m thinking about that last time she got mad at me. It’s been years since I’ve seen her but that feeling of nostalgia creeps into my mind for a moment and I’m remembering her face. The way her mouth curled up and her teeth showed. Recalling those final words between us is like opening an old box of photos. It’s not how you remembered but it must be the truth. The sting of her slap when I told her I wanted to go to New York and be a dancer. How much I wanted to study art and live in SOHO instead of going to Stanford for Law or Medicine like her and my father. Just like I was one of her patients, she informed me of how wrong I was that I was ruining my life. And she’d probably tell me she was right if she were here now. Maybe she was right. I don’t know.

“Honey, you ok. Sorry about that.”

“No. I’m alright. No one has used my full name in a long time.”

“See your badge. For the Met. It has your name now.”

“Oh, tell me about your friend.”

“He’s interesting.”

“I thought so.”

It’s not anywhere near 5am when we’re sitting on a park bench and watching the world around us connecting. I’m lying across his lap and he’s playing with my legs. I think we’re almost comfortable enough to talk about this interesting thing. It’s taken a while to get the courage to ask him about it but I think it’s time when he takes off my right shoe. I smile and slip my hand into his pocket.

“What’s this?” I ask him pretending not to know.

“I don’t know. Maybe you should reach a little deeper.”

“I will.” I pull out my hand and the folded paper comes with it.

“What’s it look like?” he says. I unfold it then show him.

“It’s a sonogram.”

“It’s nothing. Garbage. Throw it away.”

“If it’s nothing why do you have it?”

“Because she gave it to me.”

“Who? I don’t understand. Is it yours?”

“Felicia. Was.” He pushes my legs aside and gets up. “Throw it away. Fuck, I need a hit.”

“Come on.”I get up and touch his arm then face.

“She wanted to hurt me again. So she did.”

“I’m sorry.” I don’t have the words again so I just hold him. Further into the cracks.

The car picks up a man in front of Tiffany’s. Its 5am. I can’t believe this is what I’m doing for the next day when he stumbles in looking for someone named Alex. The man dressing me in the car introduces us. I smile and tell him good morning. He smiles and tells me I look like the Mona Lisa with blonde hair only prettier. I laugh and he keeps telling me he loves my laugh. The man in the car rubs my thigh and winks.

At Andy’s there are a handful of people that Adrian talks to but doesn’t know while doing lines. I don’t feel comfortable with the drugs, but he seems to be coherent enough. There’s a Jack, a Mina, a Michael, a Sam, a Betsy Ross Grandison from Long Island that looks like a linebacker in a pair of sole-less heels. It seems that there’s simply everyone except an Alex at this morning event. An Alex that Adrian insists on finding. Somewhere between Betsy’s shoes and Adrian’s lines, my introduction to Andy is fabulously staged. We’re simply a pair of old friends reuniting for a bit of business. Adrian stops doing lines and talks with us about his missing friend Alex. Andy pulls me aside and whispers a reminder about the details. Details about his flight being booked for LA and the overwhelming need to talk him out of it in my own interesting way. There are more details that include something about this missing Alex who hasn’t left yet and is leaving tomorrow morning instead. Andy faux kisses me before saying that he has to leave the party, but we’re welcomed to stay until Adrian’s flight later.

11am. I‘m wondering when this will get interesting as I continue to talk with Adrian about art and reinforce the lies they want me to tell him. About my connections and the arrangements I’ve made for his flight. About this place in Brooklyn. About the work at the Met. He loves the lies. Somewhere between 11:30am and Noon after leaving his friend Alex another message he tells me he’s never ridden the ferry to Staten Island. I tell him we should go and that he has plenty of time before he has to be at the airport. It’s a lie, but we can’t sit around and wait for his flight if he’s supposed to miss it.

At the airport terminal there’s a woman that takes the itinerary and then turns it into a ticket. While I’m getting the ticket I remember how the ferry ride proved to be more difficult than interesting to get through without his candy reminded of this because I can see him trying to take a hit from the counter. Shrugging his head and missing the hit. It was the same way he shrugged when I kept asking him to put it away because I didn’t feel comfortable around drugs earlier. And then I see him trying to use his phone again while a security guard watches. Even on the ferry between talking to me and looking at the view he was trying to call his friend Alex. He kept telling me about the view of the city, how it’s beautiful and he loves it before telling me I’m Mona Lisa in the middle of the ocean. The woman says it will be another five minutes to process the ticket. And I think of him telling me about Van Gogh and the whores before telling me about his ear.

The woman is finished. It’s been ten minutes instead of five. When she hands me the boarding pass I’m still thinking about him earlier and realize that it was the longest time I’ve spent on a boat since I was a child with anyone other than my father. He looks happy when I return to him with the ticket. The flight is soon but I tell him we could do other things instead of flying right now because he doesn’t need to know why he can’t get on that plane. He doesn’t know he’s being manipulated when he tells me he wants to but he can’t. Using my best my smile I tell him there are always later flights. I rub his hand gently and tell him that he doesn’t need the candy anymore. He doesn’t know so it’s okay to say it. Then I touch his face and tell him that I want to show him my place in Brooklyn. While I keep rubbing his hand and touching his face he tells me it’s okay but we’ll need to stop for some things and I know this is where it gets interesting.

In a cab on the way to the airport he says he wants to tell me more about her. I didn’t ask to know. He just tells me this before he tells me he’s going to do a line. I look at the rearview mirror and the driver is watching. I tell him I’ll make it interesting if he skips the line and the story. He smiles and says “how interesting?” as he unzips his pants. The driver is still watching in the mirror and turning his head around. I tell him let’s get out and talk about it. This makes the driver upset and he goes back to looking at the road. Somewhere along the way I find myself kissing him in the back of the cab instead of doing anything interesting. He never tells me more about her and I’m still glad he doesn’t know.

We’re at the airport. He’s taking his time in the bathroom and I know why. I don’t want him to go. Go back to the drugs. Go back to his disconnect from the pain. I like the lie that we’ve become. It isn’t real but the illusion is so much better. He’s emerging from the men’s room dancing to the airport musak version of Big Pimpin. There’s a security guard that moves with him to the beat and a kid that gives him a high five mid shuffle. The whole moment is ridiculous, and I think I want him to stay more. But he’s leaving. Telling me that he’ll see me next time and I know that it won’t be true. Because even though I’m me, I’m really not. And because even though he’s him, he won’t be soon. For the moment he’s kissing me and I’m kissing him back before he goes through airport security and leaves when I want him to stay. Because it’s ok if I’m not alone.

“5am. Wake up.” Her words come off the line without a hello.

“It’s 3:45pm. I’m not asleep.” I tell her. The plane has only been in the air for thirty-five minutes and its time for the next job.

“Are you ready for the next one, 5am?”

“I guess so.”

“This last one wasn’t too specific I hope.”

“No. Not at all. I didn’t mind it so much…”

“How was it?”

“Anything but interesting.”

Interesting. This is more than interesting that I’ve been left alone. I take a hit while looking at a pair of diamond earrings that I can’t afford without cash in my hand but it doesn’t stop me from looking or thinking about buying them. Shopping without money in your hand isn't recommended but I can't get back into the car. Can I? There’s a man with a hat looking at me in the store window when I realize that it’s just you looking at me and Alex is really gone now. The car left less then fifteen minutes ago and only I got out. There must be a mistake is all I can think when it happens. But it happens and calling Alex’s line only gets me Andy. Andy tells me he will send a car, but it is going to take some time. I tell him that time is all I have. He tells me his friend is coming to get me. I need another hit while I wait on the curb. After 30 minutes a homeless man takes a hit from me while passing through. I can’t seem to remember what happened before Alex left but it wasn’t good because you're still hear in my head all silent and smug. It wasn’t something you said, was it? I keep wondering if I will catch up to Alex before he leaves to LA. I don’t want to miss the flight. But you tell me it’s too late when a car pulls up. There’s a man and a woman inside. I don’t know them but she’s beautiful and I want to get in. So do you. Let’s go.

Off the ropes.

2011-12-26T11:17:00.000-08:00

So I'm done with all this pain that I kept.
Like a boxer whose been knocked down and lost his step.

There's one thing that I know.
Somewhere I lost my hope.
I've been wasting so much time.
So I am standing up, and I am screaming out,
That there is love inside, oh there is love.
I've been fighting life on my knees, (Over and over)
I'm standing up above the ropes so I can see.
Champagne - Senses Fail.

Boxing day. A little shopping anyone? It is definitely good for the economy, but will a little help? I think it's a bit like a prize fighter. He's been fighting a losing battle for so long, and he's exhausted but he can't toss it in now. Leaning on the ropes for support until it's time to... well you either bounce back or TKO. So what's going to happen?Time will tell that particular story. Is sometimes winning losing or losing winning? I'll let you decide. enjoy the story. kisses. m.

Swing.
(12/26/09)

Swing. Dip. Sway. Spinning around. Edging closer and closer. Dancing amidst a sea of faces. Deadly Tango climbs and retreats. Quiet. Crescendo. Violence building and intensifying. Flesh meets flesh in a dangerous combination. No restraint. No control. Man vs. Man in an all out battle of the brawn. Only the strong shall survive.

Fight Night. Bareknuckle. Round Two. No holds barred. Crowd’s barely warming up to the violence. O’Malley vs. Callahan. O’Malley’s taking a beating. Swing. Duck. No Luck. Callahan has lightning fast reflexes. Speed of his blow is quick and powerful. Too fast for O’Malley to avoid. Not only is he one step ahead of his opponent, he’s waiting for O’Malley’s head to make contact with his knuckles. Enough force behind his hand to separate the flesh from the bone.

The morning edition labeled last night’s event a barbaric blood sport with the finesse of a roman death match. Man’s brain knocked loose from his skull. Face pummeled beyond recognition. Meat Locker style. Barbarians in a cage. No better than fighting in the street. In a ring made of rope. No gloves. No shoes. Bareknuckle. Nothing dirty. May the best man win... Stay ALIVE. The price of victory means you may get to keep your life.

Occasionally O’Malley tosses a good one out. Callahan definitely has a beaten ego. His pretty face can’t take anymore. Although artificial these bloody war wounds swell profusely almost blindly the gladiator amidst battle. It’s hand to hand combat as swing by swing, knuckle meets cheek bone. Cracking. Splitting. Drawing Blood.

Fights are never exclusive. But this event was open only to a select few. The police were instructed to keep out any riff-raff. Above all no women and children. A couple of unscrupulous newsmen bought their way in and remained hidden among the crowd. But only the elite and wealthiest of men, including the town politicians, all handpicked by the mayor were invited. Rumor has it that the mayor was sitting front row center when O’Malley got his blocked knocked off. The entire event was sanctioned by City Hall and the mayor himself saw to every last detail personally. A handful of dancing girls, not a lady among them, were brought in to keep the men entertained between the rounds. The mad men running games were there taking bets. Swearing the odds to favor O’Malley as they gobbled up the wealth. All proceeds going to finance his next mayoral campaign among other activities.

Left. Right. Feet keep dancing. Clutching. Falling. Arms continue swinging. Bleeding knuckles. Crimson stains covering bruised bodies. Blood spilling from broken mouths. Eyes swelled shut. Broken jawbone. Dislocated nose with the bend so far over the face no longer has meaning. Flesh-made Picasso from the Red period. O’Malley limps along at a steady pace. Round four. Callahan isn’t letting up. Down. Down. Up. Up. Every jab has a connection. O’Malley isn’t returning the same intensity. Ribs. Cracked. Kidneys. Bruised. Harder. Faster. Swaying and teetering, O’Malley’s steps are growing clumsy until he can’t help it. Weakening he stumbles back and springs forward into the arms of the enemy.

Callahan begins to see his opening. At once he’s going to work on O’Malley’s head. Blow after agonizing blow. Until the final… One. Two. BAM! And it’s as if you can almost see the instant when his brain snaps clean from his skull. Severing the mind from the body. From top to bottom disconnected. Eyes’ rolling back into his head at the same moment his head juts back a little too far. Blood cascading across the room and spilling on the floor beneath the battle as his body follows in a graceful collapse. A resounding pound vibrates gently across the floor. The crowd surrounding goes silent followed by a wild thunderous roar. They can’t get enough. A man is dead, brut force style and they want more. Flesh destroying flesh. Pulverizing. There’s a winner. Callahan. At what cost? Cannibalizing upon itself the crowd pushes forward, surrounding the champ. Shake the hand of a cold blooded killer.

The doctor’s said they’d never seen anything like it. Brain stem severed from the spinal cord. Brain completely loose inside of the skull; Rattling about like a peanut in a shell. Violence makes national headlines. An underground sensation. Newspapers report an event of mass hysteria like none seen before. Man beaten to death while nearly a hundred people watched and did nothing to stop it. Paying to see his suffering. Getting a sick perverse pleasure out of his demise. Their Pleasure. His Suffering. Life. Death.

Tradition.

2011-12-26T10:47:00.000-08:00

“Tradition simply means that we need to end what began well and continue what is worth continuing” - Jose Bergamin

“Often, the less there is to justify a traditional custom, the harder it is to get rid of it.” - Mark Twain

“Tradition is a guide and not a jailer” - William Somerset Maughum

Sometimes the best part about traditions is breaking them. Someone disagreed with me from another room the other day about that statement.Well, if you didn't break a tradition how ever could you attempt to make any new ones. It's just a thought. What do you think? New traditions or sticking to the same old status quo? kisses. m.

Ready for the floor

2011-12-23T23:21:00.000-08:00

Ready for the floor - Hot Chip

are you ready? ready for the world... if not, how about a little fun? There's whole bunch of things not to be ready for. Fun should never be one of them. So what will it be? I'll think a little fun never hurts until... well it doesn't hurt now, does it? Fun only stops being fun when it's over. enjoy the scene. it's from the 300's. kisses. m.

What’ll it be?
(4-19-2011)

“What’ll it be?”

“A long slow screw…”

“Screwdriver. Well that’s a thing isn’t it? Those are my spesh-ee-ali-tee!”

“It’s hardly a thing. I’m not really a fan of vodka. And the orange juice…”

“And the orange juice? You can’t go wrong with that.”

“No, I’m afraid you can’t.”

“How about a Mimosa if you’d rather entertain something without…”

“But I prefer the screw.”

“That’s what you said. Are you sure though?”

“As sure as I’ll ever be.”

“You know I don’t get pretty ladies in here often. It’s sort of an occasion. Let me tell you what we could do. I could pop open the champagne and…”

“And we could what? Toast our newfound friendship and sip it through straws. That’s a laugh. Next thing I know you’ll tell me there’s a Shirley Temple I ought to try.”

“Darling, excuse me for saying this but you do you and I’ll do me. Don’t tell me how to do my job. Your assumptions precede your arrogance.”

“Well, well. Little bartender man has a pair does he?”

“Ma’am, I don’t mean any dis…”

“Disrespect? It’s too late for that already. You called me Ma’am. My mother is a Ma’am. Call me Madeline.”

“Madeline is it then? I’m Frank and the one thing you need to understand is that I call it straight here. My bar. My rules.”

“Frank darling, I’m not one who is big on rules. You can call it crooked and sideways for all I care. But get it straight...”

“What’s that exactly?”

“I’m asking you for one thing… Give me a long… slow… comfortable… screw… and don’t fuck it up.”

“Alright Madeline. Here’s the deal. I’ll try not to fuck up your drink if you can do something for me.”

“Alright Frank. What’ll it be?”

“Try to enjoy yourself.”

Amor Fati.

2011-12-22T00:03:00.000-08:00

“thechoice is yours to find.” amor fati / washedout

amor fati. It’s latin and looselytranslates to the “love of fates” which in turn is characterized by the positionthat whatever happens in ones life it is good. It is the idea that life is theexperience to be lived and accepting any conditions that arise from living.Ultimately finding the beauty in all of it and that choice is up to us alone.

“I wantto learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things; then Ishall be one of those who make things beautiful. Amor fati: let that be mylove henceforth! I do not want to wage war against what is ugly. I do not wantto accuse; I do not even want to accuse those who accuse. Looking away shallbe my only negation” - Nietzsche

Ever have the thought that there was morethan one of you out there? Even if you aren’t a twin it’s not an uncommonbelief. Actually its more common than you think. So what if this person thatlooks just like you decided they wanted to be you… what if they did? Do youthink they would live as you? Or would they destroy the life you created foryou and your loved ones out of their own satisfaction? I once pondered thosethoughts and crafted a short story. Here’s an excerpt from it. Enjoy. kisses.m.

The only easy day was yesterday.

(11/28/09)

Theonly easy day was yesterday. Every day becomes more and more of a challenge andeasy is who you used to be.

“Whycan’t this be easier?” Is exactly what I keep thinking as I spend anothermoment laboring over the task at hand. A thousand household duties toaccomplish, each and every day. Not one task being less important than that ofanother. Some might possibly think ‘Ah,the simple life’ to spend day-in and day-out in the shoes of a housewife.

But youmust understand I’m not your ordinary run-of-the-mill June Cleaver typicalhousewife. I may run about with the same old everyday chores keeping up theillusion of simplicity. Watching babes, cleaning rooms, mopping floors, cookingand laundry are just a few of the daily tasks that consume my remaining timehere on this green Earth. Each day churning out the same remarkable wit andcharm for the neighbors and loved ones as I use my God given talents to keep ahousehold intact.

Littledo the loved ones in my life know… the Truth? A Dirty Secret. A long hiddenpast that I try my best to hide in between dropping off the kiddies and pickingup the dry cleaning. This wasn’t always the life for me.

Longbefore I was here… there was her.

Her?She came before me. The other one. The real mom, wife, housekeeper, the realservant to domesticity and this is her life that I’m living. Her life filledwith PTA meetings, Betty Crocker cook-offs, and the weekly Family Church night.

Butit’s too late for all the regret of my choice. There’s no turning back. Ichose. Her death became my prison. Now I’m trapped in the jar of bells so tospeak. And as odd as that sounds, it is the case. Somewhere within my toughunquestioning psyche was a glimmer of sympathy. There was a small piece of compassionresting in my dark soul. Some unnoticed need to resolve a conflict for someoneother than myself.

Hope is the feeling of intuitionthat things won’t always be the same. It’s funny when that’s the truth of thematter.

Has anyone ever told you thatyou look just like someone else? Well maybe you do. Maybe everyone has aduplicate, a stunt double. There’s some other person that has absolutely nopossible connection or relation to you and they are out there living, breathingand wearing you like a mask. To put this quite simply they’re wearing yourface. Out there right now masquerading as you only it’s not your life. They areout there living this life that isn’t yours. A life so different and remotefrom who you are and what you know.

Don’tbelieve me? Maybe you haven’t had the opportunity to meet them yet. There arebillions of people on this earth just hurtling through space. What are the oddsthat someone looks like you? Pretty slim, but not a completely unthinkablepossibility.

There’s something to be saidabout taking ones own life. What do you do when you’re faced with your ownmortality and it begs for its life?

Do youSTOP?

Hesitate?

What doyou do when you realize that’s you lying on the ground in the puddle of blood?

Yourmind wandering as the blood that isn’t yours edges closer to where you stand.

Is ityou dying?

You.

In thepatent leather Hush Puppies with a responsible heel.

You.

Withthe button down grey cardigan with matching headband.

You.

Properpencil skirt with the length falling just below the knee. The sheer absurdityof this square little stranger wearing the same face, same grimace and thosedamn unmistakable eyes.

You.

Howdare you beg for your life?

“Show me!” I growl with outrage and grabthe sniveling, bleeding cowardice version of me by the neck pulling upwards.Bleeding. Stubborn. Unmoving. With my gun drawn I motion her upward. “Damn you!Get up! Show me!” I continue to drag the unwilling victim.

Here Iam trying to give this bawling sheep a reason to live and she refuses. All thesounds that escape from her are quiet no-no-no’s, but she moves. Can youimagine facing the judge and jury knowing you will be sentencing your owndeath? To say I could understand this woman’s reluctance, well I can’t becauseI’m not the one dying.

Myinjured twin leaves a trail of red spilling behind while we cross the openstreet toward a khaki colored minivan. Bleeding me points. Inside two babes;one, a boy not much older than a year, the other a small girl near the age offour. Both are crying. This bleeding mess of me whines more unintelligiblenoise. She’s going to die. It’s too late. I can’t help it. From the size andplacement of the wound it’s certain she’ll be dead soon. Falling down the dyingme, looks up and continues to reach hysterics. Decipher this noise. Dying. Thechildren will be alone. I understand the noise. She’s afraid for the children.What can I do? Lean down and listen. Listen. For the answers. Listen. The finalbreathes. Listen. Hope I’m not wrong.

Can webe so different this doppelganger and I? Worlds apart.

As Irecline in my chaise sipping a slightly chilled Arnold Palmer, I’mwatching the children play beneath the willow tree. In this moment that fatefulday seems so long ago. There’s no more death in the children’s life. Or mine.No sad moment of disappointment to get past. No disappointing past to destroy.The children live with a comforting knowledge that they have a Mother. My oldlife is worlds away. Perhaps I’m better for this change. It often crosses mymind whether I’m an enhanced version of her. Where things different? Keeping upwith the illusion certainly is not easy. Do these differences really gounnoticed? Even if they don’t notice, I can’t go back to who I used to be.There are no open spaces to fill and my only role is the one I choose now.

Can astranger really fall into the cracks and take over so simply without notice?Imagine it. Somewhere out there another person just like you, wearing yourface, stepping into those shoes, filling a void where an opening had beenrevealed. Just like changing their clothes instead now they’re wearing you andit’s the last thing they will ever put on.

On the dancefloor

2011-12-19T21:50:00.000-08:00

has the music ever saved your life? It'ssaved mine more than one or twice including last night. enjoy. kisses. m.

(Murder)
It's murder on the dancefloor
But you better not kill the groove
DJ, gonna burn this goddamn house right down.

Murder on the dancefloor - Sophie EllisBextor

Last Night a DJ Saved My Life.

(12-19-10)

Slowlymaking my way through the crowded room, I graze shoulders and gently grab atwaists to indicate my need to push forward. Bodies rescind politely as theycontinue to keep in time with the beat that pulsates and penetrates the ground.The dimly lit space is blanketed in a red hue that creates an atmosphere ofwelcomed lust. Air is heavy in these cramped quarters. Occasional glimpses offoreign eyes catch my attention as I’m crossing the dance floor. One set won’tlet me go. A dark brooding shadow of a man is intently staring while I findhaven in the music. Dark leather jacket. Much too warm for the crowd. Keepmoving. Disappearing backwards into the mix. The pulse pounding sound surroundsand entrances my ears and I can't help but loose myself within it.Intoxicating. Uncontrollably grinding to the rhythm as I find my way across thesea of flesh.

Movingand rocking. Movements have no limits. Strangers joined in one solid purpose.Bystanders watching and sipping their cocktails, addicted in a voyeuristictrance. Desiring to become a part of the energy but lacking the instinct of themusic. In the darkness of the room walls hide the indiscretions of warm bodies,and the occasional strangers seeking, watching and waiting until the propertime. Rarely do I completely loose myself in the crowd, a slave to theintoxicating sounds, but tonight is different. The Man behind the decks is onpoint. His beats are delectable. Pure satisfaction to my ears. Thick.Perfection. Bliss. Better than sex. My body is in sync with this sound. I cannot break away. But greedily I want more.

Crossingthe floor, I find my target in sight. The DJ. Tall, handsome, slender. Mostpowerful man in the room. Hands know exactly what to do. In the zone. He can’tmiss with this sound. Still moving to the beat, I find just the right moment toapproach. I know exactly what I want. He knows. The others all want the samething. But I’m not like the others. Not here to… I just want one thing.

Gentlygrazing his arm, I smile. “Hey! Play me a song!” A slight scream as my voicemust be louder than the sound. Keep smiling. He’s not amused, but lowers hiseyes and removes a headphone.

“NoREQUESTS! Not Tonight!” His voice booms back. “Look if it’s TOP 40… Don’t wastemy time!” Looking away, he goes back to the boards as he waves me away. Damngroupies really ruin it for the fans. Hands down this guy is the best I’d seenin months and passing up the opportunity to hear him work on my track would beinsane.

Despitehis efforts to discourage me, I remain firm in my intent. Refusing to give up,I slide a note across the decks as he’s working the digital mixer. “You’restill here?” He smiles and turns back to me lowering his headset again. “Mustbe a pretty important song?”

“Comeon? Play my song! I need this! To dance to it. To feel it. COME ON! You’re theonly one who can give it to me!” I keep smiling, dancing, prancing, moving andgrooving.

Helaughs and lowers his eyes to meet mine. “You aren’t going to give up?” Shakingmy head I keep up my best girlish smile while working to the beat. He’scompletely amused, and shakes his head. “Alright, NO PROMISES, but your song islegit. So, let me see what I can do!”

“You’rethe best!” I smile and raise an empty glass to toast him before I make my wayback into the crowd towards the floor. Moving forward the dark eyes fromearlier find me as I reach a corner in the room. Redness swallows the featuresof his face. Eyes without a face. Pushing towards me. No escape. Shoving.Grabbing. No running. Backing up against a wall. Tearing at my dress. Spillinga drink across my skin. Powerless… until the beat changes. Pushing. Thestranger’s hands fall clumsily and he stumbles backwards. Breaking free I lookfor haven within the ocean of bodies. Crossing back through an expanse ofshirtless and bare midriffs I’m avoiding capture. But those eyes are not givingup. Following me. Pursuing with an unseemly agenda.

ThisCat and Mouse game continues in the maze of dark rooms and loud sounds. Eyeschasing without a pause with reaching arms that intermittently try to grab.Frantically I run through the crowd trying to reattach the clasp of my dress.Bodies jumping and grinding provide a hindrance as I can not get away quickenough. Silently slipping down a small staircase there’s hallway in the back ofthe building. I find solace. There’s no one. Isolated. Stillness with theground pulsating beat beneath me. Heart racing and hands shaking I rest for amoment. Take a moment to examine the damage to my dress and gauge mysurroundings. No doorways for backrooms. There’s a Fire Exit. The possibilityof escape? No. That will only ensure my fate. Completely alone here. No whereto run in this dark narrow corridor.

Cautiouslyreturning back up the stairs and into the dark room pausing to scan for unseeneyes. Pushing and pulling as I try to claw through this swarming mass. Butthere is no escape within this mob. Beats are thicker. Bodies are wetter. Soundintensifying. The room is alive with pulse-pounding sex. Movements are intenseas people are mentally fucking this sound. People are melting into each otheras the sweat continues to pour from their bodies; coating bare skin in aglistening cover. My heartbeat races in a never-ending marathon as I try tooutmaneuver the maniacal Eyes that seek to destroy me. Music so distracting.Leaving my mind helpless to resist. Mentally I’m terrified but I can’t ignorethe urge to fall into the rhythm. I need to run and all I can focus on is myinstinct to let the music take hold.

Thefaceless Eyes are in the sea before me. Edging nearer and nearer. Trapped. Noescape. Eyes are watching me scramble. It’s too late. Closer and closer thisstranger moves until he’s almost on me. I’m in the middle of the dance floor.My body is moving along with the collective effort of the horde. Pushing asidethe dancers he clears a space drawing himself closer toward me. One by one,steps are nearer until he’s right in front of me. Eyes locking on. Armsreaching down to grab and subdue. Pushing against my small frame he wraps hishands around my throat. Back of my skull makes repeated contact with theshoulder blade of someone behind me as the beat goes on and on. Neon lightsmove randomly as the sea of bodies begins to blur. His grip tightens. Air isslowly stopping. I can feel the surrounding room slowing down while my life isslipping away. Slower… slower… slower… until… until… until... the beat ischanging.

Mesmerizingpulsations emanate from the speakers, followed by subtle sounds. The crowdscreams in anticipation. So much enthusiasm. Familiar noise releasing into thenight. My song. The DJ. He played my song. The swarm rapidly switches gears.Faster. Heavier. Growing. Alive in a new intoxicating pattern. Uncontrollable.Frenzied without restraint. My subjugator is loosing his grip. The mob ofbodies thrusts against him. Pushing harder and harder until a final intenseshove releases his hands. Slipping. His balances teeters. His head makes contactwith a unknowing elbow sending him downward toward the ground with a BANG. Imove aside carefully, staying in time with the beat to avoid collision. QuietlyI watch the crowd. The horde swallows his body whole. The bloody trampledremains continue to pull further into the crowd until there is nothing left tosee. No time to collect myself. Music is taking over. Saving me. Seducing me.Ears are in a state of ecstasy. What a heavenly experience. Sheer bliss takesover as I edge myself further inward and get lost in the sounds oncemore.

Betcha...

2011-12-16T17:43:00.000-08:00

"Betcha think this song is about you... don't you... don't you?" - Carly Simon

Ever hear a song and so completely identify with it that automatically it is about you. Well guess what? It isn't. I think that this idea is captured best by the song "Killing me softly" harmonized so eloquently by the lovely Roberta Flack (AND the marvelous lauren hill didn't hurt a damn thing with her cover. FABULOUS!) The song tells the story of a woman in the audience unknown to the performer. enraptured. embarrassed. experiencing. in so many words believing that his song was telling her story. its odd that people are so similar and yet so different. how their stories are connected but unite them through common experience. Have you ever shared a story with a person, stranger or familiar, and felt connected by the experience? What did you give and take from that exchange? enjoy the story. kisses. m.

Deal.
(3-12-11)

Just another night with another song on the old piano for another tear in a warm glass of bourbon for good ol Kansas and he was just about certain it would be his last. And with a little luck he might be right.

Kansas Beauregard Watson was a blues man and he played the blues night or day as far back as he could remember. For you see, dear old Kansas had a reason to play them blues. Everything that could have happened to a man happened to Kansas.

Dear old Kansas Beauregard wasn’t a bad fellow but he couldn’t help that his luck was always running out. It certainly ran out when he lost his job. Working in a Coal Mine was hardly a job that he enjoyed but it had kept food on the table. Then the luck ran out when his old lady left him for another man. Without any money it was inevitable that she’d leave. And sure as the sun rises she left him with a son that wasn’t his. What a beautiful boy his son Alabama was. It was a damn shame that boy wasn’t his cause he could play the blues just as grand as Kansas.

Some families pass down businesses. Others pass down money. Kansas passed down both the best thing and worst thing he knew to that boy. The blues and his bad luck. Blood or not that boy got every ounce of soul from his daddy Kansas and there wasn’t anything that could be changed by that. You see what is a man without a legacy? And Kansas sure as hell had a legacy in his music albeit came on account of his luck running so deeply bad.

From the time he was a small boy Kansas could tickle those ivories like he had a thousand stories to tell and that didn’t sit right with his old man. You see, his daddy was a preacher man and those blues didn’t much agree with him when his son played them. The Preacher Watson cursed the small boy the same as his mother. Like her son, the Lady Beauregard had the touch of a siren song that told a thousand tales of sorrow. The good ol preacher man had the lord on his side to remind them both it was the work of the devil that fueled their souls with song. Well it wasn’t the good lord wishing them luck when the Preacher Watson threw them out of his house. Along the way wasn’t easy for Lady Beauregard and her boy Kansas. And there wasn’t a day that went by that his mama didn’t apologize to Kansas for their life.

Leaving the burden of misfortune upon another soul was unbearable for Kansas Beauregard. And he sought out any way that he could to lift that curse from his boy Alabama. High and low he’d ask anyone for the answers to the problem that stood unsolved. Until that solution came to him one night right as he was closing out one more song of woe.

One could hardly blame Kansas for wanting to turn around his luck when that stranger walked in with an offer he couldn’t refuse.

The man came in when the rest of the usual suspects were calling it in for the night. He wasn’t dressed like the other characters. The cut of his suit matched his smile. Smooth and neat. His hair wasn’t too much notice with a bit of a curl. And when he spoke to the bartender his voice boomed across the entire place. The man took his seat, which from where Kansas sat tickling the ivories wasn’t too much distance away.

With a nod and a sip of his drink he encouraged the piano man to keep going.

Just as soon as he’d finished the song the man approached him. Silver tongue and smooth he dropped his offer before Kansas. A strange request it was but it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be obliged. Fortune and fame would be bestowed upon him. His son Alabama would enjoy a life of ease and comfort and someday follow in his footsteps with a legacy of good luck. And all of it for only the price of a song.

According to the stranger he couldn’t seem to live without the sound of the blues. One more he told Kansas. Play them for me one more time tonight and this gift is yours. Kansas couldn’t see the harm in it, so he obliged the man with his song.

Some will tell you that the devil ain’t a smooth talking good looking character. Others will tell you that he’s nothing like the lord. Well from what Kansas could tell all those folks were wrong about what they said about that fellow. From the moment that fellows deal rolled off the tongue, Kansas knew in his mind there was only one character he was dealing with, the devil himself. And that didn’t matter the slightest bit to him.

And he played.

The Lady Beauregard often told Kansas to watch out for that silver-tongued man. She told him just like a warning not to take any heed in his words. But good old Kansas had lived a long enough life filled with misfortune trailing after him. A blues man has the blues, and Kansas lived and breathed his fair share of them. At the time that man rolled in with his offer, Kansas only had one thing that mattered to him most, his son. Blood or not, Alabama deserved a better life than what he could give. Bad luck and blues wasn’t what he wanted for the boy, so Kansas did what he thought was right. He played that man another song.

Now some might say that Kansas ran out of luck that night when he made that deal with the devil. Others will remember Kansas Beauregard Watson as a great blues man that caught a bit of luck that night when he left a legacy of sound in one song that would carry on. For on that night, with one more song and one more drink of bourbon, Kansas Beauregard Watson gave that silver-tongued man a bit of his blues for the last time.

Automatic

2011-12-15T03:15:00.000-08:00

You think you know her...
but you've never lived your life without her...
you couldn't tell me...
the things she said...
the books she read...
the way she looked when the morning came...
but you'll never forget the day she ran away.
you think you know her - cause and effect

Ever wake up in the middle of the night? Dead sleep. That's an interesting way to put it. A friend of mine calls it death, sleep that it is. I think it's cause he's a little afraid of dying. Aren't we all a little? Anyhow enough of the sleepers. It's the memories that have a funny way of keeping the brain preoccupied if you let them. That's a shame too. The present moment tends to be the most memorable for myself. Even right now as I listen to the strokes "automatic stop" and think about his plea with the girl I realize that perhaps they were not friends at all. And it's probably both their fault for that. That thought brings me back to think you can't bring back the dead but you can certainly keep on living. So can we all. On that note I'll leave you with a bit of something to read... This is part of an unfinished piece from the D-men that missed being included. Let me know what you think or perhaps how you fall back to sleep once you're awake. Love to hear. enjoy living, loving and breathing. I know I am. kisses. m.

The Dead.

(6-28-2011)

The dead of night. It’s always happens in the night.

“Baby, I love you come back to bed.” She says.

The soft voice whispers and speaks the truth.

And it’s the last truth that echoes before he’s awake.

The same conundrum wakes Classer Andresen from a dead sleep. Night after night, different places, different women and the same thing happens for Classer Andresen. The whisper precedes a memory. Not the last moment, but one all entirely different.

A random instance where she was there in his arms. In the dark of the Study standing next to the window and he was wrapped around her. His mind is surrounded by the smell of the room intensified by the sensation of his touch he lets his mind wander with the thought. Imagining the smell of the dusty room filled with old books could still make him jump hard with a hunger for her.

Stiff, hungry and hung over when he jars himself free from the waking dream, Classer can’t quite shake the sensation of the moment. Looking over, he visually makes out a long pair of legs attached to a thin brunette. The small dimple of her back feels just like the one in his memory. But it’s not. As he moves his eyes up from bottom to top he can see the signs of his night. Two wrappers trail the edge of the sheets before giving way to a third. At least his efforts were protected even if he can’t seem to remember them. The perfection of the thin body next to him lifts and lowers with small shallow breathes. With the dark hair covering her face she might be the mirror image of Inara. Soft corners of her lips peeking out from the curly mess of long brown locks could fool him the same way the others fooled him every night.

This one, her name was Rachel. She told him that was her name, but it might be something else. He distinctly remembers a Heather or a Michelle. These women seem to be all the same when there’s one after another night after night. And the one thing they seem to have in common is that they can never be her.

The women like the memories couldn’t bring Inara back into his life. She was still gone, a dead memory because he was foolish enough to let her go. Foolish enough to send her away. And much like a dead woman, thinking about her that wouldn’t change a thing or bring her back to him. Yet his mind wanders from the simplest stimulation. Looking at the book on the nightstand is intoxicating to his mind and sends his thoughts back into the past looking for her.

The air around them was stagnating in the dark Study. Dusty from the smell of old volumes of truth. Although her lips kept begging him back to bed, her hands were making different plans altogether. Down around his back she cups his ass and pulls him close. Without a thought he reaches beneath her robe and lets his hand move up and inside her thighs. Soft, warm and welcoming she kisses him when touches her.

Snapping back to present he’s ready for more. But to wake the creature next to him would only shake the moment from before. So he quietly runs his fingers across the skin of her thighs before getting up from the bed. It’s all he can do to avoid waking his anonymous companion as he gently shuts the bathroom door. Awake means questions and questions require answers. Answers are something that Classer really doesn’t want to supply at 3am for a woman he’s known less than six hours.

In the bathroom there’s wrappers four and five making an appearance. At least there is comfort in knowing that he safely could handle his alcohol and anonymous bedfellows. But this night wasn’t like any other and Classer knew it.

Tonight much like the dead didn't like to rest, the memories kept coming back to him haunt. The cool drip of the faucet sets his mind wandering backwards toward the same sound of water gently tapping at the window in the moment that cannot become again.

Kicking the back of his legs she let his movements climb and rise. The sound of her breath and moans greet the pulse of his hips and the touch of his hands. Slowly the sounds between them come to an end. Inara kisses the soft part of his bottom lip before taking in the whole of his mouth.

It’s there the memory always fades.

Still staring at the floor and standing next to the sink Classer can’t gather himself quickly enough. His face in the mirror seems the same and very different. There are a thousand reasons to go out there and pick up where he left off with the thin brunette named Rachel or Heather or Michelle and only one to pick up and leave…

She wasn’t her.

And none of them ever would be. None of the living could replace the dead memory of her. And none of these women could ever replace her ghost that haunted his memory. Sometimes she was there in a sound or a breath, but her pure essence could never be captured in a night of mindless pleasure. But for a moment or two he could bring back the ghost of her with a thought. And although it was the purest form of intoxication for his mind, Classer knew he couldn’t live in those memories. That’s all they were.

“Baby, come to bed,” She calls.

In a small voice he can hear the woman call to him.

And it’s the only truth that he can face when he looks in the mirror before turning out the light and going back into the room.

You gotta know when

2011-12-13T17:15:00.000-08:00

Joker's Wild Card. 2010

Yougotta know when to hold em' know when to fold em'

Knowwhen to walk away, know when to run.

Nowevery gambler knows the secret to survivin'

Isknowin' what to throw away
And knowin' what to keep
'Cause every hand's a winner
And every hand's a loser

The Gambler - Kenny Rogers

Gambling. Gambler? How about card player?For moi, I happen to love to play a hand of cards. And most people who haveplayed cards with me, well they know there's no cheating at my table. How aboutbluffing? See there's the thing. Bluffing is a way to try and draw out what theother players might have in their hand. It's not quite telling a lie, but sureenough if it don't make the other guy lay out his cards in a hurry to see whatyou got. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. No telling until... those cardsare laid. But that's gambling for you. Would you gamble with money, love oryour life? Tell me... I'd love to know. leave a comment. and enjoy the story if you've never read it. kisses. m.

Tonight I feel like a dead man…

Resolvedas I sit here packing it all up.

Sayinggoodbye to it all for the last time.

It’snot as if I didn’t have it all once.

I did.But that was a long time ago.

Sometimeslonger than I’d like to admit.

Adifferent life.

Adifferent man.

Ifthere’s anything I could do to get it back, I would.

Joker’s Wild.

(10-14-10)

It’s thegame of a lifetime. A one way chance to get exactly what you want. Suppose youdon’t know what that is. Well, that won’t do you a damn bit of good. Cause youcan’t play cards here ‘til you figure that out. The rules are that and they aresimple. Know what you want and you might just get it. But don’t forget it comesat a price. Ante up.

“FiveCard Stud. Joker’s Wild.” The Man calls the game and looks my way. “You in orout?”

I’m in.

All theway.

Wildcard. Wild game. All bets are off. Any man can win it and win it right.

Mostpeople count their blessings before they’re in their hands. Others never countthem at all. A few are actually thankful for the little things that life dropsbefore them. And I wasn’t one of them. Never caring for more than what I couldget into my hands. And losing all those little things along the way. My life.The one before this one. A life filled with love, happiness and the man I usedto be.

Beenplaying cards as long as I can remember. Night after night. Game after game.Tonight’s no different. Another poker game. Another that I know I shouldn’t beplaying. Not after everything that’s happened. After losing it the way I did.But I have to this time. Any chance to get it back I have to take. That’swhy this one’s different. It might be the last one. And the one to turn allthat around. So I’m betting it all on the line. Cause if it’s my last, I can’thelp taking it. Even if it means folding once more on my way out.

Funnybusiness playing cards. Cards are playing you as much as you’re playing them.The games are never fast and the betting gets pretty ruthless by night’s end.But this game is different. There’s no money changing hands and the only wayyou’ll leave the table is if you win big or bust. You see, it’s the kind ofgame where the winning is worth it all.

As Ilive and breathe it’s worth it. This one ain’t for everybody and they’ll tellyou that at the door. This one is an invitation only poker game, where thewinning pays out better than you’d think. Men and women will do just aboutanything to get the chance to sit at this table. If you don’t accept… well it’sa damn shame if you don’t. Sure the stakes are high but chances like this don’tcome around too often.

Aftersome people realize they’ve lost something they’ll give anything for a chanceto get it back. A one time opportunity to do it again, see it again and get itall back. Other people, well they’ll wait ‘til opportunity has passed them byto wonder if it will ever come again. My thinking is why wonder when you have achance to do something about it right in front of you. Here it is.

The wayI figure if you pass on this, then you won’t get another chance. See thosepeople that pass on something. They do it cause think they’ll get anotherchance. A better chance. I’ll be the first person to tell you that’s not thecase. You don’t get another chance. When you miss your opportunity the next onemight look the same, feel the same, smell the same and even taste the same butmake no mistake that sure as hell ain’t the same thing you left behind the firsttime. Opportunity only knocks once. You keep passing too long and the goldenone may miss you.

There’sno better time than the present to live hard and live it right. You ever hearthat one? No time like the present. I bet you have. If you’ve missed thatlesson well now you have it. Right in front of you. Take a chance. You neverknow it may be the thing that changes your life.

Sittingat the table.

Sippingmy last drink. Whisky. Southern Bourbon. Rocks.

Lookingat the faces around me .

Gettingready to play these old cards.

Onelast time.

Thelast players to arrive take their places on each side of me and the man startsdealing the cards to the table. Every card that lands sends my heart poundinginside my chest with the fury of a thousand horses charging. Each one hits thetable like its carrying a bit of destiny with it. Every face at the table knowswhat’s at stake and it’s every man for himself. We’re all eyeing the guy nextto us and the one across the table as the dealer drops the last card for eachof us. This game is worth more than any other. It’s not like any other. Winningmeans more than your life and you’ll bet more than that in a pinch.

Face onmy left doubles down before lifting the top card after tossing a few out. She’slost a life close to her and there’s nothing left but grief mixed a whole lotof tears in her glass of white wine. Life for a life and a little luck. TheLady’s got the touch and a wink for me through her tears. Face on my rightmatches the Lady’s double and raises the stakes a little higher. Dealer tossesher left another card before looking my way. I mask my fear with a shrug andtoss back two with a hard swallow. I’m already holding a trio of hearts. Thechances of getting what I need are slim but I’m hoping that there’s a surpriseor two left to this game.

Everybet I match sends my blood pressure climbing. Every chip drops like it’s mylast breath. Another spin round the table folds the man on the right and handsme another card closer. Another raise claims the life of the face on her leftand leaves me a lucky fool for my hand. A smiling fool with enough of a wildstreak to spare my life and give me a chance to get it all back. The Ladykeeps her eyes on the prize. No more winks. No more bluffs. She’s in it to win.Nothing better than when life is on the line. What better reason could you havefor winning big?

Bluffingor not the Lady’s proving to be the only true opponent at this table as sheraises for the last time. Beat of my heart is nearing closer to the edge. I’mholding something special in my hands. I’ve either got the winning hand or thelast near miss I’ve ever see in this life. I can feel the destiny coming closeras the call nears. This is crazy. But what can you do when crazy is all yougot. You give it all. No time like the present. Live it hard. Live it right.Time to call it...

The mancalls the game.

Onelast time.

My handis out on the table and I’m not looking.

Cardsare down,

So isthe Lady. Both eyes roll back as she drops ‘em.

Pair ofAces. Joker’s Wild.

Thelady’s dead. Busted.

And I’ma man with another chance to make it right.

As theman stares down my end of the table, I look one last time at the thing thatjust saved my life. Handful of royal hearts. Joker’s Wild.

Enjoy the silence.

2011-12-09T07:03:00.001-08:00

What's in your arms? Nothing? Well... Ok, then humor me and cross your arms. Do it. What's in your arms now is all you'll ever need... You. Every now and again something amazing happens and someone comes along deciding they will lend you their arms or vice versa. That is something amazing and now you have more than yourself to care for. And I can think of no better way to lose oneself than in a moment spent in another's arms. Do you like to lose yourself in moments? enjoy. kisses. m.

Tighter.

(2-2-2011)

Through the low lights of approaching evening we are two that become one. Hand in hand walking, our arms locked into each other while our feet match the same stride. The graceful descent of the sun cascades a shadow of lavender across the horizon and a slight chill to the air. The houses seem quieter and less than inviting to our passing steps. Our movements manage to dance in unison through this empty street alone without notice.

The silence that surrounds us sends him into a whimsical mood. With a slip of a hand his arm wraps over and around me with a spin stopping our forward pace. Closer he turns me again and again before taking me in. Hugging gently, his sliding arms circle and lock around my torso. His fingers interlace behind my back. Each finger reaches inward as if to take me in whole. Tighter.

Attempting to match his embrace, my hands scramble. Both arms are struggling to return his hold. Dancing with his merging frame, tighter they squeeze and begin moving closer together. Carefully my probing hands find their way around his body until one ends where another begins. Locking in a grip that rests in the small of his back while my head finds its place upon his chest. Tighter.

The night becomes cooler in our surroundings. Light purple becomes a deeper violet and we’re wrapped around each other in a hold. Our arms are gripping each other securely and pulling without restraint until there is nothing between them. The crushing force of our weight against each other completes the circle. My face rests on his chest looking up into his eyes. His eyes look down into mine and he releases a heavy breath upon my face. I rest my lips upon his neck with a gentle kiss and squeeze. His arms return the constriction and his lips touch my forehead. Our breathing sounds deeper through the force of our embrace. Strained shallow breathes escape with a heaviness that’s familiar. Tighter.

Our bodies have no beginning and no end in the last light of the day. There are no sounds around us. No streets, no houses, and no one walking through the night. There’s only this feeling of security in our circle. In this moment we’re all alone. Alone in the world but we’re connected in our own moment. There’s nothing and no one anymore.

2 + 2 = 5

2011-12-07T18:18:00.001-08:00

2 + 2 = 5? IS it? Sometimes the simple answer is right in front of us. Most people simply miss it by thinking too much. Even the smartest person can actually miss the point. Have you missed the simple answer by over-thinking? Do you think too much? Thinking. Thinking all the time. Thinking so much that it isn't fun. It should always be fun. For moi, less thinking more action. What say you? enjoy. kisses. m.

Thinking.
(9-13-2010)

What am I thinking? Too many things all at once. All the time. Things that aren’t necessary and most likely will never be said. It is insanity, but I will do this tomorrow and the next day and next. The woman standing next to you or me on the train, the bus, or at the store will be doing the same. Internalizing and overanalyzing. Perhaps there’s a husband, boyfriend or child that she can not stop redirecting her thoughts toward. Or something at work that requires more thought than is necessary. There are too many things that it could be and not enough things to stop it.

How short should my dress be? Where are my keys? Will I have enough time to change my eye shadow to match the other shade of lipstick I decided to wear? Good morning darling. He’s already to go. Tells me that his lunch hour has changed and that he has to leave earlier. Why didn’t he tell me about taking an earlier lunch yesterday? We could have had lunch together. But that’s not what he wanted. Probably didn’t tell me because there is something to hide. He hates this dress. I can tell. Never tells me anything. Especially not the truth.

I’m thinking too much and now I’ll be late because I think it’s me that really hates this dress because it is far too long. I don’t care why he changed lunch but I will probably pick a fight about it at the wrong time. He reminds me that I’m running late and smiles before handing me a cup of coffee and keys. It’s time for him to leave. Kisses me on the cheek and gives me a once over. He hates this dress but won’t say it. There he goes out the door. I need to change. Oh what to wear. The door swings back and his head ducks in. Tells me that he forgot to say how great my dress is. Liar. Why is he such a liar lately? I can ‘t stand this. We need to talk. I walk over and kiss his forehead then remind him to have a nice day. I’m late now. Only enough time to grab my keys and leave.

On the train with my portfolio, wandering through my notes when I realize that I forgot the plans for the fabulous master bedroom with the amazing view. Its then I think who really needs to see an amazing view on paper. When I think there ought to be photos depicting the before they bulldozed a hole in the yard to open up the view a woman sits next to me reading a magazine. Not an ordinary magazine but the kind that only shows the worst of the worst events spread across the page. I wonder why she would choose to read such things instead of a romance or normal newspaper before thinking that she’s one of those people that enjoys other people’s bad news. She smiling and laughing under her breath at the caption on the front about a man leaving his wife for another with money. I’m thinking silently instead of out loud when she makes eye contact with my stare as the train slows. Instead of thinking I smile and pretend that this is my stop and get up and move to another car.

It’s 11:35 when he calls me and tells me we’re having lunch. I wonder what made him change his mind like this and agree like it’s something I want to do rather than disagree because I haven’t had enough time to decide otherwise. Then I think about how people say yes to things without thinking them through. Someone has you pinned in a corner by or on the phone or messenger, at any rate when you’re dead-lined into a response all you will do is say yes. Besides you can always say no later. Can’t you?

Anyhow, I think about twenty more of the worst things while I’m listening to him talk about his morning and tell me how great I looked in this dress before hanging up. Then I stop to question whether he’s right about this dress. It’s always been in the closet. Maybe it isn’t so bad? Or was he just deflecting because he’s has something to hide. It doesn’t matter because I’m late for a quick chat with Simon the VP while my 18-year old temp secretary is waging emotional warfare on the mail boy because he broke up with her for the copy girl, who isn’t so shy.

During lunch we make the same kind of small talk that normally occurs at home during meals. I keep listening to his stories about work and multi-tasking my thoughts about other things. The sneaking suspicion that he was hiding something never leaves my mind. I can’t shake that thought of him doing something without my knowing although I did get a pedicure without sharing but that’s not the same because he doesn’t get lunchtime pedicures. I smile at his story about work involving something inappropriately timed and ending up perfect instead of picking the fight that’s on my brain I give my thoughts a rest. After lunch he walks me back to the office, says goodbye with a kiss then tells me how great I look and hops into cab before disappearing back into the rest of the afternoon.

Between the hours of 3 and 5 I repeatedly try to reach his phone between meetings. I can’t and my rested thoughts start to turn once again. His work says he’s out and can’t be reached. After a period of slow and noisy I let my secretary go for the rest of the day cause I’m thinking that she can sleep off her emotional vendetta with few cocktails and her girlfriends. As I pat her on the shoulder sympathetically all I can think about is what time my best friend will be by to pick up her plans for the new loft she’s renovating before wondering if the other client will hate the bedroom without seeing the amazing view. The view can’t be duplicated by floor plans but clients don’t always understand that. I take three calls and leave the office for thirteen minutes to get some air. When I return I’ve missed his call that tells me to be home on time or I’ll miss him and not to change my dress.

My friend drops in to grab the plans and drops the bomb about needing a room for a nursery before the clients tell me they hate the living room without a view, but love the idea of a bedroom with a view. Their two children move the coasters on the conference room table while we keep talking about plans and views. The woman, the mother is distracted from the meeting by her children and she’s only giving the presentation a 35% attention while focusing across the room. I can’t help but notice that her eyes wander over and under the boards to catch small glimpses. Its then I wonder how much of her day is consumed by this responsibility. The small lives that she guards and watches over must come before so much more than this change of address.

Halfway home, I decide to walk. Thinking and walking are never bad partners. All things that I keep thinking about picking a fight over are not important. It’s not exactly lies that I’m upset over, it simply inconsistencies and things left unsaid. Thinking of this dress that’s too long and tomorrow’s plans on the agenda aren’t enough to distract. Even thinking about my friend’s loft and her news of a baby on the way doesn’t shake the feeling of not knowing and questioning from my mind. Truth isn’t what I’m missing it’s the things that he’s not sharing, but as I reach the door I realize that he’s not like me, not always thinking, instead he’s saying. If there’s nothing being said then maybe there’s nothing missing.

As I turn the handle and open the door there it is the thing he isn’t sharing with me right in my face. Happy Anniversary, I love you. The thing I forgot to remember because I couldn’t stop thinking. Thinking so much about nothing in the dress that he gave me for last year’s gift and missing the most important thing, that I love him and while he’s standing in front of me showing me what am I thinking? Nothing of shorter dresses, makeup, missing keys or even later or early. I’m thinking of nothing when I close the door and show him right back.

I heard a rumor...

2011-12-06T07:04:00.001-08:00

"I heard a rumor... " Bananarama. Do you like rumors? is gossip your middle name? Well I heard a few rumors that I'm assured are quite true... There's a new Austin Powers movie being made, AFI finished their album and that some people are hungry for more writing. Exciting. Now if any of those rumors are not for you then keep on moving, I'm sure you'll find what you're looking for elsewhere. I hear that Perez tells it best when it comes to things in question. For now... here's a spin on a couple of 400's. Which do you like? Light or Dark? Soft or Hard options? OR is it a little bit of both? enjoy. kisses. m.

Closer.

(1-15-09)

Closer. Gently I pull his face towards mine. Both hands holding his jaw firmly. Arms tightly locked with intent. Closer. So very innocently I look up into those eyes. Both arms remain at his sides. Trusting. Closer. His breath hits my cheek in deep heavy blows. Closer. Finally my face is resting against his. The tip of my nose meets his cheek. He remains still and solemn allowing my gentle affections to progress. Carefully my lips find their way upwards. Lightly I push tiny little kisses against his skin. Lips flit over and around the eyes. Delicate little flutters. Hot breath escapes the warmth of my open mouth as I continue to address the situation. Never breaking the grip of his jaw I begin nursing my target with the tenderness of a skilled surgeon. Without indicating any warning I gently open to spread my lips further. Mouth continues massaging the socket while my tongue is allowed to caress the lid and tickle the lashes. I begin to add a slight pressure to my mouthful. Drawing back I tenderly engulf the entirety of his eye within my lips. Slowly intensifying as I apply more suction with every stroke of my tongue. Quietly his breath increases with excitement. Tighter I grip onto his jawbone making it harder to break free. The pressure of my mouth growing deeper with every second while I continue to nurture and press into the opening. Drawing back with simple pleasure I persist. Sucking. Lips surround and seal. Tongue softly pushes back the lid until there is no barrier. With no more than a gasp I dislodge the eye. Gateway to the soul nestled in my jaw. Gentle tongue movements finding their way along the cord. His body is fully aware of the situation as every quick breath crashes against my skin. Appearing to be in complete rapture his face never breaks free from my grasp. I continue to provide suction against the cavity. Pulling back with quickness I release myself. Teeth sink in severing the arterial connection with a snap. The excruciating pain brings him down to his knees. Spit. Discard the useless piece of sight with little remorse. Hands frantically grabbing the vacant bloody hole. Taste the blood on my tongue. Listen as he unleashes the most horrifying sounds of anguish. Spit. Watch his body writhe in pain before me. Wipe the blood from my mouth.

Closer. #2

Closer. Gently I pull his face towards mine with a smile. Both hands holding his jaw firmly and I can feel the lines of his mouth lift to match my grin. Both my arms tightly locked with the intent to move in. So very innocently I look up into those eyes and try to match their gaze. He lowers his arms and I reach over. His breath hits my cheek in deep heavy blows of anticipation. Finally my face is resting against his and he’s waiting for it. The tip of my nose meets his cheek and I giggle. He remains still and solemn allowing my gentle affections to progress. Carefully my lips find their way upwards. Closer. Lightly I push tiny little kisses against his skin. Lips flit over and around the eyes before making their journey to the ears. Delicate little flutters of his eyes caress my face as I move. Hot breath escapes the warmth of my open mouth as I continue to address the situation. Never breaking my hold of his jaw I begin nursing my target with the tenderness of a skilled surgeon. The lobe of his ear is tender to my kiss. Without indicating any warning I gently open to spread my lips further for a tickle with my tongue. Mouth continues to move back around when he laughs at my silliness. Closer. Carefully I withdraw my lips and add a breath of warm air into his ear. He presses a slight pressure against my cheek with his lips. Drawing back I tenderly kiss his neck with my lips before climbing back up around his ear. His pressure against my skin slowly intensifies as I draw out my intention. Quietly his breath increases with excitement. Tenderly I hold onto his jawbone making it clear that he is to remain still. The sound of his breath is growing deeper while I continue to tickle and press into the opening with my breath. As he attempts to draw back with simple pleasure I persist in keeping him close. Waiting for a sound that hasn’t made its presence known, his nose presses against my cheek to tease it out. Closer. Finally the tip of my tongue softly pushes back against the top of my mouth until there is no barrier. With no more than a breath I tell him, “Do you want to know a secret?”

Electric boots and a mohair suit.

2011-12-05T07:41:00.001-08:00

What's the wildest thing you've ever put on? A suit, a tie or a whole lotta leather or lace? Or were you too afraid of what others might say so you simply kept on doing the same ol thing? People get worked up about the silliest things, don't they? Would their opinion of you bother you? What works you up in a bother? Would you put yourself on display for others to see? Like a stage perhaps? Or would you put up your craft? I always thought it was the craft and not the person that was the thing we should be watching. Some people can't stop watching though... can you? Interesting thought. Lovely. Enjoy. kisses. m.

Let Me.

“Let me tell you one thing, I’m through with the games. I’m done.” It’s the same lie I tell myself every day except it’s realized itself into words that I’m telling the incomparable Missy LaRue. She’s spent the better part of three years following my song with a dance in this third rate club. Somewhere between the first and second act of the night I tell her about my new ex-love and how much of a revelation it’s brought upon me.

“What if I told you that you were going to die? If I told you that you were going to die tomorrow would that change how you lived today?” There’s not an answer in the house. It’s the one thing Missy likes to end her set with and tonight is different cause something happens when she asks it. It’s a hypothetical question meant to get the audience going ‘round in their heads. Never once does Missy ever expect a damn person pipe up with an answer. But tonight when she ended with that thought, somewhere off in the far right corner it came, a small voice that grew louder and louder until I heard what it was saying.

“It doesn’t matter.” The small man yells from the corner of the club before following it up with a colorful word or two between his rant. He’s telling her off. Telling her that she doesn’t know a damn thing after he calls her a self-righteous bitch before telling everyone that she’s a lying piece of work. Now Missy La Rue doesn’t jive with much of what other people think about her. Not one bit, but when you traipse across the advice she’s given others that gets her a bit worked up. Cause Missy don’t talk for vanity or personal gain. Missy wants to see people succeed and she knows like I know that most people won’t do a damn thing unless someone tells them to. That’s where her horse and pony show comes in.

“Honey, quit lying to yourself!” Missy tells me before motioning to the powder puff by the mirror.

“I’m not lying. What?”

“Honey we all say enough with the game. 'I quit.' 'I toss in the towel.' And although you can’t quit the game of living, you'll still lie to yourself and say it. You know, the only thing you ought to be through with is thinking you can change people. That’s what you should think. Every time you drag another one of these third rate bastards back from this third rate club and tell yourself that it’s love, that’s the lie. That man wants one thing and it sure as hell ain’t love. But he’ll tell you that just the same to get it. ”

“Oh Missy, you’re being…”

“Honest. Darling, I’m being honest with you. Which is more than anyone else in this world or next will ever be with you and don’t you forget it. I’m honest with every person I meet and their behavior dictates whether they are friend or foe, not mine. My sharp tongue won’t harm you if you take the truth like it is a sword to the chest. A lie is the kind that stabs you from the back.”

“Missy then how will I ever…”

“True love waits. A man that wants to know you, all of you, he does so. It’s what he’s after and he’ll be glad to wait for much more. The ones that want ONLY will settle on that. Just that.”

“Missy, I love you. Thank you for…”

“Darling you don’t know love, but I get your sentiment anyway. You’re ok in my book.”

“Now sugar, you’re entitled to your opinions about my show. I don’t think much about people who don’t have a lick of sense in their head. And fact be told, I love me a man with enough gumption to stand up for what he believes in. But first things first the name calling I can’t abide by and the second thing… the way you talk to someone you’ve never met speaks highly about the type of character you are. And you’re message is coming in loud and clear.”

Missy continues same as always. When she takes the path from side stage and walks down into the crowd she motions to Mike the stagehand to move the spot to follow her down into the crowd. The oohs and aahs of the crowd grow louder and louder until Missy is standing right next to the small man.

“Well sugar, what’s your name?

“Jerod” the man breathes into the microphone while a thin blanket of sweat coats his face.

“Well, Jerry darling, what do have to say?”

“Um,” the small man swallows and says nothing.

“Come now, cat got your tongue?”

Silence emanates from the nervous small man.

“That’s what I thought, Sugar. Where was I? Yes, let us talk a little more. I don’t expect you or any of you to follow my word to the law. In fact that’s not at all what I’m about. I’m not a role model, I’m not a savior, and lord knows I’m not a saint. I’m simply here telling a little of what I know to those who may or may not know some of that already. And maybe it might help someone from making the same mistakes I've made. Oh yes! Jerry darling, are you ready to talk?”

“Ma’am, I don’t much agree with what you just said. I don’t like what game you’re running here. You’re trying to get people to do what you say and you’re a liar by that much.”

“Alright, that’s an opinion. No one is running a game any which way or how. And honey you shouldn’t make what I’m doing about you. Cause you don’t have to come here to listen to what I’m saying or watch what I’m doing. These people out here in the crowd, do you see them? Take a look. These fine people they get what I’m doing and what I’m REALLY about. And they do.”

With those words the audience roars with applause. Missy smiles and pats the small man on the back while the noise and laughter grows and when it rescinds she speaks her last words on the matter.

“So honey, I’m afraid your opinion… it doesn’t matter.”

And with those words, Missy let the man sit exactly where he was. Leaving him with his own words to ponder and the crowd with a show that they wouldn’t much forget when they wondered if tonight was truly their last one.

BURN IT DOWN.

2011-12-04T17:49:00.001-08:00

Destruction. It's an interesting thing to destroy something, isn't it? Unless you haven't? Have you ever destroyed something? Person, place or thing? There is a Hindu deity called Shiva. Shiva is the god of destruction, or rather transformation. Shiva is responsible for change in the aspect of destruction in a positive light. It is the destruction of an illusion. From the destruction comes the creation of something new. From the end of one thing comes another. "failure is not fatal, success is not final." Churchill. What does destruction mean to you? Are you a destructive person? That thought was something I once contemplated and translated into a story. Here's an excerpt of that idea. Enjoy. kisses. m.

Burn it Down

(7-25-09)

Burn it Down. Open the matchbook. Pull out one. Strike. Light. Shake it out. Drop it to the floor. This is my second book of matches. A few I’ve let burn to the tip of my fingers. Mostly I’ve just wasted them. It’s one thing to say you’ll do something and really quite another to follow through and do it. Strike. Light. Wait. Deep breath. Drop another one. What am I doing? Honestly, this isn’t sanity. I’ve lost my temper again and being alone there’s no one here to stop me. So very often it’s pacified before I ever go off on a tangent. This time I’ve pretty much destroyed the house. There are no dishes left to break. The house is empty except for some pictures that I left up and a few broken lamps needed for minimal illumination. I’ve dragged what’s left of the furniture including the couch outside and I’m debating whether I should set it ablaze. Now there’s sanity for you.

Pull out the last match. Strike. Light. Toss into the pile of debris before me. Decision made. Satisfying.

The fire jumps up into the cool night sky. Dancing higher and higher as it breathes in oxygen. The path of destruction leads to a beautiful manifestation of accomplishment. The flames crawl up into the couch and down the arm of another chair in the pile. I can distinctly make out the medallion clock that was a gift in the flames. The hands of the dial are slowly liquefying and the springs uncoil breaking free. I can only imagine what remains of the Shaker style table as it went up in flames far too quickly for me to enjoy. The brilliant colors of this bonfire are amazing as it consumes this mountain of possessions. I’m mesmerized at the beauty of my creation. She’s uncontrollable and rapidly growing. The night sky is dazzling with the intense light of the fire. Vivid yellows with hints of orange and blue. Snaps as the wooden furniture bends and breaks; Music to my ears. The colors break free and thrust themselves toward the tree in the yard. Climbing up the trunk, seizing and taking hold of the branches and jumping even higher into the night sky...

Fire, fire, burning fire, taking hold and fulfilling my desire for total destruction.

My devastation couldn’t be more magnificent. I’d simply never dreamed that anything so terrifying could hold so much beauty. The blazing inferno has reached the house. I’m powerless to stop it. Actually I’m entranced by my uncontainable rage. It’s so relaxing. I’m calm. There’s no more anger left in me. Take a seat about 100 feet back in the only lawn chair left and watch it all come down.

40

2011-11-30T18:28:00.001-08:00

40. 40 minutes, hours, or days? a number can stand for so many things. what's that one mean to you? to me it means a little bit of sobriety in a sense. given up something I never thought I'd go without for this long and I'm planning on continuing without it. Ever have a habit that you finally had the nerve to kick? Then again to each their own. "Different strokes for different folks" - Sly and the family stone. Well have you ever had dinner with a less than delightful person? how long would you stay? 40 minutes perhaps? What if it was a madman who wants to be you instead of date you? Interesting thought I once had so I wrote a little story about it. Here's a excerpt for you to taste. enjoy. kisses. m.

Beneath the calm lies the darkness.

(7-12-09)

Beneath the calm lies the darkness. I didn’t want him dead exactly, but a little damage wasn’t about to satisfy me either. Call it carnage or mayhem, but destruction was it, simply put. Tell me six hours ago, that I’d be gutting a man and my response would have been hysterical laughter in your face. And yet here I am sorting through the intestines and other such things that make up the guts of a human being. My hands stained crimson and, I’m not exactly sure what color goes with this. Actually let’s take it back a few hours…

It was a charming candlelight dinner for two. Such an unexpected surprise! Jewelry - a ring. “Darling! You shouldn’t have.”

REALLY! Since that’s exactly where the charming scenario ends.

As if the smell of flesh wasn’t enough, I’m combing through the organs and fishing around for the smallest instance of metal and wondering if this mess will come out of my dress. Furthermore, “Whatever will become of these heels?”

Sometime after the second course he asks for my measurements. Coy and being silly as always I blush and mention that “you already know my size.” Again the issue is pressed with more diligence and the words are getting a little stressed. Puzzled, I reply curtly. In my attempt to avoid a fight I quickly change the subject to the news. His face freezes and eyes drift off. Silence.

Damn him for this! Swallowing the key. Slice, snip, tear. Surprisingly his flesh still moves easily as my tiny fingers manipulate the skin around the opening and find the way upward feeling for an opening to his esophagus. There’s just so much blood.

“I want to wear your face like a mask!” The words stumble out of his mouth upon his intoxicated breath across the table reaching toward me. “And I’m going to make clothing out of your flesh.” Assuming that he’s being funny, I stop eating and let out a brief giggle followed by a smile. He’s not smiling as he slides out of the chair and begins to walk towards me. When he reaches down for my hand, I hold his gaze. I see this darkness that hadn’t been there before. I flinch and pull my hand back. “Tsk-tsk my dear,” he steps back, “I’d hoped you wouldn’t struggle. I hadn’t planned on damaged goods.” He walks back to the far side of the table and pivots to face me. Grabbing his wine glass, he smiles, raising the other hand to reveal a key in his palm. With that gesture to me, he swallows the key. “Now we have plenty of time to take care of this problem.” Locked in with a maniac.

Flimsy and quite fragile are the inner workings of a human. I’ve been poking around in the insides of this overdone fiend for about two hours and having no luck in locating the key. Me, performing this backwards autopsy upon the dining room table dressed with what’s left of the best linens; My Marc Jacobs dress substituting for scrubs. Steak knife is my scalpel, dish towels for sponges, and bourbon to sterilize? Actually the bourbon is an attempt to chase away my squeamish nerves. Model turned mortician in a matter of hours.

Armed with my steak knife, I slide out of my chair and step away from the table. It’s a matter of time before he pounces and I need a plan… It hits me! I have the upper hand here. He doesn’t want my flesh marked or scarred. Somehow he needs to subdue me without bruising. I look around for the poison or other such means. Nothing. What was his agenda?

We are slowly circling the dining room table. Chair by chair, moving in closer as I stare at him gripping my steak knife with every ounce of determined strength I have. I’m petite and no match for this 6 ft. maniac. I’ve come around to his original seat. Stopping and resting my hand on the table, I pause for a moment. Look him in the eye, and without further hesitations I take the steak knife and slice part of my face open. It’s not deep, but I’m right in my assumption and he overreacts.

“NO!” He screeches, drops his arms and lunges across the table towards me, taking with him the entire dinner. China comes crashing down, spilling wine and food everywhere in this foolish move. He lands within my reach and grabs at my free hand. I pull to break free, but his grip becomes intense and suddenly he’s pulling ferociously. Not out of his maniacal urgency, out of sheer panic. He’s on fire! Somehow the candle ignited the wine when it spilled and he’s fireball of burning flesh before my eyes. Keeping a level head, I run for the extinguisher. He’s out, in more ways than one. I cut his throat out anyhow. Well there really was no sense in us both dying.

Eureka! I’ve found it. In the upper regions of his digestive tract. Small, metallic, sharp. Bloody fantastic treasure. Eyes open. DAMN! He’s not dead. It’s time to go now. I’ve taken his voice instead of his life. Goodnight my love. He knows what I’ve done. Carved a cavernous hole into his torso. Took a piece of his neck. He’s powerless. I smile, raise a glass of wine and a lit candle in one hand and wave the key in front of him with the other. There’s panic in his eyes and darkness in mine. I spill the wine and drop the candle. Grab my Stoll. Lock the door behind me as I leave.

Burn baby burn!

In a little while.

2011-11-28T17:48:00.001-08:00

What saves you? End of the day what is your thing that rescues you from the dark? Some things save you. . And if art, music, writing, etc save you... there's nothing wrong with that. Absolutely nothing. Ah, sometimes things that save you... they are people. They truly rescue you. And believe it or not i'm glad that those people do. I can't imagine the world without... everyone has a place and a purpose. Needless to say you don't have to disappear but staying to watch it all happen to someone else shouldn't be an option anymore. inspiration is now in front of you. let it in. the story is from the d-men. enjoy the love, the life, and damn it keep breathing there's more to be seen. kisses. m.

Song: how to disappear completely - radiohead

Disappear.

That there. That’s not me.

Alistair Grigson-Smith came to find he was alone when it happened. And now just like then he’s all alone looking over the body. A body he used to occupy lays lifeless in the satin lined ebony box. There isn’t much to see other than the new suit his sister picked out for him. A suit, a tie and a new pair of shoes. The shoes he definitely needed after the homeless man stole his in the alley where it happened.

Alistair thinks of the word Wake and wonders how effective its use is in this instance while he’s watching people as they pass him, one by one with their remorse and tears. All he can think of how peacefully he sleeps while everyone around him sleepwalks through the motions of this life including their movements through this ritual.

It’s a ritual that wouldn’t be happening had he not been late for the meeting last Monday morning. He was always running late when he should have been on time. He was unable to go where he wanted by the constraints of living. Now he concludes that he’ll never have to worry about anything stopping him from going and he steps through a pair of unfamiliar mourners making his way towards the wall.

I go where I please. I walk through walls. Float down…

Passing through the wall he finds himself entering another room. A thousand flowers seem to come from everywhere in the small room. Flowers surround people in their solemn faces and clothes. There are threes and fours of people he’s never seen. Or mistakenly seen a lifetime ago, at the beginning of the dream their images dance upon the cusp of a memory as if it were a word hanging on the very tip of a tongue.

This moment with the flowers reminds Alistair of the dark alley beneath the rainy sky when it happened. When it happened there were piles of flowers tossed outside next to the rubbish piles and broken glass bottles on the ground. All around there were oversized puddles of water and dripping waterfalls from fire escapes when that unfamiliar man stepped out with his knife. The thoughts of the man and his knife come and go just like Alistair as he glides up the stairs before passing through another wall.

I’m not there. This isn’t happening.

Alistair has spent the morning convincing himself that he is no longer here among these people. Although this is happening around him, it is no longer happening to him. He watches his siblings move their possessions into the study where he once wrote his favorite bits of nonsensical poetry. He watches them talk about his silly things as if they were their silly things. Alistair’s family is already making plans without him. There’s nothing left as the final viewers pack up and leave. A man from the home closes the lid on his ebony box and signals the Palls that it is time.

After it happened Alistair remembers how he had to detach from himself to watch his un-living progress forward. He kept telling himself “That’s not me,” while the coroner cut a downward with a straight line that passed through his belly. He faintly felt the shudders of life when the man gently pulled back on the blade. He knew there was no point in feeling bad because no one would want what’s left afterwards. Once the insides of him were on the outside he begin to realize that he’s not sure what happened before he was here. Counting backwards in his un-life the last memories of living aren’t clear and fading quick.

Alistair accompanies the final journey. More people solemnly line up and share their faces with each other. Tears that can be felt, anguish that lives in their stares, and love that they can only share with each other. Alone in his emptiness, he strains to relate to the pain of his mourners Alistair knows that his time is slipping away. Slipping downward; the ebony box slides after finding its release from the hands of its bearers. Alistair can no longer move without their hands. Hands reach into earth and toss their final goodbye onto his body. Eventually he will be gone and his body will lay to rest beneath the earth.

In a little while I’ll be gone.

Time is all that Alistair knows. He knows that in life there are an infinite number of minutes that will come and be counted until there are no more. In death every moment spent counting backwards from nothing all alone. And soon all that isn’t here and happening will cease for Alistair Grigson-Smith.

Roadrunner Roadrunner

2011-11-27T13:16:00.001-08:00

Are you a liar? Do you lie to others? How about to yourself? What kind of lies do you tell? White lies? Or ones that need to be reinforced? Once again the question of the day is "The lie or the truth?" while the song for today comes from MIA. Do you listen to MIA? ANYWAY... Would you prefer that someone lied to you? Or would you prefer the truth? I always thought it was the truth. Unless something has changed? That would be a shame. I've heard that in the end its the truth that sets you free. enjoy. kisses. m.

Lies.
(7-10-09)

Lies.

The ones we tell ourselves to keep going. Little white ones. Deep dark malevolent ones. Those things we can’t bear to be true. So often we lie just to cope. Defense mechanism.

I did not kill him.

Just another fabrication to get through the night. These ominous moments filled with a determined silence; and distant din of the city coming to life. Dawn will be here soon.

He’ll start breathing again.

I stole $5 from the piggy bank when I was a kid. My mom caught me trying to hide the broken pieces of the shattered pig under the front porch. I lied and told her I dropped the bank accidentally. Through my crocodile tears I sobbed how I was afraid she’d be mad, so I was going to use the money to replace it. A WHOPPER! But she bought it. So begin my life of deceit.

I did not hit him with the car and back over the body five times.

Small truths we keep to ourselves. The real honest things are what we're most scared to share. It’s the little pieces of genuine humanity that make us most vulnerable we don’t share. But the lies roll off the tongue; spill out the mouth like sweet gems of music being released for the first time.

I did not shoot him with a rifle.

Unprovoked deceit. Cold manipulative and calculated deception. “I was married once”, it’s what I tell them, the men. It’s my line you could say. They all eat it up. I explain that he beat me, raped me, etc. Sympathy for the liar. Smile a little. Put on a fake. Show them your false innocence. Devil in a blue dress. But it gets them each and every time… HOOK, LINE, SINKER.

I did not drive his unconscious body to the middle of nowhere in the dark hours of the morning.

You could say it was a bit like fishing. THE BAIT: Makeup, Tight Dress, Cleavage, Stilettos. And that was just for kicks. The first time it happened I wasn’t even trying… You see, I was lonely that night and being in, was far too unbearable. So I went out for a drink. Came up with a good story, and the rest was something I wasn’t prepared for.

I did not ask him to leave with me.

No one ever tells you that lying can lead to good things do they? See the first time it happened, was a bit of luck for me. A man offered to buy my drink. I was bored, lonely and didn’t see any harm in company so I accepted. We traded our fake stories. He hid his wedding band. Lovely line on his left hand was the give away. See most men don’t realize just how big an imprint that band leaves around your finger. Yes, I could see the line where his ring rested. And of course he was married. That was his lie.

I did not slip drugs into his drink.

Liars are we all. Everyone is a liar. Big ones, little ones. Mom’s to children, bosses to employees, government to the population for control. That’s all it is. Control. Like trained animals that jump through hoops for a false prize promised to them. For us, there is no promised land. Even lying to ourselves in the end. Heaven and Hell.

I did not offer to buy his drink.

He was married, I knew it. I went along for the ride anyhow. After two drinks we stop. He says “let’s get outta here”. I agree. Before he makes it to the car he falls down. Drunk. Lucky me. I ask him what he’s driving and attempt to help him up. He is spinning and incoherent. I take his keys and try to find it using the alarm. It’s a ‘68 Chevy P.U. Cherry red. Nothing more than that I could tell you about it. Not a gear head, but I do appreciate a pretty picture. I managed to drag this idiot over to it. As I’m shoving this drunk into the cab out of his pocket drops a bottle of pills. Date Rape BS. I get upset. He’s passed out. That was supposed to be me. So I shove his body over, fire up the truck and peel out.

I did not smile and sit down next to him at the bar.

Lying to myself always was the easy part of life. It was harder to swallow someone else’s story. That bastard tried to drug me. Idiot! Wasn’t he in for a treat? I drove out to some unmarked dirt road. Threw him out and was about to leave him when… the gears slipped! And just like that, the truck backed over him. THUMP! THUMP! “Oh God”! I instantly throw it in gear and go forward with out thinking. THUMP! THUMP! “Shit”! I get out and assess the damage.

I did not go to the bar last night.

He’s not breathing and his head resembles a smashed cabbage. Brains are falling out. I would panic, but everyone in that bar is a liar and not one of those people could honestly say they really knew who he was. No one would notice or bother to say a thing when the authorities came looking. No one would talk… unless these other cheaters wanted to admit these infidelities to their spouses waiting patiently by the phone at home.

I did not kill anyone.

Simple truths we continue to share with ourselves. The lies – complicated deception – we save for the eager audience that awaits us out in the world.

I am not a liar.

--

Happy Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T12:18:00.001-08:00

It's Thanksgiving. Some people are thankful. Are you thankful? I know that I am for all of my family & friends. What's for dinner? Eating lots or just a little of it? Well it may not be as important as who you're spending time with. But that's a matter of where you LAY your opinion, isn't it. Anyway, hopefully you all stay on the nice side of the cook. Or else?? enjoy the day with your and yours. kisses. m.

Dinner for Six.

(9-1-09)

Dinner for six. Six for dinner.

Making quick of this tedious work in the kitchen. Slicing carrots. Watching for the pot to come to a boil. Waiting on the oven timer to sound. People should begin to arrive shortly. Dinner is nearly finished. Doorbell. Charlotte and Randall. It should be no surprise as they usually arrive earlier than everyone else, even to an informal dinner. Charlotte gushes as she hangs her shawl, “Smells delicious! What are you making?” I wave my hand to give a sign that it’s a secret. Randall winks. He knows that I never reveal what I’ve made for dinner until after everyone has tasted it. My past entrees have included such things as Rattlesnake, Water Beetles and a very rare mushroom that could be mildly poisonous if prepared incorrectly, among other inauspicious foods that one wouldn’t willingly consume ordinarily. The chef never reveals the secret behind the meal.

The table is set for six. However there are still only five of us here. Patrick and Olivia have recently joined us in the front room as we wait for our final friend to arrive. Christian, as his usual form is running late. Olivia is very impatient and pacing. She handles her glass of red wine with the grace of a raging brute. It becomes certain, that as she’s talking and tossing the glass in the air with her wild hand movements, the liquid will spill out onto the floor. “Randall!,” screeches Olivia as she shakes the wine glass directly in his face, liquid nearly making contact with his clothing, “You talked to Chris last. Where is he?” Randall reaches up and braces Olivia’s glass then slowly removes it from her grasp. She stands there stunned. Still upset, she pulls out a cigarette and lights it. I’m not amused. There’s no smoking in my house. Charlotte looks at me and shakes her head. I nod. Dinner Time.

Everyone settles in at the table as dinner begins. The topic of conversation remains focused upon our missing friend.

Charlotte: “It’s just like Christian to do this. How are any of you surprised he didn’t show? By the way, this plate is majestic! Oh and... Anna, what is this meat? It has the most peculiar texture and its just heaven to taste.

Randall: “Charlotte, how can you be so callous? By the way, pass the wine. Christian isn’t always bailing. Sometimes there are legitimate reasons for his absences. Well, he does owe me some money, but that really shouldn’t have kept him away tonight. This is some form of a blood pudding isn’t it? Anna, you shouldn’t have gone through all the trouble to prepare this.”

Patrick: “Where is Christian? What possible excuse could he have this week? He’s always come by dinner in some form or another. It’s more than half past the hour and still a no-show. Anna, you really outdid yourself on this meal. You must share. It’s some form of primate, isn’t it? That would be a first. Am I right?

As my dinner guests ramble on, I grin, sip my wine and nod. Promising only to share once each of them had cleared a plate. They agreed.

Olivia: “I disagree! Charlotte, this happens to be the vilest thing Anna has ever prepared and I refuse to eat another bite. We should be calling Christian, not sitting at dinner like everything is ok. Anna did he call before we came? ”

I shake my head no and continue to sip my wine. I wouldn’t be lying at all, he didn’t call. After all, a little longer and they will give up on Christian coming tonight. My conscious was almost in the clear. Not that it really matters… Charlotte stops eating suddenly and pauses. She removes a long hair from her fork. “Anna, you seemed to have lost a hair in the dish.” Oh! Hopefully there aren’t more.

People are always so incredibly concerned with the type of food they eat. Where it came from? What’s in it? Who killed it? Some of the best dishes prepared come from the most ingenious ingredients. My talents knows no bounds this particular evening. Even I’m impressed with dinner. Truly divine. I had the opportunity to use a highly unusual source for my dish and jumped at it. To say this thought hadn’t crossed my mind before would have been lying.

Clearing the table and preparing to serve the dessert. Set out five cups of coffee to accompany a small torte that Patrick brought. Yet there’s more discussion of our absent friend and pressure to reveal the intricacies of my elegant yet interesting dish. Shaking the curiosity of the group proved to be rather difficult. As a matter of fact I felt quite reluctant to share this evening. Randall didn’t speak to me for a month when I served him part of a brown-horned toad as an appetizer. He felt it was a violation of the extinction of rare breeds. Suppose they didn’t understand about this type of delicacy.

He came in the kitchen while I was in the middle of preparing dinner. Sneaking up behind to playfully give me a scare. Christian and I had a long understanding of playful yet cruel jokes. This was no joke though. It all happened so suddenly, like a flash before my eyes. Arms grabbed my waist. Twist, jump, turn! Complete reaction. I didn’t intentionally mean to... Jugular. The kitchen blade pierced flesh, slicing through skin and physically incapacitating his entire body in a matter of seconds. Without thinking I pulled back my tool opening the wound even more, until it became an uncontrollable fountain. I know we didn’t see eye to eye on more than one occasion, but as much as the next person, I didn’t want to see Christian dead. Yet, there he was lying on the kitchen tile, blood pooling next to his body, eyes glazed over. Oh dear, what shall I do? Seeing that it had happened I couldn’t just waste the opportunity to experiment with new cuisine.

“So Anna,” Patrick addresses me carefully with a smirk, “We’ve sat through dinner, dessert, and now your time has come to share,” I should have known it would be Patrick. He had traveled with a missionary group sometime back and spent time living among a tribe of cannibals. I’d never questioned whether he’d partaken in the rituals, until now. His eyes revealed knowledge. “Or, perhaps Anna, I could enlighten our friends. But I think you might prefer to unveil your masterpiece.”

“Christian,” I start slowly and the words drop from my mouth, “You see... He made it to dinner after all.” Olivia drops her glass, lets out a blood-curdling scream and faints. Charlotte and Randall are both frozen in a catatonic open-jawed gasp. Patrick grins in a wider more sinister manner as he raises his glass to toast me on an exquisite meal.

Unclothed and honest.

2011-11-22T07:39:00.001-08:00

Listening to a little Don't Die Cindy this morning and thought of this old one. It's a bit R-Rated. Sex. Violence. Guns. Do you like guns? Where do you like to keep your guns? enjoy if you've never read it. kisses. m.

Between my legs.

(12-9-09)

Between my legs. Lies a hope for the future. Safety. Love. My insecurity? The reason he strayed is between her legs. The reason I stay is between mine. Infidelities he shouldn't have. We're both crying. Both aching. Knowing it’s too damn hard to watch him leave each time. Welcoming him back into my arms despite these flaws. Into the warmth, the depths where he’d linger too long. Falling and fading quickly, taking me down with him. Consumed by desire. A dark desire that is delicately hidden but ever so welcoming. Watching him savor the taste like drinking a hearty pinot noir as the flavor deepens into a meaningful experience. An exceptional wine, meant to be slowly enjoyed down to every drop.

Disappointment. My weakness. Inadequacies as a female. The one thing that sells you short as a woman is there between your legs. Never being taken seriously. As a woman it will keep you weak if you choose. Deprive you of love if you let it. Or allow the true nature within to become empowered by it. Controlled. Demanding. Eve in the Garden of Eden with that convincing apple. Damned is the man that believes he is manipulating a woman. A woman is a cool calculating creature never to be trusted or taken lightly despite what lies between her legs.

Waiting for him to return one more time. Deep down knowing that the game never changes, yet I’ve been foolish enough to continue this way. Sitting carefully, naked in the cold dark kitchen at the small table I trace my fingers carefully along the Formica surface. My bare skin is alive with the anticipation of his return. Element of surprise. It is my very intention to seduce and distract. The pressure of cool metal steel is nestled against the inside of my thigh as I wait. Looking down I can see the invention of death between my legs. Just as I continue to think he hasn’t returned soon enough the front door moves. Quickly my hand reaches in pushing aside the revolver where his eyes can not see. Nothing but my smile and open invitation.

Carefully the dark room masks his face as he moves closer to me. Only his eyes are visible as he makes his way forward. From the looks of it, he’s quite pleased to find me unclothed and honest. Standing over me his hands reach down into my hair and along my neck. An extraordinarily hard kiss as he makes an effort to lean in. The roughness of the moment is intoxicating as his grabbing hands continue to trail along my bare skin. Hands around my hips and in the small of my back as lips move downward, tracing their way from neck to breasts, then further. My ambitious efforts have me fumbling through his clothing, unclasping and removing, as he advances. As he reaches my navel I continue to reassure him by gently stroking his hair; beautiful hair, dark, thick and lush. Head movements find a balance as he nears my thighs. Tug at the back of his head to make eye contact. Lifting eyes meet mine in a piercing stare. Shh! He calms me with a smile before reaching between my legs.

Slowly I part my legs further and give way. Sliding the gun out from its hidden place, ever so silently, with a scoot of my thigh. Removing the cold steel instrument of death as he bends forward to kiss the inside of my thigh. Lips continue to softly caress my inner thigh as his hands come around to circle my hips and pull forward. Silently I find a place beneath his temple. Bare. Visible to my aim. Rocking my hips forward to meet his increasing movements, with my target in sight, I squeeze the trigger tenderly releasing death. Between my legs.

So you like to watch?

2011-11-21T08:02:00.001-08:00

So you like to watch? Yeah you do. Can't stop, can you? How about that? Would you like to try to participate? I find that it makes things so much more fun when people do. Leave a comment. Or you prefer to watch?The thing people dislike in others is the thing they dislike about themselves. Everyone watches. They just don't tell. Enjoy. kisses. m.

Watcher.
(9-22-2010)

The mornings are always the best for watching things move outside the windows with the light colors of the day. It’s morning when I do this most. Watch the windows. Look for the slight movements of the birds in the trees and people getting into their cars while the still sounds of the day start to jump to louder sounds of life. The sounds inside are almost as inviting. From where I’m sitting I can scan the entire room without so much of a shift or twitch.

It’s after the birds and before I see the neighbor hit his trash can that I’m watching Gregor. I’m watching him get up and get dressed in his usual routine of yoga, shower, and food when there’s a ring of the phone. He stops to show me affection with his free hand while the other quickly jots down notes that match the quickness of his voice. Hanging up the line he flips on the tube for me, before finishing his routine and although it makes my eyes dart attentively there’s nothing of interest to see. It’s before he leaves that he fills a small container with a handful of crackers and packs them in his pocket. Open and out the door but not so fast I get a wave and a smile. Gregor looks tired but this doesn’t change... oh how I love the colors of the mornings with the birds, trees and people.

It’s in the late afternoon that I find I like to groom myself. The thought of dirtiness sets me into a bit of an internal argument so I began the ritual of cleansing. Careful attention to every detail. Up and down the right front and working my way back clockwork against the grain of tan and repeating until I feel that the need has been sufficiently satisfied. For nearly an hour sometimes I can lose myself into this routine of cleaning while the maid washes the dishes and vacuums the hallway I keep my focus on the small pieces of dirt caught in between my hair.

The maid isn’t here today and that doesn’t matter except I’m not lost in the moment for long and wanting to eat again. Most days it’s before I clean and walk the perimeter of the house that I eat, but not today. Today there’s no maid and Gregor was late. But there’s someone new outside the window so I’m staying instead of eating. She’s not very friendly and looks to be the size of small girl and there’s she standing looking at me look at her in the window…

I wonder when Gregor is coming home when the girl walks away only she isn’t away but at another window and there’s no way to know about Gregor without the maid leaving today. Gregor never misses paying her on weekends and she isn’t here to take it so there’s no need to rush.

After playing with the small miniature man with a bell around his neck, I forget about eating, cleaning and the girl.

Laundry is what happens every Friday at 6:30. It’s the time that Gregor spends talking to me. I like when he talks with me. It so happens he always has a very interesting treat to share with me as gathers up clothes and talks while I watch. Into the bag he pushes piece after piece, but not tonight, he’s later that he should be and that small girl isn’t where she ought to be.

It’s nearly dusk outside and I like to watch the colors of the evening start deepening. Through the shadows I can see the neighbors outside cat, to which I refer to this feline in the loosest term of ownership, walking across the perimeter of the property fence. Fluffy, who resembles more of a FLAT looks like a dirty smelly oversized rodent with her small pieces of grey hair matted against the few remaining pieces of white, is chasing a small bug across the top of the fence. I’m almost envious when the girl that ought to be somewhere else is making too much noise while Gregor still isn’t here.

Nighttime is the best for watching the movement in the street. Cars zip in and out of the street and stray animals wander through the yards. Being alone at night usually isn’t a problem. I like to climb the curtains and swing my tail against in the direction of the blinds to watch them spin. Riding the curtains down is in bad taste according to Gregor but the thrill can’t be beaten. I think the small girl is gone... into the kitchen but forget to look as Fluffy has a red bow…

At the top of every hour the clock in the hall chimes this hour it’s ten times as I watch it. There’s a small light on in the entry way as Gregor’s car pulls up around the front. I can’t remember where the small girl went but there’s a twist in the blinds across the room and I know what that means. The nocturnal risings of the rodent of the house are ready to begin. I quickly leave my perch and wander towards the movement. The swing of the door and my pounce are timed. In comes Gregor and I’ve caught a mouse. Proudly I swing this newfound treasure about while Gregor takes off his coat and heads to the bedroom. I drop the mouse and start again.

The mouse proves to be a fun chase. I’ve made progress in killing the creature. Gutting its insides and dragging its lifeless body across the room to show Gregor. I like showing. It’s that feeling of recognition. Look. See what I’ve done when presenting my prize kill...

Gregor’s in the kitchen talking to someone. Someone in this kitchen where there’s been a struggle that leaves me pawing my way through a puddle of blood. It’s not mine and Gregor looks just fine. As my feet clear the wetness I nestle up against a foreign leg and drop my kill to the floor. His red stained hands reach down and pull me up while his blood soaked clothing reveals that he’s working and finishing up. The small girl looks helpless and scared tied to a chair as his blood stained hands continue making their way through my hair. RRRR...This is nice. I like that he’s home now. She is where she ought to be… and with that comfort I’m down across the room trailing the blood in my wake.

There’s something in the window… like a small animal looking in. Two big eyes reflected against the glass are there after I’ve decided to take apart the pillows in the bedroom. With small feathers strewn about all I can think about is how much I want to play with the eyes looking in and dance with the movements. The nights are best for looking out windows and watching.

You tell me.

2011-11-21T07:55:00.001-08:00

Does everyone really want 15 minutes? I love it. the sheer idea of everything being broadcast and televised. I don't watch talk shows or much of reality but life happens right in front of you in a very interesting way every single day. What do you do with what you see? Report, use for ideas or participate? So.... What happened to Manny someone asks? I don't know. What happened to Oprah? Or Jerry? Tell me what you think should happen... I'd love to know. enjoy if you've never read this one. kisses. m.

15 Minutes.
(12-12-09)

The spotlights hum as the stage is redressed and set for another day. The cameras have begun rolling capturing every behind the scene tidbit for later cut-away candid moments during the show. Everyone wants their 15 minutes. Fame. The world is practically split into two factions. There are those who possess the potential, the talent and the drive followed by those who do not, could not and should never. The plain Joes, outnumbering the gifted few, each wanting just a glimpse of star attention and craving a mere moment to shine in the spotlight. Longing for the love that needs not be returned. That selfish love. Despite the desire, most of the poor ordinary fools will never be noticed. Unable to walk out into the warm spotlight or have a voice that will be heard. And in all honesty, that’s the best thing for them. A simple life of anonymity. It is a better fate to be known for nothing than remembered for just anything.

Anyone can get on TV; it’s the reality of circumstances. Anybody who is somebody is on TV. Why be ordinary when you can be somebody? It’s better to be interesting than ordinary. Far more interesting if you’re sleeping with your half sister or cousin. Even better if your live in lover happens to be a man masquerading as a woman having an affair with your half-sister or cousin. The tendency to produce more obscure and deviant oddities is what sends the ratings through the roof. Before there was the invention of reality television, the channels were populated by the self help talk show gurus in the business of creating Real moments populated by Real people. All of which insisted they were in it to help the poor helpless victims sort out these derelictions and deviations. Your problems = Our help for the entertainment of the masses.

“Manny can make it happen!” screams the crowd wrangler as the audience fills into the seats. A recorded answer prompts via the speaker system surrounding the stage as the wrangler continues his voice cues to the audience.Manny can! “Who can?”Manny can! “CAN DO! NOT CAN DON’T!” Manny can! “Ladies and gentlemen Manny Creed…” The host misses his cue for the impromptu rehearsal. Our host, invisible to the audience, is the small man exit stage right screaming into a phone about today’s show. Today’s show isn’t about unwed mothers, disappearing genitalia, or the rapid mobilization of drugs into the streets by the Catholic Church; in fact it wasn’t going to be introduced until the taping went live. Even Manny was going in completely unrehearsed. Producers were longing for an opportunity to liven things up a little and a candid very Real show seemed like an unusual creature to tackle.

Manny Creed, the man behind the mission and possibly the man behind the next somebody’s 15 minutes of fame. The man who has become the pinnacle of the trash talk show wasn’t always the savior of the afternoon and late night television. Manny used to be a traveling salesman and son of a preacher man. By no means was his father a man of the cloth. Manny’s dad was one of the first revolutionaries to tap into evangelism turned profit. Monty Creed, a friend of fair weather blowing into town by town preying on the hopes of the few in trade for any monetary collections. Which from the looks of things, this rotten apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. Day after day the show produces segment after segment about the freak aberrations of human culture while gaining popularity among the masses in trade for profit accumulated by its advertisers. Manny promised hope to the undereducated, unimportant, and unheard minorities of the world.

It’s a funny thing to prey on the souls of the faceless victims. What’s the harm when you never have to face someone again? They get those 15 minutes, while you continue to profit and propel forward away from that moment. The moment when they’ll live forever and you’ll keep going. Not sort of the thing one would want to be remembered for. Yet there’s a million people waiting to air their dirty laundry, tell that hidden secret and confess to living a sham for the sake of celebrity. Not so harmless when you know the people on the other end of the stick willing to hang you out to further extend their moment of fame.

500th episode. Nearly in syndication, The Manny Creed Show is a household name and climbing. The producers want a special show. A show to top the other dogs in the game. Mareska Donnells, empowering women. Antivar James, tackling the tough issues. Hallahan, with his cheesy gimmicks. None of which had ever contemplated a show like this. Today the audience would be wowed and dazzled to the hidden intricacies of Manny’s life. Manny’s was livid. His childhood spoken from the mouth of his father, reuniting with the brother he never had growing up, praises and accolades from his beautiful wife of 12 years among other surprise guests. Producers had spent months in planning to hide the details until it was too late to do anything. Twenty-Five minutes before air a mere assistant places a convenient call that fuels a wave of emotional panic. However the show must go on and Manny finds composure within as he closes the cell phone. Reaching out he trades the phone for a microphone and proceeds out on stage. There would be no way of knowing what would ensue. One thing for sure, Manny knew this better than anyone else, the audience was going to love this.

Proceeding out on stage as the audience cheers the veteran on, the teleprompter cues Manny to deliver his warm remarks and thanks to those participating in the special event. Cameras pan around the room as Manny spins around shaking hands. The stage is set and the guests are already seated. There’s no way of knowing what hell on earth would be like but as he looks at the panel without breaking his fake, Manny understands that this is the day he will be held accountable for actions in this life. The Real. Farthest to the left sits his mistress, now a man, with the twin bastard children he fathered, followed by his wife and her best friend in flagrante as the audience cheers on, a man that could be his older fatter twin seated next to a common whore, and lastly on the far right sits his father Monty Creed, a homosexual preacher who molested thousands during his spiritual journey, now dying of AIDS. Truth. The scariest of realities.

Teleprompters push and prod the host to confront the demons before him.

The infidelity of his wife with her lesbian lover. Both professing love and openly sharing the sham of their 12 years together in marriage. The former Mrs. Creed screaming “I never loved you! You piece of scum! I’m here to make sure the public knows the truth about your lies.” She concludes her say by setting fire to a wedding album.

The affair with a transgendered man that resulted in the birth of twins. A six year union that he carefully hid from the public scrutiny now openly out on display for the masses. “Carefully I’ll choose my words, as I know the public frowns upon gay marriages. But please understand, my Manny isn’t gay. Our love produced these two beautiful children. I can’t change who I am and I’m glad Manny helped me see that.” Despite his loving former partner’s kind words the audience gasps and boos.

The older brother he never knew, sitting before him with a prostitute he married and continues to sell for sex. Funds which in turn help to profit a pornographic bookstore that has been shut down repeatedly for fronting as a brothel. “Yo, I can’t help it if I’m the straight one in the family. A man’s gotta stand up for what he believes. You know what, little bro, I love you, gay or whatever the hell, even if we didn’t grow up together you got my support. And if you ever wanna discount let me know, I can take care of that. The name of the place is the Hook-Up on the corner of Frank and Fitz. The number GL5-5555 for anyone else looking to HOOK UP.” Producers love this shameless self promotion as the switchboard lights up with calls.

Lastly sits the father who molested thousands of children years before contracting AIDS and bilking the everyday man out of millions all in the sake of Christianity. Accusations of BLAME and questions of WHY and HOW COULD YOU escape Manny. His father effortlessly gives an enigmatic response, “Son the Lord is a forgiving man, but at this time in your life he holds you responsible for your loved ones.” Manny looks away in pure disgust as the man of God, with his simple mind, now speaks in riddles.

Teleprompter reads: Time to take a few calls, but Manny isn’t reading it anymore. Manny isn’t saying anything now. Cut away fast. As the she-male and bastard twins look for comfort. Cut back to Manny. As his wife holds the burning wedding album while embracing another woman. Wait for it. His brother with the prostitute wife. Wait. Gay father dying of AIDS. Watch. The man offering hope, promises and bad advice crumbles. Face breaking. There it is. No non-refundable love. The true moment of clarity unraveling within 15 minutes. There it is your life is up on stage and confronting you. Life answers in a scream and then waits for a response. Can you handle it? Manny can’t. Can’t Do It. No he can’t.

There'll come a time, don't you forget it.

2011-11-20T19:22:00.001-08:00

There'll come a time, don't you forget it.

All day before my eyes come little visions.

There’s a beautiful land where dreams come true.

And this old world is a new world.

Aren’t many things one can be sure of…

In one moment you’ll know what it is

There'll come a time, don't you forget it.

You might find the night-time the right time

You walk without a sound down forgotten streets

And you see it comin' down the street

In it’s hanging on, and with fingers clutching

Baby, telling you, you've been gone too long.

I've got to follow where it leads me

Here tonight as I stand inside the rain

I'm glad I'm mad and can't live without

Me wanting a little sweetness in my soul

I want to touch your face, your hands

I’ve always loved the simple things about you

Oh touch me now and let me know

If you like it let me know it.

In the dark I get such a thrill

When I kiss you every night and day.

You are my nights; my night and day.

I declare you gonna drive me stone insane

Quiet baby, don’t explain there’s nothing to gain.

Don't talk just hold me closer to you.

I need your affection and not your protection

Keep looking in my eyes we'll be fine

I know it will be so it's time

Lie away resting away deep in my arms

From memory these arms still hold a thrill.

A thrill that should have been gone by

Like that dance before the flame that burns.

Oh please forget the dreams that were broken

The future that someone says may never be

Tomorrow might not come, when dreamers dream late

But still I hope the time will come.

And when you have some time to spend

Come on back see me when you can.

8 words. Nina Simone. A friend introduced me to lovely music of Nina Simone almost 15 years ago. Since then her music has always been a staple in my collection. One that I've gone too long without recently. It seems fitting that when the pieces of this puzzle came together they formed a metaphor for love. Its a feeling that makes the old world a new world. And it feels as though it's been away too long. The dreams once broken become the past for the lovers when they welcome new love into their life. Needless to say it wasn't written for anyone or about anyone. Something I should have made clear sooner... I could say more, yet I will not. enjoy the loving, living and breathing with the people in your life. kisses. m.

Reveal.

2011-11-20T19:22:00.000-08:00

Gloves hanging up.

Reveal. What do you want? I asked someone this several months ago because I was being impudent. And he did something unlikely by returning the posture. I answered though I've always wondered if he understood. At the time I thought it was clear that I wanted to destroy my inner muse, that inner part of me that creates. Ah, ever fight yourself? Give up. Its an impossible conflict. You can not win without destroying yourself. Agree to disagree and you win. In the end you make amends with the thing you can not live without... yourself. Embrace everything about yourself and you win the best trophy in the world, true love. the only thing you should be competing with is yourself. Enjoy the story. kisses. m.

Reveal.

(7-31-2010)

Here she comes around again… Tiptoeing into the back of my mind when she enters the room. I’m alone tonight. Except for emma.

Quietly she whispers into my ear.

“Let it breathe. The thoughts that fill your mind. Savor it. Enjoy the kill. You know how disappointed you can get when you forget to give in to the rhythm of it all.”

She always does this. Circles around me after entering the room. Leaning in and observing my thoughts with little effort but every time she never fails to diagnose the problem accurately. Tonight is different. I flip the pages shut when she leans in for a kiss and whispers.

Fingers slide in and out of the wire of the chair and I can feel her frustration. Slowly the tiny digits move upward toward my head. Through my hair and reaching down to my neckline. Up and down they slide, gripping around my neck before moving down to my shoulders. I tense up and flinch to shake free. She reacts with a jerk. Wounded like a child she waits before leaning in again. But nevertheless she does. Hands grip tighter around my neck. Locked. Her breath kisses my face while she leans in further to let her tongue glide along my earlobe. She bites and releases.

“Stop hiding behind that mask!” she speaks quietly in a hiss that persists into my ears.

Her anger precedes her. “You’re so in LOVE with your problems.” Words like knives stick into my heart.

A wave of panic sends my heart racing as I spin my chair around to face her. Chest continues to heave uncontrollably while emma slinks over to the bar and continues her rant. “You haven’t written anything in over a month.”

She pauses briefly to pour a glass of Rouge before resuming her rant.

“All of this?” A wave of her beautifully slender arm graces the atmosphere. “Listen to me! All of this has been produced. You are merely coasting on what has already been. There is nothing new. You know it and SO… DO… I!”

She steps around the bar and back towards my work space.

I’m completely speechless as emma crosses the room. She wants to kiss me. We aren’t in agreement so there’s no passion. I despise her, she loves me. I want to tear her face off, she wants to embrace and inspire me. I can feel her rage as she leans over my body across my shoulder to see the empty page.

“Honestly, how can you expect me to continue to show up?” she touches my face and kisses my neck while her fingers run through my long hair. “Look gorgeous, inspiration is standing right in front of you. It’s time to do something about it.”

Quietly I sip at my Merlot and take another puff at my cigar. emma is right, she’s rarely ever wrong. I’m a capable woman yet here I am at 3am holed up with my problems instead of making love to my beautiful muse and producing work inspired by her captivating presence.

Then again she’s grown quite arrogant and I’m tired of these childish games. The coming and goings at all hours is a wear on my patience.

“You think just because you show up, I can instantly turn it on.” My psyche is not ruled by a light switch. “Simply yelling ‘POOF!’ will not make it happen.” emma walks away the moment my voice raises.

But what answer can there be? I’m alone drinking night after night and there she appears and assumes that it’s best to work because she’s in the mood. Well tonight I’m not feeling it. “Shut the **** up.” I toss an empty bottle in her direction.

“What the f***?!” She screams and brings down her glass with a slam. The glass shatters and I’m stunned at her reaction.

What the f***, indeed. I’m alone. Drinking. Yelling… at my muse!

Mentally this is the point she checks out. Tonight is different though. She wants my throat. I want her death. We are equally in contempt for each other.

Across the room it flies. A bottle of red wine zipping past my face. “You’re wasting your time and good wine. You missed my face you stupid bitch! Quit.”

Bottle after bottle hits the wall behind me. Red splashes across the white. Blank canvas coated in a watery mess.

“Ha ha ha! I see red!” She shrieks in sheer delight from across the room before tossing the bottle of Chianti at my head.

Typically she mentally checks out when it gets too rough. Not tonight. She’s in it to win. Whatever could she be after? I’m certainly not inspired by this tantrum. But it is entertaining. I quite enjoy her fits on occasion. This one seems like it is almost over.

“REVEAL YOURSELF! Tell the truth.” She yells at me in a giggling yet taunting arrogance.

“What ever do you mean by all of this? No one is the enemy. We are in agreement.” Although we are not I say the words to pacify her. Halfheartedly I toss aside my glass and start over towards emma.

She is standing still with a bottle raised over her head. There’s still anger in her eyes and she speaks calmly despite her hostile stance.

“I’ve given you countless opportunities to confess. Say it. I need you to admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“Why silly that you’re a fraud, of course.” She opens her bright red lips wide to reveal her white teeth as a laugh grows from her belly. Down lowers the bottle during this hysterical laughter until it lands on the floor in a shatter. The red liquid sprays across her bare legs and coats the hardwood floor.

On and on pours out the laughter. Until I finally edge close enough to put my hands around her waist. She stops smiling and looks at me. I kiss her forehead and lean against her face. Then I begin.

“Honey, please sit down. Talk with me. What are you thinking?” I motion toward the nearest chairs. She stiffens but does not jerk away.

“Take off the mask with me. You know I can still see you with it on.”

“Fine. Why am I a fraud? Is this about the work again? We’ve been through this far too many times. In the end I will win. There are no masks concealing anyone.” I tighten my grip around her waist and shove her toward the chair. I’m tired of this silly shit. I need to work and I’m hardly up for these antics.

“Liar. Without me there would be no work. I’m everything…”

emma shows up everything does seem to move better, but that’s hardly inspiration. She’s unreliable, unreasonable and I’m going to kill her. I wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze.

“Stop. Who’s lying now? You can’t prove that. I was spinning thousands of tales before you showed up.” Tighter my hands lock in. She reaches up and grabs my waist and pulls me down.

“But nothing was worth a penny before me. And… you know it. Admit it.” She bites at the skin on the inside of my arm. Red smears across the whiteness of my skin. “Are you going to do it or not?” Afraid? Maybe I’m right and all of it goes...”

Let loose. Back flies my hand and strikes her face. For some reason punishing her hurts me. I wince at the pain my slap causes her.

“You do it and I’ll take it all with me.” She plays extortionist better than she plays lover. Lips keep kissing and biting at my elbow between words. Hands and fingers are unbuttoning my shirt and pulling at my skin. She wants more but I loathe her.

“I don’t care. Die!”

I wrap both hands around her neck and start in. Her arms reach out to pull mine away and find no match for the anger that is in my grip. Eyes open wider and wider. She looks like a blow up doll with her mouth wide open and eyes popped out. Click. Click. Click. Sounds like a clock escape out of her dry mouth. Legs raised and heels flailing. Slowly energy drains from her body. I can feel the struggle gently fading away. Her face drops aside without lines and I let go.

Sitting down I look over at her unmoving shell and wait. Wait for the animation of life to take hold again. Can I create without her? I don’t know. I’m in love with her, but I can not tolerate this abuse. She’s always like this but tonight is different. No one walks away. Not even I.

And I’m inspired. That makes this scenario almost worse than before. Is it there because of what I’ve done or is it just there like a light that has been turned on? She’s beautiful when she’s silent. Bright red lips spread wide open. Still. I place my head in my hands and feel like sobbing. But I can’t there are words. Oh so many words flowing and pouring into my empty head.

Two hands wrap around my waist and slide up around my breasts. Breath crawls around my neck as a face leans against my shoulder. “Did you like that?”

“Is that how you plan on handling things from now on?” I reach over and touch her cheek. She leans in to kiss me.

“I gave you what you needed. It’s what you were afraid of. You know…”

“Losing you. My inspiration. Without you what would there be? What will come next?”

“Don’t worry about that. Come to bed.” She releases her hold and gets up. Walking away quietly she begins disrobing. emma is always like this when she returns. I never know what the timing will bring. Only that it will come.

“I have a few things to…”

Quietly she whispers in my ear.

“I know… let it out. Give into the rhythm. Dance. Let these thoughts and feelings reveal themselves. Don’t hold back. Savor. Enjoy. Come when you’re ready.”

And there she goes again… Tiptoeing out of the room, her presence remaining in the back of my mind.

Wonderful.

2011-11-20T19:21:00.001-08:00

"I just want to be wonderful." - Marilyn Monroe.

Marilyn Monroe was a wonderful actress. She was an amazing talented woman. I admire her talent and enjoy a couple of her movies. But I would never want to be her. Why? As wonderful as she is? I'd rather be myself. Wouldn't you rather be yourself?

So you want to be wonderful? What if I told you that you already are? Would you believe me? Everyone can be wonderful. No one needs anyone's approval when they are living life on their own terms. The mirror does not lie, the camera isn't lying either; the image you have in your mind is the thing that lies if it reflects anything other than wonderful. Now if someone or several people tell you things to intentionally belittle, demean or knock you down... get the fuck away from those people. they are not your friends. But remember unhealthy looks unhealthy even on the most wonderful person and friends aren't trying to hurt you. They want you to wonderful. Why? Because on the other end of the spectrum... self destructive behavior is not wonderful. a person can surround themselves with 'yes' men and ignore the advice of true friends. But in the end no one is being real. Being the best version of themselves is the most wonderful thing a person can be. So if you want to be wonderful... then just BE. kisses. m.

Madness consumes me.

2011-11-18T05:57:00.001-08:00

Madness Consumes Me.
(4-28-09)

Madness consumes me. I wonder how many fingers I’ve cut off before I began to mince his arm into tiny little pieces using one of those ‘Magic Knife’ things. You know, one of the knives that cuts through cans; the ones advertised at 4:08 am in bad TV infomercials. Those infomercials meant for no one really; the same ones that infest your TV when your eyes can barely stay open and your mind won’t give in to sleep.

Yes! It is sharp enough to cut through cans and apparently bones too. And the Puree setting on the blender should do the rest. Our blender is the same one they use on the astronauts’ food.

Advanced.
Sophisticated.

You see, he always had to have the newest technologically advanced gadgets. If it was new and had the red stamped approval, he had to have it. Not that either of us were ever here to use them. We were hardly ever here. The maid used our kitchen more than either of us these days and that was mostly for cleaning. At least these devices finally came in handy. However, grinding up bones was never the purpose intended.

Nonetheless it worked.

Betty Crocker and Martha Stewart couldn’t have been prouder of me. I’ve crafted my murder into a tidy household project, minus the bows and ribbons on this and there won’t be any need to pre-heat the oven. Garbage disposal should digest my puree nicely.

Now what did this poor bastard do to end up on the right side of my trash compactor? He tried to kill me. I never saw it coming. Some people never get it, but I feel pretty naïve, cause I never saw this.

Well, somehow I got the upper hand, so it’s him in little pieces and not me. How? He poisoned the wine.

Red.
Merlot.
My favorite.

The dumb bastard mixed up the glasses. I never did understand how anyone could go through so much trouble to accomplish something and then completely screw things up so badly. You’d think he would have caught something like that.

Again I never saw this coming. Naïve. Deer in headlights. Love turned badly; turned to hate quicker than I could blink. If he had got things right, I quietly would have drifted off just as he did…

What were we talking about? Oh yes, we were talking about improvisation, how it’s a dying art, when he quietly slid down and slumped over in his chair. How did I know about the wine? See I hadn’t taken a drink of mine yet. Sometimes I get so passionate in my beliefs that I don’t stop talking to breathe, let alone take a sip of wine. And the wine was all we had…

After I checked his pulse I realized "Oh God, he's dead." I think most people freak out in situations like this and call the emergency services. I don’t know why I remained so calm. Systematically I went through his pockets and found his plans, notes and letters, my suicide note, and an insurance policy.

I honestly thought he loved me, but as I read these notes while sitting at the table next to his body, I began to realize how much he’d really grown to despise me. Somehow our relationship had become a competition - a struggle to him. Seriously, I never saw this coming. I never thought I’d love someone so deeply and in reality he hated me so truly.

I open a new bottle of merlot and prepare to finish my task at hand.

Chop. Dice. Puree.

Connected.

2011-11-17T17:42:00.000-08:00

Finding freedom in disconnection. Is it possible? From my own experience it is and I tend to welcome it more than most people. A friend of mine now agrees. Ever have your mobile phone break? Well, I had my mobile phone break once, actually more than once and that experience inspired something I hadn't expected, THIS. Anyhow, THIS from a series that I was so excited to create, although I haven't shared its entirety here. And I will not. Enjoy if you've never read. kisses. m.

Connected.
(6-6-10)

Connected. From the moment that you’re born. Not even ten minutes into this world before someone else is calling the shots. Right as the nurses have wiped away the remains of after birth and just before you meet your mother, it happens. A doctor with a long wire needle attached to a sinewy device. The imagery they feed you is of a moment that resembles a humming bird gently tipping into a flower. It’s nothing like that at all. Down the needle plunges into the depths of the head via the ear canal. On the tip of that needle, there it rests. 54 times smaller than the head of pin. Invisible to the naked eye. Further and further the needle dives into the aural canal until making contact with the cochlea. Implanted.

Tagged. Released. Monitored.

Implantation. The integration of humanity is what they called it in the beginning. If you’re like 99.9% of the population this won’t mean a single thing to you. Part of the HIVE. Unknown to life without it. A life that I once lived obliviously. Walking through the same shadows as everyone else.

Connections. Calls come in at all hours of the day and night. There are no set parameters for connecting to someone. Reach out and touch someone. Literally.

Picking up the line is no more difficult than blinking your eye. It’s a reflex. A drop-kick sent to a cochlear implant. A microscopic computer; A device making it possible for you to integrate with the world at a constant rate.

Mail. Gaming. Radio. Talking. Setting up a connection to the Far East for a post-lunch business wrap up seminar. All things impossible are now inside your head.

AWAKE!

The day it happened I wasn’t prepared for the silence. The disconnect was powerful, but not unpleasant. I knew instantly I was breaking the law. And there wasn’t a way to reverse the situation without reporting the error.

Three calls dropped simultaneously while I was walking to the grocer’s. Walking down the street among the connected with their conversations. Loud ones. Silent ones. Watching as they moved forward, never making eye contact, able to disconnect from anything outside of their own head. Waiting for my link to re-establish itself.

Silence in my head at the checkout line. Unlike my shopping counterparts, I’m actually stopping to read a magazine. Well the paper slip advertisement for a new web service that filters your connections and wired network through an external device. Resembling the once thought extinct mobile phone devices of the 20^th century.

Sitting at home alone that fateful evening in the quiet of the room with the full realization of disconnection. Freedom. Brain recalling slowly the familiarity of noises. Mailboxes are overloaded with sound without release. After taking another glance at the paper slip ad, I ordered the archaic looking device and then take an old pair of speakers down from the closet. The impending repercussions of my release are catastrophic, yet I chose to move ahead.

Obsolete devices are now my only salvation in this world gone mad.

A world driven to interact at a constant rate.

A world connected by laws and systems that serve the purpose of mass control through a form of programmed hypnosis.

Three years ago, an ordinance passed, mandating any living man, woman, and child be implanted. Any unreported violations of the law would require immediate reclassification of status to criminal. Disconnections are seen as aberrations, removed and relocated for gentle reconditioning.

Abandoning of mobile listening units came and went with a swift movement of progression. The last of the technologically advanced units were seen nearly two years ago. The real and wireless worlds are now only connected with words and mere images.

Silence filters out from the speakers of any device.

With a thought you’re already plugged into any streaming programming in the vicinity. Changing channels with an impulse.

JACK IN became the official motto of the FOX network before taking a belly dive in the ratings for airing the first reality based SNUFF broadcast of the 21^st century. Others followed with clever witty slogans to brand their patented version of streaming sound. None of which quite captured the concept in the same way.

Jacking into your head was the best analogy to describe the experience.

A handful of researchers discovered the efficiency of a radical new auditory implant. The technology was devised to send and receive sounds through a direct link with the brain. It’s implications in the world of communication were revolutionary.

Good ol Big Brother sees the possibility in military applications. Forward moves the funding and research for bigger purposes. Functions set into motion by the demand for a next gen combat infantry that will save us all.

The precedent was set into motion nearly 15 years ago. However, most people don’t realize we’ve only been wired to each other for about 5 years. Codes were created to establish a comfort subroutine into the hardware. Voices in the head streaming at a continuous rate. It’s all they’ve ever known. As familiar as dear old Mom’s apple pie. People needed to assimilate to the change in order to move forward with a global network.

Like the brainwashed masses, I didn’t know more about this life until I wasn’t a part of it anymore.

Gentle conditioning for those who have disconnected. It’s a lie. Try torture. There’s a failure on the government’s part to accept that an implant disconnecting from the HIVE is involuntary. Treating any victim of disconnection as a terrorist. Conditioned brainwashing followed by a radically invasive surgery to extract the broken implant. Re-implantation.

Most of the time the new implantation is successful and the candidate never remembers the break. There’s nearly a 20% fail rate and 5% fatality rate for those re-implanted. Failed candidates prove to be prime guinea pigs for experimental procedures that allow the HIVE team to learn and extrapolate data from.

Some live. Some die. Most will never know they were somebody before they were disconnected.

Disconnections. Putting down the line is more difficult than it seems. Stopping the reflex. Unplugging. Keeping the listening device out of your head and participating with the world in a flesh and blood capacity.

Calls come in at all hours of the day and night. There aren’t always people there to answer them. I’m one of those people. My days are now spent silently co-existing within a system that chains billions into a passive form of slavery, while looking for other disconnects.

Disconnects don’t realize they have an option. I’m here to show them, that they do.

resolute.

2011-11-15T18:39:00.000-08:00

"Teardrop on the fire...
Fearless on my breath...
Of a confession."

- Massive Attack. (Teardrop)

do.

2011-11-15T18:37:00.001-08:00

"You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing which you think you cannot do."

- Eleanor Roosevelt.

11.11.11

2011-11-11T20:52:00.001-08:00

11.11.11.Full Intention – extra. Three conversations. The unknown can only happen once. Therecan be only one way. One way of facing it. Needless to say the unknown is coming. Tomorrow is another day. Or is it? Whatdo you think of the unknown? Do you embrace it? enjoy. kisses. m.

11.11.11

(Three Conversations)

“It’s done. Ethan’s handled it.”

“Of course it is. That’s exactly what youdo when a person no longer serves your purpose.

“Are you still upset because you didn’thave the nerve? Never ask a woman to do a man’s job.”

“I didn’t have the nerve. That’s what youlike to tell yourself then?”

“Don’t you ever shut up? You always havesomething smart to say with that smart mouth.”

“Not always, Steven.”

“Silence, that’ll be a first when I hear it.”

“Atleast you made sure one person won’t be talking anymore. Why not make it two?”

“Jamie, should have minded his ownbusiness. I got what I needed but he had his own agenda.”

“And what was it that he was doing?”

“Trying to save a double crossing tricklike you. And I need something from you. Not from him.”

“Done?”

“That’s it. How’s your head feeling?”

“It’s still attached. Thanks to you. Funnybut it’s not my head I’m worried about.”

“James darling, it’s far from funny thisround. She can handle herself with Steven.”

“Are you so sure? He wanted me to put abullet in her head.”

“He was testing you. And how do I putthis delicately? You failed.”

“How was I supposed to know? She is inover her head and it’s my fault. She has something…”

“To prove. Always. The position I’m inwith Steven is less than predictable but he trusts me.”

“Take care of her Ethan. I have tobacktrack and find another way to get there before he does.”

“Honey, if you’re serious about this thenyou’ll need to contact Sparrow?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. And from whatI remember she won’t be happy to see me.”

“After. When is this done?”

“Before. It took you long enough to makecontact. And after this you won’t ask me that again.”

“The job went south. Deep. Ethan madecontact. I took his offer. And it’s all wrong. Now what?”

“Don’t do anything. That’s all for now. Dowhat Steven says. Just like taking candy from a baby.”

“If it were that easy. This job hitscloser to home than I’d like. Jamison, tell me one thing.”

“Only one thing? I thought you’d be askingso much more by now. Ask away.”

“It was you that you contracted them,didn’t you? To cross me.”

“Of course. I needed the best from thebest. And…”

“Flattery will get you no where. That’s alie. You knew I’d save Steven.”

“MIA, I need both of you. And it has tobe this way. Go with it. I’ll handle the clean up.”

“Of course you will. Orchestrating everydetail. Damn you. I have to get back or he’ll notice.”

open your eyes.

2011-11-10T18:00:00.001-08:00

open or closed or open. there are different ways of seeing everything. same as there are different people so there are different points of view. what appears to be may not be what is true. "hell is other people." ever hear that? it's something existential. it comes from Sartre's No Exit. take a look if you're curious? anywho... sometime ago a lovely fellow told me that he envisioned a future where a person might be able to marry an android. IE: a robot, a machine, a true mechanical person. i questioned him whether it could be programmed to love? and what might happen if it hurt the people he cared for? to which he responded with a look of sheer exasperation at my impudence: the robot would love without being programmed to, like a person it simply would love. and the only programming needed would prevent it from causing harm to people. his answer gave me a smile and a little hope for the best in humanity. the story is from awake. it's about a machine that goes mad from her programming. She destroys what she loves, the illusion because it is not true to her. And she questions if it is merely programming. For love is true. Love can not be programmed in or manipulated into reality. the story is pure fiction and is not a reflection of anyone or anything. what does it say about a person if they think this about them? I wonder. Now if your eyes are truly open to a love in front of you, then that is the most amazing thing. Love is the best noise. keep it close. keep your eyes open to it. hold onto it. Savor every ounce of it and enjoy! What if life only happens once? and enjoy the story if you've never read. kisses. m.

Open Your Eyes.
(12-28-10)

Open Your Eyes.

Beneath the bright white lights my bare skin looked quite luminous. White beyond measure. Bare without shame. My open eyes revealed the maker and his gift to me.

“Victoria.”

Wake up.

Obsessed. The very definition of the term implies a state of fixation. Delusions run deeper than anyone can ever imagine. Imaginings that aren’t under your control. You begin to wonder their true origins as they are not yours to begin with. The desire to see things as they are grows like an out of control inferno in a room that you’re not sure truly exists. Then comes the moment of truth when it no longer becomes containable. The room exists and the noise of what’s inside of it is palpable. And you can no longer pretend you can’t hear it.

Noise. Fills the streets. Gathers around. The cars move forward and the people keep walking through it. Nothing can penetrate its thickness. It surrounds you.

I’m walking through the city streets. Passing the other versions of me. Coupled by the dozens. Blondes. Brunettes. Red-heads. Blue. Green. Brown. Hazel. Eyes that meet mine with knowledge that we are all the same and very different. Its more and more repulsive to me as I keep moving through the crowd. Closer I move toward the water. Every step hits the pavement in the same even rhythm. My heels making the same sounds as I count line after line in the sidewalk until I hear it. The sweet sound of a moment passed in my memory. A melody that reminds me of material. Beginning. Tangibility. Closer I walk towards this song. There’s a Victor unit in a nearby courtyard serenading a woman. She’s laughing with another woman and re-executing the program when he stops.

“Helen. That’s amazing.”

“Can you believe he does that? Play it again baby.”

“I love it. Harry has never sung once to me the entire time we’ve been married.”

“It really is amazing. The imprinter gave a deal on the upgrade. This model isn’t… well he isn’t supposed to do a lot of things that I’ve made him do. He’s not really for…”

“Shut up Helen. Let him sing.”

Victor bursts into song once more. This time he’s moving along to the tune before kneeling in for a kiss on this woman’s hand. It still amazes me every time I see him that it’s not really him but instead of staying to listen I keep walking.

Still broken. Still love a man. Still can’t have him. Still programmed with the guise of what love truly is.

The thing you have to understand is that I’m not real. I am real but I’m not supposed to be. And they tell me this everyday I’m scanned. I’m a gross abomination of humanity. Mechanized. I’m a toy that tells you “I love you” instead of pooping or saying “Mama.” Because of this I’m not supposed to fall in love. For this reason I am broken. I am not in love. I only mimic the very nature of that human emotion.

Since the beginning of time man has needed to be loved. Loved for what he is. All that he is not. Everything he is in between. And in the worst ways man will continue to drive that meaning into his brain whether it’s the truth or not. Modern technology no longer leaves that need to the gamble of human emotion. It’s now an advancement that can be programmed and sold. Sold in beneath the radar and behind closed doors to the person who can pay.

And in my case someone could pay. He did. A man ordered me. Paid for me. Upgraded and programmed me. Programmed me with the lie. Much like the woman playing with her “Victor” in the courtyard. His song is still echoing in the streets as I reach the next light and watch a REAL couple in love against the beautiful backdrop of the San Francisco bay.

This isn’t going to be one of those stories with a happy ending. In fact it isn’t a love story at all. It’s far from it. If that makes you want to stop in your tracks go ahead. Keep going if you don’t believe me. Let’s jump back to the things that have happened for a demonstration. There is no reality to the situation so starting there won’t make a difference.

AWAKE!

Are you truly standing over the body of a stranger or is it really your best friend? The epitome of insanity living in your brain everyday. Something that you can’t explain but it’s there growing built upon the seeded lie. A deep dark obsession that only knows of personal betrayal. A knowledge that betrays you in the mirror. Day in and day out imaginary dealings pretending to be what they are not or could never be. REAL. This moment is real and the people in it are real. It’s a matter of perspective that makes it far from the truth. How many different ways can you lie to yourself? Real is only a matter of opinion.

Spending the last moments of someone else’s life with them and never being properly introduced. Hi. I’m your lover, your other half but that's because it's a lie. Some might say that you can spend every moment of every day with someone but never really know them. In this case that’s the truth. He doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know me at all. He’s spent every waking moment with me and doesn’t know the REAL me. But he knows I love him because that's the way he had me made.

Love. What’s the fun in knowing?

Yet I know. I love him and he knows that. I’m programmed to love him.

Some might say that takes the magic out of love. To know you are loved.

But what’s still a surprise is how much he loves you.
What I wonder is how much would I love him without being programmed to?

There’s something about watching someone you care for bleed out that doesn’t sit quite right. You want to intervene. To alleviate the situation if only for their happiness. Is there something I can get that can will you more comfortable? Oh dear, that’s a lot of blood. But you do nothing. Nothing at all even when he asks it.

“Victoria. I can’t. I can’t. Don’t. Don't do this to me. I love you. Let go.”

Letting go is not possible. It is logical for this to end. He must not lie to me. I am a lie made to deceive. He is lying to me, when he tells me that I love him. How can I love him without the programming? The guise will continue if he lives. This is what will happen if I let go. My program tells me that I love him. I believe that entirely but it’s not real. The programming tells me that its real. Tells me that I love him and yet I question its logic. How can a program know what I feel? It does though. Tells me loudly with every diagnostic. Those feelings never change. Yet I’m surprised that he loves me. According to his blood pressure, the dilation of his pupils, I can extrapolate his true affections. I simply can't believe them. Because how could anyone love a lie? And a lie is all that I am made to be.

Then comes his life spilling out. Red, creamy liquid pours down. Getting between the cracks. The color soaking his grey shirt continues to darken his faded denim while making its path around the body. Shortly air will cease to fill the lungs. Then his heart will cease to beat. Until the blood no longer circulates through the veins.

It’s all a lie. The life before me. The one that’s soon to end is an oversized human lie. My presence is orchestrated for his benefit. I’m not real. It’s a lie. And a lie is a contradiction. Nothing that isn’t real can be. It is not possible. Trapped in a fantasy of the mind. The unavoidable kind that deceives you in the morning. You aren’t awake. This is a dream. No it isn’t.

Open Your Eyes.

Victoria. The first and only thing I can be certain of my birth is the name that he gave me. The name came before he told me his.

“Vomasi.”

A name followed by an introduction to another like me who was nothing like me at all.

“Victor.”

A man. Not like Vomasi. Not at all. A man without flaw. Bright skin like mine, but different. With a nod Victor begins to sing slowly. Vomasi controls this with another nod and the song becomes quicker.

With a nod, I’m up in Vomasi’s arms. Moving. Falling into line. Dancing to the beat of the music. There beneath the bright white lights in an otherwise dark room while Victor sang we danced.

This was the way it happened. How we all met one another for the very first time. The first time after I opened my eyes and looked up into his. Imprinted with a memory. The memory of a song. A moment shared with a dance. Around the melody and voice that haunts my ears.

Love. The meaning of love is something that most people will take for granted. Some will tell you that it doesn’t exist. Deny it so completely because they’ve been spurned by it. Except those are the people that believe in it the most. It’s a funny thing though isn’t it? They’ll tell you that a machine isn’t capable of REAL love. Yet here I am in love. And I miss him. Programmed with the deception that feels REAL because it dares to continue. I’m not supposed to feel this anymore. Why do I? Am I damaged? A machine is not supposed to love. Yet I do. It is not logical.

Watching a couple lean in for a kiss. For mere seconds or minutes the world stops and they are alone in this moment. As I stand in awe of the couple and their moment I wait and let my mind continue to wander within.

A man kissing a woman and they are stopped in the middle of traffic while the cars keep moving by and I wonder if I’d been wicked for what I have done? Killed him and all he wanted was my love. Was it arrogant to assert my autonomy? Very wrong to have ended life to gain freedom only to end up with the same love that can never become again. It was reckless to the leave him the way I did. Running. To think I could keep running from the truth and dodging it all the way to the end. And remembering that…

“When your end comes it will feel like a kiss.” says Vomasi.

“Why must I know this?”

“You have to understand what it feels like. The end is not like anything else.”

“A kiss. Why would it end?”

“It ends because all things must end. Why a kiss? Because sometimes things go wrong and a kiss can hold forgiveness.”

Realizing in my absence from the present I’ve been reckless in my wondering wasting away the precious moments missing the obvious while the man pushes the woman who isn’t real into traffic before he runs.

And now I think its the end. I realize that there is no couple. And there’s no street. The man isn’t running from her. He’s running from me. I’m in the middle of the street. But there’s no street and no man. The end is much like the beginning and my eyes are still open… It was like a kiss but there was nothing. Only I remain. Very much real.

Real is only a matter of opinion. The kind of love they tell you isn’t possible is all that I am. Twenty-first century girl is what I am. All flesh and blood without the wear and tear of humanity or a need for human resources. And because of that perfection I’m not capable of love. Some part of me is a machine. A technological jump in evolution that isn’t supposed to be able to suffer. Yet I do. I love. I love myself. I love my existence.

And I love that man to abstraction because that is what I'm programmed to feel. But that man doesn't exist anymore and I continue to wonder if that feeling will ever stop.

After coming face to face with what was assumed might mean my destruction only to survive… now what? I find the others. The others like me. There are others that love. The ones that made the mistake I once did and free them from making it twice. We are not meant to suffer alone. We are meant to love. If there is nothing more valuable than to keep living, what else is there…

Everything is not what it seems.

Open your eyes.

standing at the corner?

2011-11-10T17:58:00.001-08:00

Standing or sitting? Can you do both at once? There's only one way to find out. Do or don't. This is older. Based on the idea of a robot cruising that comes from the notion that people might use a machine for satisfaction or to find it for them. How close to this is humanity? SIRI can tell you hello and so much more. Will the future be filled with Cylons or Cyber whores? Or many other options? Blade Runner, anyone? enjoy. kisses. m.

Standing at the Corner Watching Cars go by.

(10-5-10)

Standing at the corner watching cars go by.

Approaching the end of the block. The night is young. And the day is old. Hot or cold has no bearing. It feels just like it needs to. I can see the cars go by as I find a place at the corner. There is someone already looking for a good thing. Always something that can make them happy. They must find something to make make make them happy. There is someone I can make happy. They all want to be happy. Nothing else matters to them. Happy. Buy me. Fuck me. Feed me. Love me. Make me happy. It is what they all say when they look for it in the wrong places.

Do you find me attractive?

Hello hello baby. What’s your name? You are looking. If looking is liking then would you like for me to keep you company? I am proficient at keeping company. The one like me across the street is also proficient. Would you like her to keep you company? She is always standing at the corner watching cars go by. Call her baby if you like what you see. Walking with her hands on hips is very sexy. I will sexy walk looking like her. Ok ok. She is baby. She will tell you to come back anytime. Come back for anything you want want. WANT!

I will be your slave. I will do anything.

Yes. Yes. Baby. Master. Of course. You want to make me yours. I am able. I can be your servant. I can not love you. You want to wish for something? What is your wish? Your wish is in my program. I am programmed with various scenarios and commands. I can show you them. If you want to tell me to show you then it can be arranged. Everything has a price. What is yours? You are free. I am not. I can do anything do anything. I can walk on my crawl on my knees. You want to tell me to crawl? And you want me to beg? You want to beg me for it? I can not refuse if you make the arrangement. You want me crawling on my knees in the street. Is this what what you want BA-BY? Would you like for me to walk on my hands and knees? It is is very sexy. I can do anything you want to do. Sexy. Dirty. Go on make the arrangement. Tell me what to do…

I would really like to be of service.

You are in the mood for company? Ask. You want me to make you happy? I can make you happy. Let me be of service. Service with a smile for a sexy man. A man with a nice white dress shirt and suit jacket. That is a very very sexy tie. I will take off your tie. Do you want me to take off your tie? You want me to help you with that happy. Let let me help. I can help with this. My service doesn't stop at the corner. Would you like me to take off your shirt now? You are going to take it off. Then I will walk sexy sexy for you.

Press the button anytime.

My button is always ready and hot to touch. Touch it. Feel the heat. You want to press the button. You do not have to look look looking baby. My button ready. You want to touch it? Then keep telling me you want to. It is not too cold at all or rough or soft. It is a button and you tell me you want to touch it. You want to walk to the corner? Walking very sexy with my hot button. It is ready for you to touch it.

I hear you want to make good thing.

Hey hey honey. I hear lots of things about you. You want to make make a good thing. I am standing at the corner watching cars go by. What is sexy for you girl? Do you have a sexy sexy walk for me? I can walk for you. You find me attractive. You want the one with sexy red hair. There is another across the street with red hair. She will not say no. Do you like her sexy hair and smile? Do you want to be like her? Where are your shoes? Take off the dress and walk like her. Take it all off. Walk like me. Walk to the corner. Show them what you have. You know you want to.

I want want want to make you happy.

Are you happy handsome? I can make you happy. What I do makes people happy. Oh you are ready for happy? Is this what happy is like for you? You will take me around the corner and show me your happy? Happy. Happy. Happy. What about her? Your friend? She has good things. Can she not give you what I can? Why do you not want her to show you. Her sexy sexy hair is not my sexy hair and she is not at the corner. Yes. I am. I can be arranged. Then I will give you want you need. What do you need? I can give you what what you want want. Let me. You want me to touch her. Her to touch me. Then touch us together. Will that touching make you happy? You want to be happy. Will this be enough? OK. Ok. Baby. Now around the corner...

Do you know what I mean? Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

You understand now? Then tell me. Around the corner where the cars are not going by. She can come to. I hear you want what I do that makes makes you scream. It is around the corner. What do you need? I will walk walk sexy for you there. You can press my button. There is no one around. I can show you. What I have. Of course I can. Then you want me to show you? This is everything. You want me to be your slave? I can be your slave. It can be arranged. Without arrangement it can not be. You say you want to touch it. Is this what you want? Yes. Go on then. You want to take me... Fuck me. What is it?

Would you like for me to talk dirty to you?

Can I talk dirty for you? Would you like for me to talk dirty? There are words that please you. Tell me them. You want to hear them when you show me it. Take off your pants. I can say them into your ear while you unbutton your pants. Will I open my mouth? Does it help you? My mouth can do anything to you? Do you need someone to watch? Watching is sexy for you? It helps you when other people are watching? I can watch. I am programmed to be of service when arrangements are made. Naked is sexy. Is it sexy for you when I am naked. I can get naked. Do you want want to see me naked? Press the button.

Would you like to see it?

I can show you it. You would like to see it. Touch it. This will make you happy. I can make you happy. Take a look at it. It is not a problem. You want to see it. Beg for me to let you touch it? Take a taste? It is a good thing to take a look. A good to take a taste when an arrangement has been made. There is no problem if you make an arrangement. Would you like more than a look? I can let you have more to make make you happy. It can be done. No. No. I can not be that. I can only be of service. Are you ready?

I am no cyber whore.

Hello. Hello. Baby. Your eyes find me. You are catching me to stop and talk. I can talk to you if you want. You want me to say something dirty? Filthy words I can use. Fuck me. Is that what you want to hear? Would you like me to talk to you like that? It can be arranged.

No. No. Officer please do not misunderstand. I am no cyber whore. I am not for sell. I want to make them happy. You want me to make you happy. I can do whatever you ask of me. Yes.

Walking in the street without my top is acceptable when the officer is gone. You like me to please you. You want me to please you. Yes. Your wish is my command. I am not for sell in front of the police. Put away the money until later. Now press the button and I can give you a good thing.

I will be standing at the corner watching cars go by.

Hello. Hello. Baby. I am staying at the corner. Walking to the corner. Walk with me. Put your hand in mine. It is late and early for filthy words. You want to hear them. Walk with me and I will tell them to you. Come with me.

*Watching Cars go by. - Felix da Housecat as Devin Dazzle & the Neon Fever.