Merry Christmas!

Does this dress make me look fat?

teehehe :p

My nieces. I swear! The little one drew this and she was all like, 'what do you think? do you like it?'

And what can you say to that?

Well, you can't say: 'I DO NOT have chubby, chipmunk cheeks!'

No, you have say, 'Aw, that's so pretty, and so accurate, too! But why the crown and the halo?'

My nieces are smart girls, but I don't know if they have 'tiara' in their vocabulary yet.

Then the little one, Li'l Iz, explained that it was a representation of St. Rita, ... you know: patroness of the kitchen.

'Oh!' was all I could muster. I couldn't dare ask where she got the representation, 'cause there I was, stick figure and all.

Does red look good on me?

hehehe.

I feel a bit silly.

My nieces have more flesh on their bones than I do, but they did inherit something from me: they are fish in water. Mrs. A_, a woman not to be trifled with, takes them to swim lessons that she herself supervises, just she, Madame, the girls, me, 'cause I happen to be there, and now the neighboring kids. Mrs. A_ commands: '150 meters, freestyle: go!' and the poor neighboring kids are like 'what did she just say?' But Li'l Iz and Elena Marie are like: ZOOM!

... and I could say, 'oh, I hold back to keep pace with them ...' but then again, why I am embarrassed to get my ass handed to me by a 10 year old and an 8 year old?

Why, indeed!

I am rather pleased that I look older than them, and the other neighboring girl who's 12? 13? So, yay! Go me, I'm not mistaken for a preteen.

Oh, my God!

I was walking off to the bus stop, and I saw a bumper sticker in a mommy van pass by: "Verum, Bonum, Pulcherum." And my Latin sucks, but I was sniggering that maybe I knew better what that meant than the mommy or the exclusive prep-school kids going off to school.

"Verum, Bonum, Pulcherum."

What is true; what is good; what is beautiful.

I like that motto. The girls sang at Christmas eve Mass, and the priest was very accepting of all the 'Christmas guests' we had a Mass. It was a full house. What he said at the homily struck me, it was all about historical reconstructions of Jesus not being God and Savior, but a straw-man to forward the zealots aims to overthrow the Roman Empire.

Um, Father, so how are you going to rescue the homily to wish us a Merry Christmas?

And he did, Fr. P, by saying, 'look to the cross.' Because Jesus an Historical Reconstruction, who is that to love, and be loved?

But Jesus, born today, of the Virgin Mary, and then, Jesus on the cross?

He did that because He loves us.

Because He loves me.

Jesus loves me.

And if Jesus can love me, even me, then ...

Then I can love me.

And I can love you.

I love you.

Merry Christmas

A Man's a Man, for a' That

Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

Robert Burns.

— `phfina analysis:

Oh, to be a man, and to laugh at princes, and titles, and what comes what may, and still to be a man, for a' tha'.

But to be a woman. To be me. When what comes what may, but what is left to fall back on?

It's Christmas season, when Santa makes his list, and checks it twice, and all good little girls and all good little boys think about game consoles, bicycles, with training wheels, and maybe a pony.

And `phfina's thoughts, traditionally, turn to suicide.

I caught myself. Thinking that, and all that, and I just went right there, spiraling down into the circle of despair.

And then I said: no.

I said no. I am not determined by ... by anything, Ladies and Gentles. I am not determined by my chemical composition, by the faux-festive 'holi'day season ('Buy more! On sale!'), by other people and what they do, or don't do, to, on, around, or near me.

And so, I was riding home on the bus, and I cranked it, my ghetto iPod. You know that loud music Bella Swan was listening to as she was figuring it all out in Twilight? For legal reasons, Steph couldn't mention it in the book, but she's given interviews saying it was Linkin Park's Meteora. So, it worked for Bella Swan, so I cranked that puppy, got off the bus, and screamed out the lyrics as I ran home, full tilt.

Heh, must of been funny, for oncoming traffic to see this, what?, this little banshee just running, and screaming and smiling so hard, so full of joy. I may have it bad, but not as bad as those guys, with all their millions (of fans) (and dollars), and a' tha' spewing their lyrics of self-hate:

"It's easier to run
Replacing this pain with something more.
It's so much easier to go
Than face all this pain here all alone.

Something has been taken from deep inside of me.
The secret I've kept locked away, no one can ever see.
Wounds so deep they never show, they ever go away,
Like moving pictures in my head for years and years they play.

If I could change, I would. Take back the pain, I would.
Retrace every wrong move that I made, I would.
If I could stand up and take the blame, I would.
If I could take all the shame to the grave, I would."

Linkin Park, Meteora, "It's easier to run" © ™ ® ... don't sue me, it'll cost you way more money to do it than you'll ever get out of me, anyway.

But check the vid (and, yes, do I ever check more than a few vids) of them making the album, there they are, these kids, about my age? older? younger? with a graffiti artist with their wives and babies and fan girls and production team. Happy, active, creative. Being. Doing what they are doing because they are following their vocation.

I mean, Meteora, right? It came right out of Heaven into our hands, and there it was, perfection, from beginning to end, for every goth grrl with combat boots and a convincing snarl ...

(... which I am so not ... there was just such a girl on the bus ride home: big, tall, black nail polish matching her black combat boots and black leather jacket, and henna in her hair, and little me was more than a little fearful of yon warrioress) ...

And for everyone who listens to that album for whatever reason.

And then there's Gorillaz Plastic Beach and, of course, being Gorillaz, it's ... 'alternative' and ... 'experimental' ... and perfect, coming down from Heaven in a pristine jewel case right into my ear buds.

But then, looking at the making of Plastic Beach vid (again, `phfina, watching vids ... yes, I am a perv, and thank you for sharing), you see how hard it was.

How hard it was.

See, we have Plastic Beach to listen to and to admire.

Gorillaz? They had to make it. Just like Linkin Park had to make Meteora.

And what did they make it from?

Watch the vids.

They made it from absolutely nothing.

They had nothing to start with. Nothing at all. And they struggled, and fought, and discussed, and revised, and threw away a ton of stuff, that they kept trying and trying and trying to make it just right and just perfect starting from absolutely nowhere and not having a clue of where they were going with all this.

And.

I mean, it's not enough, the terror of the blank page staring at you, my dear authoresses, even though that is enough to kill more than 90% of us, and with that figure I'm being generous ... or conservative, ... or whatever.

No, it's not just that, the absolute terror of emptiness that creativity faces when it stares at the blank page or canvas or staff.

Although it's more than enough to kill us, right, Vincent? Seymour?

No, what's worse is that there is all that. All that.

A man's a man, for a' tha'.

But there is a' tha'.

A man, or even a little girl like me, has to face a' tha'. Linkin Park had [Hybrid Theory] and then the even more awesome [Reanimation] and in the face of all that success and expectation they had to create Meteora (without the brackets). Gorillaz, omg, Gorillaz with album after album of success and praise, and they had to throw it all out, all of it, and then they had to create Plastic Beach.

Men. All of them. And one little girl named Noodle, facing all that, all that expectation (which translates as: if you don't measure up, we will be disappointed, and you are worthless and should just kill yourself), and the blank page.

And creating.

And when I say, 'creating,' I mean 'creating.'

Do you know what I mean?

No, you don't. Because you're stuck in your life being a human being. "What can one person do?" you justify.

Creating. Doing something other than what the already almost certain future contains for you. Seeing your past, clearly, for what it is, and what it isn't, and putting the past into the past, and seeing the future for what it is ... not.

Because the future? It doesn't exist until you create it. It truly is really 'not'. But then you create it, and then it is: and right now. And, ladies and gentles, make no mistake, you create your future, every second of every day. You choose to continue doing what you've always been doing, living the life you've always been living, or you choose to step out, on faith.

Into the abyss of the new.

Scary there. I know.

... sometimes.

And the new? Funny thing about the new. It's right here. It's right here in front of you.

All you have to do, is to see it. And it's there.

Even in a' tha' ... even in the every day humdrum. It's there. The new.

The time is now 1:34 am. I'm going to go to bed. And then I'm going to wake up tomorrow, and do exactly what I did yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. And so are you.

Or.

Or I'm going to surprise myself, and wake up, and do the same-old, and then, when I settle in/down/for, I'm going to perk up and say, 'hey, I'm going to ...'

And surprise myself. And be. And live. And see things, really, for the first time in my life.

And so can you.

I'm on Masterpiece Theatre!

Ooh! Chez Melissa was read on (sort of) Masterpiece Theatre! ... Actually it's from the author: 'Pretentious Internet Theatre'

The audio link is:

[deprecated:] h t t p (colon slash slash) dl (dot) dropbox (dot) com (slash) u (slash) 48360393 (slash) pit44 (dot) mp3

Updated link from Pretentious: http://pitpodcast.blogspot.com/2011/11/pit-44-why-are-there-so-many-fanfics.html

Pretentious is marked as a favored author on my fanfiction.net page.

kisses

My First Cigarette

Okay, writing this post, again.

I'll probably keep rewriting this post until the day I die.

Which may very well be today.

Go for the tragic waif much, `phfina?

Yep.

You remember your firsts, don't you? We all do, don't we. They are like milestones (millstones?) in our lives. Why is that?

I remember my first time. Not that time. Of course I remember that time. I'm talking about my first cigarette.

I was ... oh, I don't remember, actually, as it's coming up, on Oh, my God! 20 years now, because I was 7 or 8 or 9 when I had my first cigarette, don't you know.

What does that say about me? A girl, smoking before her first time, and first period, and first ... well, everything, right? A girl smoking that early in life? Well, girls like that don't turn out well.

That's what you're thinking, isn't it? It's okay, you can fess up, although you won't, being far to polite to be honest, even to yourself.

Me, I get really fucking real with myself, every morning, right in front of the mirror. Yep, there's me.

You should try it sometime: getting really honest with yourself. I like honest people. A lot. And it's really freeing, seeing yourself, exactly as you are, and exactly as you aren't. It clears your eyes and your head.

So you can see everything that way, too.

Scary, that: seeing things as they are.

I get ahead of myself.

My first cigarette.

So, one day, out of nowhere, my mom's sister visits us. That would make her my aunt ('ayhnt'). I didn't know I had aunts on my mom's side. You see, stereotypes are there for a reason, 'cause stereotypes point to a reality. Irish? We die fast, before our time, and violently. All my aunts and uncles on my mom's side? Dead. And not through natural causes ... unless you count the bottle as a natural cause. But gambling and drinking and fighting and violence can lead to a quick end.

So, this aunt comes and visits us, and I had absolutely no idea what to make of her, because she wanted to make nice with her niece, and I was not having any part of this stranger strangling me in a bear hug.

We started off wonderfully.

So, mom and aunt ... who had a name. Had. Cathy. Aunt Cathy. They go off on a walk and talk and ... what? reminisce? about the good old days where their Dad would beat them? and their brothers? ('Brothers'? How many brothers? Meaning: uncles! That I never got to meet) and how their Mom would get so drunk she ...

Hoo, boy! Happy-happy, joy-joy! That's us Irish! Oh, yeah!

So I was sneaking along behind them in their walk in our poor town in CT, one of the poorest States in the union, trying to be inconspicuous, and I guess I was, because Aunt Cathy takes out a cigarette and lights it, and ...

And I will never forget this, even though I've repressed it for a decade.

And gives one to Mom, who lights up, inhales deeply ... gratefully ... and breathes out a cloud of smoke that wreaths her head.

I didn't know Mom smoked.

I didn't know Mom smoked.

I ...

And in that very moment. Right then.

That's when it happened.

That's when I discovered 'right and wrong' and 'us and them' and ... well, everything else when the world is ripped apart and you're left standing on one side of a chasm, looking down into the abyss, and that voice, that voice you never, never, never had until right now, right this instant, pipes up very, very quietly in your ear, and whispers those poisonous words.

That's not right,

She's saying it to me, right now, as I'm writing through my tears. She, her, me. In my voice, is telling me: 'that's not right.'

... And Mom and Aunt Cathy, God rest her soul ... (we Irish say that) ... walked along, and Mom sucked her cigarette down to nothing, but Aunt Cathy carelessly tossed hers aside ... she had packs to spare. Packs.

And they walked along, and I snuck along behind, until I reached that cigarette.

And I stopped.

And I looked at it. Lipstick on the filter. (Lipstick! How shockingly sinful!) ... that's me: little puritan bitch already! Pristine condition, smoldering on the grass.

And I picked it up, as I say Aunt Cathy, no: Mom, hold it, and I put it to my mouth, ...

And I drew it in.

It.

That's what 'it' tastes like: bitter, acidy, tart, burnt.

I didn't cough. No. I took that smoke into my being.

It matched. 'It.' The smoke. Sin.

... and my soul.

Do you know what happened that day? No: that hour of the morning?

I do.

It's funny, what one little thing can do to a person. Do you know Viktor Frankl? He's probably one of the greatest minds of our century. You should know him: you've read The Last Samurai by Helen DeWitt, right? So you remember how Viktor Frankl was teaching philosophy at Cambridge and two boys wanted to take his class, so he wrote something down in Ancient Greek and asked them to critique.

Of course, the boys had to know what it said first, right?

Well, anyway, Vickor Frankl, a good German Jew, was interned at a concentration camp during WWII, and one day, he was standing in line, and the guy next to him was slightly out of place, so it make Viktor look out of line.

So the German guards beat him.

You know what happened then?

Viktor Frankl developed this entire philosophy. He tried to see reason in all this insanity, and then he went "AHA!" for he realized that he was trying to see reason.

And so he wrote a very little, thin book: "Man's Search for Meaning."

Read it. You already have, because it's shaped how everybody in this post-modern era sees the world. So you ... 'should' read it to know what's pulling your strings all the time, and why.

So, anyway, his title says it all, and the hundred pages after that (inside the book) explain that.

A story that touched my heart when I read it in the book, although I didn't know why at the time, being all of 15 when I read it (yes, I was a 15-year-old girl reading philosophy books. Go ahead and think more about me in that light) (Go ahead and say it, if you dare to be honest to yourself) was that inmates could tell who would be dead in their cots the next day.

All you had to do is see somebody light up.

You see, cigarettes were the only money in that prison camp. You traded them for a deeper dip of the soup, so you had just enough protein not to fall over (and then be very shortly dead) while being worked. You traded them so they guards wouldn't beat you as much. You traded them for things in the black market. But your cigarettes? You never, never smoked them.

Unless you gave up. That very second, and you were ...

... Well, Frankl doesn't say it, but I just put it together. You were taking your smoke before the firing squad.

One final smoke before you gave up the ghost.

And, invariably, you did. Every single time Viktor saw somebody smoking, the very next day, the guy didn't get up from his cot, because all that was left was a few pounds of flesh to be disposed of in the incinerator.

Do you know what?

You'll never guess, so I'll tell you.

But after I tell you this.

Viktor Frankl, and his little book that has literally shaped the world?

It's wrong. Man. Heh, `phfina: 'Man.' Man is a meaning-making machine.

That's all he is. ('He').

(I'm fucking talking like Viktor Frankl, for God's sake).

But reality.

Here it comes, ladies and gentlemen.

Reality is just there. There is no meaning in reality. It's just there. And it doesn't care. It doesn't care about your meanings and your meaning-making. It just goes on and on and on. A million years from now, no: a thousand, no: one hundred.

One hundred years from now, everything you know, and care about, and cried over, or where callous and got scarred 'forever' from your own callousness, everything. You, your parents, your lover, your children, will be dead and buried and gone, and nobody, nobody will care one wit whether you lived or died (because you did) or wrote or sang or loved or cared or cried.

Nobody.

And then, moving beyond that. The world is you, right? Well, the rest of reality could care less about you. You think a zebra is thinking about you and your grades at school as its neck is being torn out by a lion on the hunt? You think the hyenas care about you and your job when they steal that kill from the lion, ripping apart the still bleating zebra?

Reality doesn't care that my mom smoked that day, and reality doesn't care what I thought about it.

But man is a meaning-making machine.

So, look at you. You are so trapped, making meaning out of this entry, because that's all you can do, and you even make meanings around making meaning, and you try to make that meaning-making reality.

But it's not. It's maya. It's chimera. It's dust. Dust to dust.

And that's where all your hurt come from. Listen to me. That's why you cry and cry and cry, because reality's there, but you say, 'but ...'

But you say 'but ...' and that's where all your pain and sin and agony comes from. From you crossing the ford with the dam just up the river broken, but 'I have to get to the other side ..." and why? "Well, because ..."

"Well, because ..."

Listen to all the time you say 'because' and listen to your context. Which isn't reality at all, it's a way of seeing, and a way of not seeing, so you can't even see what's right in front of you until you get gobsmacked by a mack truck that is what reality is.

BLAM!

And the following up phrase: "You're dead." And fade to black and curtains.

But no curtain call for you.

You know what happened to me that day? That day that little girl of seven or eight or nine had her first cigarette?

That was the day I died. No, really. I did. I died.

And all that is left now is this thing. This thing a walking shadow, drifting right through life, right past life, saying 'that isn't right,' and wondering why, wondering why things are the way they should be and i want my mommy i want my mommy i want my mommie bak.

Is this mom's fault? No.

Is this Aunt Cathy's fault, God rest her soul, the fucking bitch, for giving my mom that poisonous stick-snake and killing me KILLING ME!

GOD! It's so easy to say yes, but that's my lie, right? That's my payoff, or, more accurately: my copout.

No, it's not Aunt Cathy's fault, may she sleep with the angels and rest in peace.

No, the fault is that little girl, right there, sneaking along behind her mom, want to grow up and be just like her, and look what happened.

Look what happened.

I grew up.

And I wonder. Am I just like her, so nervous, so caring, so wanting the best for her daughter, and so afraid to say one word about anything but having this huge cloud of meaning floating above her head that you could speak to her because you had to speak, not through, but to it?

I wonder.

she

she

she didnt want me. she

ogod

she didn't want children, and i came along and she was so so old already and ...

and then she had me.

and god did i ever turn out didnt i. nutcase. freak. sociopath.

Major axis: morbid Obsessive-compusive
Minor axis: depression

medicated. isolated. 'treated'

No records of that. Those I shredded.

But I can't shred the mark on my soul. I can't shred how I see how people look at me, knowing they see a freak.

But I can shred something that's shreddable.

Guess what I found at the bus stop a couple of weeks ago. Guess.

A pack of cigarettes. Just opened. Only one smoked. Lemme get'm out of my backpack here.

Their Newport. Green. I like it. Irish.

I look at them. Sometimes. I feel them when I don't dare look.

One day, I'm gonna smoke one of them.

My last cigarette. Just like my first one. Stolen from somebody's discard.

Why?

'Why?' you ask.

You weren't listening, were you.

My mom, who, by all accounts is a saint, insofar as I can tell ... I mean, I would say she's like Mary, except I made that acquaintance already, thank you, and my mom is someone I'd like to flee to, not from. Well, what did she do?

Nothing. She raised me as best as she possibly could, and one day, to blow off steam, she took a long drag, and look what happened!

Me. That's what happened.

Now. Okay. Use your brains like I do for a sec.

Put me in my mom's place, and have my daughter following along, watching everything I do, and creating her world as she sees it looking at me through her eyes.

Women get postpartum depression, and they wonder why.

Well, no duh, stupid! It's because all the sudden reality hits you with a two-by-four and you realize, after the fact, that you're a mommy.

I have prepartum depression.

Because my mom made one mistake, and it wasn't even a mistake, it was just her letting her hair down with her sister, and I formed my whole reality around that.

Me? With a baby?

You know what I'll do, if I find I'm pregnant (again)?

I'll look for a clinic.

No, not an abortion clinic. I'll look for one of those clinics that kill the mother to save the child. From her.

From me.

But they don't have many of those around, and inquiries along those lines in polite society are usually regarded with more than a modicum of approbation.

So I'll take out that pack of Newports. And take a long drag. My last cigarette. To finish the job the first one did.

If I had any strength in my fingers, I'd take that smoke right now.

But I haven't slept in three days, and I'm dead tired, so I'm going to take a nap, and look at the pack again tomorrow. And not smoke again, tomorrow. And look in the mirror again tomorrow.

You ever look into the eyes of a soulless person? Yes you have. Admit it. Into the eyes who as allows the world to beat the life out of them, entirely, and all they do is what everybody else does, and why, because people are cattle, and they are running on autopilot to sbux to job to home to bed to sbux because that's ...

because that's ... because that's all there is.

You ever look into those eyes?

Probably not. You've got to be looking out of eyes to look into somebody else's eyes. And you can't look at anything, can you, because that require too much ... from you. Too much being what again? Exactly.

Well, I look into the depths of soulless eyes every. fucking. day. Every single morning.

And then, I go out, and I look into your eyes. And I try. Oh, God, I try to see you, to see someone there, but I'm not very good looker and im so so tired of looking out, hoping, hoping, and getting nothing back but just people resigned, resigned to just pushing on, pushing through, pushing past me and everything else in their life 'bothering' them.

I'm going back to reading the Eddas.

bye now.

Happy Fun Bags

Reposted from 5 September 2011

Okay, new post.

Why not, you know?

Besides this post is a happy post. Proof: it has the word 'Happy' in the title, therefore it's happy.

So there.

So.

I was at a parade, getting burnt to a crisp (yes: I have discovered I am not a panther. No, I'm a snake. The scales come right off to reveal mottled skin. MOTTLED SKIN! God! I'm a frikken cheetah ... or a what has spots? leopard?), so it was Memorial Day or the Battle of Bull Run, and I saw this father in a straw hat talking with his son looking up to his father adorningly, you know? Worshipful.

And boy, did that maternal instinct kick in. I wondered, if I had a son, or a daughter, would he look up to me like that boy looking up to his father? Or are fathers the only ones looked up to and we mothers just shepherd the kids to soccer practice and stay up all night with the sick kid when you're sicker than them while the husband snores away on the big bed while you're sleeping ... wait: sleeping? haha, good luck with that! ... on the floor in the nursery.

Or whatevs.

And then the next day comes and where's breakfast? and the dishes and laundry need to be done and the husband goes galavanting off to be the hero in the children's eyes and you're left with everything in the house to be done all the time and people actually sign up for that? ... actually want that? ... like are biologically craving that so badly they'd just fuck anything that moves to put a baby inside them and then get it out and then they're off to college after the 18 year grind and back home every quarter with the laundry?

ARRRRRRRGGGGGG!!!!!

Wait. Happy posting. Happy posting.

So, I was looking at this tableau, this father explaining something to his adoring son, and you know what (thunder-)struck me?
It was this:

Why do people have tits?

I mean: really! Half the world doesn't need them (half minus one according to Notting Hill) and then ... AND THEN! The other half only needs them right after childbirth for a year or few, but no! Everybody has them and WHY?

Yes, I'm still certifiable.

But hear me out first (before you lock me away).

I mean, take me for example. I don't exactly have 'happy fun bags' ... a term I learned reading a webcomic (yes I read comics: sue me, you won't get a dime anyway after the lawyers suck me dry (it'll be a very small suck, too: those bloodsuckers wouldn't even bother with skinny little me ... I don't even get bug-bites, as mosquitos know there's more elsewhere. Anywhere else where.)

(Unless you look at my titties and say: "two bug bites there, `phfina?" Yeah, thanks.)

And IN. THE. WEBCOMIC! (GOD! Can I EVER get off track) this Asian ninja chick was like Hiya! and the artist was like "That looks okay, but show us your happy fun bags so we can sell more strips" and she was like ... steaming and then: "This is the part where you die! HI-YA!"

And I was like: "Happy" "fun" "bags"?

And so, you know, I did a little self-examination.

I don't really have "Happy fun 'bags'"

You know the original meaning of purse is "to smoosh," like: "She pursed her lips."

So I have more like "Happy fun pursed" or "purses"

Or whatevs.

And the exam wasn't all that "happy."

But I have a confession to make.

(Oh, really, `phfina?)

Yes.

You know how superheroes have this one weakness, right? Like superman in red tights has kryptonite and the Green Lantern in green tights has a yellow weakness and ... hm, who else? Oh, yeah, Spiderman in his black tights has a "big fucking obvious plot" weakness.

But I digress, again. (but why do manly men have to wear tights? To show they've got six pack abs and a long john silver? So they defeat the enemy or alien or demon, and then whip out johnson and the twins and fuck the damsel's-in-distress brains out, and that's consensual intercourse, because obviously the superhero fucking her is better than the villain somehow? And this makes sense in what universe and to whom?) (and what if the damsel were a lesbian, and she was all like, 'thanks, but no thanks'? He's going be all gallant about it? Obviously, because he's the superhero, right? RIGHT!)

Anybody see that new Conan movie, btw? Anyone at all?

(Thor would be gallant, I bet! But he's got his hammer and likes fighting frost giants for fun. Well, that's Thor for you).

*AHEM!*

Well, my self exam was clinical, but, besides my whole body being an erogenous zone?

A guaranteed way to ... get my attention?

Well, I mean, the wind blows after a good rain, and the boys perk right up and and say, "Hey, what's going on out there?"

And they announce it loud, and clearly, to all who care to notice.

And notice they do.

And besides me dying of shame on the bus with the too damn good air conditioning, I ...

I just can't help but be so. fucking. turned. on that all you would have to do is not even touch.

Just blow, or hint, or look at the twins.

... And I'm cumming. I'm cumming like a fucking freight train.

I mean, God is obviously not a girl, because HE would never have said, 'Oh, yeah, let's every month turn my gender into complete bitches with cramps and an attitude that could melt lead at thirty paces, just because.'

No, a guy would do that. "Oh, yeah, they're fertile every month, so yeah, they can just slough it out, no problems!'

"'No' 'Problems'"?

But period or no. You give attention to me right there, and right there, (`phfina nods downward first left, then right) and ...

And ... oh, my God, I'm getting ... um, distracted, just thinking about somebody giving me attention there, and me getting that attention there.

With soft breaths, and caresses from fingers, and ... and lips ... and ...

And, I'm like: why? Why do I have to be this bundle of impulses that a girl can just turn on like a light switch, once she finds my superheroine weakness? I mean, they are such tiny little things, like my feet or my kitty, but they become the universe as soon as somebody looks across the room at them, or I get angry, or a cold breeze cuts right through my cotton tee, and the boys perk right up and are like ...

"The boys"? GOD! I can even say 'nipples' without dying from shame.

(`phfina turns pinker than her fucking mottled (mostly descaled under) flesh)

Um, ... Christ.

No, I haven't been taking drugs, not even non prescription medication.

I. Fuck. I'll just end this post now. I'll just post this post now and bury my head under my pillow.

Anything's better than my last post. Even this one.

Good night.

Saga's not talking to me. I wonder why she ever even...

fuck.

fuck.

No. Fuck. No. I'm not done yet. Not yet. One more nail. Always one more nail.

And here's why I'd make a terrible mother. Right here.

Besides the fact that my child would starve to death in her first week, 'cause no matter how much I'd fill out, she'd suck the blood right out of me and still be thirsty, and 'oh, yeah, I'm just using formula to supplement her diet, because I don't have it to be her full nursing mother.'

Yeah, everywhere I look I'm a failure. But it gets (much) worse.

You know how some women orgasm while breast feeding? Very embarrassing, I'm told.

Not for me.

I'd be like, 'c'mer, kiddo, mommy needs to cum right fucking now!'

Yes, I just wrote that. Lovely image, right? me, my baby to my breast, and my other hand between my legs and I moan out my whatever.

Talk about a fucked-up mother fucking up a childhood. Could you see me at Mass throwing my head back and cumming like a freight train, right during the fucking Consecration?

They'd

Oh, God!

They'd take my baby away from me.

And.

o god

And with good reason. And they'd tell her. Her growing up in foster care. "Your mother was sick. very sick. and she killed herself, and that's why we had to

I can't keep writing that. This.

Even after I'm dead, I'm still poisoning myself and all who touch me.

And ...

And if that's not bad enough ...

And ... I ... I haven't been in an ANR, but I ... I ...

I think about it sometimes.

And i ...

Um.

How to salvage this post? i keep thinking 'how to salvage this post?' and i keep writing, and keep digging myself deeper.

ill stop now. ill do the world a favor and stop now.

i

no. ill stop now.

Pandora opened the box, and there's no way to un-open it.

Pandora was the sister to Pan, wasn't she? At least etymologically speaking. Pan:

Chaos.

im tired. im so, so tired.

gud natt.

Passin'

So, okay. I wrote summat ("Happy Fun Bags"), and I put it up, and then I took it down. Now, I'll put it back up again.

Moving on.

So, I wrote a story, I write stories, and I sometimes show up in them, or I write blog entries, and I show up in those.

So, but really! A 24 yr-old girl who doesn't even look 14? C'mon, really, `phfina!

No, really.

You know how I know.

I mean 'older' people telling me this is no biggie: they' re old! What do they know of this generation? Nothing! 'cause their old!

Not that I don't love me some old people ... they are SO CUTE! and I'll stop now before I get into MORE steaming hot water from all you old people who read me.

(You old people are SO CUTE! teehehe!)

(okay, I'll stop now) (even though I never do, eh, `phfina?)

But how about from ... young people?

So, okay, I was at my brother's house last night, ... no, not bb's, but Mike's.

You know with my niece who has infantile spasms?

Well, anyway, he's, like, OLD! (there I go again), but he surrounds himself with kids ... he's like a father and an older brother to them. He doesn't take any shit and he lays down the law.

He also doesn't give a fuck. He'll LET you be you.

Find another adult who'll do that for you as a teen.

And he won't let your shit slide, either, he'll call you on it and hold you to task.

Find another adult who'll do that for you as a teen.

So there' re always lots of kids around his XBoxes (XBoxen) at his place, and his cousin, my cousin, Kyle is in on my little secret, but newcomers ...

So last night I was there and Kyle is home from school and he brings a new friend, and Kyle is like really protective of me, too? and that's sweet, especially with other boys who think they can push a girl, and Kyle gets all 'Kuya' on them ('older brother').

So, there was this new kid, 'Mac' and he's ... well, Kyle's in the wrestling team, and this kid could go that way or be in the basketball team, and maybe he's in both, idk.

Anyway, he's like, 'c'mon, li'l girl, 1v1 in teh Haloz, I'll kick your ass!' ('cause girls can't play video games?)

So I was like to Kyle, 'New guy wants to play me on Halo!'

And Kyle gives it right back, "Don't mind me laughing when you lose!"

Grrrrr! I'll show them!

So we get it on. We load up the map, and I take the lead with Rockets.

Yeah, girl power. I'm thinking of changing my name from `phfina to 'Rocket Red' or sommat.

Then it goes back and forth, and, okay, Mac is the better shot, and so at the end, two kills with his sniper and he wins the game.

'I'm good with the sniper,' he says, and I can hear pride in his voice.

"Yes, you are," I answer truthfully.

I can feeling him checking me out.

"You wanna get a burger at 5 guys?" he says.

I'm like, "Nah."

And he's like, "Why? You don't go out with black guys?"

I smile, "That's not it."

"What, you a salad girl?"

I smile, and take a swig from my beer.

His face registers shock: "Mike will kill you if he sees you drinking that."

He's not joking. My big brother Mike is a hard ass, or 'iron fist,' as he says, and everybody who comes to his house knows that, or finds out the hard way.

I think about singing some lyrics I've heard recently that go: "Do what the fuck you want to do."

But I see Kyle grinning, in on the joke, so I ask Mac, "Why?"

He rolls his eyes. "Just put that away before Mike catches you, okay, little girl?"

I laugh, and he's like, "Whatever." So I'm like, "Really, why? How old do you think I am?"

And he's like, "Oh, come on! You're my age!"

"Which is ..."

"I'm fifteen." he actually almost sticks out his chest.

I would have guessed older, but Mike is the kind of person how attracts people around him who are ... well, mature: well-behaved, polite, all that, and still 15 or whatever, asking out girls, sticking out their chests, thinking about and worrying about college, and all that.

But Mac thought I was his age.

I mean: really.

In fact, after we cleared up that I wasn't the kind of girl who liked to go out with older boys (and I didn't go any further than that ... I'm not out to all my family) (and I don't need to defend why to you) (I have uncles that are ... well, anyway), that I was, in fact, almost ten years his senior.

At first he didn't believe it.

At second, he didn't believe it.

I think he still doesn't believe it, even after I showed him my 'ghetto' iPod (version 2, that can just (barely) play video) and told him about graduating college (he almost vomited) and ...

And he still doesn't believe it.

"You're making this up!"

"I don't believe you."

"There's no way you are ... nah, that's bullshi-..."

(he stopped himself. Fear the Mike.)

And I was like, "Okay, that's fine."

And I was really fine with that. I mean, I could show him my driver's license, but fakes out there are good, aren't they? He's going to believe me or not, and either way, I was fine.

In fact, I felt ... complimented. He sees me as someone relatable (datable, even), one of his peers, his buds, his gfs, ... and he's fifteen.

Same way I saw him. I saw this tall guy who was cool with me, laughing with me, treating me as one of his own, and that was cool, to belong, to be in, to be friendly and treated friendly.

So, what am I saying? Besides nothing, as usual. I guess, what does it matter how old I am or how young I am, or how young you are, or how old you are? It doesn't, really, if we can relate, regardless of age.

And it is funny. `phfina, hangin' with the 15-year-olds, because they think she's one of them.

Yup, I'm passin'

Tiny Feet

I have tiny feet.

I've been contemplating this fact for a while, my tiny feet, but it was never relevant enough to write about.

Until now.

Lucky you.

Yes, my feet are tiny. They are like, almost, you know the bound feet that made all those pretty little chinese girls so beautiful? So they would have this done to themselves, they would bind their feet, sometime breaking them, to make sure their little, little feet would fit in their little, little shoes, to look so beautiful and delicate.

Oh, the things we women do to ourselves to look beautiful to others.

My feet weren't bound, they are just naturally tiny, to go with my tiny titties and slit.

My hands are small, but not tiny. Small, but not small enough for fisting.

You really don't need to ask me how I know this.

I hate hurting other people. I really, really do. I think, when I hurt somebody else, it actually physically hurts me more than it hurts them.

Except M.J. God, I loved it when my mag light connected with his head. Fuck with me or mine, and I'll fucking mess you up.

I may be categorized as a featherweight, but I'll put all 120 pounds behind that swing, so that when you go down, you stay down.

Whoa, `phfina, rein it in.

Nobody notices my feet, and I don't have a foot thing myself. Babies' feet are very kissable, but after that, you start to wonder when those things were last washed, and so you kiss them to get your way to the Jade Gate, you know? Heaven? The Center?

And when I get there I kinda stay there, so things like 'feet' aren't uppermost in my mind then, IYKWIMAITTYD. ("if you know what I mean, and I think that you do.")

So I don't notice feet all that much, and people don't notice mine all that much either.

Just like me. People don't notice me all that much, until I surprise them, and they realize they are dealing with somebody of very fearsome intellectual power, and they get scared, because they can't cow me like they walk over everybody else.

But I have tiny feet, and small hands, and tiny titties, and very tiny kitty.

... just like my ego.

I may hiss, and show my claws, and say that I'm a panther. But you know.

You know.

You know I'm just a frightened little kitty cat, scared out of her mind ... so, so fragile.

So, you know, when you decide to do what you always do. You know? Unzip your fly and shit all over me?

You call it 'sending `phfina a PM' or 'reviewing on of her stories' or 'telling her about your day at school, or work, or at your business' but, sadly, for the most part, subtle or not, you decide to let fly on me all the things you are stewing about.

You know what 'stewing' is, right? Also known as 'marinating' ... but not in oil and herbs and spices.

No, you just love to marinate in your own shit.

Don't believe me? Reread what you just sent me, be it your review or your PM or your email. Reread it like this: '`phfina just sent me this email.'

That's right. Pretend you weren't the writer of your lovely correspondence. No: pretend you're receiving this PM from someone you admire or respect or love. Read what they wrote to you.

Can you believe that shit? Can you believe the nerve? And did you ask them to dump all their shit on you?

Like you don't have enough to deal with in your life already.

Okay. You've read it. You've got it. You've just shit all over me.

Now that you've got it, what are you going to do with it?

Apologize?

... hm.

(`phfina tries not to laugh, because she just might not stop, and then they'll come take her away again, perhaps forever this time.)

Here's what an apology is. An apology for a three year old is the hardest thing in the world to do.

Last I checked, you aren't three. And neither am I.

An apology for everybody else?

A cop-out.

"Oh, I did this. I keep doing this. But I'm sorry. So it's okay to keep repeating this behavior because I apologized, so that's just what I'll do."

Don't believe me? Check your life and see what your apologies have done. Changed much since your previous, oh, what? 15 "I'm sorry"s?

An apology is just another way for you to distance yourself from what you've done.

So, is your immediate instinct to apologize for apologizing?

Ooh, that's just great. You are so choice. You're sincerity is just oozing out of you.

So, instead of apologizing, ... what? Lash out?

"Oh, `phfina, it's your fucking fault for being so goddamn sensitive. You wanna put yourself out there, you gotta grow a thick skin to deal with shits [like me]."

Super. The best defense is a good offense, and you sure are defensive, aren't you? Or offensive? I get the two confused with people like that.

Perhaps because they are so offensive when they are being so defensive.

Again, distancing yourself from what you've done by attacking or blaming others. You're good: it's somebody else's fault.

So, justification? Coercion?

"`phfina, did I do anything wrong?"

Um, I don't have all day to write the list you know better than I do, thanks for asking, though. So you can have `phfina, the arm chair psychologist get into your head.

Sorry, (`phfina apologizes, not meaning it at all, just. like. you), but I've seen inside your head. Don't. wanna. go. there.

None of those things work. And you don't need me to tell me what you already know if all you did was to open your eyes and examine your past.

Why? No reasons.

But let's try something else.

Be with what you've written, what you've done, and who you are.

Before you do anything: write to me to apologize or to lash out or to coerce. Before any of that.

Be with it. With you. With yourself and your life.

Ask yourself some honest questions.

"This school I'm bitching about. Didn't I strain every nerve to pass the entrance exam to get in? Didn't I place my self worth on being in this school? Aren't I in now? And I'm doing what with it? Cursing it?"

"This job I got. That I was so nervous in the interview. And so, so relieved when they accepted me. So relieved I puked and peed at the same time. And now I hate my boss that I chose to work for? Now I hate doing what I begged to be accepted to do? That I had to prove my competence to them. And that they admired my work? And I'm doing what now? Cursing it?"

"This business that I run. These customers that I have. Didn't I beg, plead and cajole them to come in? Good, paying customers everywhere else? And didn't I hand off these good, paying customers (everywhere else) to an underling I knew would screw up and not practice due diligence, fully knowing I would have to step in and clean up the mess of this now indolent customer who won't pay because we're too scared to ask them, straight up, to do just that, and honor their commitments, but it's somehow their fault that we don't have any backbone, so I'll shit on you `phfina, because I can't kick the dog, because I don't have one right now"?

Stop.

New conversation.

You are in the school you fought so hard to get in. You are asking questions nobody else dares to ask, so you are learning the lessons better than any of the other students.

I know. There was this girl in my economics class. Mary. Hated her. HATED HER. Dumb shit was always asking questions that was so, so obvious in this super boring class. I just wanted to sleep, or get out of class and fuck the brains out of that cute little Asian chick, Grace, but no, Mary's hand flew up, and I just wanted to rip that offending arm off and beat her over the head with it ... beat some sense into her. Or at least make her shut her stupid mouth.

Prof thought differently. He said, "You should go right for your Ph.D. [this was just college, mind you] because you're thinking through these issues like a professor."

Mary got an A. I got a B, I think, or an A, or a C. Don't remember. Don't care. Didn't care about much that semester.

I'm lucky they didn't kick me out.

Not that I remember all that much of that semester.

I'm not bitter.

Fucking bitch.

See, any excuse works for a loser for why they fail.

Job? Business? It's the same as school

It's the same as school.

We don't have problems. You don't have problems. You have your life and people in your life. Now, you could go all whatevs-fundamentalist and kill all the people in your life, and that would sure take care of your problems, now wouldn't it?

Or. Or. Or.

Or try something else on.

You are exactly where you choose to be. You are exactly where you want to be. Right now. And, five years ago, or even five weeks ago, you would've sunk down on your knees and thanked God Almighty for the blessings you have of getting this job or customer or class or roommate.

What you have right now? From the lens of five weeks ago, even, is a blessing.

What you have right now is a blessing.

So, you can do what you are doing: cursing your blessings, and asking others (me) to sympathize and commiserate with you and your oh-so-unfortunate life.

Um, I'm not signing up for that.

Or, you can open your eyes and look around you, and count your blessings.

Your choice.

Homework

Yes, you get homework.

It's a two-parter.

1. read that last missive, or those last three missives, you sent me as if you are the receiver, not the writer.

Is it a blessing that I haven't responded like you would have responded to that shit?

I'll let you answer that.

To yourself. Not to me, thank you. I don't want to hear your sorry-assed whining apology.

2. Count. your. fucking. blessings.

Translation: count your fucking blessings. You are where you chose to be. Congratu-fucking-lations. So when I ask you to smile today, and you say, "I don't have much of a reason to smile today."

Well, excuse me, but I'll go sit with somebody who does have a reason to smile today.

My little niece? She's 3. She has infantile spasms, which means she can't walk or talk and she has more than 100 seizures each day where she screams in agony. She'll be lucky to make into her teens. Lucky.

And she smiled and giggled today.

And that made my whole day.

Make somebody's whole day.

Please.

I have tiny feet. Very tiny feet.

My soul is even smaller. Step on it, and it's crushed.

Earthquake Weather

Something's coming sky is purple
Dogs are howling to themselves
Days are changing with the weather
Like a rip tide could rip us away

I push I pull the days go slow
Into a void we filled with death
And noise that laughs falls off their
Maps all cured of pain and doubts
In your little brain

— Beck, "Earthquake Weather"

Fine day for an earthquake, yes?

So, I'm fine. Actually, I was annoyed! I was, like, cooking the books at work, and I nearly screamed: "HOW CAN A GIRL THINK IN HERE WITH THE FURNITURE MOVERS UPSTAIRS?"

And then the building started shaking. Swaying, actually. Which is not a good thing to feel when you're on the eighth floor.

There was no question. One of our leaders was in the World Trade Center on 9/11, and she was told, "Oh, everything's fine, continue on," by building security. And she was like ...

(Um, I'll edit was she was like here)

You do know it took a half-hour for the building to collapse, right?

So she, on her own, evacuated group, and because of her, thirty people are still alive today, who wouldn't have been.

They told us that we could work from home for the rest of the day. And I'm like, yeah, right, like I'm gonna go back into the building to get the books, and I need system access and like they're gonna give that to me on my creaky laptop.

And then the commute home. 'Commute'? Did I say 'commute'? 'Nightmare,' more like. I should have just bedded down on the stone bench in the park. I mean: really!

JEEZ, people! It's only:

"It's one of the largest that we've had there," USGS seismologist Lucy Jones told CNN. Aftershocks were a concern, she said. "People should be expecting (them), especially over the next hour or two," she added.

It's not like the end of the world! I swear: Washington, D.C. is one of the most panicky cities in the world! People see one snowflake and they cancel Government work for three weeks.

Okay. We had an earthquake. That happened. It was a little fun, a little exciting. I'm fine. Really. Thank you for your thoughts and concerns. Kisses for you!

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Burnt by the Sun

So, like, when will I ever learn?

So I went to the pool with my nieces ("The Watermine!") (I think the exclamation point is part of the name of the park). And every little Irish girl was wearing either a tee shirt or a long-sleeved wet suit shirt thingie? Because their moms were like: "Oh, no, Hannah, we are NOT taking you to the hospital again today!"

But was my mom here to tell me that.

My entire skin hurts! I mean, like: ouch!

Did the life guard(esse)s wear shirts? NO! Is it some requirement that to be a life guard, you have to be this bronzed goddess, perfectly sculpted, and be willing to work for a pay that is less than they charge for lunch at these theme parks?

The dress was all over the map. I wore a one piece. No way was I gonna wear a bikini, because, being Irish, I would be in the hospital now, if I did, AND I don't need to advertise my "no tits, no hips" (lack of) figure.

Okay, I do have a little bit of a bubble butt, but that's like ... okay, I'm slightly pleased with my curve back there, at least I have one, you know, and it's not sagging or BBW, as they say. But nothing to proclaim to everybody.

I'm surprised a lifeguard didn't pull me out of the pool with the stern warning: "You can't swim without a parent's supervision, young lady!"

Self conscious much, `phfina?

You bet.

My nieces could be life guards. They had on one pieces, too: these bright orange-yellow things that contrasted with their bronzed skin.

Okay. Time out. Why does everybody else get perfect-perfect skin except us Irish girls? Except for my hair, I could have plastered myself against the white-washed wall and be totally ignored, but everybody else? Bronze goddesses everywhere in that pool, I swear!

So, anyway: nieces, so we were walking along from slide to slide when another girl, blond, blue eyed was walking along beside us, and she was wearing the exact same orange-yellow suit as my nieces ... about the same age, too. My nieces exchanged smiles with the girl. I had the sudden urge to bring her home and be her mommy, you know? Is that an urge that strikes us at a certain time in our lives? I'm scared, looking forward to worrying about 'oh, my clock is ticking!' where I'll just bed anything to put babies in me.

Um ... but not tonight. I'm off to bed, and I'm eyeing it, and the sheets that look to me now like razor blades with some trepidation. I wonder if I'll be able to rise tomorrow or the next day.

You know what I'm afraid of? Not being able to go to work on Monday, and Cindy or Janet asking, 'But, hun, why can't you come in?' and it'll become this big integrity issue were I coulda-woulda-shoulda but I didn't and it's all my fault.

And it will be, but then, come Monday I may be just fine, so why am I putting these worry lines on my face?

Chillax, `phfina

Okay. Good advice. I'm chillaxin'. Good night!

Daughters of Club Bilitis

Okay, what are you doing right now?

Well, if you haven't watched Daughters of Club Bilitis, I would urge you to drop whatever it is you are doing, and sit down for about one hour and watch all four segments of this movie (1, 2, 3, 4).

It's Korean. Doesn't matter, because it's universal.

And the beauty of it, is they don't focus on one story, one age, but weave in all three phases of life, from the teenage crush (eh, `phfina, like you haven't outgrown that, Miss that's all I write about?) to the young committed couple, so lost in their own problems they can reach out to each other to help, to the 'old biddies' who are the perfect couple, ... but at what cost?

I write this review as if I watched a tragedy, and, yes, I did cry (cries?) (how many hankies did I use?), and it is, Korea is a society so homophobic a mother would rather bite her tongue off and die than hear her daughter is in love with another girl, and, even, a lesbian couple hope and pray their own daughter never gets this 'sickness.' And that's what these women are living in and through.

And, somehow, magically (and beautifully: realistically, this isn't a rosy 'love conquers all' story) they make it work. And wonderfully: the film shows how they have to keep making it work, every day, day in and day out, and how tiring that can be, how scary, and for each other, how ... how special, sweet, tender, spiteful, jealous, scared, beautiful, agonizingly beautiful.

And hopeful.

Watch this film. Please.

And ladies, filming this movie, and acting in it ... I salute you (`phfina salutes). Thank you for daring to make this.

Remembrance

Remember that girl who said she was hot in her last post.

Well, it's true. I'm hot.

Hot pink now.

Oh, goodness, am I going to pay for today.

Okay, I ask you: how is it legal that the sun gets to turn me into pink lemonade served at red lobster when I had gobs of sunblock on AND I wore not spaghetti-straps, not a halter top but a pretty little flowery number that covers shoulders and arms (well, upper arms ... well, the top half of upper arms). I even wore a large-brimmed white sun hat, getting into the spirit of the thing, but did it preserve me from getting these red-raccoon eyes and ... oh, God, I'm a stereotype: red neck?

Noooooooo!

And, yes, if you've noticed the trend in the dresses I wear: I like flowers. Like Alice, who likes arranging them (although arrangements're not my specialty) and seeing them and holding them very delicately and breathing them into my being when I pass by them. Problems? Talk to the elbow, 'cause the hand's tired of listening and is now out to lunch!

Hm. I don't think I can defend me being a lipstick lesbian. Oh, well; there goes that career path!

But look at me: talking about myself, when I sat in the bleachers, along with eleven thousand other spectators melting in the sun, even as we wore a black tee that said "New American; Old Irish: One and Inseparable" with short-short jean shorts.

[God, did I want to scream, "THANK YOU!" to that girl, SUCH a cutie! Then I would've kissed her hard, and threw her right on to the ground and fucked her brains out, regardless of what her husband/boyfriend/brother would have had thought about the situation. It was hot outside ... she was hotter! ... and Irish-American!]

But here everybody was, in various states of undress, watching all those manly men and boys march right into battle carrying not just their canteens and muskets and pill-box hats (stuffed with ice cubes! Smart!). But they were also wearing worsted-wool OVERCOATS?!?! ... and BOOTS?!? and layers and layers and layers of clothes, to march right out to face the better armed and overwhelming Union troops, less than 100 yards away so they could stand face to face and get the Hell blasted out of each other?

And the shocking thing, besides the carnage (boys were falling to the ground like flies), was that they would amiably turn to us, ask after our day, hope that we were enjoying ourselves, and be concerned about how we were taking the heat and 'make sure you drink plenty of water!'

I mean, like, they cared more for us than they cared for themselves.

Luckily for me, I didn't get lucky. I mean, how could I? They were all packed together like sardines in these sweltering little pup tents when they were amongst themselves, and when they weren't they were swarmed by hordes of fans, taking pictures, asking questions, and being told how hot it was today.

And in the heat, I was concentrating more on staying hydrated than anything else, and putting one foot in front of the other. We had to walk miles! to get to the battleground, in the sweltering sun (obscured by cooling clouds, thank God!), and ...

And that's exactly what they did, 150 years ago. They marched for miles, and then at 6 am, a little fight broke out between the opposing sides, and then, at the end of that weekend there were hundreds dead. Hundreds.

I watched a corpsman run out to aid a wounded soldier, screaming in pain, and then I watched that corpsman running, and then suddenly drop, hard, onto the ground, ... and not move anymore, and not get up.

... and that happened 150 years ago: angry Americans, again, too fiery tempered to talk over things and settle things amicably, like how Canada mutually declared independence from British Rule, no, we had to piss on their representatives, literally, who happened to be our neighbors, literally, and then rattle swords and watch our boys and their boys kill each other.

And then we had to do it to ourselves.

And now we remember that. Our dead.

Ours are not the only dead.

In today's paper, there's Norway.

And one 'Christian extremist' bombed the capital and then when on a shooting rampage that left more than 80 dead on a labor party retreat ... most of the dead were school children in their teens.

And I glanced at that headline as I was getting my espresso, and read the article, and I thought: Saga could have been there.

And she was.

Somewhere in that multitude of people who will never surface from the water they dived into to escape a 'Christian Fundamentalist' who apparently opposed 'multiculturalism' was a girl or a boy that loved and was loved. Leaving a bereaved family behind.

And the take-away from this?

I'm scared.

I'm scared that people will start thinking about Christianity, in general, like people over here started thinking about Islam after 9/11, and they'll start enacting laws, and you ...

You'll think, 'Oh, Christianity breeds that sort of person.' Like him.

Like me.

`phfina, the little extremist Christian fundamentalist.

Put an AK-47 in my hands, and I'll tear through my high school, all whacked out on drugs and my idealism, and I pull the trigger but trip over my own feet and shoot myself up, fully automatic, so there'd be more lead than little fundamentalist, and everybody would laugh at me as my lungs filled with liquid and my vision grayed out to nothing, and their laughter would be the last thing I heard before oblivion overtook me.

But the thing of it is ...

I am a little Christian Fundamentalist.

Because, beside Columbine, there was a man who went on a shooting rampage right here in Virginia.

In an Amish school.

And you know what happened?

One girl broke line, and approached the man, holding them all hostage, and said 'Shoot me first.'

And you know what happened?

He shot, and killed, her first.

And you know what else happened?

Her sister, her only sibling, went up to him next and said, 'Shoot me next.'

And he shot her next. And she died.

They gave their lives so that he would use his bullets on them, so that the other girls in the classroom would have a shot at living.

And you know what? If he came to my high school, you know what I would do?

I would march right up to him, barely able to speak, because I'd be so terrified, and I'd say...

I'd say, "Shoot me first."

Why?

Because, one time, God offered me a shot. He showed me something, and I ran.

And if I was confronted with this? Or if I were on a plane, and a guy pulled a gun and screamed, 'You're all gonna die, you corrupt generation' of whatever twisted belief he holds, be it Christian or Muslim or something else that he believes is telling him to go out in a blaze of glory and to take as many sinners/infidels with him ...

I would say, scared out of my mind, 'thank you, God! Thank you, God, for giving me this chance to accept martyrdom this time, to stay and to stand, and to spare anybody, everybody else from this lunatic,' and I'm not talking about the lunatic holding the gun.

I'm talking about the lunatic facing the gunman.

Selfish, isn't it?

I mean: besides insane, of course.

But who am I thinking of the whole time? Me. Me, and how I can make reparation with God for my earlier cop-out, like I could possibly redeem me, and my wretched life with my glorious blaze-out.

And what was I thinking about on the battleground? Me and how I'm just wilting under the sun, and how the bed sheets are going to feel like razor blades on my skin tonight, and how this walk is just murderous to whom? To me.

And in my last post I put up my petty little concerns that affect nobody but me, and today more than 80 people died, and what are my whinings to that? A daughter/lover/friend is dead today, and she'll never get the chance to say one last, 'Mum, I'm sorry. Mum, I love you.' All she got to do was dive into that stormy cold water, feel the lead hammer into her back and breathe in salt and die, scared, screaming, helpless, and I worry about what?

But what can I do?

Really, what can I do?

I'm not asking this as 'oh, one person makes no difference,' no, I'm saying: this happened. This didn't happen to me.

God is giving me a gift of being alive, right now, today.

What am I going to do with this gift?

Because this gift? It was earned. Not by me. It was earned by two little Amish girls and their parents, now childless, who went to the guy and forgave him! It was earned by those brave, idealistic, stupid boys marching off for Country or Freedom or both and gave me this country today. It was earned by those boys and girls in Norway, who each gave their lives for me, who each died for me, and are telling me, right now, that now is all I have, so am I just going to sit here at my keyboard and cry for them, and is that a way to honor them?

Or will I honor them by being? Or by writing that next chapter? And saving one more life, letting one more person know that she (or he) is not alone, that there is this crazy little nut-case that feels exactly as she does, and has this magical ability to express these thoughts and feelings in words as she could not, and that there is beauty and hope in this world.

Even in this world of cruelty, randomness and despair.

And it starts, this hope, with me, and how I carry on, and how I ...

Shit. Life, living is so, so hard. It's just so hard sometimes to go on being into tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow as it creeps out its petty pace. And going out in a blaze of glory in front of a suicider's gun is just so terrifying, ...

and so tempting: "Boom!" goes the gun, and "HAHA! I WIN!" crows the `phfina, for the game is over.

Like I said, a cop-out. Because little me? There's another game, and it's called winning this next minute. NOT taking a drink from the bottle. Instead, picking up the figurative pen, looking hard and long into the mirror, into my soul, and writing something for someone who needs these words right now. And hearing her say to me, again, 'I'm alive now because your words gave me hope.'

And the swelling in my throat as I read what you do with your life because of something I wrote inspired you?

God, that hurts. It hurts so much, and that hurt is so good. I did nothing. I wrote something, and then you took on something and did something with your life.

And I remember that. I remember you, and honor you.

Skirts

Time for a happy (happier) post from me.

So let's start it off right by stating a plain fact:

I'm hot.

I am so fucking hot, just by looking at a girl, with my hot, sultry, sexy, wanton look, I can make her cu...

Um, that's not the 'hot' I mean, but thank you for thinking that.

*blush*

Anyway, I went to the Marine Corps Pass in Review last night ...

... Oh, for the love of everything, why did you do that, `phfina?

Research. Yeah, research!

*ahem*

And I wore my hair back in a pony tail, 'cause wearing it down in this 100°F heat?

But do you know what? If you were nibbling on the nape of my neck last night ...

... `phfina! KEEP IT CLEAN!

Just sayin' that if you were, you would not have gone thirsty, even after wandering the Sahara for a month!

AND I wore a dress.

Yes! I know! Now pick yourself up off of the floor.

I mean, what the heck! I'm young; I'm hot (see above), so, you know, I can wear a dress if I want to. It was a spaghetti-strap cotton little number that was just above the knee. You know the kind, right? A summer dress, white, with bold blue flowers that said to every and all, 'I'm such a sweet little fem, that will coo so prettily, when, you know, you do to me exactly what you're thinking, you strong-looking virile young man in uniform from Indianapolis, Indiana!'

Yes, I was thinking that they were thinking that, but God! Those marines, all built in V-shapes in their picture-purrfect uniforms, standing ramrod straight, offering their arms to all ladies to escort them to their seats, saluting all the fathers, calling all the girls 'ma'am' with a very polite, professional smile on their face that just screamed 'gentlemanly manly man!'

I mean, they could beat the straight right into this crooked little gaie girl, I'm telling you!

I mean, that's why we all love Emmett ... even Rosalie, who doesn't love anybody, loves and cleaves to Emmett ... and Thor, btw ... it's because I mean, men have been unmanned. They always have been, right, if you look at history. I mean, heros are heros because they actually stand up for something, like their families (their poor, defenseless wives and children against the oppressive British tyrants (which describes about half the Mel Gibson movies out there, I just realize)), and we so love our heros because when you ask them, 'Honey, what do you want for supper?' They don't say, 'Oh, I dunno, whatever you want,' and you're like GRRR! I've just darned socks and fed and taught the children and stoked the fire and swept the (dirt ground) floor and I. WANT. YOU. TO. GIVE. MY. POOR. TIRED. BRAIN. A. BREAK. FOR. TWO. SECONDS and tell me WHAT YOU WANT FOR SUPPER SO I CAN COOK THE G.D. THING SO YOU WON'T GIVE ME THE STINK-EYE BECAUSE you're not getting your fav that you've had the last three days in a row.

No, manly men aren't like that mealy-mouthed types who say 'Oh, whatever you want,' no, they say: "Supper, I want YOU for supper, NOW!" and throw you over their shoulder, RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE KIDS! take you into the bedroom, lick you until you're good and ready and making you change your murmured protestations of 'But, dear, the kids!' to 'Oh, fuck me now, fuck me hard, you beast!' And he does, he rams right into you long, and hard, and now!

And then, afterwards, he strokes your hair, and you say, gasping, 'get off me, you lug,' *gasp-gasp* 'can't breathe!' and he laughs and gets you a cup of water, and helps the kids make pancakes or whatever he and they can make for you to eat (and even, o.m.g. does the dishes ... keeper!) and brings you just one chocolate truffle afterwards and plops down in bed right besides you and starts snoring away without a care in his head!

Men!

Um ... um ... um ... yeah.

Actually, I have a few dresses in my closet now. I have this little yellow number, pale yellow prints on white, halter top ... I got complimented on it and my demur little white shawl I wore (the office's air conditioning is good!), and I blushed as hard as any little fem would blush.

GAWD! SO embarrassing! Me blushing up a storm 'cause somebody sez I look 'nice' and that I should wear dresses more often ... and I look pretty!

EEeeEEeeEEeeK!

So I've been wearing dresses more. I went for modest at first (okay, don't go there, let me explain 'at first' before you picture me, a pole, and a skin-tight athletic suit that seems to shed pieces as I twirl around the pole, inverted, ... for easy inspection)

(I can't believe I just wrote that!)

But the problem with ankle length skirts is that, okay, have you ever had to sprint down stairs to catch a train? And then, deboarding the train, have you ever had to sprint upstairs to catch the bus? And then, so you've got work papers in your hand, right, so grasping the helm to lift it an inch so you don't trip over yourself? So it's either you or your work papers that are going to fly all over the metro station, drawing a crowd around the stupid girl who fell on her face asking if she's okay and boy you really took a spill, didn't you?

I'm fine, thanks, can you guide me to the tracks, I'm looking for the third rail for a quick end to this embarrassment.

I must be known as the 'Olympic Sprinter' at the metro stations, for the amount of sprinting I do.

Rule number one at group: there are no excuses. There is only you and how you honor your word.

Rule number one at group: You are late, then you are late, and we will never, ever forgive you.

Actually that second rule number one really isn't a rule, but you try being late, just once, at group where I work.

Won't happen a second time. I guarantee it.

So I've gone more toward just-below-the-knee to, now, just above the knee.

*blush*

What? I'm young and it's summer, and I do have the world track record for getting into the bus just as it's closing its doors. To the applause and laughter OF THE ENTIRE BUS! (no joke).

So I have those two numbers, AND I have this indigo cocktail number with these small tropical purple flowers.

So that brings on a whole new world of problems, right girls? You know what I'm talking about.

Accessories.

Okay, how in the world can people afford to be women for fuck-me-up-the-ass-boss secretary pay (even though, as a girl who cooks the books, I'm not a secretary, I'm a glorified secretary)? And then there's the infinite diversity in infinite combinations that comes with.

We have this Dr. at work, her name's Faye, and she has a business of selling smex-me-hard shoes on the side. She wears a different pair into work every day. I haven't yet got the courage yet to ask her if the shoes work, but from the conversations she has with 'invited guests' to her shoe parties where the wine flows as easily as the tongues (for talking, you pervs!), I'm given to understand that the shoes do work.

And how.

But me, wearing heels?

I'd pull a Bella Swan in a heartbeat, end up in the hospital with a broken femur and telling the doctor before he cuts me open to call Cindy at work to tell her I'll be late and then wait in dreadful anticipation after I wake up in the recovery room to see the great dame Cindy looking at me and her watch.

Okay, that last one was uncalled for, but heels? No.

So what then to go with the dresses? Keens?

Sigh!

You know what I feel when I'm wearing a dress?

I was so, SO! scared that I'd get all femmy and ...

... okay, don't get me wrong. Me? A butch? No way! I'm a top, that doesn't mean I'm 280 pounds and have a buzz cut, that you see with their fems strapped in behind them riding their Harleys going to the Memorial Day parade.

Not that there's anything wrong with that for some people, that's who they are, and they are damn proud to be the people they are, but me? I'm a wee Irish-Italian lass and, well, yeah, okay, I'm proud of that, dammit!

Hey. Wow. I'm proud of that.

Um. ... wow. Um.

Why am I crying now?

But, as I was saying, I was afraid I'd get all femmy and sweet, and pretty, and worry about my hair and blush alot, and "that's so not me!"

Context.

But what if it was. Is. Not only 'what if' but ... it is, sometimes, and I ... like it. I like feeling pretty, and wearing a nice dress, and feeling the wind whip through my hair and between my legs and see the eyes of everybody, the mass of commuters watching me as I run against the tide to get to my little eighth floor cubby hole in a large corporate office building so I can run numbers to see if we broke even this month, and I don't even get to see that figure, all I do is process travel claims and expense reports and invoices. I don't get to see the income reports.

Looking back on this post, the image that sticks in my mind, and perhaps yours, is little housewifey me, being escorted by a proud, strong, ... boy from Indiana and I could cop out and say I don't know how to handle that or what I feel about that. But I know exactly what I'm feeling.

And that scares me.

And there's a love-making scene coming up between Alice and Jazz in Christmas Surprises ... do you think Jasper is not possessive of his little Alice? Do you think all those raw emotions running through her as she sees the future-as-present attaching her teeth to her mother Esme's neck doesn't ...

Well, and so there he is, in all his manly, powerful glory, intercepting Alice and Esme on a recovery hunt, and there are no preliminaries, and Jasper, so full of manly virility, just throws Alice down on the forest floor and turns into a ravenous, rutting animal.

And Alice loves it.

And, thinking about that scene ... it scares me. Not the scene itself, writing that scene, I will ... ooh! ... the 'creative' juices are gonna flow, girls.

And that's what scares me.

Am I ... am I 'turning' straight?

I'm going to a civil war battle reenactment tomorrow. Again, for 'research.'

I might do some more research. All I have to do is look at one of those boys, all hot and manly from the battlefield, and ... well, that's all I need to do. Boys, playing sports, need to satiate their victory, don't you know. And all a wee pretty girl has to do is bat her eyelashes and whisper some awed platitudes, and ...

And that.

And I'm like, GOD! I wear a dress and I want a man in me ... on top of me?!? and have babies and cook supper and ... and all that? Or is this a questioning phase where I'm looking toward my future, and what future do I have alone? What future do I have with a girl?

What future do I have with a strong, virile Marine?

Besides none? Do you know the divorce rates? Infidelity rates of wives, and husbands, when those brave young men and women go overseas?

And come back shellshocked? Or don't come back at all? Except in a box?

I've seen it happen.

Or they come back, and lay down the law, and what the hell do you think you're doing, running the house like you have for the past year and a half that I've been away, unable to help with finances or the furnace or disciplining the kids? I'll beat that presumption out of you right now!

Yeah, domestic violence, too.

You know what I am? I'm a skirt. I'm a receptacle to be used and abused by a warrior man, then filled up with his seed to make babies to have more men rule the world.

And I want that?

But what's the alternative?

The second question is an avoidance question, it's a question to divert your attention away from the first question, of do I want an Emmett or Thor or Marine from Indiana on top of me, pounding into me, hard and manly, as only men can do?

And I'm terrified as I write: God, yes. God, I so want to be taken and filled, and held, and protected from the whole world.

But what is the cost of that? To me? To my identity? To the ones I love? To my future, where I'm supposed to be some church lady shepherding my kids to soccer practice and ballet and take care of the house and spread my legs whenever he wants me to and be happy and satisfied even though I'm horny as hell, but he's out with his buds at the bar or playing XBox, and I'm supposed to be okay with that, 'cause I'm a woman and that's my role?

And okay, now I'm thinking about girl-girl love, and ... whew! Fireworks!

You know why?

Yes, you do.

Because it's not wham, blam, thank you, ma'am sex (in 30 seconds or less), it's a slower build, sometimes, but that build just keeps going up and up and up and you get hysterically terrified that you may actually scream your head off, cumming so hard, and you don't know when you are going to come down, because she's nowhere finished nor done with you, not for a long time, baby. And then there's a woman's kiss, softer. And the way a woman holds you in her arms. And lets you suckle at her breast. And the way she looks at you, it can be across the room, but, oopsie, I have to change my panties now, ... again! Just from her look and her shy smile, and the way her fingers caress the stem of her wine glass.

And it's okay for you to wear a dress around her, AND it's okay that she likes looking pretty in a dress, too, ...

... and for you, too.

Or she may go with the leather corset option; girls aren't limited in what they wear, like guys are: jeans or suits. We have tons of options.

We aren't limited.

So I can wear a dress. And I can feel pretty in a dress. And I can run, full bore, right up to my bus and smile at the driver as he kindly reopens the door for me that he's just closed as he's started to pull away from the stop (this happens too many times to be coincidence. God has a special secret plan going on with bus drivers, I just know it!)

And when I'm home, I can wear my white cotton pjs ... or take them off to walk around in the flat with just panties on, 'cause it's so damn HOT! and the air conditioning is set to like, 300°F before it kicks on and the repair guy won't be in the building for another two days, to reset a stupid dial.

Or ... I can pull off those panties and whisper, 'here, kitty, kitty, kitty!' and pat my kitty, and feel her start to purr, and get that warm, fuzzy feeling throughout my body as I hold my kitty close to me, stroking her with long, slow, luxurious strokes.

Um.

Um.

I think I have to end this post now. Good night.

I'm Free

I was in a sammich shop, getting a sammich, when this oatmeal and barley guy (definitely granola) starts strummin' away on his guitar the following song:

She's a good girl: loves her mama
Loves Jesus and America too
She's a good girl, crazy 'bout Elvis
Loves Horses and her boyfriend too.

This doesn't describe me at all. I'd have to be a good girl, now, wouldn't I, for this song to be about me. But then he sang this:

Now I'm free, free fallin'

I wanna glide down over Mulholland
I wanna write her name in the sky
I wanna free fall out into nothin'
Gonna leave this world for awhile.

And I'm free, I'm free fallin'

Free fallin' now I'm free fallin' Free fallin' now I'm free fallin'

"Free Fallin'" by Tom Petty

— `phfina analysis:

You really do want to know, so I'll tell you. Why you want to know, I have no IDEA! But you do, so you can tell me how fucked up I am, and so I put in all this effort to tell you, really and truly, what's going on in here in this nothing that is me, and what do I get for it? I get punished for trying, so why even try?

Why. even. try.

When I heard that song, the unchewed food in my mouth turned to ash, and I had to go. There are anvil clouds overhead and a good, cold stiff breeze, and I should be happy, as I am the wind and I am the water, and I am in my elements.

So why are there tears falling down my face. 'I am water,' I say, and all I do is cry, but I haven't cried in weeks, and now it's hitting me. Hard. 'I am air,' I say, so all I do is talk-talk-talk, that's all I do, that's all I am, wind and water, tears and air. Nothing.

I saw it, a vision so hard, in that sammich shop that I had to leave my unfinished meal, I had to get out of there away from people.

I was ...

Remember "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon"? At the very end, that little waif of a girl at the temple carved into the cliff's edge, looks out into the air, whispers

"Goodbye"

and jumps.

I am on the edge of the cliff, looking over, looking forward, looking down into the abyss. I don't have to look back. I am not that girl who had a devoted lover calling out for her to stay, willing to help, to be there for her. I have nobody behind me.

And then I raise my arms and I ...

It's a chemical imbalance. I tell myself. I'm chemically imbalanced, and the silence has worn me down so I listen to that not so little voice in my head telling me exactly what I am and exactly what I have to look forward to, and those two things are the same thing.

And I know who to blame for keeping myself an arm's length from any and everybody trying ... or not trying ... to reach out to me, to tell me that I am lovable and loved. I won't let anybody that close to me. I tried looking into a friend's eyes today from group, as she was teasing me about ... about what? my sammich, my silly tiny little mushroom sammich for silly tiny little mushroom me.

Yeah, I'm a mushroom. I can't go out into the sunlight, just like a morlock, and I eat girls, but the girls I eat do scream and moan, but it's not 'cause they're complainin' nosirree, bob!

Hm, the medication is starting to work. Starting, `phfina?

But I couldn't look into her eyes.

I couldn't.

I couldn't look into her teasing eyes, I couldn't look at me in them. I couldn't.

And I had to go, leaving everybody because some stupid song was playing by some stupid granola guy, ...

... and I never say stupid.

And I had to leave them.

And here is where I complete ch 2 of Sirens, and I go to that cliff's edge, and I ...

and I go home.

I return to the dust. Oblivion awaits.

You know: I have this post all prepared. It's here, right in my back pocket. It's a one-liner. It's entitled "The Sublime Art of Suicide" and the body of the post is just one word: "goodbye."

No note. No 'explanation.' No nothing.

'Goodbye' ... 'God be with you' because He won't be with me anymore.

Not where I'm going.

So when you see that post, you'll know what happened.

So I was supposed to finish here with 'Goodbye,' and fuck the special title.

But I took a walk, and okay, I have a chemical imbalance? I'll self-medicate. I saw Thor. I (now) know what a boilermaker is. I'll rebalance, and then rebalance again, then rebalance again, until I lose my balance.

A can of guinness with that cute little fizzy ball inside is a full meal, and only costs two dollars at the supermarket. AND happy hour is in full swing now.

Warm up exercises, you know.

And then after I rebalance (after which I will have obviously hit the hay and have that ashen taste of dehydration in my mouth when), I'll wake up tomorrow, and we will see from there.

We will see.

This isn't a cry for help. So don't bother. I don't want your help. You have to be something to want something, and I don't want anything.

Or maybe I have it backward, and I'm so full of ... something, that I've filled the space that is me, that is: I'm not a clearing, I'm just this big huge blockage, so I have no room left to want for anything.

Do I want anything? No, unless 'wanting nothing' is something. No, unless oblivion is a desirous state.

It isn't. Oblivion is the abyss; it isn't a state, it's a ... dis ... what is it? A disintegration, a rending, a destruction. It's not a state, it's an end.

Shiva. Kali. Lila.

Me.

----

οἰκτροτάτην δ᾽ ἤκουσα ὄπα Πριάμοιο θυγατρός,
Κασσάνδρης, τὴν κτεῖνε Κλυταιμνήστρη δολόμητις
ἀμφ᾽ ἐμοί, αὐτὰρ ἐγὼ ποτὶ γαίῃ χεῖρας ἀείρων
βάλλον ἀποθνήσκων περὶ φασγάνῳ: ἡ δὲ κυνῶπις
νοσφίσατ᾽, οὐδέ μοι ἔτλη ἰόντι περ εἰς Ἀίδαο
χερσὶ κατ᾽ ὀφθαλμοὺς ἑλέειν σύν τε στόμ᾽ ἐρεῖσαι.

Homer, Odyssey, Book XI, ~400-430

Just one more

... or I could go on ... 'forever'? 'Forever' is such a very long time (actually, it isn't, as eternity is beyond time), so how about 'for as long as I live'?

Yes, for as long as I live.

There are so many things to say about every single woman in the world, about every single one of you, that I will never finish, nor ever plumb the depths. It's not that there isn't no end to the women in the world (there isn't), because that's just superficial ... 'oh, I could go on forever just naming names.'

Do you know somebody, just by hearing their name? And go no farther than that?

It's that there's no end to the depth, of even just and only one person. I will never 'complete' with a person: knowing them.

When that happens, they are dead to me. I hope I die before I kill anybody off like that.

I have died a thousand deaths. At least.

So I keep bringing stuff up. The same stuff? I don't think so. I think different stuff, or the same stuff, but I hope I'm carried forward, even just a little bit, in bringing up my shit, and hers, and saying, okay, what happened here? What did I do? Who was I being here?

And do I succeed? Well, the funny thing about life is ... that it is a game, and I can keep playing the same game until I win, that is learn from it to play a bigger game with me in my life, or I can keep playing this one. Life doesn't care. Life is life. What's left is my choices, and how I choose to be while choosing them.

So.

So Saga asks me: "What are you going to be writing about me when you leave me?"

Saga's smart, dummy that she is, and she knows me better than I know me.

Because ... because in all my relationships, I was the one who left.

I was the one who left, all of them. They all recognized in me something that they needed, something that they saw in me that they had never seen before in anybody else in their lives, and they clung to me, all of them, so desperately, trying to keep me, even as I was in their arms in bed, they clung so desperately, the desperate women I've left and left and left.

Because I've loved them, but I am not strong, as I try to pretend to be, and I feel ... what? Them pulling me down, or ...

Let's get on with this.

There are the relationships that we parted mutually. We both went into the relationship looking for something, and we both left, satisfied. I'm not talking about those, because ... well, really: those weren't relationships, those were both me and her satisfying our own needs and moving along, even if those needs were for intimacy, or good conversation and companionship, or ... or a good, hard fuck. Or two. Or three. Or more. And tender holdings afterwards, so maybe that's what I was looking for really, and the animal, the panther in me needed to be satiated first, fully tamed, before I would allow myself to hold and to be held?

I don't know. I look in the mirror every day, but I still shy away from most everything I see in my eyes.

And there was one relationship ... well.

Well, Julia left me. Julia was strong enough to get away from me before I dragged her down to my level.

Heh. 'My level.' How low is 'down'? Every time I hit the bottom, the bottom drops out.

So Julia left me, and found happiness. Julia is smart, smart enough to see where her happiness lay ... and where it didn't.

Saga isn't that smart, or doesn't care. And I'm so grateful for that, and so sad for her, clinging to me, cleaving to me, really, even though she sees me better than I do, and, okay is so blind as to see the good in me and ...

Okay, getting carried away here.

So Saga's not going to leave me, and she does see the trail of skeletons in my wake, and has read my stuff, and she is clairvoyant in that she can connect the dots and can look, clearly and with a level head, into the future.

And still hope for today.

So this is what I write, Saga, about my exes. This is what I write about you.

I am a writer: I write what I write. I see what I see.

And what I see is this: human beings, flawed, striving human beings, so desperate, so hopeful. So loving, so spiteful.

So, you've seen me love a person you've all hated: Traci. Now, what do I have to say about ... Brenda, now.

Brenda.

You know what? Brenda so desperately wanted me, all the time, in our relationship. I don't know what I was to her. I don't know if she does, or even if she asked herself the question. Was I to be her husband that died in the Gulf? Was I to be her daughter that she never had? Both? How did her son feel about this? And she wooed me, and played with me, and touched me and kissed me and held me and held onto me as a woman does: desperately, but despairingly, knowing that she'd have to let me go, someday, when I left her, so she held all the more tightly.

And she taught me the art of spooning, and the strap on. Do you think Julia and I made that discovery in ultra-Puritanical Connecticut? No, it was the college position for us, and I sometimes, now, wonder if the sex wasn't ... fulfilling for her and that's why she left me?

But of course, that really wasn't the issue at all. The issue with Julia was that I was there, but I wasn't there, I was in an intense relationship with myself and my precision and perfection and my failings that instead of reaching out to her for help, I shut her down (by shutting down) and shut her out.

So when Brenda, sweet, motherly Brenda, attached the straps to me ("This is weird," I thought) and eased me into the bed with her and put me behind her and slid the dildo I was wearing into her, I was like, what is going on here?

I felt dislocated, confused. Was I supposed to be a man? Was I ... I don't know but then she wrapped my arms around her and she put my hand over her tummy, pressing her hand into mine into her, and she asked, "Do you feel that?"

And I did.

And she said, "That's you, filling me."

And suddenly, it wasn't a belt with a foreign object attached, it was me. It was me, and I was in her. And I started thrusting, much harder, and she moaned, and cried out and begged me to fuck her, her pressing her hand into mine into her, and she came rather quickly after that, and I ...

And I became possessed, needing to fill her, needing to pleasure her, and I took her, and then I came, o, God, did I cum when I was pounding on top of her now, her legs locking me into her as I thrust with my strength, wanting to, no: being in her.

And afterwards, she held me, and caressed me, and cooed over me, as I panted, a girl-child-man, on top of her, and she rolled me off to her side, and said, "Sleep now, sweetheart; I will hold you." And she held me, me still in her, and I could even feel her squeezing me? Is that possible? I felt it.

And I didn't have the courage to ask if I could suckle at her breast. I didn't have the courage to ask myself that I could ask her. I was so lost from my loss of Julia, and so lost in what I was to Brenda, I didn't have ...

I didn't have the strength to know who or what I was, even just for myself, or to be okay that I could be Brenda's baby, suckling at her breast, and let her love me, with motherly love, and hold me to her breast, and hold the whole world at bay as she held me, her baby.

How could I be her baby daughter, when I was just now her 'husband'?

And you know what, `phfina?

No, ... what, `pfhina?

Maybe that was exactly what she wanted, and she was too shy to offer herself to me that way, too? But maybe if I had asked, maybe she would have gladly surrendered, offering herself that way, and held me to her, and maybe she would have cum again, so hard, with my lips latched onto her breast and my fingers playing, probing, plunging into her pussy that she might have screamed instead of moaning and whispering, "Oh, God!" as I pounded into her with the strap-on?

Or maybe not. Maybe she would have said, "Melissa! That's too weird! What would my best friend, your mother, say if she found out I was nursing you!"

As if me fucking her with a strap-on was ... okay?

I don't know.

I do know this. All that. And all I have written.

And.

And she took me in. She took heart-broken me, and yes, she took something for herself and her needs from all this, yes, she doggedly and determinedly seduced (very not unwilling) me, but she did take me in, and loved me, and cared for me, when ...

When nobody else did. And she cooked me meals, and she took me to a JazzFest, and she waited for me over a cooling supper and then when I walked in, two hours late, she wasn't (too) angry, but when finding my car ran out of gas miles away, got her gas can, drove me to my car, and we drove back to her place, and she took me in her arms. And she held me, as long as I let her hold me, for days and weeks, and when I left her, she let me go, and ... wrote, and looked for me, and that freaked me out, so I ran hard, changing names and States, and her last note was a sad, 'I hope you are happy and in a loving relationship' delivered right to the sbux where I was working, under a pseudonym. She could have walked right in, I suppose, but she didn't.

Brenda wanted to love, and be loved in return.

When she found this little girl, this broken little girl, she loved me, with all her might and all her strength and all her heart, and she held me, so tenderly, just reveling in it, savoring each moment we were together: me in her arms, and in her, her, holding me, feeling my weight press down on her, my sweat mingling with hers, my breath lifting her arm up and down, like a ship riding the waves on the ocean.

Brenda was too much for me. Brenda was too good for me. She gave me all of her, she took what she could from me, what I could give, and was happy with that and the moments we had together.

Saga, what will I write about you, when I've left you?

I'm not as clearsighted as you? Nor as ... practical about life? Or the present? Or me? I can't see that future.

So, let's pretend. Let's pretend this is that future.

Saga, I love you. I treasure the moments we had together. I savor them. I remember them. I remember you and how good you were to me, and I wish I could have been a person that was good enough to make the world and its concerns not matter and never matter, but I'm not good enough for that, or for me to be worthy enough to be good enough for you.

Saga, I'm sorry I was not ... Saga, I'm sorry. I love you and I want you to be happy.

Do you see how irrelevant the future is? Do you see the now is all we have in what I say to you in that pretend future, of what I say to you now?

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

e.e. cummings

&mdash `phfina commentary:

I put the analysis before the poem. I hope you don't mind.