Through The Looking Glass

Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts.
~Charles Dickens





She knew that to live on would be impossible... not without love.
She knew that to love on would require an evolution, a transcendence that she had neither the will nor the energy to achieve.

Yet, it was the only way if she chose life...

She believed wholeheartedly that to love was to evolve.
That we must love for its own sake, without expectation, without attachment... then we are free....
She knew that to love is to transcend this mortal coil & live eternally in glory...

Perhaps there was one way for her to do both, preserving the best part of herself, rather than letting the pain unremittingly destroy her humanity: bit by bit, day by day, until she was nothing but a skulking shadow, a creature crawling in a muddy abyss.
That murky mire of self-pity that she so abhorred.
Wallowing in a fugue of amorous decay.
Sketched in gouache of grey charcoal, a sad outline in Defeat's female form.
A human eclipse.

Becoming the object of scorn or worse, far worse.... to be subject to that vile defiler of equanimity.... pity!
No, not for her the worthless sympathy of the misdoers, the do-gooders & the never-beeners.
How could they possibly understand her?

There...
The deed was done!
The cleanest of slices... the sharpest cut of all.

She peered good & hard into the reflective glass....
Seeing herself whole, not as she really was:

Those millions of particles all teeming with energy struggling to coalesce into a substantive reality that her brain would accept...

Perception being the most important part of the human's ability to assimilate the information that comes streaming into it nanosecond by nanosecond. We take such clipped snapshots, such ephemeral moments trying madly to keep them captured in time fragments and loops;
to organize them in ways that allows us to understand the abstract, the emotional, the eternal and construct them into the fairytales of our memories.

She moved closer to the vanity; face just inches away now from her reflected vision & then she looked deeply into her own eyes. There noting the black pupils as they dilated from the shadow she caused between mirror & light... noting the golden flecks in her iris, the bits of green glassiness and the sea of amber that they floated in, suddenly she felt mesmerized, dizzy, caught up in a web that drew her deeper still into herself....

Like she had wandered into the halls of Versailles, shiny images of her life's past streaming by, bouncing off her callously as she ran screaming voicelessly into that blinding chamber.

She pressed her hot forehead up against the glass... misting it with her sweat & tears.
She looked at herself one final time.

Now she was twirling in her kaleidoscope mind where thoughts were confusion & confusion was spinning & spinning in its kaleidoscope path....

Til courage was finally strong enough to end the dizziness of confusion.
Confusion that terrible tidal wave that can so often leave us shipwrecked in the mirrors of our lives...

She relaxed feeling herself glide away while the cool darkness of unbeing seeped into this new cocoon...

Unveiling the sweet harmony of perpetual nothingness....





Note:

I have never contemplated suicide.
I believe that the taking of life, any life, even if its your own life, is WRONG!
Where there is life there is hope...
Death offers nothing, but further blackness & who knows, it might even be a far worse fate than we can imagine. We do not know what lies beyond this life....

I will not say suicide is the coward's way out, I will say, though, that whatever seems so insurmountable today will often be just than another bad bump in the road once we have put it into perspective & allowed time, that great healer, to mend us and place distance between us and whatever event triggered the deathwish.

I am throwing this controversial topic out here now because this time of year is when suicides are at their peak & I think it is worthy of discussion....

I have known many people who attempted it. Practically every member of my maternal family, including my mother, has tried several times and they were all subsequently hospitalized for their attempts.

One of them was finally successful when I was a 15.
He was my grandfather.
I loved him dearly.
I love him still.

Hold on tight to the people or even just the things you love should you ever feel this dark desire.
It always gets better.... if you just allow yourself the chance to live through it.

This was written for:

Blogophilia 44.2 Topic: "Mirrors of our Life"

Bonus points
(hard, 2 pts): use a quote from Charles Dickens novel
(easy, 1 pt): mention 'captured in time'

Click here to read more about joining this wonderful group that provides both the blog challenge & the opportunity for social intercourse with its many talented writers. I have italicized the challenge words for easier recognition.

Ice Cream Kisses

It may be because soon it will be the beginning of a new year, or perhaps because I have had an overly long holiday celebration.... I am a few glasses of wine the better (or the worse depending on your perspective).... haha, but I am waxing nostalgic for a simpler sweeter time....
Yes, my darling friends, I am remembering my first kiss.

Mine was with my 25 year old boyfriend, Tony, who I was so enchanted with. I was 15. We had just had our first date: the movies, it was some Cheech & Chong nonsense that I was shocked to the core of my foundation about when he actually took me to see it. I was the good little Catholic school girl. I was had some very strong opinions on what was appropriate & what wasn't.

We had also gone to a little steakhouse beforehand something awful called Tad's where for $2.99 you got a steak, a potato, a salad and a soda. It was smoky in there, the steak was gristly & even at the age of 15 on my first date ever, I couldn't help but think this man could have shown a little better appreciation for quality. I knew a Greek diner around the corner that made amazing moussaka. You see, I came by my food uber-awareness genetically. My dad's family were all chef's & cooks as was my stepdad's family, my maternal grandmother was a natural gourmand so quality food was always a high priority that is what we spent any disposable income we had on, good food.
To Latinos, good food = love

All of my discontent over his lack of discernment vanished as soon as he held my hand. His hands were strong, supple, yet sensitive; the skin was warm and smooth. I can still feel his hands on me sometimes, in the very early mornings, that was usually when we made love just before the break of dawn... he was an artist, a musician, an engineer, a mechanic, a writer... a true renaissance man. **sigh**
What a shame he had zero ability to cope with life...

Well, anyway, I still remember the thrill of his hand seeking and finding mine at the table in that joint. I then remember his arm reaching around my shoulders in the theater, catching me by surprise, by grazing the back of my neck with his fingers as his arm rested on the chair back. I suddenly sat up ramrod straight from the shock of such intimacy, after all this was my first date ever. But he kept his hands safely on the seat back never probing my boundaries.

At the end of the movie, we had an ice cream cone at Baskin Robbins, German Chocolate cake, my favorite flavor. It was mid-autumn but the night was balmy or maybe it just felt that way to me, because I had an internal fire starting to burn inside of me, I felt all lit up from within. It made the ice cream, the night, his smile, his hand on mine... everything so delicious...

He had an old jalopy that apparently, he was constantly working on ( I think it was a Corvair, I believe they used to call it the coffin with wheels because it was always breaking down & dying) but I had insisted that we walk instead. The night being so lovely. I always enjoyed walking the mile and half to 86th Street & Third Ave. In fact, walking is still my preferred mode of travel. Whenever I can walk, I do. So we did. All the way to my front door.

Now as we walked back we chatted of nothing memorable, really. Mostly all I could think of as we neared my building was whether or not this man would kiss me. Should I let him? Could I? Would I?

I know I wanted to... his lips were so full and soft looking. His eyes were so dreamily deep, black and sparkling, like midnight in the phosphorescent bay at la Parguera in Puerto Rico.

He had such a ready smile, such radiance... such brilliance.

When we got to the door, I turned to face him. He reached around me placing one hand at the nape of my neck & with the other gently lifted my chin. His lips were soft, full lush. I felt like I was dipping into that ice cream cone again, only this time the cream was warm & melting all over my mouth, so that I did open it and as I did his tongue probed mine... the spell was broken. I pulled back. I had my boundaries, even though I could feel myself wanting to tear down those barriers, I didn't. I pulled away smiled and said. "Oh no... not yet.."

I wasn't angry or embarrassed. I just wasn't quite ready. We both smiled. We both knew my "not yet..." was a promise of things to come. Wonderful musings into a sensual realm. I had made up my mind about that.

I had my first taste and I was hungry for more sweet melting candy kisses...

I knocked on the door. My grandfather opened it.
We said our goodbyes in a more platonic way.

We would see each other again. And again. And again.
Delving a little bit more into uncharted territories, with each exploration.
We would traverse these rocky roads of love for the next nine years.


Do you remember your first kiss?
Does the New Year make you nostalgic, too?

Tell CC for Auld Lang Syne...

The Blogger

I wear my inside out
For all the world to see

Exposed nerves
Dancing bones
Mysterious marrow

All jangling

Such sonorous
Vulgar rhythms
Writhing
Loud & proudly

I look away
from no man's gaze
While divulging my cipher's key

I wanna burn baby burn
and lick you with my flames
I'm just a hellcat in the wild
I was born without shame.

The secrets of my universe
contain no runes
engraved on ancient stony faces

There are no monoliths
meant
for idol worship

No Everest left
To scale...

Just a few monuments
to well-dusted memories

Carefully placed in
Cut crystal
Balanced on quake-proof
Pedestal

Brittled over time
Precariously preserved in
Pixelated ink & tears

I do this thing
not for pity,
nor for praise
But because such sepulchral secrets
Will never keep within me.

I need the sunlight & the sea air

I'm no mummy
wrapped in fetal womb

I refuse to
Bury my soul
In a carcass
That
I never chose

So please...

Do not judge this book

By it's seemingly diamond-backed
bullet-proof cover

Thumb through me
Instead


Take my loosened bindings
to your
Empyrean bed...

And to the highest heaven
We'll both ascend

While you
Immerse with me
word for word.

Yes,

I
WANT
YOU

To devour me...

I need to
Consume and
Be subsumed by your sin.


... the lightening strike in your storm
... the kite in your wind

Let me be your Holy Eucharist
Your staff of life

The blood & the body
The mistress
The wife...

A messiah
with tarnished halo

A seductress
in celibate guise

I want to live in your
parallel dimension
I want to be the light in your eyes


I want you to feel the filial bond
The hallowed love
of sister & brother

Yet still
Day after day
Night after night
My one desire
is
to be
Your virtual lover

A Penny For Your Pleasure...

How can one define success?





Yesterday, I was talking to the hubby over breakfast at our amazing resort restaurant in Punta Mita, Mexico about the latest Twitter debacle. Such news is kindly provided for resort guests in an abbreviated fax version of the NY Times. Ironically, it seems the only time I ever have a desire to know what's going on in the good old USA is when I am away from it. I can't imagine why I am suddenly gripped with such ridiculous fervor for all things newsworthy when my freshly pedicured toes meet the tropical sand, but hey, it's the truth.

It becomes this burning need to "know" what nonsense is being headlined in the news by those circus jugglers known as "reporters." Must be some congenital failing on my part, so do NOT blame me. I simply cannot help it. Insanity & inanity run in my family, okay?

Or it could also be because it does provide a bit of fodder for conversation betwixt the hubby & self in between shots on the golf course, gulps of tequila & bites of huachinango. A little due diligence on my part can provide endless hours of amusement for the long vacation nights with a spousal unit. Take my word for it! If a woman does not wish to feel like she is eating with a well-beloved deaf mute doing his best Marcel Marceau impression for her, she must be armed & ready to make interesting conversation. Reading the newspaper, even the Cliff Notes version is certainly a good start!





The news item that caught my eye that morning while the frigates were soaring majestically overhead and the breakfast buffet was being ravaged by hungry hungover gringos, was about a group of anonymous young thugs who broke into Twitter's mainframe where "sensitive" personal information is stored about Twitter members.

Though, honestly, if you've ever seen any of the tweets tweeted by the twits who tweet them, you'd know that said twits appear to deem very little information as virtually sensitive. I mean I swear I once saw a tweet about the volume and texture of the last shit someone took, so I shudder to think of what Twitter would deem as sensitive to those bozos.

(But maybe I just imagined seeing that distasteful electronic pronouncement. It could just have easily been the vino in my system coupled with my general disdain for the site, suddenly rolling up its sleeves, spitting on its hands... making my subconscious work overtime.)

I assume by "sensitive", the reporter of the unfortunate incident meant credit card numbers, home & work addresses, phone numbers, birth dates, Social Security numbers and the like. However, I want to categorically state that anyone who leaves such information on a "social network" deserves having it swiped & their asses handed to them on a platter festooned with watercress! Seriously, WHY would MySpace, Facebook or Twitter ever need to know that?

They don't!
So please, my dear pals, allow me to take the time to make a public service announcement & beseech you to resist the urge to provide these networks with the precious...
Such knowledge can only be pure dynamite in the wrong hands...
But as per usual, I digress...

My husband assumed that the perpetrators of the outrage were some college kids misguidedly attempting prove to their technogeek pals that they could bust into Twitter. You know, just for shits & giggles.

The notoriety of such an act by these cyberthugs was enough compensation for them. Apparently, the only actual mischief the hackers created was leaving a picture of Bobby Goldsboro or some other equally talentless mental pollutant former celeb on the hacked Twitter member's profile page. Of course, the miscreants could have wrought serious havoc if they wanted to, but fortunately, they were not cyberthieves. They were only bored fuckwits on an ego binge.

Here's where the discussion about the definition of success began that morning. See, my husband couldn't understand why someone who was capable of doing something as technologically advanced & labor intensive as that would do it when the only upside was bragging rights to his nerdy buddies. You know, general thuggery and fucktitude.





He called them stupid (in the friendliest, most loving sense of the word, of course).

He then launched into a broader discussion about that particular branch of industry, i.e. computer programming; the best programmers he deals with always appearing to be less concerned about their time as money and much more motivated by showing how they could kickass and miraculously conjure up innovative solutions to database glitches and the like.

Such people, particularly in smaller more low-key "shops" are generally more renegade than the average corporate schmoes and love proving how far superior they are to their pinstripe-suited counterparts. That in of itself being ample remuneration for them.

Short of doing it for truly charitable reasons, my hubby remained astounded as to how bragging rights alone would possibly be a good catalyst for so much work. He just couldn't fully comprehend how such rationale could be the prime motivator for one to come up with such ingenious methods for employing one's talents; as opposed to making a capital gain on your abilities & being handsomely rewarded with major kopeks especially in an industry where your talents COULD make you money.

Which is quite unlike, let's say, being the best underwater basket weaver in the world. Sadly for the waterlogged weaver, there is just not enough demand for said goods to make it a lucrative enterprise.

But not so for the talented young computer program designer...
Beaucoup bucks is theirs for the asking....


Bucks that could, for instance, be used to pay for a glorious trip to subtropical exotic locales filled with dark-eyed beauties, guacamole and tamarindo margaritas...






Look, I'm no socialist...

There is no doubt that money earned in exchange for honest sweat & toil does provide certain wonderful advantages & I am all for the capitalist system, but I , personally, have never been one driven by such compensation.

So I do understand how someone can measure success not in dollars signs, but by just the purity & beauty of the act itself. Be it a perfect fouette turn, a magnificent oil painting, a well-turned phrase or hacking into a network of noobs.

I had zero money when I met my husband & performed at many charitable events for purely the love of performing. I worked at many nightclubs & health clubs, often forgetting to pick up my paychecks until I was reminded that they were waiting for me...

But I was in my early to mid twenties and once I had my rent paid & had food on my table, I was satisfied. It is not that I did not or do not appreciate the finer things, on the contrary, I am a hedonist by nature, but I have a different way of defining valuable commodities.

Luxury to me takes many forms.
It can be the bite of a scrumptious chocolate, the melodic strains of a beautiful guitar being played by some talented random musician in Central Park, watching the flaming sunset of a late November evening, admiring the sparkle of a perfectly cut diamond on my hand or savoring the sweetest slowest kiss on a busy sidewalk...

It all depends upon where I am, what my finances are at the time & who I am with (the latter being the MOST important factor for this silly romantic fool).
I am a highly adaptable creature, I will enjoy the best of what is afforded to me. If I can't afford a thing, then I will find something else to savor in some other equally delicious way...

My self-worth has never been predicated upon my net worth.
Nor has my pleasure ever been etched in tablets high atop Mount Sinai.
A certain amount of flexibility & resilience is THE key to enjoying life.

Even now, I spend upwards of 12 hours day writing and participating in activities here on MySpace that will never earn me a dime, but I do it not for notoriety, nor for recognition of my so-called ability, but because I just happen to love it...

I feel like a smashing success!
I hope to continue to feel the same way as the new year brings with it fresh opportunities for such delights even if the medium or vehicle for my joy changes.

How about you?
How do you define success?
What's your pleasure?

La Sirena (Blogophilia 42.2 )

With an ardor that bordered on the obsessive, Sirena began the outpouring.
She was determined to cure herself with the hair of the dog that bit her.

She would begin by stroking the dog's glossy coat, burrowing her face deeply into the furry tender part of its neck where its mother likely carried it by the nape when it was a young pup.

Inhaling its puppy dog love scents deeply with both nostrils, sailing on that Good Ship Lollipop like all sweet little sugary Shirley Temple-like girls should until despite all that thick maple syrupy existence, her strong hands could finally reach round & squeeze the motherfucker hard enough to choke the life out of it!

Bastard!

She did not like the feel of sharp fangs sinking into her tender flesh.
That dog will bite no more...
Not when she is done spaying & flaying him!

She would rid herself of the betrayer, the keeper of the secrets, the so-called husband.
She would decimate him in the very same way that he had obliterated all of her trust, her hopes, her love, her belief in anyone or anything...


Yes, hers was the tawdry oft told tale of a lonely attractive privileged housewife who had been denied the corporeal pleasures of marital bliss by a domineering master of the universe who sought to turn his wife into the Virgin Mary.

Keeping her virtue vouchsafed for all eternity while he dipped his platinum-plated shovel into every open sandbox on both coasts of this great nation with liberty & justice for all (all of himself, that is).

A story that would be such great kitsch if it all weren't so pathetically true.

Hell, who was she kidding?
It was still great kitsch regardless.
Vaudeville had nothing on her.

She could see it all now playing out in some godforsaken made for T.V. movie on a cable channel for women. The ones with ironically soul-affirming names like Oxygen or Lifetime.

Only they were anything but...

Nope, they were full of lurid tales with bad men, great wardrobes, fantastic sets & very unimaginative dialogue. A Tennessee Tuxedo cartoon was much more Ibsen-like and full of gravitas than the average grey matter sucking vehicle for underwhelming, over-the-hill actresses that was found polluting the airwaves on those networks... that little talking penguin was a lot more fun, too!

Yes, her little tale of connubial woe would make great theater.

Love-starved sex kitten passionately pounding her heart out onto a keyboard in a dark room with nothing but the skyline & the flickering light of a lone computer screen to illuminate her midnight; hoping beyond hope to find love on a circuit board.

Such sublime farce, or so she thought...

Yes, this feels right, she mused to herself.

She will hang her dirty little secret like an old moldy bridal gown, yellowing with age & decaying from neglect & disuse. Just another oddity in Miss Haversham's sad mad circus manse decorated by a musty lust frozen in time.

"Yes, yes!", she shrieked with giddy delight; startling the dust bunnies & nearly eviscerating the orchids that were dying in the poisonous air that surrounded her these days.

But she was on a roll, let the dust bunnies & orchids fall where they may...

She'd air out her soiled linens over millions of miles of fibre optic networks; this internet, a thing all tangled & meandering like the fiery intestines of a giant who gorged himself on too much junk food... spewing bile & smegma all the way until, her innate doubts about such a venture notwithstanding, she knew they connect him to her!

The One.

A hero, a white knight, a champion of gallantry but with just a bit of tarnish on his shining armor, one who could soar into her sensual firmament; one who had lived & loved... who had caused hurt & been hurt...
She wanted a man, not a boy scout.

She would seek the one & choose him here in this cipher's dream; in this constructive conundrum, this maze of cyberlife.

The world wide web... a virtual candy shop full of all sorts of yummy treats.
A miraculously perverse testament to modern man's ingenuity and even more so, his necessity to be a part of something greater than himself & in the so doing be transformed from nothing more than a kiss blown in the wind into the glory & the wonder that is all creation.

Ah... the One....

He would be her benediction, her savior.
Wouldn't he? Or would he?

Oh well, it mattered not... she BELIEVED he would and that was all that was important.

She would start the relationship innocently.

He, the Christ,
She, Mary Magdelene.
Lying prostate at his feet, weeping her sorrowful tales.
Cleansing his bare conscience with her steady stream of tears.
Tickling his mind with the tip of her virtual tongue....

He would play the role of the icy confessor.
Initially, unaffected by her animal passions, her growls, her mewlings, her nightsongs, her cooing.

He would be the son of heaven... and view her with a distant ardor.
He would be her liberator.
Her chariot across the sun.

She could pour her soul out and let it flow & flow, ceaselessly oozing...

Covering him in her silky essence and he will simply allow it to wash over him, in him, through him; to bathe him in her milky concupiscence while he blesses her wordlessly, baptizing her with his stoic, silent purity.

Like a clown, a jester.. No more like Pierrot. His humor would attract her, but the tear beneath the smile would keep her enchanted... his poignant needs, his bite beneath the laughter would appeal to her.

He would be engaged, but removed; at least for a while.
Dispassionately hidden behind the greasepaint, the painted smile, the false nose.
But what price his heart?

It should be carefully concealed beneath the harlequin suit, the spangles, the plastic flowers in its colorful boutonnier.

His would be a strong heart that loved her despite himself and his misgivings about romance, but it would be a sturdy, resilient little muscle fortified by an iron will that would not succumb too easily to her charms. At least, not immediately.

She would put her faith in his heart... trust him...
She so desperately needed trust as much as she did a good hard fuck.
Faith in humanity was her greatest gift & worst undoing... but she required it to thrive.
It was part of her programming.

Ultimately, she was hoping that the simple diversion of having made a real connection in the virtual realm would ease the anchor in her heart and allow her to sail the seas of love once more.

Then with careful deliberation & great sincerity, she would lure him with her siren's song... but unlike those evil enchantresses of yore, she would shower him with the rewards that awaited him should he decide to surf the cyberwaves into her...

Hers was a most worthy dock for any ship...

The starter's gun went gone off...
Let the games begin.

This was written for the weekly writer's group challenge known as Blogophilia
which assigns a topic to write about
as well as several elements to incorporate into each piece
for added "bonus points".
I have listed them all below and highlighted each of my bonus words in the blog,
so that they might be more readily identified by the group leader Marvin.

Click here for more information on how to join the group and participate.
I encourage you all to try.
It's fun.

Blogophilia 42.2 Topic: "Hair of the Dog that Bit Me"

Bonus points

(hard, 2 pts): mention a former diplomat of the USA (NOT someone stationed here for another country)
(easy, 1 pt): include a speaking penguin

Kali Ma

And these dreams
that we dance across,
You & I

Flourish like those
Indonesian dragons
emblazoned on ancient textiles

They are magically woven carpets
sailing across
star lusty night...

Our hopes
streaking like comets

such chimerical beasts of yore

Become

Feral
Incendiary
Transcendant

Baptized
in the flames of Lord Agni

Doused
by the molten rivers
Floating
on the sacred sigh

In our ascension
All thoughts are incinerated

Volcanic ash turned to stardust
Borne
into the mouth
of the Cosmic Why

We were
the glittering ruby tears
wrought
from Brahma's weeping eye


Weaned on dewdrops
and dandelion sap
carefully cocooned
til ideas like starlings
Learned to fly

Our Love strong-armed
Fate to yield its hold
on Passion's bald-faced lie

Stunning Shiva
with our gale-fueled laughter
Seducing Sakti
with her yoni divine

Nothing can stop us now
save self-fulfilling prophecy
We wield our own power
(if we can divorce the me from we)
The plane of fire
bears eternal witness
to the endless I

Deceive me if you can
(Yes, I know...)
We have both for so long
sought to defy...
Our Truth

But that which consumes us
also nourishes
From chaos comes creation
And Kali
will never be denied.




About the Goddess Kali

This is not an attempt to explain Hinduism.
I am not a follower of any religion.
It is merely my poetic interpretation which I am sure is less than factually correct;
hence the decision to include a link about Kali here.
These were originally fragments of love poems that I have strung together
& they seemed to coincide with a few vedas
so I went with it as a theme.
(Amazing how low one will go when one is bored & not particularly inspired, but I decided to put this out here anyway. I could use a little divine fire & divorcing from my ego & Kali is purported to be ferociously effective at both things)

Wile E Coyote: Infinitus Amor Aeternus (Blogophilia 41.2)

"Wile E. Coyote, Supergenius. "

Those were the first words Kacy ever uttered to him and they became a long running joke between them. Funny how the best things that happen to you are not by premeditated choice, but just pure accidents of fate or Kismet or whatever you want to call those serendipitous flights into that celestial candy shop that Life seems to charter for us.

There he was trying his best to impress the very nubile office coordinator with his technical prowess by attempting to unjam the company's ancient Hewlett Packard printer with a small but sturdy letter opener.

This was the opportunity Dan had been long praying for, a real reason to interact with the sweet piece of French pastry who was very haughty, had never even glanced at him once, but was so ridiculously hot that he practically fainted every time she sashayed past his desk with her feral strut, sweet floral scent and 4 inch stillettos.

When his initial endeavor didn't provide immediate relief from the poor woman's printing sorrows, Dan applied a bit more pressure and then proceeded to accidentally catapult the rotary drive assembly along with all its neighboring parts in the air; thereby sending bits of paper, inkjet cartridge, springs, bushings, M4x10 screws, cable clips, e-rings & other of the innermost workings of that faulty mechanical device into the poor woman's unsuspecting though certainly already overcrowded decollete....

Only a bag lady's shopping cart could have been more crammed to overflowing than the deep V-neck of the office coordinator's cashmere sweater was at the moment. Dan stood in dumb amazement at what a magnificent Derek Jeter-like catch those gravity-defying D-cups effortlessly made as he stared at the wreckage that had accumulated in her cleavage and clung to her sweater.

This had the most unfortunate effect on the woman's opinion of Dan's mental capacity. Any hopes for a happily ever after with his French Pastry bursted like a gamma ray with a hangover and a badass attitude, but it certainly got Kacy's attention who had silently witnessed this human tragedy from her desk which sat across from the mechanical room.

When the Ms. Coco Chanel- wannabe stormed out in disgust, Kacy entered that room with a huge grin on her face, uttering those introductory words which eventually became their little love call over the years. Then she helped Dan pick up the pieces.

And she has been helping him put things back together ever since....

This was written for the weekly writer's group challenge known as Blogophilia
which assigns a topic to write about
as well as several elements to incorporate into each piece
for added "bonus points".
I have listed them all below and highlighted each of my bonus words in the blog,
so that they might be more readily identified by the group leader Marvin.

Click here for more information on how to join the group and participate.
I encourage you all to try.
It's fun.


Blogophilia 41.2 Topic: "Not by Premeditated Choice"

Bonus points

(hard, 2 pts): mention the name of a Looney Tune character
(easy, 1 pt): include a bag lady

Let's Rant! Envious People Are Jerks!!!

This is just a general rant over things that I have been observing for many years. It is a long ramble into the dark misty woods. It is a plea for civility and humanity in a complicated world. It has been very plainly worded in the vernacular just as I would say it in conversation with you face to face.

Remember this: we are all brothers & sisters struggling in this often challenging thing called life.





You know, I have zero tolerance for small-minded petty people.
People whose own egos are so damaged that the only way they can make themselves
feel better is by denigrating you and those like you.

Denigrate to elevate.

Not a winning campaign slogan.
Not in CCland


They totally resent folks like you, the risktakers, the backbreakers who work their asses off to try to make something of their lives and the lives of those they care for.

These "people" , you know, the petty ones... are really snipers, ready to shoot you in the back from a safe distance only, a very safe distance with their fully-loaded, high-powered, long ranged keyboards. They are the passive-aggressive types who lack the moral fortitude... NOOOO, allow me to be clearer on this... who lack THE FUCKING Balls to dial direct to you. Much easier to shoot you in the back than look in you in the eyes when they try to blow your brains out.

Now these sharpshooters can masquerade as friends and because they are often such pathetic creatures they usually appear vulnerable to others who take pity on them, mistakenly assuming that their vulnerability comes from a sad place.

Not so.

Their vulnerability comes from a narcissism that is so acute they will stop at nothing to destroy those whom they have selected as their target.
The ones they consider their rivals at work or love or tiddlywinks.

You know, I have a pretty big ego, too.
I'm a Leo.
A Lion.

I like to be stroked as much as the meanest little narcissistic babe who ever looked upon her reflection in a pond and drowned trying to fuck herself. Better she fuck herself than mess with others, though, but I digress.

When I see such people I am friendly.
I figure I'm gonna show some bigtime love and chances are, if they have any heart at all,
it will melt and all will be champagne and caviar.
Not the case!
EVER!

Why I haven't learned this lesson is beyond me.
Guess I have a serious genetic defect!
Insanity, probably.

It happens to me time and time again.
I seem to have a soft spot for the underwhelming & overbearing.

They pretend to love the love, but all the while they are angry and resentful.
I find this happens particularly with females.
I call them females and not women because they resemble bitches more than humans.

Men are more apt to dial direct.
Though sadly, there are men lacking in testicular fortitude
who make the skankiest, meanest alley cat look like Puss-n-Boots.

Interestingly, the general public protect these kind of people over women like me because we seem to be stronger.

See we the more stoic kickass variety she-male are vulnerable, too, but we don't want to bleed over you, ya know? It gets kinda costly for you to send those clothes to the cleaners every time we have a minor skirmish with humanity.

Friends don't bleed all over their friends.
It's not that we shouldn't share our sorrows, not at all.
It's just that there is a difference between a bloodletting & a hemorrhage.

Real friends don't let their friends shit all over each other, either.
We call them out on it because we love them.

We hate to see them do stupid shit that they will later regret.
Why?

Because we care, you silly twits, that's why!

There is something to the damsel in distress appeal.
Stronger women just don't require as many rescue missions and when they do they are far less likely to send that giant bat signal in the air.

Ya know, some people see themselves as heroes.
When you're a caped crusader, seems you need a fragile flower who is always drooping on her stem for want of attention or else where the hell are you?

At the Daily Planet, singing the Jimmy Olsen Blues, taking crap from some coked up editor named Perry "Don't Call Me Chief" White who is always bitching and moaning, giving shouts out to the ghost of Ancient Roman's Most Esteemed Emperor, caterwauling at anyone who'll listen... that's where!

Not a pretty prospect.

Guess I'd rather don cape, leotard and tights too and fly around town helping tigresses taking the splinters out of their precious little paws, if I were them too. Beats having to listen to Lois Lane's ceaseless carping!

When you're Superman, you certainly don't want someone unsolicited who is an equal, ready to swoop in and fight life's battles for you.

You lose your street cred!

Now look, I'm sounding waaay bitchy myself here.
Not right, not fair of me.

I want to be fair to these wonderful saviors.
I don't blame that impulse, by the way.

Wanting to save people is a beautiful generous thing.
The energy, the light, the utter humanity... resplendent.
Hell, I wanna buy the world a coke, too.
(I just don't wanna necessarily keep it company).

Makes me proud to be a human being instead of a noble creature like an elephant.
(Which I still might like to be, ever see how a female elephant reacts when her cub or mate is dying or dead? Heartbreaking!!! Wonderful creatures).

I mean who am I to talk?

I, as you may know, am always Justice with Her Shining Sword.
When I see pettiness, meanness and spitefulness form from one friend to another, I have a strong visceral reaction. I want to politely cut people off at the knees, especially when I have given them many chances to redeem themselves.

I'm borderline obnoxious.
Okay, okay... maybe I am full-on intercontinental obnoxious!

So sue me for wanting people to be nice to each other.
Well, no...
Don't sue me.

Just be nice to each other, please, pretty please?

What does nice mean?

I tell you what is does not mean first.

Being nice does NOT mean we always have to agree.
Not at all.

That's not nice, that's sycophancy.

All I mean by nice is to be civil, polite.
Engage in discourse, not assassination!

See insulting, berating & denigrating others does not teach them to be stronger or make your points clearer, it only teaches them to be crueler to you and makes you lose credibility.

I can make my point without insulting you.
Of course, the occasional well-placed invective is hella satisfying.
I am far from immune from telling someone he is being an asshole & couching it in those terms.

I always regret it later, however, when I have stooped so low.

See for the most part, when someone sinks to the level of insults in a debate...
I know that I will win...

If you assault my character, my intelligence or discuss anything beyond the topic for debate, you have just identified yourself as the loser.





Here's another thing:
To me, when you witness a real crime you become an accomplice if you sit there complicitly and allow it to take place without trying to stop it. If you were being robbed and I had a real opportunity to interrupt it in progress, don't you think I should?

Call me crazy, call me a busybody, call me misguided and reckless, say I'm really just self-interested, self-aggrandizing...
I probably am, I know,

BUT

I believe in my heart of hearts I should do my best to stop that crime!
So do many states in the union.

Look, I am someone who attracts and commands a lot of attention wherever I am.
Mostly, because I am engaging.
I like making connections to good people; especially if maybe they are a little sad and maybe need a friendly tune up.

I like to be there with a wink and a smile, a song on my lips and wings on my heart.
It's a little affliction I have that I had planned to post this week but circumstances dictated otherwise.

I respect Providence, I follow her lead.
Actually, I've posted about my mad effusiveness before.
A thing that confounds people even here online at times.
You should see what it does to people in my physical presence.
I leave them not only with a smile on their face always, but also feeling like they have been donkey-kicked in the cerebral cortex. It's just that my joy confuses them. Makes me love them all the more though. Mostly because it means they are unaccustomed to being seen & treated well.... Mostly because it saddens me that people expect harsher, more callous treatment.

You know what's also sad and so very disappointing, I notice the longer I live the more people give to lip service about "having your back" covered (or claiming to be appreciative of your friendly assistance); the more likely it is that they find it easier to just shove a knife in it and twist it.

It's taken me all these years to come to this realization, this epiphany...
but I'm learning... I'm learning!

How about you?

How about those friendly neighborhood snipers?
Ever been ambushed by a friend? Ever been disappointed by someone's envy?
Ever have people misunderstand your good intentions?
Ever hope they will turn a new leaf and just accept the love they probably need?

Curious minds need to know!

I'm headed to bed now.

Please, people, CC says spread the love.
We are all beautiful.
Let's show our beauty to each other.

Envy is a black eye on the face of humanity.

There's enough pain in the world, no need for the self-inflicted kind.
I have nothing but love for you all.

Here's a little video called "Messages in Water".
It is a powerful demonstration on the very real visceral effects of words and the intent behind them have on Nature, especially water.

Our bodies at birth and throughout childhood are comprised of 78% water which may be yet another explanation of why children are so malleable, so vulnerable (just my crackpot theory).

As we mature, men & women's bodies are comprised of between 55% to 65% water.
It goes back up to 75% water for women who are pregnant.

Consider that before you utter or think one mean or bad-intentioned word.
You are not only causing damage to your intended target, but you are also hurting all the water molecules in your own body.

Conversely, happy loving words yield tremendously positive effects.

Here it is:

Messages in Water: The Power of Words






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The Wings Of Icarus: What Is Love & Infatuation?

Any dictionary will tell you that infatuation is an intense, but short-lived passion or admiration for someone or something. Quite true.

It is the initial strike of Cupid's flaming arrow that ignites the dried kindling of an empty heart, cracked & wooden from neglect and disuse.

The reckless POP of the champagne cork and the overflowing spillage of it's ambrosial elixir that ejaculates from a pressure filled chamber out into the atmosphere and unto a potential lover's unsuspecting aspect.

The electrical charge of that first caress, the tension, the serendipitous submission. The quick intake of breath of the first orgasmic shudder.

It is tantalizing, titillating, tempestuous.

A madness, an obsession beyond rhyme or reason.

It is a hit and run on an isolated open country road.
A terrible accident of fate or Providence.

It is Icarus with his wax wings so sublimely enchanted with his sudden ability to take flight and soar to the heavens that he dismisses the warnings of Daedalus, and his wings are melted by the searing sun, plunging him abysmally into the cold sea.

Like Icarus, many of us are caught up in the rapture of the newly discovered, torched by a desire to consume, to know, to have. NOW!

At the exclusion of all else and, frankly, it feels damn good. Which is why we choose to indulge it , rather than extinguish it, immediately, despite our better judgment.



This abandonment.
This wantonness.
Is as seductive as it is dangerous and as natural as breathing.

The wanting, the yearning, the pining is all we care about.
We find ourselves suddenly, inexplicably addicted to being addicted.
In the throes of a passion that is as false as it is all consuming.

Until all of our fuel is spent, exhausted, depleted and our arms are left flapping vainly for flight, covered in the melted dripping wax of the relationship we soared on the waxed wings of.

Such a pretty mess... with such a sad reckoning.

Well, maybe not so sad, after all.

It's just a matter of confusing inspiration with adoration.
Some people are capable by word or deed of inspiring great feelings of flaming desire in others. They are the motivators, the caretakers, the preachers, the gurus, the shamans. Intensity is often mistaken for passion, even by the one being consumed.

So how do we tell the difference between falling in love and infatuation?
Between the sustainable and the combustible?



It's really simple. It's just a matter of time. Infatuation usually burns itself out as impetuously as it began.

Like that proverbial moth to the flame, we are drawn into it's fire and singed by infatuation. A heat rises within you that threatens to scorch everyone & anyone in your vicinity. You give off that jungle scent that draws all males within the vicinity to you. They know. They just do.

For women, these feelings can come in waves. There are days when I am just feeling it, that burning that starts deep within me explodes, napalming my body & anyone who just happens to be near. The juiciness. It is my most feline of moments. My most visceral. It's the only way to describe it, this business of being the cat in heat.

Like the other day, I was cruising down the street past Swensen's ice cream shop. A place frequented more and more by tourists. It happens to be along the famous Rice-a-Roni cable car line. Not far away from that damned crooked street that clogs up traffic for blocks around it.



And my darlings, for whatever the reason, the tides, the moon, a hormonal cycle gone wild, I was feeling it. IT. That communion with my womanhood. that little bit of extra body awareness. The proprioceptors were highly attuned that day.

Most days, really, but I digress.

So having a hyper-sensually aware day, I am likely to be gliding the hips a little more, making more eye contact than usual with those who choose to stare. I do not back down from admiration. I see no reason to be awkward or embarrassed by it. If someone is disrespectful in their observances of me, I guarantee you I will make them aware of how I feel without saying a word.

Like the magnificent Mae West used to say, 'I speak two languages: Body and English.'

Being assertive has never been a problem for me.
I'm sure you won't find that hard to believe.

As I went past the ice cream parlor, I took note of a circa 30 year old male. We made the usual eye contact that one makes with an attractive stranger.

Not a flirtation, merely an acknowledgement, a simple appreciation.

No promise of anything more than a moment of aesthetic pleasure. Like looking at a pretty view or a Monet painting. Nice but not stunning.

You don't study it the way you would a Van Gogh or a Siberian tiger.
It's just not that arresting. Yet. Not at that first instance.

Every once in a while, the usual visual exchange fires off the neural network, sets off a little depth charge into the deep waters.

Then, my dears, we have an active engagement. Being the proper married woman, I do not indulge in these frivolous past times very often. Unless, the planets are all aligned and of course, the heat is on.

How does that bad Glenn Frey song go?

The heat is on, on the street
Inside your head, on every beat
And the beat's so loud, deep inside
The pressure's high, just to stay alive
'Cause the heat is on

When the heat is on, it's hard to shut off. So those depth charges were fired & our battleships were manned and ready.

However, frisson of pleasure, notwithstanding, I glided on past him like the good girl I am. After a block or two, I noticed him, ice cream cone in hand, 50 yards behind me, walking at my pace.

I'm a little ashamed to say that it definitely stoked my fire.
This fleeting feeling of connection with a stranger, the danger of it, the mystery is always exciting. Some may deny it & say they can only be attracted to someone they know, but that denial, my dears, is a conditioned response.
It's Pavlov teaching his dogs when to salivate.
Now having a sustainable relationship is only possible with a known entity, this is true. The physical sciences can attest to that. They will speak of oxytocin, 'the cuddle' chemical that is at its peak during orgasm.

However, before we reach that level of chemical stimulation, we start at phase one. The phase where I feel the hotness of this guy walking behind me licking his ice cream cone as he follows me. Licking and watching me. Licking and watching me.

Norepinephrine which stimulates the production of adrenaline, making your blood boil, your heart pound & your body sweat with excitement. Feeling his ardor

Once the conquest is made the next system takes over.

'Intrusive thinking,' where it seems like your brain is fixated on the object of your affection. When your heart rules your head, there's actually one part of your brain running the other: the cortex is the area of your brain that controls logical thinking, while emotions are processed by the limbic system. When too many happy chemicals like PEA and dopamine flood your brain, they head straight for the limbic system.

A complex system of neural networks. The same structures found in the human limbic system can also be found in the brains of evolutionary ancient animals such as the alligator. In the alligator, the limbic system is heavily involved in smell and plays an important role in defending territory, hunting and eating prey. In humans, the limbic system is more involved in motivation and emotional behaviors. The drives, including the sex drive.



We are not as different as we think we are from our bestial brothers.
I can certainly attest to feeling like a wild creature under the right circumstances.

As time continues the brain chemistry alters, more dopamine is produced which in turn produces more oxytocin which, of course, forms the attachments we feel for our longer term lovers.

According to Helen Fisher, a well-known love researcher and an anthropologist at Rutgers University, what they see in those scans during that 'crazed, can't-think-of-anything-but stage of romance' -- the attraction stage -- is the biological drive to focus on one person.

MRI scans showed increased blood flow in areas of the brain with high concentrations of receptors for dopamine -- associated with states of euphoria, craving and addiction.

High levels of dopamine are also associated with norepinephrine, which heightens attention, short-term memory, hyperactivity, sleeplessness and goal-oriented behavior. In other words, couples in this stage of love focus intently on the relationship and often on little else.

There are three distinct types or stages of 'love':
1. Lust, or erotic passion
2. Attraction, or romantic passion
3. Attachment, or commitment

So, the difference between the infatuation, the lust and the longer term commitments of love are best summed up by Sexologist John Money who draws the line between love and lust in this way: 'Love exists above the belt, lust below. Love is lyrical. Lust is lewd.'

Lewd Lascivious Lust if it doesn't melt away like Icarus' wings can turn into romantic passion which over time evolves into commitment or real attachment. But that's for another posting.

Today, for our discussion, we just focus on me and the man who followed my scent for 6 city blocks until he stood across the street of my apartment building, still licking his cone as he watched me.

We focus on my ever so fleeting thoughts of inviting him up through the service elevator to avoid the building's attentive doorman who adores me and always greets me warmly.

We focus on my insatiable curiosity wondering how deep those charges my ice cream man fired could go and whether they would hit their mark and how hard they would explode in me.

The excitement. The allure of the new. The untried waters that we could swim in. The heavenly heights we could soar with our Icarus wings oh so loosely attached.

On another day, we'll discuss why I chose to stay grounded and, instead, just smiled at my ice cream man as I went in through the main lobby entrance and was greeted by gentle Ben the cheerful doorman.

Some things are just not worth crashing into the Icarian Sea for.

Don't you agree?
What's your take on the infatuation?