Here I go

turn and face the strange....

I read Red today, saddended and encouraged at the same time. She wonders if she no longer writes about sex, will anyone find her interesting.

An interesting question, and one that I refused to bite bait on when she suggested that I needed a separate blog, one with anonymity. I responded that I didn't have enough sex to make a sexblog interesting.

She sent back specific instructions on phonesex; I haven't had the guts to try yet.

Unready, but not unwilling, I will begin to share memories.

Hard, hard, it's hard to designate as memories what I wish to be present experiences.

Harder still that I wasn't at full consciousness to enjoy these memories fully when they were present experiences.

Unless that was the point: skull clogged with mucos, brain function impaired by constant headache keeps me functioning at minimum, therefore taking notes on show and audience reaction rather than:
* moving set pieces
* giving light cues
* running errands
* etc. ad nauseum

I sit with J. of the lovely long stocking-clad legs (the lace tops showed when she dipped, ahhh...) quoting from the Bombshell Manual of Style. "I don't think I have any foolish shoes," she responded to one of the criteria. "Well, maybe one pair. Or two, but I never wear them."

"Whereas I own maybe two pairs of sensible shoes. That I never wear."

(There are those who are pleased by my choice of foolish shoes. More on that later.)

I watch my Cubans take my sketchy instructions and, on their own impetus, invent themselves as a unit, becoming the darlings of the show, as they were my darlings when I wrote them.

L. braids my hair for me, warning me that she might pull, but never doing so.

I listen to cast members singing songs that were never their own, because they love them so much, and the tunes are so catchy.

I squeeze into the corner with all the band's equipment to turn pages for JB as he plays warmups for the cast, not because he needs me, but because that's where I want to be, by his side for this project, together, as we started.

As we started. And have now ended.

Which is why it's still too painful to touch.

Apologies...

...to those who are not fanatics, but for those that are, I thought I'd share this:

"Due to territorial copyright restrictions, we cannot sell English language editions to customers in the US, although we can sell the Latin and Welsh editions to our US customers. US customers: please visit Amazon."

This from Bloomsbury, publishers of the English (as opposed to American) Harry Potter books, which are available only through Scholastic.

When my friend D. gave me the prezzie he'd brought from the UK, he doubtfully wondered whether I'd find much difference. Structurally and plotwise, none at all. However, there were a great many substitutions: studying for revisions, sweater for jumper are two that spring to mind immediately, though there were others.

Now here's where I begin to get irritated.

I figured I could go to the website and order English versions of these books, on principle, because I object to Americanized versions of things. I cut my teeth on Lewis Carroll, Jonathan Swift and Agatha Christie, unedited. I know what a lorry is, and a bonnet.

What I don't know is how these publishing giants get so powerful and omnipresent that they can curtail not only my reading material in this country, but my ability to purchase it from abroad.

I am outraged, which may be a good thing. I haven't worked up a good indignity about anything for quite a while.

Now the problem becomes one of getting these "contraband" items into my hands.

Creative suggestions welcomed here.

Too Painful to Touch

...so I won't just yet. Instead, a series of He Saids.

"Balloon flowers for the Playwright!"
(thank you)

"I don't know why I thought you were single."
(two kids and a wedding band, that's not obvious?)

"It'll be warm tomorrow. You can wear sandals."
(mmmm.... my favorite)

"I've got your video, and I have a prezzie for you, too."
(damn fine one, at that)

"I'm proud of you, kiddo."
(always a goal for me)

"No, Cyb, thank YOU."
(say again?)

"Hey, Beautiful."
(hey, Beautiful, yourself)


He Said, He Said, He Said ...flattering, all.

But no single comment more welcome than this:

"What kind of tea would you like, honey?"

Whatever kind you're making for me.

can't stop the spirit when it needs you
this life is more than just a read-thru(the red hot chili peppers)

Have I abused or neglected my body to make it revolt, work against me? Many tasks to do today- and I feel like doing nothing at all, not even crawling back into bed.

Miserable night, the best bit being a dream about reenactors doing Lord of The Rings shit in chain mail and velvet gowns, using long sentences to frame short ideas, combined with a lunch trip with my mother and grandmother, in which we argued because I insisted on overtipping.

NOT the sort of transcendant, angel visitation type dream I prefer, but this is what fevered delusion gets me.

Okay, so that's enough whining.

Today is Opening Night of Closing Weekend. Rumor has it that Critics and Money are dropping by to see the show, and nothing could make me happier but that they had arrived LAST weekend, in order to pump sales and audience size for this weekend. Of course, I have no specifics, but my plan is to be at my most charming, just in case. That will challenge my acting skills a bit.

Today is That Girl's birthday, and there are plans...which, depending, I may or may not be included in, if you'll pardon the preposition. But it sounds like fun, and I wonder how much trouble I'll get in. She leads me astray, she does.

I lie on the waterbed, nearly naked. He strokes me, waist, hip, thigh and back again, absently, like one would a cat, and tells me of the girls he and Billy used to pick up in Ocean City when they were randy young bucks.

I struggle not to smile at the irony. Non sequiter:

"I think I can't love them any more, " he says, "then suddenly I do."

Yeah. Kids are like that.

Image

can't stop the spirit when it needs you
this life is more than just a read-thru(the red hot chili peppers)

Steve asks when I'll have something ready for him to read, and I can't answer. It's impossible to write through the blockage in my head. A sinus headache seven days running or more (I've lost count) makes anything more than the most basic of mental functions next to impossible.

Not that I don't try; I do. I sit at the screen, poking at the keyboard with willing fingers, but it isn't WRITING, not the kind I mean, or the kind he wants.

But today will perhaps be better: An early drive coaxed some poetry from me; head-clearing, that.

And the images along the way serve to break up some of the sludge in my skull.

A plastic wrapping unwinds from a covered load, sheer streamer making sinuous shapes behind the bulky truck.

Smear of clothing on the shoulder, like a man disintegrated from within.

Tight traffic, sandwiched between a Mustang and an unmarked trooper. Ahead, in the Mustang, a nearly shaved head bobs to unheard music. Behind, in my rearview, the trooper chews gum. I watch, hoping he'll blow a bubble. I lose both companions at the tollbooth before he does. I imagine unmarked trooper blowing bubbles as he drives down 95.

Whether he does or not is immaterial to my amusement.

The Inner Harbor is a toy city built upon a sheet of glass. Sun shines into my eyes, onto my skin. I am, it is, we are, all come together at once. I am the Universe and the Universe is me.

Inhale. Exhale. Return to the mortal coil, finish driving.

Yes. A good day to write.

Pitiful Again

can't stop the spirit when it needs you
this life is more than just a read-thru(the red hot chili peppers)

All things being unequal, I've grown accustomed to the idea that I occupy a smaller portion of his heart than he does mine.

(Once, I called him on my birthday, so he wouldn't feel badly about missing it, not that he would have. Not everyone has a brother, and most that do, haven't had the luxury of choosing. Why I chose a red-headed Italian Scorpio for a brother is beyond reason, beyond imagining, but hey, that's what love's all about, right?)

I called him on Opening Night, but only got voice mail. I left a message.

Surprise, surprise, he left one for me on Sunday evening, wanting to know how Opening Weekend went! Gave me courage to call, perhaps find him at home.

Which I did, and was overjoyed (oh, yes, all out of proportion, I know...so what?) to chat with him for more than his usual two-point-five minutes. Just hearing his voice, ahh... he talked about work, his wife, his plans, the Faire ( he wonders why I don't do a show with That Girl, did not dismiss out of hand the notion that Firespiel might make a return)....then I made the mistake of saying "I miss you."

And that was about the end of that. Still, maybe he'll show up this weekend. He didn't promise.

But it did make me brave enough to make another call, one that I was certain would yield a cold shoulder, at best, and an answering machine at worst.

It was somewhat warmer than I had imagined.

Life. So full of surprises.

Miss Me?

can't stop the spirit when it needs you
this life is more than just a read-thru(the red hot chili peppers)

Yeah, I miss me, too. Who are you when you're not yourself? I haven't been myself for the last month, or if I have, only in fits and spurts. Mostly, I've been this strung-out, wired, tense, cranky, unhappy creature, so jagged and ready to shatter that even I didn't care for my company...and yet, I didn't want to be alone (with my thoughts) either. Fortunately, I have tolerant friends who put up with me when I am someone else.

Opening night went well. The Saturday show looked good. Sunday was quiet. At intermission, I reassured the cast that the audience WAS enjoying them, just quietly. There was nothing wrong with the show. Well...maybe there was, but it was my fault, not the fault of the actors. Saturday I watched the show, and Sunday I watched the audience watching the show, for clues to what works and what doesn't. Though with a Sunday matinee crowd, it's much harder to get an accurate read, since they are a bit weird.

I had hoped for larger audiences, especially with the cable TV ad that's running, but maybe word of mouth will create a buzz that will pack the house this coming weekend. Fingers crossed.

Goodnight, Sweetheart

can't stop the spirit when it needs you
this life is more than just a read-thru
(the red hot chili peppers)

For some reason, daytime rain chills and depresses me. Nighttime rain, however, is soothing, a song to sleep by.

Unless it storms.

My gods, do I love storms. Lightning, thunder, wind, driving rain, BRING IT ON. Snowstorms...can I sleep through them? No, I stay awake, prowling, prowling, waiting for the fall to begin, if I've paid attention to weather reports or the traffic at the grocery.

Tonight, the patter of drops on the skylight suggests that I should sleep.

The excitement and anticipation of tomorrow suggests otherwise.

Once again, I wait to see what I'll do.

Synchronicity

can't stop the spirit when it needs you
this life is more than just a read-thru
(the red hot chili peppers)


I need him, think of him, and he calls. The Apostle, right there on my cellphone. We chat of children, of change. He mentors my son in metaphysics. I warn him of his second, as yet unconceived child, as K., his happy happy first is no preparation.

I know what he means to me; what do I mean to him? I wonder.

Wonder. My sister, who reads me sometimes, wonders how well she knows me.

I wonder, too.

I think he hopes that I will say what he's thinking, to confirm that it's true, or right.

Yes. Buy it, if you can. Go ahead signal, loud and clear.

I ask if he got what he needed.

"I always do."

Yeah, me too.

Perspective

...when you're from HalloweenTown, a shrunken head IS a good gift.

I say to S., "And the guy who built our sets, Adam, he's not only really talented and creative, he's incredibly beautiful."

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," he says with a hint of a sneer.

"Okay, maybe I only THINK he's beautiful, because I love him so."

"That's sweet."

I turn to BuddahPat for confirmation of Adam's objective beauty.

"No, he really is beautiful."

Thank you, Pat.

"Who's beautiful?" P wants to know.

"We were just discussing whether Adam is beautiful," explains S., "and Cybele says he is."

"Pfah, Cybbie thinks everyone is beautiful," says P, waving a dismissive hand.

"Well, what we were saying is that a person becomes beautiful when you love them," S continues.

"That's what I said, Cybbie thinks everyone is beautiful."

Hey, I think this guy is starting to get me.

Took long enough.

I make a drive this morning that was lovely enough to force me into a fit of poetry. Up at three am, after a midnight thirty or later bedtime, home at seven, three hour nap until ten...I should be good until closing time at one of the pubs.

That Girl, who thought I would be driving at midnight, calls to see if I wanted phone company on the way home. I miss the call, but appreciate the sentiment. She's something, she is.

Resignation

...when you're from HalloweenTown, a shrunken head IS a good gift.

And if I have been playing the role of The Dog, so what?

It's temporary.

And if The Dog has been kicked, so what?

All injuries will heal.

And if I refuse to turn and fight, turn and bite, so what?

I prefer to not be vicious.

And if running is alien to my nature, so what?

It is still an option.

I'll watch me awhile, waiting to see what I'll do.


The day dawns grey and gloomy, chill and damp, a match to my mood. The smacking spatter of sleet and freezing rain forms enough of an Extenuating Circumstance to drive me from Naked Season clothes into fuzzy sweater and boots...again.

Was I premature, declaring Winter over?

I've often tried to make myself enjoy damp and bitter weather. So far, I've not yet been successful. Still trying, though.

Happy National Buzzard Day!

...when you're from HalloweenTown, a shrunken head IS a good gift.

(That's what I meant to write to begin this morning.)

Yes, here it is, the Ides of March, also National Buzzard Day, when thousands of Turkey Vultures (incorrectly referred to as buzzards: buzzards are hawks, hawks are birds of prey; vultures are carrion eaters, the clean up crew of the natural world, if you will.) return to Hinckley, Ohio.

Join in the celebration! see Annual Buzzard Sunday.

For a detailed account of why they return, see History.

Buzzard is a much friendlier word than vulture (V words being notorious for their unpleasant associations: vile, violence, vulgar, vinegar, vicious, vitupretive, venom, vortex, vice...) so it's certainly understandable that Hinckley would be celebrating its 47th annual Buzzard Day rather than Turkey Vulture Day.

But I like to clear up these technical misnomers when I can.

Oh, yes...

...when you're from HalloweenTown, a shrunken head IS a good gift.

It's really interesting to create something from nothing, which is essentially what happens during a set build.

I'm enjoying it, though it wasn't supposed to be my job, and I got yelled at for having concerns about a certain set piece that neither I nor anyone I trusted had built.

Definitely signed his own death warrant. Twice.

Cruisin'

Eyes bleary, vision blurry from dried out lenses and exhaustion, I drive, I dial, sure of my welcome even though it's after eleven.

"Hi, sweetie! Knew it was you. Spence asked if my boyfriend was calling. I told him almost."

Yeah. No. I'm not her boyfriend. But it's nice to have someone I can call at midnight and it's okay.

I spend time in a bar with writer friends d. and j., who are a little overwhelmed by my theater gang, and look it. My writer friends being only mildly quirky, and the theater posse....moreso. One of them, who has turned out to be less competant than had been hoped, pushes the wrong buttons, perhaps signing his own death warrent.

d. shares delightful tidbits of harmless but entertaining gossip, which I find fascinating. Not usually the gossipy type, d., though I'm not sure what type he is. The collection of ex-wives type? The mystical mountain retreat type? The blushing at risque remarks type? Yes.

I enter the venue, and am shocked by a casino on the top floor, steps away from where we'll be playing. Or maybe it's an adult arcade, I'm not sure. There are gambling machines in a room, what do you call that? Instantly, I think of someone I've been trying to avoid thinking about all day. It's no use, I guess, trying to run from my own mind.

I watch S. flitting around in the Fairy Dress, one I created for an event two years? three? ago, and have only worn once since, though I love it. I was hopeful, but shortly after I put it on, S., in green velvet, too tight since she'd finished half a sandwich and gained four ounces, says, "My character should wear that."

So I pull it off, and watch her in it all evening.

The show, despite edits for theme mere hours beforehand, having gotten wildly offtrack during (we recovered), and to say underrehearsed would be understating, was well recieved by an amazingly un-drunk audience (NOT the norm), and all went away happy, including us.

I blow into town with twenty minutes to spare at double the posted speed, one hand on the wheel, one on the radio dial. I've listened to snippets of everything all the way down, because I couldn't settle. Will I manage to settle? I pull in next to a red Firebird and dance beside the car as I unload.

The way down, something redhot and green skids by me. I floor it to chase her down, see how fast. Upwards of eighty, this bra-wearing historic-tagged green Porsche. She drops to a sedate sixty after having flown off the ramp. Her driver has craggy English looks. Nice.

For the first time, the musical ran all the way through during rehearsal. And we had a complete cast. For the first time.

We might have something here. It's good. Really good.

Less than a week now....

I received a complaint that I'm not writing enough. I don't know what that means. My frequency, at once a day, is not to be faulted. I do in-depth coverage as permitted by time and necessitated by subject matter. But do my readers want more of me? Longer essays instead of short quips? Short quips more often?

I am open to comments, requests and suggestions. Talk to me.

Oh, and...do you like the new title?

Random Memory

...when you're from HalloweenTown, a shrunken head IS a good gift....

My mother once told me something fairly frightening.

"Once when I was stoned, I wondered whether driving would still happen if I just let myself go."

"And did it?" I asked, certain that my mother, in her enthusiastic impulsivity, would follow her curiousity mere moments after the idea occurred to her.

"I don't know. I didn't try it, because you kids were in the car."

Mm'kay.

Oh, Come On

Once again, the world changes....

Me:
"So...do you want a back rub, a foot masage, or...hmmm...something else?

Him:
"All of that sounds great!"

Me:
"Greedy! You have to choose."

He chose the foot massage.

Bastard.

Ahhh

Once again, the world changes....

Evening:

Clouds are fluffy pink pink whales, cavorting against the sunset sky, white yellow glow uplighting their underbellies.

Night:

Moon hugs horizon, heavy, orange, oval... a half eaten peach.


In the parking lot, he reaches for my hand, pulls me close to kiss my cheek.

Sweet, yes, just when I promise myself I'm giving up on him and his careless offhand ways.

Lost in a chain of links

Once again, the world changes....

Okay, I have a new favorite.

excerpt from eurotrash, a spoof on belle.


EUROTRASH DE JOUR - DIARY OF A NEW JERSEY CALL GIRL. AN EXPENSIVE ONE, MIND. I AIN'T NO CRACK WHORE, LET'S GET THAT STRAIGHT RIGHT UP FRONT.

lundi, janvier 26

"Darlink, I have a client with an unusal request," said the manager, her glacial growling Eastern European tones whistling past my elegant cheekbones and ruffling my perfectly-applied lip gloss. I paused in the act of buffing my expensively manicured toenails, startled. From the opening gambit of the conversation, anyone listening in, such as a newsagent or a cleaning lady, would have thought I was a call girl. Oh wait. I am. Never mind.

"You know I don't do animals, children or shit play," I sighed wearily into the telephone. I was sprawled in the boudoir of my Knightsbrige penthouse wearing nothing but this season's La Perla, painting my toenails and nostalgically browsing my Nobel Prize-winning PhD thesis in nuclear physics, while my Mandarin Chinese Is Fun! tapes played in the background.

Yes, I am remarkably beautiful, and yes, I have a PhD in nuclear physics, but I feel the need to be free and I am lazy so I am a call girl. Which people, who often faint in the street at the sight of my beauty, would find it hard to believe. I tell them I am a nanny, albeit an extraordinarily beautiful one.

"You know I don't do extreme degredation, because that is icky and my middle-class literati readers will not appreciate seeing it in my award-winning, but in no way obviously pornographic blog. I cannot afford to alienate my audience. People will think I'm just a prostitute then. I'm not a prostitute, I'm a meme, a cultural movement, on the cusp of the zeitgeist."

"No, no, no darlink - it's not extreme degradation by these days' standards. Shit-play has gone mainstream. Chloe Sevigny is making a film about it. Oh come on, darlink, do it for me. Please."

Eventually I agreed, but only at a significant hike in price and a complimentary tube of Anusol.

For the rest, see eurotrash.

Satire being much funnier if the source is a known item, this still holds up. A little like Galaxy Quest, enjoyable as a stand-alone, funnier for Trekkies.

Belle's book deal is The Buzz among bloggers, most of whom (yes, including me) salivate over the idea that one of these days We Will Be Discovered. Because it seems a bit more imaginable than the absurdly magical tale of a certain unemployed mum, baby at her feet in various diners and cafes around a certain island in the North Pacific going from the dole to a seven book contract (movie deal and merchandise to follow) with ABSOLUTELY NO END IN SIGHT to her earning potential. I mean, my god, this unnamed woman is second only to the nation's regent in wealth, and gaining fast!

***********************************************************

I don't know what kind of birds they are, but they have resumed residence in the trees beside my house. They sing Che-yer, che-yer, chub-chub-chub-chub-chub. Back for the season, they begin their song around three am, which is lately the time I force myself into the welcoming soft arms of my empty bed. They used to keep me awake, but I've trod this path so often that now they sing me to sleep.

Today, despite the birdsong, is an extenuating circumstance.

Though it is officially Naked Season, the unseasonable temperature of 42*F (yes, I'm American) coerces me into socks and boots. Just as well, I suppose. I wasn't quite emotionally prepared to give up my fuzzy sweaters.

The happy faces of daffodils peep at me from the tangle of uncleared brush on the hillside facing my rear window. I hear spring in my ears, feel winter on my skin, see the wreckage of autumn in my eyes.

But it's summer in my heart, oh always.

Look now, look again

Once again, the world changes....

The sky is a seething mass of contradictions, now a rolling line of thunderheads, writhing like the sea, now illuminated at the horizon, sun tearing through here and there, now patchy like the sky of a Peanuts comic, now the amazing stormblue that reflects the light in a way that makes me yearn for skill as a painter.

mixed signals

Once again, the world changes....

My hair moves, he's touched me again.

Or something.

I'm posting bios on the wall, he's peering over my shoulder, reading the dummy copy I did for my own:

Cybele Pomeroy, Playwright, Assistant Director
Cybele likes to write, serves as Secundus to CJ's Premius, goes three days at a time without brushing her hair, and rarely wears colors because she can't be bothered to match things for outfits.

I couldn't justify writing more, as I was busy writing dummy copy for all the cast and crew who failed to turn in or send one on their own, hoping that whatever weirdness I threaten to include in the programme will prompt some response.

He reads the bit about not matching outfits, and wonders aloud whether that's why I wear silver, gold, copper and brass all together, instead of segregating my jewelry by metal type.

Flirting with me shamelessly all the while.

Which is contradictory, because I thought only gay men were aware of shit like that.

As I brushed Ginny's hair (this is not a non-sequiter), she said to me, "I so miss being touched. I want that. I NEED it."

Know what you mean, Gin. I do.

Warm Rain

Once again, the world changes....

Unbuckled, I sit beneath the street lamp, mesmerized by the patterns of raindrop shadows, rolling, racing across the dusty dash.

This rain has a soothing effect on my senses and my psyche. It's warm, nourishing, healing, in a way that biting winter rain is not. The icy drive of needles all around saps my strength, drains my creativity, makes me yearn for sleep and safety.

Today's rain, the same rain (the same rain? every droplet different, like every moment of ocean different, never the same rain, river, ocean, never) that sang me to sleep last night, touches my arms, my face, my hair like a wet mouth throwing kisses of benediction.

******************************

It's rainbow weather, these days. The rain stops by midmorning, sun shining on cartoon clouds by midafternoon. The sky is a huge painting by an Impressionist artist, and I wish my vision were wide enough to encompass it all at once. I think of L., who stares at the sky even when it looks empty to me, and wonder about the wonder of everything.

A storm blows up suddenly, rumbling thunder shaking the house. Wind roars down the hill, rattling through bare branched bushes where tiny birds try to hide from sweep of rain. Drops spatter windows, falling thick and heavy as sun breaks from behind a cloud in the western sky.

Rainbow weather! Where is it? I race outdoors, heedless of dime sized droplets soaking my silk shirt. Ah, there! A perfect arc of clearly defined colors, embracing the lush backdrop of periwinkle sky. I look until the shiver of wind on my wet neck and scalp drives me indoors.

Worth the chill, ah, yes.

Once again, the world changes....


It bothers people when you are lucid and ironic.
- A. Camus


Is THAT what my problem has been.....


The moist grey blanket of sky covers every trace of the sun, blending seamlessly with the misty air. A Portland sort of day, I think, though I've never been to Portland. I tip my face up to a sun I can't see, and say the prayer of Jabez with my arms outstretched to catch every morsel of love and light the world has to offer me today. And Lo! a few hours later, sun breaks through cloud cover, rubbing honeyed rays across the surface of my skin.

Upheaval

Once again, the world changes....

Bam! Pow! Kersplat! It's like living in a Batman comic, or Beirut. The battle continues, I wait for the end, for the dust to settle. And as the walls of Jericho crumble around me, I look for diversion, amusement....

For mindless diversion, popping bubbles is good.

For wicked laughter at the expense of others, I like Cliff's hate pages.

Just because I like it so much (thank you, Martin), this again.

For an unreal relationship, try an imaginary girlfriend.

(I could be getting paid, hmmmm....)

By the way, who ratted me out to Redwhore? She e-mailed me. Nice lady.

Peeling it Off

Once again, the world changes....

Today is the official start of Naked Season.

Let me begin with: I hate clothes.

I mean, I love clothes, clothes that are flattering, sexy, pretty...and especially that have very little in the way of actual fabric.

Wintertime in this region does not support Nearly Naked.

But it was November before I donned a pair of socks, and today, on the third day of March, I hereby renounce socks as a daily article of clothing. Except for extenuating circumstances, I am sock-free for the summer. I peel them off, and paint my toes the color of Spring.

I looked at my fading bikini lines the other day, hoping, hoping that I would be able to get new ones before the old ones are gone completely. If the weather holds, I will. Yesterday, I woke to find that sometime between midnight and morning, the heavens had opened to wash away the smutty scent of city dirt.

A dear friend with wise blue eyes has of late been describing me as "melancholy." I disagreed, but the joy I feel at the return of warm weather makes me reconsider. In comparison to the way I feel today, I've been downright depressive. It's disconcerting to have someone see me more clearly than I do, though perhaps not unusual.

Excuse me?

Once again, the world changes....

"NO, I'm not coming in. You're practically naked in there, with your little bits of silk and satin."

FLASHBACK>>>>>>

"Am I interrupting? I can go."

FLASHBACK >>>>>

"Come cuddle with me. I'll brush your hair."

FLASHBACK >>>>

Not a generation gap, but a gorge of massive proportions. Pat and I on one side, the youngsters on the other.

Us:

"No, the next time I want to hear that song is NEVER."

Them:

"You guys are crazy! Stairway To Heaven ROCKS!"

FLASHBACK >>>>>

I eye Dan speculatively. "Am I being propositioned?"

"I think so. And not badly, until the "desparate times, desparate measures" part. That kinda spoiled it."

FLASHBACK >>>>>

"Cybbie, I think we should be lovers."

"Okay. Who with?"

"Each other! Silly."

FLASHBACK >>>>>

"I think of my body as a mango. Ripe, lush, juicy. And nobody expects or wants a skinny mango."

"Yeah. They're supposed to be curvy."

"And what fruit are you?"

"I'm a strawberry."

Oh, yes. Dipped in cream.

Still, she slept in the guest bed. This time.

Once again, the world changes....

"Are you kidding? Nobody who knows you would be the least bit surprised to know you were up at 3 AM working on a poem."

Touching? yes. Tears to my eyes touching. Heartbreaking? also yes.

Because maybe a few other people wouldn't be surprised to find me up at three am writing, but he is the ONLY one who truly understands WHY, gets it on that deep gut level, where I feel it.

I love sunshine as he loves rain, so I was pleased to stand outside yesterday.

The sun rubbed warm lips across the back of my neck, slid hot hands over my shoulder blades, down my waist, over my backside, touching the backs of my knees, humming promises of a yummy summer.

Soon. Soon. Please.