A note, here, that I did indeed let the date pass without any action on my part, and so my other journal, at the other place, fallen into disuse, has now been deleted and purged, both.

My Internet is being stupid tonight. I hate when my Internet is stupid. Well, I lied, since it's not my Internet.

[12:25 AM; But so, okay, it is sleep time, now. Today was a day of loveliness.

Oh wait, 'cause this is fun and will only take a minute. Yes, the day was very very nice, but an unfortuante ending threatened that when I forgot at the the thanksgiving celebration place, a half an hour away, the key to my apartment.

I walked down to the apartment and cased the joint. The roof overhang stuck out too far for me to trust myself trying to hold on to the gutter and pull myself up to the roof that way. In other words, better sense prevailed. So I then returned to the boys' house, retrieved a ladder, and came back down. The front of the place was dark, and I had to set the ladder on the front stairs where it just reached the roof, resting on the edge of the gutter and almost straight up and down. I was up the ladder, across the roof, in my window, out my door, back down to the ladder in no more than 20 or 30 seconds. Someone was out front at the curb getting in or out of their car when I got down there. I don't think they could see the ladder, 30 feet away in the dark, so I walked by it, picked it up, continued around the opposite side of the building, put it in the car and made my getaway, and walked back down before my cat escaped out the window which I'd left open in my haste.

Unfortunate ending defeated by cat burglar-style defense.]

Your text today has sharpened things, and now they want to cut open my eyes.

This does not mean I was not happy to receive it. Nor does it mean I want to or need necessarily repel those things that want to cut open my eyes. My heart, kind of a castle keep door to my eyes, toys with these as if it has that option, alternately inviting them in and slashing them back.

It is pretty to watch. It is pretty to watch this war between my heart and the things that want to cut open my eyes.

The sharp things will climb up and through the chambers and to the top of my heart, then mount up through that thin air in my chest across my still lips, seduce my passages with the sweetness of their scent, until they reach the threshold of my wide open eyes.

And I will look at the prettiness and shininess of the sharp things, and admire the keeness of their edges, which haven't a single dull fraction on their entire length. So shiny. So bright. So, so very sharp they are.

Then I'll blink once.

And that's when the sharp things will cut open my eyes, so wide, and be washed back down through all the paths from whence they came and out the door and into the moat and beneath the water for a while. After all, the green and scaly alligators are only decorations: fixtures to make it look as if this place, with all those scary creatures down in the dungeons, is some formidable inpenetrable fortress, when it is not. Not when it comes to the sharp things.

The sharp things know this because they've been inside, looked in every room, fed feasts to the creatures in the dungeons, climbed the stairs through the heart of the place, and cut open my eyes.

My favorite holiday is Ground Hog's Day!

I like this one the best because it celebrates not a single accomplishment (or the sad antithesis of such) of any man or woman or group of these, but rather it's a simple understated celebration of the cold, but brilliant and beautiful winter almost past, and the promise of the lovely spring soon to come. How could anyone love any other holiday more, I wonder?

Ground Hog's Day rocks.

Father's Day is my next favorite because my children make things, things that come from the heart - and at the end of any of these days, holidays and all the others, what matters more than that?

I must try to write about some things, tomorrow.

I am working a regular job for a few days, so I am here much less.

***

I know I do not mention Her much, anymore. Nevertheless, not a day goes by, not one, where some of its moments do not belong entirely to her. It's really hard to make a single 8-letter word convey just what exactly it means when I say a moment, or moments, belong entirely to someone, but yes: they are all hers. These are not fleeting thoughts or recollections, but sections of time, no matter how small the sections, completely given. Said differently: if one deducts everything (everything means everything), and leaves just Her, then maybe that is a better description of such moments.

Everyone should have in their life at least one person, one time, that they can feel such a way about. It'd be quite the amazing world if that were to be true.

***

In re the last entry - my interpretation of events may have been erroneous.

[Much of this entry is conjecture based upon available evidence - an interpretation of other evidence no longer available.]

Aw fuck.

I didn't want it to be that way = I should have shut the fuck up.

But, she played along; she wrote part of that song. That's making excuses, though, I should have shut the fuck up. I should always shut the fuck up. She was writing a song, and she didn't know the end. I did, though; I always know the end. I underestimated some things, vastly over-estimated others, and understood everything. I should have shut the fuck up.

There was nothing, ever, to be gained there, I don't think, not for either of us. I should have shut the fuck up. I wonder if I type it enough times, whether the next time I will remember that I should have shut the fuck up the last time.

I had my chances, after all, to shut the fuck up. I pointed out my chances at various crossroads, places where I might have, had I not over and underestimated things, taken the road with the sign that had "shut the fuck up" marked upon it: this way to shut the fuck up.

I would even (fuck, should even?) shut the fuck up writing about it, except that it's my journal, where the decisions at crossroads leading to it are left to the traveler's mind and feet.

Aw fuck. I'll say it again.

Hm. Okay. The point well established that I should have shut the fuck up, now I can write about the rest of my thoughts upon the thing. I'm tempted to just add one more paragraphical line: "shut the fuck up," and leave it at that, but that wouldn't be very journal like.

First, most important, if it's not yet been made clear enough, the mouse assigns no blame to the cat, none. There is no passive-aggressive agenda, here, in anything I've written or will write about this event. When I wrote, "I should have shut the fuck up," that does not mean "she should have shut the fuck up." It does not mean my feelings are hurt, and that that is someone else's fault, not mine. It means what it says: I should have shut the fuck up.

"I love you, too," would have more than sufficed, would have exceeded any expectation in that situation. I did not intend to molest anyone with my words. I should have known better. I knew the underlying landscape, all of it, and all too well. I was irresponsible and stupid. Sure, stupid could be re-written as hopeful, but that would still not make it any less stupid or insensitive.

If I have, and I can only assume that I have, I never intended to hurt her in any way at all.

I am sorry.

***

The explanatory footnotes:

All evidence of the game of cat and mouse has been screened. I'm the only one can see what's left of it, which is limited to the moves I made, the words I said. I don't know and I don't want to ask, whether it's only screened and not deleted because deletion requires my acquiescence, requires me to retract through deletion my words, too.

We, she and I, cat and mouse or man, were the only parties to the thing. Two things, really - one the game of cat and mouse, the other just some other words: "I love you's" thrown down without all the surrounding sound required to land them on solid ground. As I said, though, with regard to that little rhyme, I knew all the landscape, she only a part. While I was looking at the beauty and the serenity and the strength and the majesty of the snow-capped, tree-covered mountains that rise from the valleys, indeed are the makers of the valleys, inverse valleys themselves, she ended up (I think, apparently), at the bottom of one of these crevasses, too far down, even below the ground, to see any of the hills upon which I was playing.

But oh, just before that chasm swallowed her up, to see her wink, and to hear her sing from the edge of that cliff, "I know what you like."

My eyes stayed open: I knew how deep was the canyon standing behind her, yawning open, agape, with teeth at the edges, and threatening to swallow her up - all of the light reflecting off all of the snow on all of the mountains, never quite enough to outshine the unfathomable darkness of that black abyss.

She was too far from me, though, and I was frozen in place, my selfish and greedy ears still ringing with her singing, "I know what you like," and by that point it was already far too late, anyway.

"Stay," I would have said, if I could have opened my mouth. "Stay, baby," I would have said, if I thought my words would reach her ears, "move just one tiny step, please, from the edge of that cliff, darling."

"It's so steep, honey, and so deep, careful now, you'll fall, angel," I would have said, if I thought my words would be soft enough to carry over the sound of the thunder beginning and the rain starting to fall.

I don't know, because my eyes were closed by then, and all the gray black clouds were blocking out the sun, and all the light, all of it, but I think the rain dissolved the little piece of ground beneath her feet, and it fell away, she with it, through the darkness.

I didn't want it to be that way.

I never want it to be that way.

But it's always this way.

***

So yes, except for what I possess, all the evidence of the expedition is gone. I don't know whether it was some knowledge I had, knowledge I'd gained from past experience, or not, but for whatever reason, I'd saved a file of the game of cat and mouse, complete. I know when I saved it I wasn't thinking that I was saving it because I thought it might be gone the next day. I don't think so, anyway. I think I was just saving it because I knew eventually it'd fade to oblivion because that's the nature of the Internet, and parts of it are mine and not the Internet's.

Ugh, although she probably is, I hope she's not embarrassed in any way. Certainly, she hasn't any reason to be. I know I am not - not that way, in any case.

I think she only thought she knew what I liked. She couldn't see it all, of course she couldn't. She'd've had to know me all the way to really know what I like, which, at the end of the day, is, truly, quite some departure from the surface appearance.

Okay. I don't think there's anything else to say. I do wish I knew if she prefers me to delete my half of the thing, because I'd gladly do it, I'd gladly shut the fuck up in reverse. But since no one else can see it, I don't think it matters one way or the other. Still.

Remember, remember, the twenty-second of November.

Again, except for facts, conjecture all, this entry.

[ETA, a final kind of note that a few of her words, which appeared elsewhere while I was typing this up, and well before this was published, though I seriously doubt spoken to anyone in particular, much less me personally, couldn't, given the gist of the analogy in this write-up, be more coincidental if they tried: "Climb down into me."]

Lol, I hate the way this makes me look all...something...stalkerish, or creeperish, or smittenish. It's none of those things, though. It's just record keeping. Seriously.

Ah, I never got to it, finishing that entry. Maybe today, then. Instead of finishing it, I ended up playing a kind game of cat and mouse somewhere else. A game that, considering every last circumstance I might consider, ended in the prettiest of possible ways.

If I looked at it without considering all those circumstances and all those possible ways in which it might have ended, and it still ended in the exact same way, then I would probably be writing about some kind of sadness.

It helped that in the middle of this kind of game there was an exchange elsewhere about contentment and "the journey, not the destination," etc. Ironically enough, as removed as was that exchange from the game of cat and mouse, and it was very removed indeed, the cat played her part, as catalyst (amazing, amirite? lol, or yes, I am silly) in that, as well.

It is funny how some things work out that way.

***

An observation here that I am still loving the words of Mr. Pessoa very much. Some of these occurred to me earlier, when I was (am) considering withdrawing from the political LJ communities to which I belong. There was a beautiful passage he wrote about revolutionaries and reactionaries, and the way in which one might want the world to be - oh, and oh, and oh, how that does indeed dovetail with the way my day started.

To start my day, I read an email wherein someone complimented a short paragraph from the other day, when I couldn't find more words than that paragraph. A review of the compliment giver's profile added a sort of conceited qualification and elevation to the compliment, but also led me to the quotation (I'm pretty sure, find out in a minute, here) that reinforces that which Pessoa wrote about the way in which one wants the world to be:

"You must be the change you wish to see in the world." - Mohandas K. Gandhi.

I don't know who came first, Gandhi or Pessoa, but that doesn't matter. The words and sentiment do.

Now [the next morning], I remember the other part that Pessoa said about this, this becoming (Gandhi) or being (Pessoa) the change you want to see in the world. He said this should take one's whole life.

All right (lol, grr), that is enough for today. It was a good day. Tomorrow, I must remember to write a bit about movies with the boychildren on Friday night.

***

Okay. I love you. I love you all. I am sorry, but I can't or won't apologize for that.

Tomorrow marks a week since I sent the last communication from which arose the thoughts that inspired this heretofore hidden post. Since I have not yet received any return communication from that last letter, I will probably write again tomorrow to confirm her reception of it and to ascertain whether a conversation never really begun has reached its intended or premature end. Therefore, as I will likely reference in the new letter the things I said in the heretofore hidden post, as well as whatever I say below (and who really knows what that will be), I think it is time to endeavor to continue it, now, and to try to end it.

So, this is a continuation of that. I think that might make a good title for the entry.

I don't know whether I'll have Internet at my apartment when I get there, where I intend to finish it, so it may be that it is not posted for some time to come. I would say "I'll keep you posted," but that would be seriously silly. I would also say I hope this doesn't chase anyone away, but I have recognized over the past week or so, that that would be even sillier, still. Considering that this is my journal and not something else, I can't care, even if I do. Lol - I really take that "journal" bit in "livejournal" seriously, I guess. Or purely.

Oh damn. I re-read it, the first part. I don't think anyone will understand it, but me. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe that's all that matters. It is.

Tbc...

Laughing: okay, so now it's not second-guessing, it's not word-hangover, it's jumping the middle step and become a pre-post holy crap. It's realizing your drunkenness, as it were, the night before, while you're still at the party running your slurred speeched mouth and putting your hands on people and parts of people they shouldn't be put upon.

I would make some other analogy and say it's recognizing your insanity before they throw the backward-armed white coat on you and strap you down and use a plunger to fill your mind with the fluid that empties. Except, as I have here noted many times before: the insane never know that fact, or so I've been told. Perhaps, I've heard that information wrong, or am an exception to that rule.

The point is, I started a post, this morning - got it so far along, a few paragraphs shy, by my reckoning, of something I'd call finished, and needed to escape in dreams whatever was left to say - and I don't think I said anything in the first place. But it was waiting on the screen when I arose from my dreams. I didn't read it. I didn't want to. So I named it, and saved it and closed it.

Actually, I don't guess I named it: it named itself the way these do, with whatever the first word or words are that one has managed to stammer or stutter or spit out upon the screen to start their screed. In this case, the word, and thus the name of the file, was "try."

But...laughing...thanks to the delay of the dreams and "first-guessing," or my unique ability to recognize my own insanity, it has been sent to the land of misfit posts, and locked away in the hard drive, but still resides on the edge of my memories, waiting for its completion.

Try. Try was the only word he heard. Oh boy, he didn't want her to get started up again, with the talking to him. She slipped that in there, that "try."

You know, when people whisper, their voices sound the same, and gender's lost in the lightness and speed of the air between the chords. So he missed that, and thought for sure that was his voice that softly whispered, "try."

When he listened for it again, though, another iteration, just as he almost put his fingers to the keyboard, and it came through just a bit louder, "try again," just as he opened the page and noted the symmetry of the numbers at the top, "11/19, 9:11," it was unmistakably her. Just a few decibels, a few fractions of an octave higher, was enough to betray the gender of the voice.

It was her. It was you.

Ah, but don't back away now, though, just because you've caught me. Just write up the teeny bit you had upstairs while I was in the back room. You know the piece, the one related to rather current events. It will be fun, and I will keep you safe.

He thought of feinting, there, for just a moment: one little quick sidestep might just do the trick. But. But, he already knew the outcome of this one - the siren through the fog, the muse through the mist, the voice, her voice, dawn (shall I call you that, darling?) through the dream in the dark. He'd listened. In that single-syllable scrap of sound, he'd given himself over to Stringfellow's primitive act of love, and listened, and thusly made himself vulnerable and accessible to that word. Still, however, forgone conclusion aside, though he knew she knew, he thought he ought restate where he stood.

No. It will only make me cry, and talking through tears, you know nothing can be said or done that way.

I won't let you cry, she promised.

And he thought, yes, yes baby, milk me just enough morphine for a few more words. He felt pretentiously blessed for his relationship with her. Not felt, more pretentious still, knew. He tempered this, telling himself she just needed to save someone, and it wasn't him, for he'd been lost long ago.

No. It's you. It's you, too, baby, she reassured. He couldn't tell if she was lying - or told himself he couldn't. This, then, at least was a draw, which beats a defeat and he didn't care about a victory any old way. The closer one draws to the grave, after all, the less one cares about victories. What good is a victory, anyway, when you're too old to spend the spoils; when the best you can do is carry it to your grave and wear it as a medal pinned upon your empty chest?

No, at this age the best you can do with a victory is to give it to someone before you die - place the crown and the coin and the glory and girls and all the other spoils of this dirty little war at someone else's feet, in someone else's lap. Theirs, not yours. It and they never were, not for more than moments at a time.

Yes, and you know, darling, I would so be lying if I ever said those were never enough for me. I really would, baby.

Right, and you have children, too.

Yeah baby, there are those.

Okay, then, these few paragraphs.

Some of you are new here. This is my journal.

I think I mentioned last week, or maybe the week before, that someone had written me a letter. I don't remember what I said about it at the time, neither her nor the letter. I’ve met her in real life a single time, before. A span of a college education ago, I met her, and not one word have we exchanged since two ten or twenty-line conversations shortly thereafter. She's not on any list you can see, and her name for this does not matter, for this is not about her, but about her letter.

A more astute observer may have noticed [right here is where I felt it was going to get longer, or thought I might never show it, so I moved it to Word, to continue] that on my list of interests is “ageplay.”

[It’s actually not on my list, I now notice, but to be found in various forms in my community list.]

This, then, was what her letter was about.

She wanted to talk about this.

I’ve been skeptical.

From what I can understand of it (which is very little indeed), in a dance, dirty or otherwise, there is one who leads and one who follows. So, my skepticism has kept me from either of those roles. Rather, I’ve practically refused to even rise from my chair, which has been backed up against the gymnasium or dance hall wall for some long time.

And, if a dance at all, it’s not a dirty dance, or even a slow one she’s asked for in her letter, either. Nor, certainly, I emphatically point out, has she asked me to come out and into the warm night air and under the stars. But if she had, I bet I’d think it was only to get me into some nearby gutter, alone and gutted, but all the same, lying in my blood and vomit, still staring up at the stars.

These, these have not stopped shining for me since the moment I saw them.

Tell me darling, will I still be able to see these through the casket lid, the vault, the earth?

I don’t know, baby, probably not. But your children, and the children of others, these, honey, they will dance under their light till dawn and far beyond, too.

Okay.

Am I writing the end of it, now? Love? Am I writing the end of it soon?

I don’t know. Well, I do, but that’s a secret, you know that. It’s always been a secret.

Okay.

So, yes, positive, or very nearly almost so, that it’s not any kind of dance she’s asked for in her letter to me, I’ve remained stiff in my chair, my hands folded in my lap, my feet firmly on the floor, and have assumed it’s only just an explanation she wants from me – an explanation in simple English without analogy of the only dance I really know by heart, the only dance that dances from my soul.

There’s actually another dance I think I know, or have learned, and it’s a sort of waltz, the sort of waltz that I think Leonard Cohen is singing about in “Take This Waltz,” the kind with its broken hand on her jaw. I’m not sure I’ll ever get to dance that one, but somehow, its more than enough to know that someday I might. I have already at least walked through its steps a time or with my last lover.

Where was I?

Oh. The letter, ageplay, current events, the movie last night, all those things. Well, current events is redundant to the letter and the movie last night.

I don’t think I’ve managed to say a thing.

Toward the end of “Control,” Ian Curtis is, I think, talking to himself, or maybe it was that he was talking to the manager, or his lover, Annike, I don’t remember. But, anyway, he is explaining how it is to perform, to sing, to give, and how people simply don’t realize how much of himself is required to do that.

Not to elevate myself from this gutter to any place where Ian Curtis may have been or now is, but that is how it also became for me – I’d like to think

[11/21/2009; 1:54 PM; This is where I stopped, and tried to escape in dreams the rest of whatever it was that I might say. It’s important to note, for sure, that there is no period after the last word of that sentence. There wasn’t meant to be. I stopped mid-sentence. I was not saying that I’d like to think that is how it became to me. I was saying, had already said in the bit that came before, that that is how it became for me.]

So, back now, and to continue (I think or hope) up here.

I watched "Closer" for the first time, tonight. All of it was so very good.

- and really, I'd be remiss if I did not add that Natalie's such a darling, too.

***

Then I watched "Control."

***

Maybe everyone tries to find themselves or their antithesis or the ineveitable parallels to their own lives in the books they read and the movies they watch.

[ETA; 11-19-09, 5:12 PM; Yes, I realize that's quite the pedestrian statement, there, but it was placed as a marker, a reminder, to write what I started but did not finish, earlier today.]

I know I always do.

I wonder if Ian Curtis would have comitted suicide if he only had the love issue or if he only had the epilepsy issue - or if he still would've had he neither of those and only himself with which to deal.

Closer reminded me of a text conversation I had with a friend a month or two ago. It was about cheating and how one deals with it - or, by my interpretation, how one chooses to deal with it. Maybe I will spell that out someday.

***

I started to write earlier, a 100-word post for the confession theme at 100_words, but interrupted myself and made a commment, somewhere, instead. I'm glad that happened, for the post would have been pure fantastical silliness. I don't have anything more to confess. I've confessed it all over the past decade. This, or I mean, that, that would have only been a confession of my unreal inanity, and nothing more.

He suddenly felt as if he had nothing more to say of any import or value or beauty. He hated this. He remembered where he was, though, with her lying in his lap, and him looking anywhere but down at her. That, there, says something about this, here, for sure, he thought.

I can't believe it's midnight, already. I haven't made a real journal entry in days, at least, maybe as much as a week. I'll tell myself that other things were more important.

I believe there may be a paradox in the following statement:

"Some scientists believe that it is in Antarctica are "wormholes" - the "tunnels" in the space-time which allow the rapid interstellar traveling."

But I am not a scientist, so I can't say, but I am betting there are some holes in the arguments, either way.

It's so cute. Not necessarily the movie, but the son.

I know my younger son wants to see "New Moon." I know he wanted to see the last one, too, whatever that one was called - for I remember him pointing it out, this past spring, at the video store. "I guess it's a love story, though, dad," he'd said at the time.

When the commercial for this one came on a few nights ago, his eyes brightened and widened and he sat up on the couch and grew so attentive.

"See dad!" escaped his lips, "doesn't it look cool?!" Then he trailed off, his shoulders visibly falling some, "I guess it's actually a romance, though."

People turning into wolves? What 8 year old boy wouldn't want to see that, eh?

"I want to see it," I said, so at least he'd have a "someday" to think about.

***

And, on this, furthermore, fuck you Hollywood fashionistas! Personally, I liked it, but maybe that is just some sort of other kind of love story. I like the way it says "fuck you," the same way Avril Lavigne used to say "fuck you." Of course, the system was more than happy to return Avril's fuck you, adding a royal at the end.

Hopefully, no, actually, she won't "get her act together." Hopefully she will continue to say "fuck you." I doubt it, though.

No, btw, I wasn't researching anything, there - nor am I any kind of fan, nor have I (lmao) read any of this stuff - this just showed up in the list of links at the Yahoo page.

***

I wrote a very long (by my standards) letter over the past couple of days.

( 'Cause I can't get this to shrink the right way and am all respectful (just this once, anyway) of my friendslist )

It was not to any potential lover.

It's nice to see how few 50,000 words actually are. I could've probably pulled off one of those nanowrimo things. Also, 69 is a good number because it is thrice 23 and 23 was a great movie in its own way, and no one, I don't think, would ever complain about a triple trey. [Oops, actually, that last one doesn't count - there was a different screenshot that showed the lines at 333, so I must have dropped one along the way.]

I am trying to break an old habit, the nature of which shall not be mentioned here.

This is a placeholder, a date maker.

It should be interesting.

I guess, if I was superstitious, I would have picked some other date than Friday the 13th to make this resolution. Heh, if so, I could also use that as a viable excuse to postpone the resolution.

Yesterday was a weird kind of day.

***

Fernando Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet finished in the best sort of way that I could ever possibly imagine for it. I could re-read the last passage many many times, and not tire of it at all. That sentiment goes for many other passages and sections in the book as well - but the last had a very grand kind of shine to it.

***

It can be is difficult to be honest, sometimes. It will take me a minute (or three) to refind my footing. Laughing: even spitting out this little bit of silliness is a challenge - which certainly says something, considering how I generally am or have been, here.

Anyway, yes, to be honest, after quite some time, perhaps over a year of inactivity in this department, I was recently surprised to be added by several people in the span of several days. A spike like this on any chart is bound to have its effects. For the moment, that effect has been one of making me stfu.

I suppose, since it is a journal, and not any kind of profit-generating or popularity-seeking enterprise, I must keep in mind that an opposite variation in the data should be of no concern or consequence to me or what I write here in my journal. I thought I should re-start by making a note of this.

After all, aims aside, if you're not pissing someone off, somewhere, then you're probably not saying much.

I wondered to myself, is it really Monday?

This is how it seems like it is or might be Monday:

The day started with a phone call from the boychild's mother, asking if I would drive him to school. Although it was based in truth, I should not have lied this early in the day when I responded to her "are you awake, I mean wide-awake?" with "Yes, of course." It was true that I was awake, for there I was talking on the telephone, and further, it's true that I was also wide awake, since I knew I was done sleeping at that point. Still, considering I was still in my bed, there was a bit of untruth to the thing. Perhaps, that is what set off a chain of seemingly meaningless events which defined my morning.

Starting with a fresh, unopened – because, yeah, unopened doesn’t always mean fresh – gallon of white milk, I began my day.

My days always begin with coffee, or they do not begin. My coffee is always sweet and light, because that’s the way I take it. (I would say “like my women,” but yeah, that might be taken in one of several wrong ways.) “One ladies coffee, coming up,” a client once remarked when I told them how I take it. “Whatever,” I remarked silently back.

( Repeat the subject line, here )

This is why you have this long bit of silliness to read, for I was bored and uninclined to get to work while I waited for my stolen wireless internet to return to its regularly scheduled Wednesday, which it never did, and why this is being posted from my childrens’ home, where the Internet is never stolen, and therefore, always up.

It's silly, but I want to write a little something about this, first, before I open an email which awaits. This will be a bit cryptic for anyone who doesn't know me better - even for those who do.

I received an email a day or two ago from, one could say, more or less, out of nowhere, or left field, or the blue. Annnnnnnnnddd, I guess I just wanted to say I was amazed, really (yeah, yeah, I say "really" a lot, like "of course" and "anyway"), by how easy it was for that email to touch parts of me that have been in deep storage for a long time.

So easy, as a matter of fact, that I became nearly immediately suspicious of its aims and ends.

Perhaps, perhaps there was an imagined empathy I saw therein, and trusted that imagination just long enough, almost, but not quite, to use "baby" somewhere in my initial reply. Luckily, at least I think so, discretion ruled the day and so also the reply. This word, however, and sentiment, in spite of what may have actually made it into print and upon the page and out the email door, remained in my mind and on my lips, and stopped each time at my fingertips, hesitating, and aching to pour on down through these little plastic keys. B-A-B-Y.

Perhaps, it has just been too long since there was the fabric of a dress underneath my hands: you know these kinds, yes, where when you move your hands from the rounded backs of the shoulders and down her sides to the waist, the flesh beneath the fabric moves, and answers your caress? Yes, that's all. It has just been too long since I've talked to a dress.

So, instead of typing b-a-b-y anywhere in that reply, I only asked "why?"

I lowered my eyes and glanced up through that space between between my forehead and my glasses and only asked "why," and consciously struck in my head the baby from that reply.

Then I only added in all of my distrust: "you can trust me," again, leaving the baby off the end of the promise.

Anyway, the real and unimagined fact of the matter is that I haven't a clue of what that first email was really asking or saying, and this entry is made as a notation that whatever else it was saying or asking, it was, for me, at the same time, screaming out, "call me 'baby'," softly, gently, call me baby.

One can always be forgiven for one's imagination, am I right?

***

Smiling. This reminds me of a Rachel Sweet (points if anyone here has ever even heard of her) song by the title B-A-B-Y. Gah, I had this on vinyl in college. This album needs to be played at full volume.

OMG, it's available! Not the album version, in which the vocals are fuller, but close enough.

( It's the only thing behind the cut )

Laughing - smiling so much, omg, she's so cute! (Sorry, profuse apologies, fanboy action, there.)

So yes, anyway, this entry before another email, because I revel in patience and things like that. Or, maybe it is not so much I like to wait, as it is where exactly I do my waiting. The waiting room in my imagination, after all, is very tastefully decorated and appointed, indeed, and uncrowded, and fit for anyone's long wait, with posters of fantastic destinations pasted upon the walls. If these get too yellowed, or faded, or torn at the edges, I just take them down and put new ones up. The management's given me quite the free reign in here with regard to these things.

Ah, now, all of that said, I think it is probably important, this being a public journal and all, to succinctly point out, in case somehow it's missed, that those are all just my musings. To admit, confess even, that it's more than entirely possible that the actual words of that email said nothing at all close to those musings - but that that is how words like those in the email, gathered together in that fashion sound like to me.

That is all on that.