Tension

I hate the feeling of undefined tension. It's the sensation of a spring being wound tighter and tighter except that you can't identify the force that's slowly closing the spirals. Whenever I feel this tension I jump to try and identify it.

I know it's pointless, but still I try. And then it turns into a game of "pin the tail on the donkey".

Is it work? No, not quite. Is it my child? No, well, maybe. Is it J? Could be. Is it stress over money? Maybe, but maybe not.

There's no clear source and there's no obvious cure and that just drives me up the wall.

I can't stand the vagueness of this threat to my peace of mind and the more I stress over it, the tighter the spring coils. At times I wish it would just snap and spill the stress evenly over all the little messes of my life. At least that way I could concentrate on cleaning things up and maintain the illusion that I'm in control rather than having my insides tugged by forces that are beyond my grasp.

Being a control freak has its price.

An alphabet story

It all started when Carmen's cup fell to the kitchen floor and instead of shattering into a million jagged pieces, rolled under the beat-up leather couch. Just my luck, she thought. Kneeling down, she reached under the couch, shuddering as her fingers brushed by old bits of cobweb. Lemony scent of the floor washing liquid assaulted her nostrils as she bent her face down to the floor, trying to see into the gloomy darkness. Marmalade, her ginger tabby, walked by, swishing his tail and feigning indifference to her frantic grappling.

"Nearly there," she muttered, as her fingers seized the rounded edge of the cup's lip.

"Ouch!" Panting, she withdrew her hand, staring at it in disbelief. Queue of tiny ruby droplets issued forth from a puncture that looked suspiciously like a bite.

"Rats," she moaned, not in the least bit amused by the unwitting pun. Stifling the urge to strangle Marmalade, who was after all a cat and should have taken care of a critter problem before it manifested itself in her kitchen, she rushed over to the sink. Tepid stream of lukewarm water managed to stop the bleeding though it did nothing for her irritation.

"Uggh," she growled, rooting in the medicine cupboard for a band-aid and throwing Marmalade a baleful look. "Very nice, Marmalade. What a fine hunter you are. X-ray vision when it comes to ferreting out the shopping bag with sausages in it, but not rats? You think hunting is beneath you? Zealous protector of your owner's house, you are..."

As tirades go, Marmalade was apparently not terribly impressed with this one. Bending his head, he leisurely lifted one leg and lovingly licked the silky fur.

Carmen seethed. Dark mutterings about punishment and lack of dinner brought Marmalade's ablutions to a halt. Ears cocked, he glanced at Carmen, then jumped up on the counter, trotting over to where she was still nursing the bitten finger. Fluffing his tail, Marmalade rubbed against Carmen's bare arm, purring until tension left her and she sighed, knowing she'll never be able to keep a grudge. Grinning, she tickled him under the chin, eliciting further contented purrs.

Household peace was once again restored; rats and errant cups notwithstanding.

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Hint: the title refers to the pattern made by the first letter of each sentence.

A snippet

The light is green and cars stream past, jostling for space, angrily posturing at each other to get out of the way. Just one step and it's all over. A single step. Off the sidewalk and into the rushing stream of traffic. Before the brain can register the solid impact and rending of flesh, it's finished.
Just one step.

How many steps does one take in a lifetime? Unimportant, meaningless steps; measuring distance, measuring time. Just one step. Half a foot down off the sidewalk and another foot or so into the street.

The light changes and the cars slow down. They are a restless pack of wolves; biding their time, barely restrained, straining at the invisible barrier. They emit soft, menacing growls, breathless in the frustration of halting in their quest. Seconds tick by and suddenly the light is green again and they're off. The flow resumes, rushing past, extending an invitation to join in the maniacal dance, if only for a moment before the soothing swish of tires stops in a horrifying screech of rubber against the road.

Pictures and words

I like pictures... You might have drawn that conclusion all by yourself if you noticed that every single post has an image accompanying it. Occasionally I'll find an image and then write a post to fit it, but more often than not, I'll write something and leave looking for a suitable image as a final, sweet task. Sometimes this will take longer than writing the actual blog entry. I will sift through dozens and dozens of images, opening the ones I like in individual tabs in my browser, going back and forth until I find one I like. And yet... I almost never feel satisfied with the one I chose.

Just as I'm never completely satisfied with the words I choose when I write. If I don't stop myself, I will edit and polish and edit again everything I've ever written. Sometimes, a phrase or a sentence will pour out of my fingers, perfectly shaped and impeccably complete. I will stare at it, trying to discern flaws, trying to find something to grab on to, something to change. Eventually, I'll tire and grudgingly allow it to remain.

But more often than not, the sentence is not perfect. And then it becomes an endless puzzle, with pieces that can be rearranged and changed and made to fit together. I spend so much more time editing than writing. I'll swap words, change the tense, change the focus of the sentence, play with verbs, tease the adjectives. I'm doing it now as I'm writing this entry. There's a reason why the Space and the Backspace on my keyboard have shiny, bald spots on them. I just can't let it go. How does one settle on a single word when there are so many to choose from?

I don't do well with having choices. Too many choices and I get lost and stressed. Too many images, too many words, too much freedom. I need walls and boundaries and confining circumstances. I need constraints and then I can channel all my energy at breaking them down. Give me all the freedom in the world and I fall apart, mired in confusion.

Tell me to write on the most boring and limiting topic and I'll jump at the challenge, infusing even the dullest concept with humor or passion or caustic sarcasm. But tell me to write whatever I want on any subject and I'll end as I often begin, with a blank page.

Books...

Books, books, books... Almost always fiction, but even in that narrowly segregated world there is so much variety. Historical fiction, contemporary, chick lit, drama, 'Oprah book club' drivel, mystery, horror, cloyingly sweet romance, and everything in-between. Humorous, heart-wrenchingly sad, breathtakingly engaging, inane, boring, clumsy, exquisitely crafted.

Every time I walk into a book store I have to suppress the quickening breath of excitement. It never dulls, that feeling of stumbling into a cave of treasures. And yet, a truer comparison would be that of walking through a flea market - stalls filled with garishly worthless objects that you have to sieve through in order to maybe, maybe stumble across one real treasure.

Is there any worse disappointment than investing your hopes and time into reading a book that never quite lives up to the potential you thought you saw in it? It happens to me more often than I like to admit, but I never get used to it. When I have time, I'll browse and collect five, six, seven books at a time. I never read the first page. Instead, I'll read the description and ignore other people's comments. Then, I'll open a page at random, usually near the middle and start reading. One paragraph, two. I'll do it with all the books in the stack, slowly dividing them into "yes", "no", and "maybe" piles. When I buy the book and read it, I'll come to the already familiar passage in the middle of the book, and always I'll experience a vertiginous sense of deja vu even though in the back of my mind I know I should expect it.

It's rare that I leave the book store without at least one new find. I'll go through multiple piles of books, but if I have time, I'll keep sifting until I find at least one to walk out of the store with me. But even more disappointing than not finding anything are the times when having been seduced by a sentence or a word or a thread of a story, I'll choose the book and, upon reading it, discover that the seduction was fleeting and the rest of the book is as mundane as the lives many of us are escaping when we read.

It is rare that I'll give up on a book I chose myself. I'll buy a book for the language even if the topic doesn't interest me, but so often I've regretted buying books for the topic when I knew, deep inside, that the language was awkward. I'll admit it, I like a pretty turn of phrase and sentences that have a rhythm to them, be it gentle or striding. I like language that flows and carries the story but so often I've found a good story spoiled as it fights its way through jumbled up words and broken snippets.

I've read books that have made me cry on and off for hours as I've turned the pages and books that made my heart melt with love and joy. I've read books that made me want to scream with frustration and books that left me feeling as if I need to wash my hands after finishing them. I've read books I couldn't wait to finish and fling away and books I couldn't wait to pick up again and read over and over.

I love words and stories and books... and in that deep, abiding love lies the secret to why I've never seriously tried writing and getting published. I know what it's like to pick up a book, fight through dozens and maybe hundreds of pages to like it and ultimately close the last page and be disappointed. I know what it's like to open a book and get lost in its world to the point where when the real world intrudes, your impulse is to push it away and retreat back into the crisp white pages. I know the feeling of the unread pages melting away as the book speeds to its end and wanting to know how the story concludes and yet yearning for it to never end.

And so to anyone who has the temerity to ask, I say... I will not write for a wider audience because I love words and stories and books.

Inertia

I enjoy writing. I wouldn't do it if I didn't.

I enjoy knowing that someone somewhere may be looking at and reading what I write. And in principle, that would seem to be enough to guarantee that I'll write with some regularity. And yet...

I just can't seem to get motivated to do it. Every evening when I finally have time to myself, time to think and write in peace, I balk at it. The excuses begin forming in my head even before the thought of writing has surfaced.

"I'm too tired..."
"I'm not in the mood to write..."
"I don't know what to write about..."
"I am just not feeling motivated..."
And the ultimate excuse, "I'll write tomorrow."

And then before I know it, a great weariness and inertia set in and I'm watching TV or reading or grudgingly working... Anything but writing.

And the irony of it is, most of the time, if I force myself to do it, I can manage to come up with something worth reading. An essay, a rant, a story, even a lone, beautifully crafted sentence. When I try, I can usually break through the barrier, but I don't try. Instead, I indulge in a sniff of self-pity and fob it off with whatever excuse happens to be handy.

Except for nights like tonight... Nights when I force myself and kick at the barrier and write. Write something. Write anything worth reading.

Changes... oh, so many changes.

Every day when I open my favorite websites, this blog is among them. I open it as a reminder to start writing again and every day I guiltily scoot past it, glancing at its browser tab and shifting my gaze to the next tab to avoid thinking about just how far behind I've fallen in updating it.

So much has changed in my life since my last post and so many changes are ahead in the near future. It's hard to fathom restarting the blog and trying to explain the sequence of events that led to where I am today. Of course, there's always the option of starting a new blog, and I will start a new one, but one to run in parallel with this one, not to replace it.

In trying to figure out how to restart my blog I have come up with a 'middle of the road' solution. I'm not going to go into a lengthy treatise about how and why I got to where I am today and I'm not going to just skip to today and pretend I've been here all along. Instead, I'll do a quick rundown of where I was when the last entry was written and where I am today. As for where I'll be in the future, that's a matter for future posts.

My last entry is from May 15th, 2008. At the time I was married and living the generally acknowledged yuppie paradise - husband, child, house, car, beloved cat, job, and money. My present and future by all accounts was something most people would kill for and probably had. And yet, I was unhappy and grasping at straws to find a reason to get up most mornings.

Today's entry is six months later, almost to the day... I'm in the middle of an exceptionally amicable divorce from my husband who is still my friend. I have moved out of the house and into a lovely condo, taking my books, my clothes and my cat. I still have my job (which I love) and my car (which I have a healthy respect for) and most mornings I wake up so deliriously happy that it feels as if I'm waking up into a dream.

I'm restarting my blog for a couple of reasons... One, because I expect and hope for a lot more changes in the months and years to come and this is one way for me to parse my thoughts. And two, because I'm starting another blog alongside this one and this is one way of introducing it. To see my new blog, look for the link on the right hand side in the section entitled "My other life".

Like I said, the two blogs will run somewhat in parallel which seems only fitting since my two lives run in parallel as well. Happy reading!

Bad habit

I have a bad habit...

Well, more than one, actually, but in this case, I'm talking about reading multiple books in parallel. Now, I know that there are plenty of other people who do the same thing but to my orderly, disciplined and somewhat masochistically obsessive compulsive mind this smacks of irreverent gluttony. I should be able to devote my full attention to just one book at a time, from start to finish, shouldn't I?

For some two years I had retreated almost entirely into the online world and have cut down my time with an actual book in hand. Don't misunderstand, I didn't stop reading, never that... It's just that my tastes took a detour and my reading became a lot more erratic, done in little snippets and bursts without any sort of a connecting thread.

I continued rereading my favorites but although I do get something out of every book I reread, most of the books I've been reading and rereading over the last couple of years (with few notable exceptions) have been what I would call "comfort food" books. Easy to swallow, easy to digest, gives you a warm and fuzzy feeling for a few hours or days and then just as easily forgotten.

In that restless time I've gone back to reading just one book at a time which could sometimes stretch into weeks. When I'm engaged, I swallow pages as quickly as I spit out words. To have a three hundred page book stretch into a couple of weeks seemed such a bloody waste of time but without motivation, reading became a passive and sluggish exercise.

I'm not sure what served as a turning point. Perhaps it was a couple of books I read recently that didn't fall into that "comfort food" category. Perhaps the fact that when I get home these days I don't immediately rush to plug in my laptop. Or it could be that a few recent discussions I've participated in and people I've met pointed out, ever so subtly, that my mind has been stagnating.

Whatever the impetus, I'm reading again. And just as a reluctant dieter will cram in a triple chocolate brownie on the sly, awash in guilt and promising to do better the next day, so am I cramming in books and buying more, all the while promising myself that I'll read them slowly, that I'll savor them and really and truly read every word. Ok, who am I kidding?

And now I'm reading...

Story of O by Pauline Reage, because even reading it for the fifth time, I cannot get over the beauty of the language and the savagery of the descriptions. And because I keep hoping that this time I'll find, hidden deep in the flowing torrent of words, the key I've been looking for.

Tara Road by Maeve Binchy, because I have a long standing love hate relationship with this book. It's no darker than her other books but it has a poignant sadness to it than I don't feel when I read most of her other works and I will only reread Tara Road when I need to reassure myself that life isn't supposed to be fair.

The Meaning of Night by Michael Cox - this is a new book and I've just started reading it. I'm literally on the first page and already I can tell that whatever the content, the language and the setting will keep me going.

Warlock by Oakley Hall - this is another new book and also one I've just started reading. It is a book I was told to read and I've started it before but after a few pages, life interfered and I never picked it up again. I'm restarting it now and this time I will finish it.

What an odd collection it is! And for anyone who wonders how I don't confuse time periods and characters and story lines... if you're like me and you've indulged in this sort of gluttony, then you know that going from book to book is like walking in and out of separate, sumptuously appointed rooms in the same house; each distinct and complete in its furnishings but unmistakably unique. You can't combine or mistake one for the other, it just isn't possible.

And if you've never done it, take my word for it or pick up two books at once and try it for yourself. Happy reading...

Books and tears (cont.)

I finished the book...

I was wrong, I wasn't sorry it was over. I wasn't sorry it was time to put it down.

But most importantly, I am not sorry I picked it up.

And after a few months, I'll pick it up again.

Books and tears

I'm reading a book right now...

I've put it down to write this and when I'm finished with this blog entry, I'll pick it up again.

I'm reading a book right now and I hate it.

I hate it for making fear and sadness and grief and guilt well up inside me and overwhelm everything I would otherwise be feeling.

I hate it for casting a dark shadow on a day that should have been one of rest and recalibration and has now instead become a jangling and restless counting of minutes and pages.

I hate it for the tears that have been streaming unchecked and uncontrollable down my face for the last hour as I've been reading it.

And I hate myself for picking it up. For lying when I told myself that I'll just read a few pages and then put it back on the shelf. For swallowing each bitter chapter, choking on the words and emotions and still greedily reaching for more. For knowing all the while what it will do to me and being unable to put it down.

It's sitting right next to me, waiting to be picked up, mocking me by the innocuousness of its almost cozy cover. Of course I'll pick it up... and I'll hate putting it down when it's over.

Bad days

Every few weeks I wake up in the morning and I know, without any doubt, that this will be a bad day.

There are no precursors, nothing to foreshadow its imminent appearance or help me find ways of warding it off. It comes and I'm just as powerless to stop it as I am to make it walk off faster than it chooses.

The helplessness of it infuriates me and each time it leaves me I resolve that next time I won't let it take hold. I swear to myself that I'll fight it. That I'll push it away before it can settle in and gnaw at my insides with its restless fury.

And then the next time comes and the sinking feeling in my chest when I wake up and take the first breath of the day tells me that it's too late. It's already here. Already settled and waiting for me. Whether I acknowledge it or not is irrelevant. I can lie to myself, close my eyes and pretend I don't see it, but sooner or later, I'll feel it and taste it and smell it. It has all the time in the world and it'll wait there, mocking me with its patience until I admit its presence and then all pretense is lost.

Think back to the last time you've stubbed your toe against the wooden leg of that old sofa you've sworn so many times before to move. That first quarter of an instant when the toe has already made the connection with the hard wood but before the sickening vertigo of pain has come. The tiny, blissful moment when your brain crazily wonders, "will it really hurt? but maybe it won't? could it be...?" and then the moment is gone, the pain sinks its fangs in and you double over, feeling at once betrayed and justified. And angry... so very, very angry to have been disappointed yet again.

And then, if you're anything like me, there's also fury at yourself - for not moving the sofa as you planned, for not being more careful as you walked, for not doing a myriad of things that in the aftermath occur to you as possible ways of having prevented what you're now experiencing.

And so it is with me and the bad days. Overtime the fury has lessened and now it varies from almost dispassionate musings to plaintive whimpers - all centered around the pointless quest for a solution to prevent the next bout while at the same time struggling to get through the current one.

And it gets worse. Of course it does, why shouldn't it? Unlike with stubbing your toe where the pain is as bad in the first moment as it'll get and then it starts getting better and better until you can unclench your teeth, breathe again, maybe release the curses you've swallowed and maybe resolve once again to move that sofa... Unlike that, my bad days spiral out of control slowly, taunting me with promises of worse to come.

The peak usually doesn't come until hours later when I'm all wound up and tense and least capable of handling it. Sometimes, it's a series of smaller peaks, each one soothing me with false promises of being the last one. Having been fooled too many times, I now greet each peak with wary suspicion, always peering after it, trying to see what isn't there.

And then, without any warning, it's over. There's a surge of my usual energy, a bright burst of optimism, a resolution that I won't let it happen again, a desire to lie to myself and tell myself that it's over for good this time. And life goes on.

For those of you who are still wondering... Yes, today is one of those days.

Losing control v. giving it to another...

Perhaps fate or some higher power is telling me to stop testing my luck...

This winter, so far, I've had at least three absolutely horrific drives home - snow, ice, fog - take your pick. And each time that I've come through it and breathed a sigh of relief I couldn't help but wonder why (and sometimes how) I got through it.

The most recent one was last night - roads coated with sheets of black ice, on top of it a fresh powder of snow, a dark night, anti-lock brakes useless, hilly road, followed by a highway, and a lot of people on the road who seem to have turned off their brain the moment they turned on the ignition.

After a few minutes behind the wheel and the first time I had to brake, I realized that I lost all control over my car. There was a car in front of me which I was rapidly approaching and there was absolutely nothing I could do except try to swerve out of the way and maneuver between it (a van) and the sidewalk to my right. Of course, swerving sharply is just a recipe for disaster all in itself. But I did turn the wheel and I could feel the car sliding, wheels locking and the car trying to desperately kick in the anti-lock brakes and failing.

We slid through the space between the sidewalk and the van (and don't ask me how, I have no idea), and kept on going, continuing to turn right even though the light was red. Thankfully there were no cars coming from the left, but even if there had been, there was nothing I could do to stop at that point. The wheels regained traction once we got onto the cross street and the nightmare continued for another hour until I finally got home.

During the entire ride, I remember talking out loud, trying to convince myself that I'm all right, that everything will be fine, that I'll make it home and all will be well. I'm all for self-delusion and I'm fairly good with words, but it wasn't working. I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, my breath failing and my eyes filling with tears each time I pressed on the brake and the car shuddered, unable to obey the commands it's used to. We were in each other's hands and both entirely helpless. Not a good feeling...

Which brings me back to the topic of the post.

As I was going to bed, I was thinking about the distinction between losing control and giving it to someone else. For someone like me who's used to either having control or fighting to get it, to suddenly find myself in a situation where I'm powerless is frightening enough. But although the end result is the same - you have no control over your body, your actions, sometimes even your speech - the way you get there does make a big difference.

Losing control when you didn't want to is demoralizing. It makes you feel helpless and scared and depressed. It can feel hopeless. And without an immediate way of regaining it, it's tempting to just give up and stop trying. Unintended loss of control is holding a delicate porcelain teacup in your hand and then watching in horror as it slips out of your fingers and shatters on the marble slabs beneath your feet.

And then there is handing control over to someone else. It's holding that same porcelain teacup and placing it in the open hands of someone you trust to cherish and protect it as you do. It's knowing that the person you're giving it to will hold it for you and will return it to you when it's time.

Giving up control is not a loss at all. Giving it to the right person can be an experience of immense freedom, release, and joy. It can feel like taking off layers and layers of heavy clothes, feeling the lightening with each removal. It's the first breath of fresh air you take when you step outside on a beautiful spring day. It's opening a fist that's been clenched for so long you've forgotten it can be opened and finding that letting go doesn't mean you'll fall.

Not if the right person is holding the porcelain teacup.

On service v. submission

Recently I listened to a discussion about whether service and submission are the same thing. To those of you reading who are not familiar with what I'm talking about, the context here is the Dominance/submission aspect of bdsm.

It was interesting to hear how other submissives viewed the role of service in their submission. Some have said that yes, for them submission is service and vice versa, while others felt as I do that service and submission are different although they can go hand in hand.

I didn't participate in the discussion, preferring to just listen to what the others were saying. At the same time my own thoughts were scurrying about although I think the realization of what was bothering me hit me almost as soon as the question was asked. Subconsciously (for myself) I had been equating service and submission but the moment I had to actually verbalize it, I knew right away that for me service and submission are completely different.

Not only that but when I think about serving, I think of it as almost entirely self-serving. I love it. I get a whoosh of pleasure from performing a service, however large or small and the question then is, if it's a self-serving, not to say selfish, act at the core, regardless of whom else it ends up benefiting, is it really submission?

I had thought that I was a submissive, but if service alone is not submitting and if all I've been doing is giving service, then am I really a submissive? What is submission worth when it's something you give willingly rather than something you have to struggle with giving?

And I suppose one could ask, why does everything have to be a struggle? Why can't you be happy that something comes easily to you? Why does it have to be difficult? Well, the truth is, it doesn't, but then it isn't worth quite as much, is it?

It's certainly not worth as much to me if it's something I do easily. Thinking back to when I was a student... It's something like taking a very easy class and getting an A in it or taking an advanced class and working your heart out to do well and getting the same A. Which is more valuable? They are both As but you know that what you did to earn the former is not nearly as much as you did to earn the latter. And yes, both may add the same to your GPA but they are not the same.

So, if service and submission are not the same, and if serving is not submitting, then what is submission? I think I know the answer but I'm not sure I can reconcile with it. Perhaps something to think about for the next post.

Anonymous apologies...

I came across this site (JoeApology.com) that allows you to post an apology anonymously...

The moment I saw it appear on my gmail RSS feed, I thought, "wow, what a cool idea" but then, right on the heels of that initial reaction came another, more true to my personality, one.

And that was, "what a cowardly and self-indulging way of apologizing".

An apology is not supposed to be easy or public or self-gratifying. That's not an apology, that's a show. An apology is something you offer to the person whom you're wronged, not something you post for the world to see and approve and pat you on the back for. That's not an apology, that's attention grabbing drama.

I'm not quite sure why it's irritating me as much as it does. Perhaps because I'm terrible at apologizing myself. Perhaps because it's so painful for me to know that I've wronged someone and should now apologize. Perhaps it's because I think that an apology should be heartfelt and personal and directed at making the person you're apologizing to feel better and not yourself. If you feel better having apologized, that's great but it's an added bonus. The goal of an apology is making amends to the other not to yourself.

Public apology is not an apology... it may be an acknowledgment of fault, it may be a covert way of saying that you know what you did was wrong, it may even be a way of reaching out to the person you've wronged, but whatever else it is, it's not an apology.

One more...

Since I'm on a kick of revising my older sketches and writings, here is another one. This one is a combination of two sketches I've written on the same topic. It's a struggle not to edit it too much, to add more details, more descriptions, but I think I like it as it is right now. Just enough...

Enjoy and of course, do comment.


Just Friends

The office is eerily silent. I glance at the clock on my screen. The tiny digits are mocking me, changing with agonizing slowness. Every passing minute lingers, lengthening the wait. It’s too early, you won't be in for at least another hour.

I sigh and try to concentrate, but my thoughts refuse to cooperate. They want no part of the everyday drudgery, not when they can torment me with images of you. My fingers are tapping a nervous dance on the keyboard, the clicking sound at once irritating and comforting. Hands running through short black curls, teeth worrying the lower lip, smudging the lipstick so carefully applied just minutes ago. Waiting, waiting… How much longer now?

Concentrate, I tell myself sternly, let it go. But I can’t… no, I don’t want to. I sigh again, this time with pleasure as the tension of resistance leaves me and I give in to temptation, closing my eyes and letting images of you flood the dark screen behind my eyelids.

Your shy smile, so sweetly fraught with uncertainty before we became friends. Your bright laughter, cascading over words as the two of us giggle over morning coffee, indulging in a bit of girly gossip. The compassion in your eyes the day you came upon me upset and trying to hold back tears. The myriad of expressions I've imagined on your face as we've chatted online.

I shift in my chair, restless. My face feels warm, I know I'm blushing. Damn it… I've never been good at waiting.

Suddenly the front door whines and I freeze. A quick tap of heels along the hall and you're standing before me. My heart is pounding, breath catching in my throat, hands clammy and trembling. You are here...

"Good morning, Alex," my name sounds so sweet falling from you lips. "You're early today! Couldn't sleep? Bad dreams?"

No, Lea... Restless dreams... Dreams of you. But of course I don't say that. Instead, I swallow and grin,

"Nah, you know I'm an early bird when I'm up in the uncivilized North Country. I'll sleep when I get back home."

I'm baiting you, drawing forth the reaction I'm sure is about to follow - the delightful little gasp of feigned outrage, the passionate defense of your new home, the sparkle in your eyes. I'm not disappointed. Your voice quivers with laughter and mock indignation,

"Uncivilized! You're in Montreal, it doesn't get much more civilized than that."

And I can't help it, I burst out laughing. Joy at your early arrival is bubbling like a hot geyser inside me, drowning the shyness I normally struggle with. It will be all right now. You are here.

Another sketch

Yesterday I stumbled on a folder with a few sketches I've written and saved. At first I was going to post this one as it was originally written but then... I'm hardly ever able to re-read something I've written and not edit it in some way. Here's the new, and hopefully improved, version.

Enjoy...


Different Needs

"Drew, I want a baby." Her voice is calm, but inside… inside Marianne is churning. Why doesn't he say something?

"Marianne, we talked about this," frustration shades Drew's weary voice. "You know how I feel about kids. It's not what I want." He pauses, assessing her stricken face, and amends, "It's not what I want for us."

He shifts on the banquette seat and reaches across the booth table to take her hand in his, gently massaging the pad of her palm, "There is so much that we can do if we don't burden ourselves with kids. We can travel, move from city to city every few years. You've always wanted to live in Europe…" his voice trails off a bit, allowing the artful pause to fill Marianne's mind with images of the two of them, young and carefree in London or Paris. "We are lucky to have jobs that give us the flexibility to work anywhere in the world. It's a life most people only dream of and we can have it."

His soothing voice is hypnotically reassuring, "It's a life we can have if it's just the two of us."

"But…" Marianne pulls her hand away and his lips tighten a little. She doesn't notice, gesticulating over her plate of half-eaten salad, intent on making him see things her way. "But we can still do all that. People travel with kids all the time. While he's little, he'll sleep most of the time anyway and then it will be the three of us…" her eyes bore into his, searching for understanding, for agreement.

Drew says nothing and encouraged by the silence, Marianne presses on,

"Think about it, wouldn’t it be fun to see the world with our child? Your son or daughter? To show it to them as we are experiencing it ourselves?" Marianne pauses, her face glowing with hope and joy as the brilliant images of their happy little family whirl through her mind. "Just imagine how wonderful it will be…"

She is picturing the three of them walking up the Spanish Steps in Rome; Drew carrying their son on his shoulders when the boy grows tired, pointing out the sites, answering dozens of questions as they fall from the child's lips. The three of them in London, in front of Buckingham Palace, waiting for the changing of the guard, each holding the child's hand, gazing at each other with eyes filled with love. She sees the three of them in Paris, wandering the tiny cobblestone streets, stopping at a little café when it starts to rain, Drew holding the door open for their little girl, in a flared coat and adorable beret, just like a tiny life version of Madeline…

"Marianne," Drew's voice cuts across her thoughts, startling her out of the reverie and wiping the images away, "Marianne, I don't want kids."

He marshals his thoughts, preparing further arguments. Arguments that have been brought up before, in various places, in many words, but with the same conclusion. Tonight will be no different; they will talk, she will cry, he will calm her down and eventually they'll leave the restaurant and go home. To make love, to pretend all is well.

As he watches, Marianne leans back folding her arms across her chest. He shakes his head, sighing,

"Marianne, do we have to go through this again? We…"

"Drew, I'm pregnant."

Endings

No matter how prepared you think you are - mentally, emotionally, psychologically - for something to end, when it does, it's still a twist of a jagged knife which leaves a gaping wound slowly pulsating as the pain begins to recede.

Recipes...

A recipe for a perfect evening

I’m cruising down the silent street, savoring the eerie winter darkness. I revel in the long, pitch black evenings when time stretches like an elastic band and night falls hours before one has to contemplate going to bed.

The house is dark as I pull into the driveway. My heart begins to pound with suppressed excitement as I walk into the house. Alone, for the entire evening and late into the night. Sheer bliss…

The thermostat is set to sixty and I leave it be. I won't be moving around much, a cold house will suit me just fine. I head for the bedroom, shrugging off my clothes as I move through the hallway. And all the while I’m running through the options for the evening. So many things I could do, so little time. I can feel myself tensing and stop, taking a deep breath.

Relax, I tell myself, you have all night. In the bedroom, I pull the covers off the bed and prepare it for the night. I like the idea of coming in later, hours later, and finding the bed already turned down, waiting for me; a lover’s embrace, open and ready to welcome me. I laugh softly and pull a pair of my favorite drawstring jammies from the closet. The pants are fluffy and soft, pink with a pattern of black and white sheep. The top is a plain black t-shirt, long-sleeved and stretchy, almost weightless. I pause in front of the mirror, wondering about the bra and panties. After a moment, I remove both and rummage through the drawer to find suitable replacements.

The bra is easy, I pull one out and put it on. A delicate pink confection with a tiny black bow on the front. Seems almost a pity to hide it under a t-shirt, but who's going to see it but me, anyway? Another quick glance in the mirror and I pull the jammies on without panties. The soft cotton blend caresses the skin, who needs anything else in-between?

Glancing at the alarm clock I sigh with disappointment, it's already half past six. I start counting the hours I have left but then shake my head, forcing myself to stop.

Don't, I tell myself, you'll just get fussed and spoil the evening. Relax and enjoy it.

In the kitchen, I dim the harsh lights and put on the kettle. Not the plastic plug-and-play, the real stove top kettle. While it’s sighing on the stove, I open the fridge and listen to its quiet hum, contemplating the contents. I'm not hungry. Maybe I'll make a sandwich later, but right now, I just want something sweet and decadent, something to have with my tea. I rummage around and then remember a still sealed jar of peanut butter in the pantry.

Bingo! I think to myself, delighted. Tonight, I won't think about healthy food choices, empty calories, sugar rush before bed… Tonight, it's all about what I want.

The kettle’s whispers become more insistent and I turn to see a steady column of white steam rising from the open spout. Rooting through the collection of mugs, I'm looking for one to fit my mood.

Too boring, too small, too big, too cheery, I mutter to myself as I go through them. Finally, it's down to two – one, a tall, thin-walled mug with an elegantly curved, delicate handle. The word 'tea' is written in flowing scripts on the outside; at once cool and inviting, the cup is in shades of white and muted green. The other is a medium sized mug with a softly rounded top edge and a fat comfortable handle. Warm ivory walls inside, soft lavender on the outside. A single word written in a curvy script – Flirt. It's less refined than the first, but it's just the cozy cup I want tonight and so I reach for it.

Next is the teapot which I first scold with hot water, holding it gingerly over the sink. I'm always terrified of it bursting and each time I find myself almost wishing that it would, just so that I can get over the fear of anticipating it. But tonight is not the night for it to prove my fears right and soon its glass walls fog up with the warmth of the amber liquid inside.

Now for the peanut butter. A quick rummage through the pantry and I pull out the jar, feeling its warm weight in my hands. In one twist the lid is off and now for my favorite part, pulling off the sealed cover. I puncture it with a knife and pull it off slowly, guiding the knife’s point along the edge to make sure all of the paper comes off. And now I’m looking at the smooth expanse of luscious peanut butter with its predictable swirl in the middle, just a little bit off center. I want to wait until everything is ready but I can't resist it…

Holding the jar with one hand, I let one finger descend inside and violate the pristine surface with a quick swipe. Licking the peanut butter off is an almost sensual experience. Over too soon but I won't do it again, patience has its rewards.

Later, I tell myself firmly, putting the lid back on and screwing it tight for good measure.

Now it's time to assemble the tray. On goes the mug, the jar of peanut butter, a large spoon, the glass teapot and a couple of napkins for the inevitable little messes. I carry the tray into the living room and set it down near the couch. I still have to gather some other things together. Returning to the kitchen I turn the lights off and mute the phone. Whoever wants to reach me tonight is out of luck. A shudder of a thrill runs through me at the thought of disconnecting from everyone and everything and just enjoying myself. As I leave the kitchen I glance at the clock on the microwave, six forty-five.

Not bad, I think to myself and smile.

In the living room I crouch down on the floor in front of my DVD collection. The six disk player is waiting, its jaw extended forward, ready to swallow whatever I choose to feed it. Oh, but what to choose? This is a quiet, peaceful sort of evening – no dramas, just feel-good movies. I run a quick calculation, if I start at seven and each movie is a little under two hours long, I should have time for roughly two and a half, maybe three movies. So, what to choose?

As I'm thinking, I run my fingers absentmindedly along the spines of the DVDs.

No, No, No… Yes!, first selection is made, "Good Advice" can be the one to start with. It's sweet and undemanding and I know most of the dialogue by heart so I don't actually need to watch it, I can just listen to the familiar words wash over me as the corresponding scenes unfold in my mind. Next one is easy, it has to be "Love Actually" – a little sad, a little romantic, I'll watch bits and pieces of this one, but overall, it's another one of those that I can watch almost entirely in my head. Now for the last one. Fingers are skimming the row of DVD spines, tapping impatiently,

No, No, No… Maybe… No, No… I stop for a moment and think about the end of "Love Actually", what would I want to follow that? And then I know exactly what it’ll be. I scan the titles again and pull it out - "Sliding Doors". I'll end the evening with Gwyneth Paltrow, what could be better than that?

The movies in place, I grab the remote controls and head for the couch. My favorite blanket is scrunched up in the corner and I shake it out, laying it gently on the back of the couch and forming an envelope near where my feet will be. The book I am reading and a pile of magazines are on the coffee table and I move them closer to the couch so that once I’m settled in, I won’t have to get up again. Next to them, I set the tray with my evening tea and the remote controls from the TV and the player. Everything is ready.

I dim the harsh overhead light until the room is filled with a soft golden glow, turn on the TV and start the first movie. As the opening credits roll, I pour myself a cup of tea, curl up under the covers, and open the book.

Let the evening begin…

"Did you really like it?"

The trouble with having someone savage, uhhm, I mean critique, your writing is that it can confirm your worst fears about your own abilities. If you're already feeling tentative about a piece you've written (and let's face it, what writer doesn't?) then having someone point out its faults or deficiencies can amplify to a shout the whiny little voice in the back of your mind that's already whispering, "this is rubbish".

No matter how you look at it, having someone read your work and comment on it can create a vicious spiral of self-doubt. If you're ambivalent about the quality of your writing and someone says something positive about it, it's easy to brush it off and think, "Oh, he's just saying that to be nice." On the other hand, if the person's comments are negative, they will almost certainly fall on the fertile ground of your misgivings. The criticism, even if baseless, will spread its tentacles and slowly smother your belief in yourself, just as a greedy patch of weed chokes a plant reaching for the sun.

One might ask, why believe the negative comments but not the positive? And the answer is really quite simple. Actually, two answers. First, it isn't that you don't believe the positive, maybe you do. But the positive doesn't carry nearly the weight of the negative. And second, as someone who shall remain nameless once said... "The bad stuff is easier to believe."

Setting up...

This is just a test post...

Bear with me while I set the table for a prim and proper tea party. Or maybe not so prim and perhaps not very proper.

Why don't you stay and find out?