The Second First Time

The time and place doesn’t matter, it just happens to be a room and it just happens to be at night.  What is crucial is that you are standing before me as if by magic.  The inky night conceals everything except the stars dancing in our eyes. I can sense your outline in my heightened excited fear.
We don’t say a word, for non are needed.
Your breath is slow and steady, and reminds me of the grandeur and confidence of a mighty river. You know I am stricken with temptation because you break our stares by placing a hand on my cheek.
I let out a breath of unexpected relief and dive into your hand.
You take a step back and begin to unbutton your shirt. The moon briefly comes out from hiding to sneak a peek as you reveal your long, towering shoulders.
I almost gasp.
I didn’t think I would ever get to see such sites again but here they are, here you are, in front of me and we are about to confess our last 10 years to each other.
Finally I am brave enough to place my hands timidly up under your torso and take in the form I knew so well.  I trace your chest and the curves of your collar bones with my fingers, remembering the journey as if it was just yesterday. I glance up to you and you have a half smile; I can’t tell what it means, but see no signs of hesitation.
I blink and wonder if I see love.
I wonder if I see amusement in our situation.
Do I see confidence in his power over me?
I decide that I see a cocktail of it all.
I decide to consider where we are in our lives and throw myself in the comfort of our history.  After all, history has a way of repeating itself.

You seem to be through of my angst-y stares and begin to tell me everything is alright, that we know each other better than anyone knows us.  I remind you that it was my idea and my initiation that led to us facing each other heading down a very personal memory lane.
Your smile widens and you lean in to run your lips along the length of my neck.  Your breath is hot and sends chills down my body.  I tilt my head and let my hair fall to the side and wrap my arms tightly around you.  I reciprocate the gesture by pouncing my lips along your body.  You breathing becomes passionate and quick.  You take my face in your hands and raise it to meet your eyes.  We press our lips together and I feel an explosion of desire and familiarity.  Our kiss is passionate and lengthy, remembering each others taste and tangling our hands in one another’s hair.
I can feel your yearning press against me and the slight dampness of excitement perspiring on both of us.  You finally begin to run your hands under my blouse.  I submit and lift my arms to reveal myself to you and the look on your face is tender, giving me the bravery to continue to reveal skin.
You take me in your arms-one mighty swoop and I am suddenly perched above you.  You bury yourself into my ample endowment and I let out a sigh of pleasure.  We manage to find the bed behind us and as you lower me you hold on to my knee, forcing it to raise against you.  I slowly push myself against the yearning that is clearly evident through what is left of your clothes. You stand at the edge of the bed staring at me for a moment before you approach me-kissing parts of me you haven’t seen in years.  Our lips meet once more and it’s just as passionate and exciting as before.  Our eyes meet and finally our silence is broken,

“I have missed you so much” You say to me.
“It’s been too long” I reply.
Another kiss.
“I thought about you every day, really.” You say.
“I have never stopped thinking of you either.”
You run your hands along my body, massaging and caressing.  I arch my back and trap you with my thighs.
“No one has even come close to you-” You start to say, but I stop you with a kiss
“Don’t, let’s just enjoy that we are here now.  There is only you and me in here.” I say.
You nod and before long I feel our intimate skin meet.  You look deeper into my eyes that I have ever known, “I have never loved anyone as much as I have loved you.  You are my everything and every breath I have ever taken was in hopes to have you in my life again.”
Before I could answer I felt us become one.  With an explosion of emotion, my body melted into a rhythm and we ravaged each other until our muscles ached.
I flip you over mid-rhythm and relieve you of all your labors.  I look down at you and control your hands, placing them on my hips glistening in the muted moonlight.  I create a new rhythm  that leaves you nearly breathless.
No need to rush as I remind you with every curve of my body what my love feels like.
Soon your fingers dig into my soft skin. A couple more breaths and you sit up, wrap your arms tightly around me and press yourself against me desperately.  We cry out together in union as ecstasy engulfs us, turning the room brilliant shades of blues purples and greens.
Trembling you look up at me.
We are still one and as the sweat rolls down your temple you beg, “Please don’t ever leave.”



Control Freaks

When I think about why we create monsters, I think about our insatiable need to have control in our lives.  Since the dawn of time, we have tried to conquer the world around us; from simple grain that later would become essential crops, to domesticating great beasts that would provide us nourishment.  Even geography has been no match for us as we bridge rivers and carve into mountains.  Controlling things is at the root of what makes us humans, and we have a deep, continuous need to manipulate our world for our own needs.  I look at the monsters discussed in Chapter One; Frankenstein’s monster, Godzilla, zombies, and vampires they are all metaphors for deeper issues, yes, but they all have one other thing in common-they are all wild.

The very first essay, Why We Crave Monsters by Stephen King, suggests that the monsters we create are embodiments of the thoughts, emotions, and fears that are not acceptable in civilized society.  He further suggests that our newly created monsters need to be cared for; to be allowed to “roll around in the grass”.  King, whether he realizes it or not, is suggesting that our monsters are uninhibited and it is our job as their creators to give them order. A job we as humans gleefully accept as controlling things is our specialty.

Consider Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin Shelley’s story of Frankenstein’s monster.  The story itself is a prime example of how we humans like to pretend we are Gods rather than men and women.  In her tale, Dr. Frankenstein pieces together a so called man from the rotting flesh of the dead.  To the Dr., the idea of recreating life from death maintains it’s grandeur until the “man” finally rises and earns his title of Monster.  The Dr. not only tries to control life in the mere conception of reanimating dead flesh, but also in the scene in which the monster forces his way into Frankenstein’s room.  The Dr. is desperate to be in control.

Detaching ourselves from the story of Frankenstein’s monster, let us now examine the author herself.  Shelley created this monster out of her thirst to control what is uncontrollable.  An excerpt from Frankenstein: A Cultural History by Susan Tyler Hitchcock reveals some of the events that may have influenced Shelley into creating such a horrific and untamable thing.  Hitchcock reveals that Shelley was not only a mother to an infant during the story’s conception, but also dealing with grief of a previous lost child.  Additionally, factors such as the complex relationship she maintained with the father of her son, and erratic weather mused Shelley to create a vessel to house them all.  This vessel, Frankenstein’s monster, is Shelley’s attempt in controlling the world around us.

As Chapter One continues we see other examples of our created monsters being wild and unruly.  Zombies are mentioned as being slow and unintelligent; needing order and repetition to be properly subdued.  Even our beloved vampires are mentioned in this chapter as being feral in their search for blood and lust.  In the vampires’ case we create strict limits to control their behavior; only coming out at night, aversion to garlic and all things holy.  We create these monsters because the first essay, by King, in this chapter couldn’t be more right, in my opinion.  Monsters are created because we aren’t allowed to run around fulfilling the disturbing, rude, or lustful notions we inevitably have. We need to gather these notions up and control them so they may not destroy our lives.

What is interesting to me is that so far all the monsters mentioned in this chapter are of the fantastic kind.  That is to say that Shelley’s monster was exceptionally tall and hideous, and that vampires were strikingly attractive which empowered their seductiveness.  It is easy to detach ourselves from the monsters mentioned and reintegrate into contemporary life.  I am anxious to read about the monsters we create that are not as obvious in not belonging to our world.  How do we detach ourselves then?  If King’s essay is as spot on as I believe it to be, then the monsters whose gateways from their world to ours are a little thinner also need to be let out of their cages once in a while, for the necessary maintenance of “proper muscle tone”.  When that happens, what happens to our reality?  In the upcoming chapters, I hope to find out if my question has an answer and how it relates to my own monster creations in need of exercise.


Let’s Go Fly A Kite

My heart soars in the wind like a kite; it dances with the rhythm of the wind-almost wild-all the while tethered to a central point.

You are my central point.

Like the kite, I was made for flying high with the wind.  I open my self up to catch the familiar breeze of life and take off into the sky, looking down at you from my temporary home.  I pretend to soar across the land to another place and time, feeling the snap of reality when I remember I am but a kite tied to a string.


I know you are not gone, but you are not here either.  I continuously sit at my computer, hoping you will come through my fingers and face me from the screen.  It’s like you have shrunk down to a tiny size and are now hiding in the fabrics of my mind-peeking around the corner the way a toddler does when they are up to no good.  I am worried because there are so many things that need to be shared-if you are gone too long I won’t be able to manage them all-not alone.
They will disappear.
I will forget.
You will forget.
You have already forgotten.
I should go on and focus on other things that need to be shared, with other people and other places….but I can’t.  They don’t seem as interesting or as fun as ours.  We have such a rich, influential story-it would be a shame not to cherish it….
But when is it cherishing and when is it fantasizing?
How do I keep my feet on the ground-living in the Now, if I keep reaching up to clouds that are drifting by above me traveling to the Great Beyond?
If I idolize our Past, how will I appreciate my Now?
Maybe you should stay hidden.
My heart fractures at the very thought, but you are more than a muse and all it takes isa mere ripple of your existence and you grow to incredible proportions; great for my history-bad for my now.
So why haven’t I put out the fire that burns for you?  love

When The Siren Sings

A small sail boat weaved from grocery coupons, and coloring book pages bobs up and down on the Sea of Motherhood,  and there I am sitting in the vessel-just waiting for water to seep in and consume me.
It’s a sad sight-a weathered sailor staring off into the horizon as her boat is tossed around carelessly.
I don’t look around me, I already know there is nothing but me and the sea.  I don’t even blink when Sadness’s clouds blanket the sea and cry on my shoulders.

I am headed to Independent Island-it’s where I live.  It is a lush island, with trees of Life sprawled throughout it’s interior; peppering the land with the cover of experience. I am the queen there.
When I am ashore, enforcing my rule, each day is mine and mine alone.  The sun shines every day-even when it rains-and the breeze from the beaches taste like Freedom.  I walk the entire island as I please.  I venture it’s twisting and turning paths through Friendship Forest, climbing various branches and reinforcing the bonds that have been there for ages.  I am not burdened by the responsibilities of maintaining the stability of Independence Island.  I love my title and my rule.
I am proud to say I have created the perfect balance of peace and adventure.

Now I just look at it from my tiny boat; it is but a small speck on the horizon.
So how did I get here?


When the shores of Independent Island were first flooded with the Sea of Motherhood, I couldn’t have been more happy.  It was the pinnacle of existence for my thriving island.  I thought since I had conquered the island, the sea would be no problem for a powerful queen like myself. Sometimes being queen of your own Independence Island can make you overly confident and under informed.
This was one of those times.
My shores foamed with promise as the sea waves pulsed upwards; splashing only what I wanted to see upon the sands.  Each wave brought new hope, new challenge, and I was steadily watching them roll in while packing for when the tide was high enough to carry me off on what was sure to be a conquest.

I was eagerly packing my inner belongings in a fabulous yacht-completely different from my current sailboat, which was now starting to show signs of water log.  My yacht was lavish and new, filled with things I was certain I needed for my epic voyage.  After anticipating and celebrating the approaching tide for months, it was finally time to shove off.  I, Independence Island’s Queen, took one last entitling look around the landscape before pushing my foot deep into the soul sands in order to heave myself into my new, flashy (and a tad expensive) yacht.
I never looked back after that.
I almost laughed at the idea of missing the island I governed.
The Sea of Motherhood had a current that grabbed hold of my opulent ship and whisked it far away from the island with great haste.  I brushed the sand off my feet, completely unaware, at how precious those bits really were to me.

At some point in my journey, my lavish yacht was capsized-surely by a Practicality Squall, which ravaged the Sea of Motherhood quite frequently. I managed to barely stay afloat in the difficult waters, find a sailboat drifting aimlessly, and climb aboard.  Without giving a second thought, I pulled on the main sheet to adjust the main sail.
That was the magic of the Sea of Motherhood; once I set sail, I realized I knew how to sail the whole time.
It came naturally to me.
Once my yacht had been swapped out for my current sail boat, I started achieving tasks I had only read about.  I was able to steer my sailboat using the winds of Intuition, I prevented further capsizing using various knots of Love to hold my sails tight.  At some point I even became a master at scrubbing the infamous Poop Deck.

During a dead run, I sliced through the sea with ferocious pride.  I perched myself to the right of the Nurturing main sail, with a steady hand on the tiller.  I could hear the faint sound of a ukulele strumming in the distance; the soft melody was the soundtrack of the Sea of Motherhood.  I poked my head over the side of the boat to see the famous Reflections of Love race past my vessel. The sea sprayed my face with memories and treasured moments-each drop sweeter than the last.  I soon learned that this was the allure I needed to stay on my boat; to keep sailing through the challenges and sacrifices needed to complete my voyage.  I became so engulfed in the adventure that I was oblivious that I was slowly losing all memory of Independence Island-and my rule over it.

Years went by before I realized I hadn’t been anywhere near Independence Island.  My epiphany was accompanied by the recognition of what I had become. I was bloated with Bitterness at the sea for taking me so far away from the island.  My hair felt long and stringy; a product of endless sea spray.  As the shroud of the sea is lifted from my eyes, I saw that not only had I not seen my island in years, but I was nowhere near it-I had sailed painfully off course.
I had somehow, somewhere, submitted myself completely to this adventure.
I had somehow, somewhere, focused my attention more on maintaining the integrity of my meager sailboat and it’s buoyancy than the well being of it’s own captain.
I had given up my queendom for life on the Sea of Motherhood.

It was time to open up the nurturing main sail and take back my throne.


Detox Just to Retox

Title credit goes to Fall Out Boy, “Disloyal Order of the Water Buffaloes”


Many of the details are still hazy, like trying to focus on an object underwater.

I woke up because it was hot.
Too hot.
And I couldn’t move.
I twisted and turned to try to figure out why before opening my eyes-I realized I was stuck.
Not stuck-tied.
I opened my eyes and saw the horror that was my situation.
I was suspended horizontally over a pit that generated intense heat, illuminating everything in a sharp orange color.  The fumes burned my eye and nostrils.  I panted frantically.  How did I get here?!  I wondered.  I looked around desperately, I saw no one-but heard rhythmic chanting all around me.
Sweat dripped down my nose and my hair blocked my view.
I started to call out-I didn’t know to who since I couldn’t see anyone standing anywhere.  My calls turned to screams as I became increasingly terrified.  My skin was a bright shade of pink from the heat of the pit below me.  The mysterious chanting increased and I looked around-My eye caught a twinkle in the torch lights that surrounded pit.  I let out a scream from deep down in my belly.

From off in the distance a giant pair of sharp-pointed, silver scissors floated towards me. I couldn’t believe my eyes, How is this possible? I thought.  I could almost hear it’s warped hum as it sliced through the air; pointed straight for my middle.
The fear was crippling.
I jerked and pulled at my restraints as hard as I could with no resolve.  I forgot all about the molten pit beneath me, I was fixated on the new fear of being impaled.
Slowly, ominously, the scissors began to open.
I was screaming so hard that my stomach burned, my ears rang and my throat gargled with strain.
What the Hell is going on?!  This can’t be happening!!! Are my thoughts as the scissors reached my middle and before I could plead a prayer- they snapped shut.

I flinched my eyes shut-I expected blackness and emptiness, what I imagined sudden death was like before you were ushered to wherever you believed you ended up.  A moment passed and I realized I was NOT dead!  Confused, I flashed my eyes open to see my body in two pieces and something pouring out of me at a pace that reminded me of tears. I noticed the substance pouring from my two halves displayed images; familiar images-people I knew, places I had been, and it didn’t take me long to figure out that they were memories.  I was being robbed of my memories!
A moment later I realized they all had a familiar tone; they were of Him!!
I was being drained of all memory of Him.
“NO!” I cried out, “Not Him, please, someone help me!  I can’t forget him, I can’t lose him completely!!”
Of course my cries were futile.
I watched in agony as the last drop of memory rolled out from my soul.  It was of his face; long, triangular, with all the curves and surfaces I cherished, smiling and a twinkle in his rich, brown eyes.  I sobbed heavy heaves as it broke free from me and fell, almost peacefully, into the heat-it let out a hiss as my very last memory of him incinerated it in an instant.
It was done.
His memory was gone.
I had nothing left.
I was empty.

I felt my halves move together.  I hung my head, my hair covered my face almost completely but I didn’t care.
I didn’t care about anything anymore, nor did I feel anything anymore.
My halves began to fuse together and once I was whole again, was lifted from my bondage and set on the ledge of the pit.
I slumped to my knees.
Numb, I  stood up.  My chest pounded as I slowly walked to the ledge of the pit.  I looked down with solemn eyes, stretched my arms out and leaned forward; falling into the bubbling heat, chasing his memory.

Check This Out–>How Billy Joel Taught Me To Write — Discover

At Lit Hub, novelist Benjamin Wood explains how the Piano Man shaped him as a writer: “Any good sentence I’ve composed as a novelist (there must be one somewhere) has a lot to do with the unwitting tuition of Billy Joel.”

via How Billy Joel Taught Me To Write — Discover

This is a must read!  I listened to each song mentioned in the blog before I read Benjamin Wood’s elaborations and it was almost absurd how emotional and invested I had become.  I will be following Mr. Wood’s writing as well as evaluating my own personal appreciation for The Piano Man.