Feeling a bit like a five year old, dusty sneaker poking at a pile of unrumpled redish clay soil, front teeth dug into the flakey cracked bits of used flesh on my bottom lip, aging green eyes searching each one of yours, the luscious dark browns, the pale blue, the ones that look like pleated bits of orange and green tissue paper. The dark black, penetrating cobalt, golden honey and chartreuse. All the colors of the eyes that fall upon my words, upon my open soul and keep coming back to drink from me. I can’t and won’t, wouldn’t assume you have been waiting but, I’m sorry if you even once came here seeking my stories, silliness, sarcasm, sensuality, my voice. I’ve been away….
Been in the place I always am, as far as physically. My home has not been Wizard of Oz’d, still nestled here in the somewhat protected city I’ve called my, well my house, it has never been my home. San Diego and Long Beach are my home, but this apartment where we raised our son, have stained, laughed, cried, grew, shrank, battled, quit and tried again, the space I’ve made a fool of myself by mistake and on purpose, this hasn’t moved. My rickety dining room table and its tired legs that sweetly shudder but stand strong when I plunk my embarrassingly overflowing platters upon it, it is still supporting my hefty forearms and sweaty drinks. My adorable neighbor’s light across the way just now, a welcome and open sign, for a couple more hours. My new ipod being the annoying new thing I have to learn and agreeably letting me pretend that I just don’t know how to work the damn thing and that is why I keep listening to the same damn five songs over, and over again. It’s not that I’m freaking obsessed with George Ezra and Hozier, this damn thing doesn’t read my fingertip mind! Yeah, like that. The smells around here are a little different, my stove a little less slaving, my bed far more rumpled from the tossing and turning. The unconscious foot sweep and entire body wiggle of the lonely left behind bookend. Only so far you can go before you fall off the shelf right?
Before anyone worries, my husband and I are still very much married. I’ve not left or been left, sort of. He has however been traveling, like an insane amount with his new job….the one he loves and feels appreciated in and driven by, (so what kind of partner can be mad about that, right?) the one that has had him gone 12 out of the last 15 weeks. Weeks. (Insert very dramatic and pouty sigh here) So my home, my house, it feels more hollow and needy than it ever has. More work for me to do, one soap always needing replacement while the other sits dry, one less craving tummy and no one here to entertain as I run out with my hair in twelve pigtails, glasses upside down, no pants with a plunger in my hand asking, “Um, have you seen my dignity?” which makes that whole thing a tad awkward, my infantile snort notwithstanding. I’m cooking less, enjoying a bit less and have been finding far less inspiration, both here and crawling my woefully tired clunky frame into bed at night.
I crave passion like an adrenaline junkie craves dropping from the tip of a wave or hovering their toes over the side of a plane. I nurse from that kind of swelling like an infant feeds from a firm and willing nipple. Getting older, and slower, curbs some of that but the fire that churns about inside me, the flames that have flicked at my insides since I was old and wild enough to listen, it still smolders and cracks beneath my skin. Still kicks at my ribcage and raises my eyebrow. It slithers about inside me and sends those tired legs searching for a place to tie up, to stop for the night. Feels like a warm palm in the small of my back, pushing me to bend in ways that make them watch. Make them crave too. It’s all here, just beneath my aching to be stroked skin, but...
I need that firm willing in my mouth too…
I need a reason to plunge
Tear at my clothes
Feel myself searching more than ever before. The Taylor Swiftication of music. The Parkersation and AntiParkersation of wine. Boring and lonely food I cook for just me. The points wars. The who matters and who doesn’t ego fucking stroke of interweb wine blog self-glorification, a soulless and back lit empty footless sweep of a very empty bed. There are exactly 3 wine blogs I can even bother to click on anymore, and no, not one of those three is mine. Not sure I ever fit in the wine blog world and as it bleeds out I can say once again, I’m okay with that. I do still so badly ache to learn, read, be fed and nursed…have that tug of my lips on the firm and willing inspire me to spread myself open to those in need of feeding too.
So now what?
For me, I took a couple weeks off and let myself stroke and puddle. Pout and grieve for a place that use to be. Settle into a new life with a few less daily voices as I did my best impression of a baby making out the new shapes and faces. Searched for my passion where I should have stayed in the first place, in the soft, warm, wet, river of fire that has burned within for as long as my increasingly feeble mind can remember. I’ve let the weight of acceptance tie my tongue, hold me back and down for long enough. I’ve never been able to line dance or do the electric slide. My body doesn’t bend that way….their way, I stumble and with my “Zinfandel Face” watch the counted out steps drag, uninspired across the dance floor just like the choreographed, “thoughts” spin in front of my screen like they are on some crazy Sisyphus spool. Time to hit the “fuck it” button and open myself again. I miss the feeling.
The wriggling out of those socially acceptable britches didn’t come without a bit of a hiccup. My severely vexed and fatigued mind took that quite literally. The twice the work at home thing is coupled with way more work at work, (but some way fucking cool new and very exciting things, new cheese case full of new meats, fresh eggs, pates, local pickles and eggs…more tasting, teaching, learning, fuck I love that. Not to mntion new faces and policies that make us a better, tighter and more efficient company, love that too. ) so at the end of my day coming home to, well to nothing, not wanting to cook, eat read or write, well my crazy had to go somewhere. Spent a full week suffering night terrors like I’ve not ever experienced before, well since I actually had a monster that was hunting and wanting to silence me.
It’s a small thing in the world of serious issues. My sleep has always been a spiteful and craveable mistress but this was the first time I’ve ever woken from a sound sleep, heart racing in my throat, pillowcase ripped in half between my fingers, in tears only to fall back to sleep and have it happen over and over again. A reoccurring nightmare (any of you had those? Like the same one from start to finish for days on end?) that brought with it a hot shower and flesh scrubbing kind of creep and horror that kept me up for almost a full week. The kind of darkness that makes you begin to question your own sanity, like how could your own head conspire to terrorize you like that? I started to tell a friend about what went on in these evil and grotesque night films and before I could get halfway through he stood up, wrapped his arms around me, face curled into a twist that let me know I wasn’t being a pussy, his nervous voice telling me, “I love you Samantha” think that might have been the thing that flipped my switch. Love…
I need it
I need to give it
I need to inspire it
I am willing to share it
Drink from it and spill it into others
Been feeling too alone and part of that
Tell me you missed me
Lie if you have to
I’ll return the favor
What are we waiting for
Smell and touch each other again.
I've missed you
One thousand tiny kisses
Can I pour you a glass?