Tuesday

Seeing as it's Wordless Wednesday, (does anyone still do that nonsense?) and I find myself with not enough time, energy, bite or real desire to crawl out from inside my big hollow head I thought I'd share the scenes from just another Tuesday night......

 

Maybe the reason I can't find the desire to write is because I am so freaking, satiated. Sigh...

Was invited to share in a very special birthday celebration for our beloved Dale Kemner last night. A woman that is not only my boss, the voice in my head that inspires me to do that one extra thing, she has been the nurturing woman in my life for the past, oh I don't know, 17 years. I remarkable woman, clearly, just look at the feast that awarded us in her honor. 

Thank you Carl and Pam Taylor for what is sure to be a meal we will talk about for a decade, then we can come back and do it all over again! 

What a night....
 

Good For You

Just a quick word to the woman that sent me the email this afternoon, the one letting me know how much she hates my blog, and by extension, me. I would normally twist and seethe, mutter and shake my head, feel anxious and worried by comments like the ones you included in your, frankly, time wasting email to me but...well after reading

"You are also too stupid and pitiful to even know we are all actually laughing at you"

I find myself having only one thing to say to you, "Good for you". If your intent was to make me cry, hurt me, make me feel stupid, well congratulations dear lady, you win. I did cry. You did make me feel stupid. Your letter hurt. Happy? You feel better now? I hope so because if my heartbreak and tears make your heavy and rotting heart happier than I'm actually sort of honored to help. Sincerely glad to bring you some joy in a world that is clearly so shallow that you are compelled to seek people out just to stab them in the gut....seems so sad that. 

I may be stupid
I may be pathetic 
I may be pitiful and naive...

But I would never say the things you did in your hate-filled note. Nor would I ever even think of another human the way you obviously do about me. I will stupidly go about my life, being "pathetic and hopeless"   but I do so knowing one thing

 At least I'm not you.

Over And Over Again

I Remember The Way That You Move…

Desperate

Hopeful

Regal

Proud

Pure in your desire to make me understand you…..

I do you know, remember the way you move

The way your voice spread through me

The way you shared your soul

Opened up to me and let me see…You

Where you came from

Where you might go

What might await me should I wait…

I will you know, I will be here hopelessly waiting

Imperfections

Unpolished

Raw

Just You….

Making my mouth water for Until…

My fingers here, twisted and aching to tell everyone how perfectly not perfect you are..

My greed whispering in my ear, warning me not to share, to keep you for my very own..

The pulsing of muscles along my sides letting me know how deeply you have slipped beneath my skin

The tightness of my ribs assuring me that the heart I once owned now beats at the hand and whim of another

Cannot stop thinking of You…

Stiff, fingers gripped and white as I think of the way you felt when my lips took you in

Mouth wet and slippery, breath escaping my chest in tiny tufts, I was dominant until you arrived

How can I make anyone understand how right this is

How your imperfect shape slips perfectly into mine

How nakedly I spread for you, ready and willing to feel each inch of you

The collision of doughy saltiness and ready to be taught palate

You and I….

I do

I will

Over and over again…

Helping Me Make It Stick

Toes on black, heels land on white. Me alone, six years old and seemingly alone in the rented space that my mother and I shared, the place where even then I wasn’t much for touching and would settle my little frame just beside her on the couch. No snuggling, no sitting on the lap, just close enough for me to feel like I could touch her should I need to, never sure that feeling would ever really take me over. But I sat there, just in case.

Not sure where she was that night. Likely on the phone or curled up next to the nightstand in the room we shared. Nightgown on, knees tucked under her, abalone shell ashtray cradling her Virginia Slims between puffs, sweating glass of sun tea nestled into its water marked spot….book creased and folded over in her palms as she lived someone else's life. “Up on my toes on black, heels land on white”….

Giant puffy headphones plugged into the stereo, the thick plastic resting hard against my skull as the gigantic pads dangled far below my ears and rested somewhere near my chin. I was just beginning to find my peace, the kind my mother found in her beloved books. Mine was to be found spinning, counting my steps and landing my heels in the right spot with the time of the music..feeling my face go hot and my make-fun-of-yourself snicker erupt inside me when my socks would make me slip and send me running to the tape deck to rewind and try it again.

My obsession with music started that night. I had, more than once, had my breath taken away by a deep base that rocked deep in the bit of my tummy. Been captivated by a voice that seemed to lift me right out of my head and chest, carried me off to some romantic and love saturated space where everything was tingly and everyone dripped with that thing, that thing that was absent in my home. Lyrics telling me a story, my tiny ears eagerly awaiting the next chapter. John Denver and his grandma’s feather bed, (not so much the best for the whole dancing deal by the way) Stevie, Ray, Kenny Loggins, Patsy Cline. Listened and swayed to them all, figured out a way to place my steps, shift my shoulders and find my time within their perfectly measured and powerful snippets of poetry. I could be there and a part of something beautiful, eyes closed, toes on black, heels landing on white before slipping my sweaty little body into my jammies, taking the glass of sun tea to the kitchen, snuffing out the still smoldering embers of her cigarette and crawling into bed, close but not touching.

Began finding my inner rawr with music and those powerful voices at my side. I remember strapping myself into the backseat of our V.W. Bug, my mother’s best friend at the time in the front seat, me and her hateful, mean kids on either side of me. Those two boys bickering and being, what even then I knew, were bitter assholes and I would just sit. Quiet and being the sweet girl that didn’t want to upset anyone……until I really wanted to. A forty minute drive for some stupid smoked fish that my mother thought was the height of refinery. I just sat, listened to the 8 track, let the words lift me, the better place and the desire to feel what those voices inspired act like tiny pricks in the small of my back.

Forty minute drive back and I was still wedged between the whining and barking fuck wads I stuck my hand in the still warm bag of pungent smelling fish. Made my sweetest face at the one brother I knew was a little pervy and would do as any girl wished. Squished the oily meat between my fingers and slipped a shredded by my fingers chunk in his mouth. His gaze dropped and his grin flipped up on the sides, he knew he was in on bad behavior and was all for it. Fed that asshole my mother’s smoked fish all the way home, “Walking, after midnight” spurning me on. “You ate all of it?!” my mother’s voice in decibels of astounding magnitude. “I didn’t….he did” my shitty reply as I crossed my oily, smoky fingers behind my back, feeling “touched” in a way that would separate my mother and I for years to come. I was angry that she let me slip around on my socks alone in the living room while she slipped into fanciful stories pressed between thin, bent cardboard covers. Toes on black, heels on white, the beginning of a Tango that didn’t always have me landing on my feet….

“Did you just spit out Montrachet??!!’ an importer’s voice echoing so loudly through the cavernous cellar containing six of us that I feared the damp and musty rafters might crumble down upon us. We had only been in Burgundy for two days but already my notebook contained scribbles on over one hundred and fifty wines. I was still in disbelief that I was there, unsure why I was there, afraid each and every second that I was going to make as asshole out of myself, expose my complete lack of knowledge about anything outside of Champagne and have the others rolling their eyes….also in disbelief that I was there. I stood there, my lips still shimmering with the expelled liquid, pen hovering over my notebook, eyes wide and feeling the “Oh you just so fucked up” knot tying itself up in my gut. I had no smoky fish, oily partner this time, I needed to try and come off suave and together as I stood in a cellar that most would kill to be in, pretending that I didn’t just expectorate a mouthful of thousand dollar a bottle, only a barrel made nectar. My panic was gurgling away so fiercely that I nearly missed the upturned grin of the winemaker. His sweeping grasp of my glass, grabbing of my hand and pulling me back to the sacred cask, this time his slow steps reminding me of, “toes on black and heels landing on white” as dipped the narrow thieve into the cask, placed his worn thumb over the tiny air hole and drew me yet another glass of his most praised elixir. This time I let those fingers that interlaced with mine, let those callouses rest upon my tender palms, let him lead as my heart thumped away in my chest to the beat of his music.

 Eyes locked he lifted his chin, a motion urging me to take another sip. My face was no longer burning and I wasn’t even sure there was anyone else in the room. My heart the base in my ears, his eyes directing my steps as we both brought a glass of deeply golden liquid, the tropical and deeply roasted sound of his voice to our lips. I tipped my glass and slowly pulled the oily textured liquid onto my tongue, marveled in the way it moved. It didn’t splash around or simply land upon my tongue, no, this wine seemed to slip between my lips and spread its firm young frame, the temperature and softness on my mouth causing it to expand and reveal itself with each roll as it moved towards the back of my throat. A pair of dark brown eyes and the sun weathered skin gathered around them, like a palm in the small of my back, leading me as my palate, mind and body were swallowed up and seduced by what was in my glass.  

He watched as my eyelids began to close, watched as my chest expanded…my nose greedily, and quickly pulling in air as I held on to the weighty, silky, young but regal wine that was pulling off a layer of my armor with each viscous drop that made its way past my wildly stimulated palate, deep into the back of my throat. This dance between winemaker, victim and magically seductive elixir leaving me breathless, naked and wanting more. “Oh I don’t believe this!” the huffy voice of one of the far more knowledgeable than I fellow travelers. Not sure what he found so offensive about a winemaker making love to me, nearly literally, as he showed me how to dance to his Montrachet.

The composer of my new lover brought his own glass to his lips, this time eyes locked on the snippy bastard that had disturbed our dance lesson, took a deep sip, let the wine roll around in his mouth and then proceeded to spit it on the floor. My face was once again flush but this time, this time it was from landing my heels on white. The understanding that that wine wasn’t music until I took the time, rewound the tape and truly let it move me. That night at dinner I wore the swagger of the newly anointed, the puffy chest of someone that got it just a little more. “Should we start with Chablis” the importer proposed, again and once again I offered, “Well we could start with a little Champagne” to once again, as per our pattern for the past few days, was met with, “Oh. Champagne, kinda heady stuff don’t you think” but this time rather than sit sweetly I crossed my hands in front of me, looked deep into another set of beautiful brown eyes, took a deep breath and said, “You just watched me have my clothes torn off by a glass of wine….don’t think a glass of Champagne is too much at this point” the arm went up, the bottle was ordered and there we sat as I, finally got to be the one who knew more about what we were drinking….

“Toes on black, heels on white” Me grinning as I stuck that landing.

He's coming you know...a man, well one of the few real true men that has been in my corner and camp along with Randy...just for me. Been in my ear and just often enough wraps his hand around my heart, gives it a tender squeeze and reminds me that no matter how many mistakes I make...how often I slip off the tiles, there is a someone saying, "Go Sam. Go..." My Michael. The man that brought me France. Taught me that my voice matters. Was instrumental in braiding the pieces of me together that you poor people are stuck with now. A gift I am still unwrapping and marvel in each and every single day.  He's coming and I simply cannot wait to scrunch my nose at him, pretend that I am unimpressed by him....stand beside him taking deep breaths of humble inspiration. 

Toes on black...   

2 days to swim in his wake...
Make him laugh
Remind him of everything he's done for me
Share him with the people I have touched because of his belief in me...

Sticking the landing...

  

In Your Eyes I Can See What's On My Mind...

I walked out the back door of The Wine Country this evening and the second I felt the skin on my bare forearms constrict I knew you would be with me all night; I would not be able to stop thinking about you….craving you. I’m tortured by thoughts of you, those thoughts that send shivers down the length of my spine, cause my hips to flinch, make me ache, make me remember, they are always with me but on a night like tonight, a starting to be chilly, quiet Tuesday night…I am consumed by my thoughts of you.

I found myself flipping the station on the radio in the car on my way home, pause for a second or two, hover on a song looking for something, anything that might bring up some other memory, some other feeling, and yearning for some flicker, some tiny spark….something to distract me. I found myself searching for words, phrases, choruses, harmonies…something mindless, less intense, less you, but it only takes one, “I will”, “I want” one, “We” and I am right back in your grasp, bound to you…bound by my need, my ache, my desire for you.

My walk from my car to my apartment feels so long on nights like these, like it is taking me twice as many steps, my bags are bogging me down, my frame too weak to carry my deficient soul…like my desire is weighing on me, my overwhelming want feels tied to each leg like a forty pound brick…each step, agonizing…jarring, a reminder that when I reach my stoop, unlock my door, I won’t find you there. Hopeless, feels so fucking hopeless…my whole body telling me what I need, what will fulfill me, soothe the pulling knots in my tummy, it’s there, just not with me, not tonight, not yet.

I open the door to find my home just as I left it, my piles of magazines left unread, my blanket, the one that warms my feet and snuggles my thighs, is still sitting tossed on the end of the couch where I left it, my unopened mail still waiting for my attention, my wine glass from the night before still sitting on the table. The smells that greet me are the ones I find every night, the ones that remind me that I am home, that old library smell…my home, my safe place, but tonight, tonight I am not safe, not at all comforted by these aromas, they only remind me of what I don’t have, what’s missing…you.

Something about my haze made dealing with the evenings essential needs easy to coast through, get food, pick up the clutter, chat with the neighbors, all things I was able to do but I have no real recollection of really being a part of. I was there, my body and voice were there but me, the real me, the one that has felt you course through her body, well I was off somewhere remembering you, your scent, your touch, the way you feel when you slip beneath my skin…I was with you.

I felt my blinks lasting longer, like I could hold you closer, pull you closer if I could just shut out everything else…no lights, no television, no yet unread magazines, like each second in the warm darkness of my own body was one more second that was just ours. Me with you in our space…I swear I could feel you slipping inside me, I could smell you, taste you…feel you. I wanted, needed, still want and need more. The silence as I swam around in slippery memory pools of us. I would wait for no one the way I have and do wait for you. Only you can move me this way, just you…I have others that can fill me, touch me and make me feel amazing, Interesting, playful and even a little sexy but there is just something about you, haunting…you haunt me.

Your unique brand of seduction, the way you slither around me, the way I can smell you, feel you, days after we have spent a night together, the way my mouth fills with want when I hear your name, only you can do this to me. I feel your fingers tugging at me, pulling me, making me move like some drunk with passion puppet that you can make dance, skip, crumble…all at your hand, only your hand, and when you have finished with me I will pull myself up by my own strings and…be back for more

Another night
My wanting mouth
Your perfect body
Mouthfilling
Soul filling...
Haunting me again......

The Good, The Bad & The Here We Are

Up late. Another night where sleep eludes me. Feels like some ancient childhood memory reminiscent of Easter egg hunts and first kisses out beyond the backstop on the kickball field. Something so long ago that it barely seems real anymore. Never been a good sleeper but the past few weeks have catapulted me to the fucking top of the “We Never Sleep!” heap of slack-jawed, glassy-eyed mumblers. Winning. Feels like winning I assure you.

So disconnected from the life I was sure I was woven tightly into that I feel like half the time I am sitting here all frumpy and pouty watching some shit tv program that were I not so deprived of sleep…and inspiration, I might get up and change the fucking channel. Sucks. Like a ton. Personal life in bitty pieces, shards really, leaving me picking up the pieces that aren’t slicing me to shreds, trying to put them back together as best as I can. Work spinning about two months ahead of what I feel prepared for, like I am the snot nosed huffing kid in the too tight shirt running, tripping over my untied laces, no time to wipe the skid marks off before jumping to the front of the line, having to be all in charge and sorta charming. Finally felt like I was catching up there and BOOM! Sock in the gut that I shan’t, we shan’t, be recovering from anytime soon. Means more hours, more work, less peace and a missing that is making this sentence too painful to finish. We will recover and change almost always brings bright new energy, learning, laughing, teaching and life affirming puffs of fresh air. It will be all good but in this right here very second…feels like there are a pair of beloved hands spreading my ribs apart, taking my heart as a souvenir. Boo.

Tired of crying

Tired of missing

Tired of my own sulking

Just tired….

Got a text message from my beloved Amy who is currently a million miles away right now, or might as well be there in Texas, too far for one of her adorable and melting hugs. The ones where she wraps her whole tiny body around my chunky frame, the way her big heart and absolute love for me squeeze me so tight I can’t help but suck my breath in deep for the sheer power of it. Her knowing me like she does, she was able to feel my ache from all the way over there. The call just two hours later from our other best friend, her missing, aching, needing too. The three of us wading through our own lives but so…weaved together that we can’t even suffer alone. Thank God. Kinda nice to drop the pretense and bullshit and hear your own truth bubble out in the form of, “I don’t care how tough I am, I miss you and I need you”…trusting the voice on the other end will be welling up with tears, grab a glass of wine, a vodka tonic, a craft beer, tuck into a corner and soak up each other’s need…feel ourselves getting stronger from the being needed and trusted with that kind of fragility. Good bit of reconstruction that.

Found myself opting to clean my stove top tonight rather than write anything in this space. This space I crave at 5:00 AM when the fingers of desire knock at my chin, pull at my heart, “Come talk to me….” A whisper that pulls my skin tight and starts the tossing and turning. My mind fully aware that it is me, me needing to come here to breathe but this blasted heartache and disillusion causing me flip on my side, jaw tight, blanket pulled over my head as I tell, myself, “Fuck you. You left me”…hurts. Poured myself a glass of Chablis, pulled out a pad of paper and without filter started writing. The words that smeared across the sheets of lined paper, all scented with industrial saturated ink, they weren’t mine. I let my mind free and my thoughts, needs, wants and hope ran to a poet, his words pouring out the tip of my marker in volumes. My mouth stained with cold river stones, uncooked dough, freshly cut green apple skin and that salty thing that reminds me of spending a day at the beach and my mind, heart and inspiration went right to Rumi. The past few weeks just washed over me like a giant wave…

“I’m a vegetarian, but I hate olives….will I like this Cabernet?”

There is A science to this whole wine thing but…

“I’m looking for a Cabernet Franc that doesn’t have that vegetal stuff. One that has the fruit of a Zinfandel but with some creamy vanilla like a Merlot”

Explain to me why it is you’re asking for Cabernet Franc?

“I need a red wine for ceviche. Oh and nothing wimpy like Pinot. Well I know it might not sound like a red wine dish but. This is why I came to the experts! I am going to be with some real wine people, so they will know. Help me out here, isn't this what I'm paying you for?”

If they are real wine people, they will know, that is NOT a red wine dish. Yup, you came to the “experts” but we are not liars or magicians. No red is going to go with that. Oh and you are paying for the wine, the advice is on us...

“I need a red wine that will go with chocolate cake, and ribeye steaks”

Oh fuck me, where’s the camera???

“Is your boss here? Oh, he’s not? You want to help me? What could you know about wine? Oh, wow, you’ve been doing this for 17 years? Well I’m 59 so I’ve had way, way more wine than you ever have. Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, I’ve been drinking longer than you. So here’s my question, I bought a 3 liter of Veuve Clicquot at a going out of business sale, I won’t be able to drink that in one sitting…so, I was wondering how I would go about funneling that bottle into some other, smaller bottles? No? Not even if I blend up the corks and soak them in water? What if I made some of those foil things out of wire? Yes, I have shaken a soda, what’s your point? Whatever, it doesn’t need bubbles, if it has alcohol I’ll drink it.”

Fuck, fuck, fuckityfuckenfuck

“Our son has severe autism; we just never know what’s going to set him off”

Looking out the window at Toby who has been at his mother’s side for the many, many years they have been shopping with us, his face bloodied and red, tears streaming down his child-like 20 year old face as his parents tried to soothe him, give him the aspirin that his self-beating alerted them he needed. My chest jumping to my throat as I stuffed down every instinct I had to rush out and help them calm the 6 foot child as he smacked his own face, stopping short and knowing they didn’t need me. “Never seen Toby do that. Scary. I’m sure you are used to that but I have to tell you, I am profoundly moved by your patience and calm. That will be $2.49” as his father paid for the Jana water needed to wash down the pain meds…his smile as I didn’t make him feel like he was a charity case by giving him the water…a second time after he insisted on paying. 

“I’m looking for a specific Rose. It comes in a weird squatty bottle and is called Mateus. Oh, no, I’m sure your other Roses are wonderful but…well it is her wine, the one she was drinking when she agreed to marry me 50 years ago. We have a very special anniversary coming up, I need to find her wine”

Someone get on the internet and find this beautifully loving man “her wine”.

A woman in her 60s digging into her husband’s front pants pocket- “Whoa, you haven’t done that in ages” he sees me laughing as she walks out to the car in the parking lot- “I’m going to get in trouble for that one. I guess when you are a certain age you aren’t supposed to say those kind of things”

“I hope I never reach that age then”

“Damn right. I keep telling her, I’m on Medicare but I’m not dead”

A wink, a smirk and a nod of total understanding and agreement

A soft puckered woman’s hand reaching across the counter, taking mine in hers before..

“I just wanted to let you know, my husband, he passed away last week. He fought that Leukemia for four years but 6 weeks in ICU this summer…..he just couldn’t anymore. I know you always helped him, he loved your Cotes du Rhones and we are saving one just to remember him and how much he loved coming here”

Both of us with tears, firm grip of those hands, deep breaths of consuming each other’s fragility

“Is the lady that buys the French wines still here?”

My head turning as the voice lilted above my son’s head and landed on my so needing ears..

“Do you remember me? I’m the one you wrote about on your blog. I wanted you to know, I’m doing so good now. I’m healthy, active, happy. I have $50,000.00 worth of new boobs and I feel great. My son is having a birthday and guess what I need…yup, Chablis. Will you help me?”

My Lady of Chablis. http://sansdosage.blogspot.com/2010/03/chablis-celebratiion.html Right there in front of me, looking 10 years younger than the last time I saw her, huge smile, perky new boobs, radiating strength and pride. There to see me and shop for Our Wine. We fell right into our banter, me in awe of her, she sheepishly boastful…perfection. 

My shitty few weeks, self-pity, sadness and unwillingness to pleasure myself with the pounding of my nails along the teeth of my laptop, stupid bullshit in the face of a soft hand attached to the face of woman that lost her lifelong love, her partner that bought my Cotes du Rhones. Nothing in the face of celebrating a love affair that has survived twice as long as my father lived and nearly as long as my mother did. Ridiculous when watching the tenderness of parenthood grab the wrists of a self-mutilating, adult child and coax him into sweetness and relief. Tiny when compared to a smiling cancer survivor who was brought to tears when she stumbled upon the piece I wrote about her, our connection and Our shared love of this wine I now have in my glass.

When love isn’t accepted

Move on

When love isn’t appreciated

Walk away

Hopefully time will teach

What real

True love is

This day weighed heavy on my chest but this night, with cold stones, apple skin and the sweetness of a shared moment in time with a courageous woman, my friends, the memory of great love….

You dance in my chest where no-one sees you.

But sometimes I do, and that sight

Becomes this art.