Monday, July 16, 2018

Pumpkin Hour

"So, I hate to tell you this, but I saw something in the kitchen on my way back in, it was round and orange and -"

"Shit. Like a pumpkin?"


"Were there like, singing mice in little carts?"


"Gods, don't tell me there was an old lady."

"In a blue dress, yes."

"Did she have wings?"

"Rather iridescent wings."

"Gods, she's such a bitch. The positive attitude, too. She won't leave until I do."


We snuggle back into an embrace we hadn't wanted to leave in the first place. I giggle into the warm strong arm wrapped around me.

"Did she have a crown?"

"Yup. And a wand."

"Ugh, she's relentless. You have no idea."

We giggle, our giggles stopping as our lips meet and do what lips do together, so slowly, so very slowly, with the quiet patience of being in the here and now and the not going anywhere. With the realization that we both knew before we started that eventually one of us would have to go back to their own beds.

I don't want to leave.

I'm the odd bed out, so it's my turn to go home.

We snuggle back and look at the stars.

"I guess I should probably get dressed then. I wouldn't want to upset your flatmate with the old lady and the talking mice."

"Uh-huh," laughs, arms around my shoulders.

"We are ridiculous, you know."

"Oh yeah."

"This should be a play."

"But it would only be meaningful to the two of us."

Perhaps, I think and perhaps not. The moment feels too warm, too real, too lush, too right to be a moment that exists only between two lovers wrapped together in arms unwilling to leave. We are in the trap all lovers find themselves in at some point, of wanting each other and wanting to get on with life and wanting sleep and wanting to be independent and wanting to lose oneself entirely in the other.


Wrapped in black, and thorns, and roses, I navigate narrow spaces, and find myself wrapped again in arms before I can make it out the door, and for a moment my mind is blank and there is nothing but strong arms and an even stronger desire to stay right where I am and let this moment exist until the end of time.

And like all moments, this one refuses to do so.

"It's pumpkin hour, darlin' and I have to go."

"Yes, you do."

It takes another five minutes to leave, and by then the kitchen is full of muckrakers, fairy godmothers rolling around the ceiling, and mice pacing too and fro worried about the time, and me, with one shoe on the foot, the other in had, disappearing into the night and out the door.

Friday, July 13, 2018


I was reading in passing somewhere tonight and the mention of "deleting posts" put a tremor of terror in me.




Destruction, demolition, debris, detritus, deletion...

There was a part of me that was horrified by this. To take it away, delete it? I couldn't imagine. I would never (when I know that like Nin before me there are parts here and there that have been witheld from the public whole).

All of the words that make up the journal, that make up the thing that exists here, the emotions, the moments, the strange, the weird, the sad, the girl, the woman, the thing, the object, all of it in some way encapsulated here and to curate that to an extent that it just...never...existed?

Lately, I've been obsessed with the thought of HARD COPY.

Do I want that. You would think with over 15 years of outpourings here, that when I read through nothing must be a surprise, but I'm always amused about what I was compelled to speak about in any given year. I have to try to find that emotional mindscape again, the who I WAS than vs who I am now, and is the now me really so much different from the then me, and then we start to get off the rails and into the depths of existence itself, tricky.

So very tricky.

No, for better or for worse it's all here, it will be here, and it won't be me that makes the decision on what happens to all the letters in the void that no one actually reads. I might curate it.

But I won't delete it.