It’s been a weird day today, sunny and bright during my run, then rain, and now a hailstorm, storming like my head, writing about mirrors, memories, and friends – one whose cancer has been in remission for 10 years – it’s back, and she has always done her best to hide it, we’re not that close, but close enough for it to hurt, hurt like the hail falling outside, scattering the birds in my garden – I feel for her husband, who I’m a little closer to, and her son who I watched grow from a silent three-year-old to an outgoing teenager,
but that isn’t what I was going to write about today; I’m fixated on mirrors, staring at myself, my body, still strong, approaching another birthday, still worth looking at, if you are old enough to appreciate a fine wine through the wrong part of your varifocals – well, maybe not that bad, I haven’t got enough for the southern move to be that significant, and I keep myself in shape, good shape, it’s what’s inside that you can’t see in my mirror, but it’s there poking fun at me – too many mistakes in my life, too much ego, not enough compassion, and plenty of love for sale, not for sale exactly, but lots left to give and lots of desire waiting to be fulfilled, yet I look again, and I see my friend, imagine that my days are numbered like hers, but she’s not my only friend counting days, too many, and I’m counting them, too, along with them, even though my end is more obscure, two days, two years, twenty, fifty, who knows,
her body at least betrays its weakness, she knows to put her affairs in order, but I’m still looking for affairs, expecting tomorrow to come as the clock ticks silently within, unknown, my guardian angel standing at my back protecting me – from what? – who knows, my friend knows, her angel fights furiously guiding her doctors, eeking out as much existence as she can from her tired body, while I abuse mine,
assaulted by memories and mirrors, I haven’t got the stomach for sex today, mistakes, navel-gazing, lost loves, loves not-so-lost but out of reach – I want to smash that mirror, at least I’d get those seven years of bad luck guaranteed, put them in the bank and suffer through them, alone as usual, but not quite alone, still more alone than I want to be, but I’m too picky to find someone else, other than that skinny, tall, aging woman in the mirror with hazel eyes and dyed hair, struggling to stay 29 in her comfy blue sweatshirt and torn jeans, she judges me, she punishes me for thinking about him, my dying friend, my narcicism … those memories, those dreams …
oh accusing mirror, it’s all your damn fault!
The things that swirl around in my head – lap-dancing, today – I wouldn’t be your ordinary erotic dancer, four-inch heels would have me gasping for air in the stratosphere, and you’d be staring at my kneecaps as I strutted around you in your chair, a standard desk chair, it swivels like my hips, and has no arms – they’d get in the way – so as I strut, I trace my fingertips along your shoulder-blades, maybe they are a little cold today, like the weather, and my nails don’t dig because I keep them short, but I’ve painted them glittery burgundy in your honor, along with my toenails – yes, I’m barefoot – I’m told I’m good with them, maybe you’ll find out someday, but not today, as I pass around behind you; my fingers, they’ve found your top button and I couldn’t resist, two, three, and my hand is down your shirt – it’s getting warmer now – like my breasts that dangle tantalizingly close to the back of your head, brushing against your hair – do you feel me, I certainly feel you and give your chest a playful squeeze – alright, both hands, and now you can definitely feel my two pillows caressing your neck
what am I wearing you ask, not much, but as I said, I’m not your ordinary lap dancer, and my bra selection is limited mostly to running wear, since I spend so much time pounding the pavement, but a sports bra makes me nice and firm, nothing to bounce around, and bikini briefs – no thongs in my wardrobe – and have you noticed that I almost always wear dark colors underneath, burgundy today to match my nails and my hair, which I had done this morning – I’d indulge you with it, but it’s too short for anything particularly sensual now – oops – I’ve accidentally untucked your shirt, and unbuttoned it – sometimes I’m just on autopilot – I strut around in front of you; do you like my nice firm tummy, it pulses for your delectation, but maybe you don’t notice, since you are nuzzling between my breasts,
take a nice sniff, no artificial scents on me, I’m allergic to them, just normal body smells, sweat, pheromones, yes, I’m hot with them today – I thought about doing a striptease for you, but there is no teasing here, I’m serious, pulsing with the music – OK, maybe the bra can come off, I find them too confining, so off it goes and around your head – there, we bounce a little, just for you – and what do lap-dancers do – yes, I’m so there pulsing up against you, with you between my legs – I lower myself onto you – I need this as much as you do – there is so little fabric between us, and I can feel you pulsing with me as the music speeds up – have you ever had a belly-dancer on your lap – every muscle finely controlled for your visual enjoyment, but how about up against you for your tactile pleasure, jiggling my pillows in your face as my firm lithe body throbs around you ever quicker, firm – yes, we both are (snickers) – and I course my fingers through your hair because I’m getting carried away, I have a runner’s endurance and could go all night if you wanted me to, but maybe now’s the time for you to stick your tenner in my – well, the bra is gone, so I guess it will have to go in my panties, right there in front – go for it – I don’t mind it getting a little damp, not if it is earned through my pleasure and perhaps yours – put it in nice and deep, so it won’t fall out – yes, right there – no I won’t stop, not till I’m damn well ready, and I won’t mind if you put your arms around me, just don’t get any ideas – this is a business transaction – another tenner? – fifty and it’s a deal, go ahead, slip it in, nice and, ahhhhh, deep
I’ve been awol lately, mostly because of work commitments, and I just find myself tired and uninspired at the end of the day – too tired to even ponder the S-word; I haven’t been writing much poetry lately, because I leave too much of my soul out there on the page, my past, my loves; it isn’t that I wan’t to hide, but I find that sometimes rather than being cathartic, it plunges me into the depths; I’m not bipolar, but I can really whip myself up into a frenzy, sometimes sexual, other times I just wallow in the misfortunes of my life, and that isn’t considerate to my friends;
it’s better to stick with sex, that’s where I can let myself go, the warm gurgle of an orgasm, the touch, real or imagined of a lover as well as his scent, his taste, his sounds, his warmth – it’s infectious – and I feel almost as if I’m flying as I touch on a fantasy, perhaps a fantasy of touch, of taste; I’ve told you how physical writing is for me, but it does that to me, starting subtly, perhaps while I’m writing about being too busy to visit you, my friends, but then it seduces me, the soft rustle of leaves, a gentle stream, my stream seductively floating me to the white water, the rapids of my fantasies, I think of it, sensation, my breathing becomes shallow, as if I’m on a run, but more like the first touch of a man, a kiss perhaps, but possibly the exploration of his hands, testing me – a test drive? – It could go that way, and I feel warm, too, breathing deeper, hopelessly taken by my mental wandering, I reach out for more, for him, I’m hungry, I’m insatiable, and I want him, my fantasy man – he’s no hunk, just an ordinary guy, but he has to be intelligent, he’s got to seduce me with his words,
he can be quiet, but I’ve got to see it in his eyes – he knows, he understands, and he wants what I want – and we all know what that is right now – I take a deep breath to slow it down, the slower the better, he must be my Eric Clapton, my slow hand, but no cool hand, I want him hot, hot for me, hot under me – I want him uncomfortable, under my control, in my control, in me, in me in every way, physically and metaphorically, urgent like my lack of punctuation moving faster towards our mutual goal of mutuality of intellectual fulfillment of ecstasy he takes me to orbit past the hydrazine cloud of the destroyed spy satellite but I’m not afraid I’m more dangerous than that he knows he screams it for all to hear while I quietly destroy him there is no other but me and he is mine he … he … satisfies me, sates me with his words, the glint in his hazel eyes that mirror mine, and he hasn’t even taken off his clothes, yet he inhabits me as I possess him, body and soul, his words, my words, inseparable
Streams – StreamS of consciousness – few of us have only one at a time, constantly jumping from stream to stream, it’s lunchtime and I’m hungry, but I’m sitting here writing instead, I was up late last night working, and I’m so tired right now; I’d like to go back to bed, but it’s 1 pm and I’m pouring out the nectar of my streams for you – just touched on three that I’ve got going in my head – that’s three in addition to the usual one, the S-word, but the point of a stream of consciousness write is to take one on and concentrate on it alone, not pausing, not allowing yourself to deviate, but I deviate all the time, as you can see, just thought about that S-word again, listening to some music right now made me think of a friend of mine, wishing he was here because I’d like to talk to him right now – maybe I’ll phone him when I’m done with this – I’m a little down, don’t know why, and he always picks me up, just being with him, hearing his voice, I wonder what he’s doing right now, probably eating some lunch, like I should be, see how those streams keep coming back, dipping in and out; I’m not very good at sticking to one at a time, not like him – he’s so goddamn focused all the time, even while he procrastinates – I’m scatterbrained, probably because I’m always multitasking, thinking of one thing and doing another, I need to have him look at my computer again, since it’s been playing up lately, it’s my work and unfortunately my life, as I sit here alone in my office, contemplating streams, streams of thought, even streams of water, dipping my toes in on a warm summer day, splashing around, remembering long ago when he and I splashed around together, ahh, that brings me back to the S-word, you know I resolved not to use it this time, but I might have well have since I’ve mentioned it at least three times, I’m not going count them because I’m not allowed to look back, I’m still thinking about it, though, and that mountain stream in the sun of Colorado – those were the days, happy days, today’s days can be happy, too, when he’s around – I’m probably embarrassing him, too, as he will undoubtedly read this, and turn beet red as he does when he blushes, and he blushes easily, back to that stream, and lunch, yes, and of course (I lied) SEX.
It’s that time again, I’ve been working too hard and have been struggling without internet this week, or partly without at least, and my computer guru was out of town, I HATE DIAL-UP, and it hates me, all the sites that I frequent are really heavy on the graphics and that makes them slow, slow, slow, the way I like my sex, oops, did I slip that in again, I told you I had it on the brain, anyway, this one isn’t going to be a case of verbal masturbation, I was disappointed with the feedback about my last stream of consciousness extravaganza, I think that most people didn’t know the music or people I was discussing and, well, it just didn’t do it for them, but it did it for me, this is almost like a drug, just pouring out whatever is in my head, not stopping, not allowing the thoughts to settle before sprinting on, for it’s a sprint, can’t look back, it’s a runner’s high, the best kind, like you are floating above the ground, you are too tired to go on, but you keep running, going faster, you’re tired, but you know that soon you’ll pass the threshold, the second wind, it’s almost like a freak orgasm, you don’t know until after you’ve had it, you are concentrating so hard and then suddenly you are wet, wet not like sweat and it feels good you pass your second wind/orgasm and you wonder why you even considered stopping, you pick up the pace and the world seems to rush by you’re focused in the zone you are running your best split your best time and you push on faster and faster you consider another mile another lap you feel strong invincible you push harder your mind races you forget that you are running or were ever tired that problem you had it’s gone solved you are so focused maybe you remember last night’s sex wonderful I always come back to that I always want to come back to that it’s what keeps me going going through the day through my run even when I have no internet no man no time I’m still focused but not on running only one more mile then I can shower because whatever raw thoughts come to my head explode into being in the shower with the water dripping soap dripping shampoo wet and squidgy slick slippery like sex I’m back there again I never left I never leave I never want to leave the water runs and runs and my stories coalesce my brain is still running even as my body relaxes I’m wet oh so wet in the shower and it’s a warm comfy feeling and I never want it to end the ideas keep coming like adrenalin until I have a whole chapter bursting in my head, but I don’t have time, no time to write, working too much, too hard, I have to reconcile myself to pretending that I’ve been writing and the ideas go south where it’s warm without me, and I turn the water off, it’s over, I’ve crashed down, I’m spent, no sex for me today
I thought I’d start a thread where I can jibber-jabber, blabber, anything I want to say at any time, I’m obsessed with sex, you know, especially at this time of day, before I go to bed, anytime really, but now mostly, ya know, it’s fun writing without periods, or caring about grammar (LET’S BAN PERIODS IN THIS THREAD) feel free to join me I don’t know where this is going either maybe we should ban all punctuation altogether maybeweshouldevengetridofspacestoo no that would be too hard to read but would anyone want to read this maybe we do need punctuation, but no periods, can’t stop the thought, can’t stop the war, can’t make the old younger, that’s Beckett, or a bastardized version at least, thank you Mr Bernstein, that’s Berio, who set the afore-mentioned Beckett, I like Berio, especially that piece, Sinfonia, it’s very sensual, sexual, everything comes back to love, to sex, to love and back again, cycle after cycle, a mixed bag, I’m obsessed with sex, I’ve said that before, so I say it again, more Beckett, I’m obsessed with sex, that’s why I like fantasy and erotica, you know, writing like this is like having sex, you go on and on, trying things a little differently back and forth waiting for the explosion, but not yet, you’ve got to keep going, the writing gets more urgent, intense, you repeat phrases you like again and again, over and over, but I’ve said that before, and I’m in a Beckett frame of mind no more punctuation it gets faster now moving faster faster moving like my Danish pancakes when I’m really hungry thank you Mr Berio Bernstein Boulez I like his performance better than Bernstein’s but we are talking about Beckett’s frame of mind no my mind not his but he’s in the frame of it along with Berio and fantasy I like fantasy I live in a fantasy world and am obsessed with sex didn’t I say that before so I say it again more Becket it’s really moving now rollercoaster ride that is not Beckett but he’s in the frame still and so is Berio almost typed a comma there can’t have them yet haven’t climaxed yet it’s coming soon almost now it’s all about Beckett yes and a lot like Joyce where did he come from they are both Irish aren’t they but Berio didn’t set any Joyce and besides his name doesn’t begin with B I’ve never said that before it’s not one of the rules Cage set Joyce Finegan’s Wake that’s a funeral party I like parties but not as much as sex and Beckett I’m still waiting for Godot he’s coming I’m not not yet at least soon have I said that before no say it again I’m obsessed with sex it’s time for what I’m talking to myself now there are two of me better for sex only if one of me is male maybe not maybe it’s time for Beckett instead I’ll send him to look for Godot he must know where he is he created him where was I so there is an audience more Beckett via Berio I love Beckett and Faulkner he’s not a B writer but he fits because he’s just as crazy as the rest of them like me crazy about sex words for sex sex in words sex in the production of words the sensual sound of sexy syllables sewn together like man and woman yes, that’s it, I can use commas again, it’s relaxing, easing, but still moving, still Berio with a little Beckett, hardly moving, Joyce and Cage have gone, Faulkner’s just a memory, like my Danish pancakes, like the tulips that grow in my garden, barely moving now, soft waves, hardly a ripple, I’m done with Beckett, only Berio remains and even he is going with my last words, thank you Mr Boulez
Berio – Sinfonia (third movement)