As long Cindy lets me, I will come back now again every year. Others may come and go, but this place owns a piece of me.
The writing I did there belongs on paper strewn all over a desk, not trying to be in chronological order or to make sense (yet).
The biggest pile of (mental / half blogged) paper is probably Transformative Fucking, but everything is connected. Writing is for *thinking shit down* into words. All the Things.
Rule of dick pics: they either really make your day or they really don't. It made my day, and created another night/day. I looked at that pic like I was standing before a Jackson Pollack. The very subtle pigmentation shift one inch from the top of the shaft is distinctive, as far as I know. So it is him, but he looks so happy (he has not been very happy of late unless something has changed ?) Very groomed whereas we've tended toward some jungle. It might not be a recent photo. It might be an aspirational photo, what he wants to feel but does not (cannot) (yet). But who cares! (flabberghasted art student style), I think. I have seen him that dickhappy (to see me) many many times, and it always made me happy. I have never ever once thought "I hope I never see that again." So right in the middle of Tawista dropped a happydick pic, past present or (aspirationally) future. Ya know that saying "it's beer:thirty somewhere"? It's happydick time somewhere.
I couldn't ask clarifying questions, even my "nice to see you" whatever reply just spun. I decided that was deliberate on his part, knowing I couldn't text back. And tbh it was a bit orgasmic to just lie around naked even on the porch and think up smut in which the central characters are having existential meltdowns and are working it out erotically. They dare each other to walk around naked for a couple days, for instance, #trustfalling, she dares him by starting it. I did this for the rest of whatever day that was and the next. I hope my tendrils reached far enough.
I kinda thought through one Thing after another, about Everything. Once I told him that he seems more motherly than most fathers. That was why he was so easy to be around from my perspective, he actually liked doing mundane kid shit, my version of which has a lot of down time, days on which the goal is to maybe slowcook some piece of meat. And he liked to play, making kids laugh and me was fun for him, omg that stupid Adam Sandler bit with the goat. I don't know what he would say to my thinking he has a mothering orientation to fatherhood. But even if he would dispute that whole conceptual framework, we'd talk about it. Like that, I wrote about two people talking and fucking, and the fucking and the straight talk are both sexy.
If rewrote it, I would probably tell it as story about a woman going feral alone in the woods, word vomiting on ghost dick. I wonder if that's a genre? Medium-specific adult fiction? Like, people who can bring back the dead to fuck them to death 🤔 and then but she wants to fuck the Living, one in particular, and her magic temper tempter gets the best of her. (Snort.) Would anyone wanna read that? You'd have to be the Alive guy... We could have an only fans whatever ficfans 🤔 ha #leanint#craycray Holy Ghost - Mavis Staples Mavis slays.
Once Ears arrived, the other half of these conversations was filled in by him. Except for the fucking factor, the topics of conversation were the same or similar. Especially "home". We kept coming back to that topic. What is it? (You told me the first night we saw each other that you wanted to "fuck come home" me. But pancakes. I didn't bring that into the conversation w Bru but I am thinking about it.) Shelter isn't entirely sufficient, and many people do not have even shelter let alone a PLACE that is home. You could have a place to stay that's safe enough but that is not home / belongs to someone else. My eldest child has been homeless with a cf kid since 2020, and just had baby. Grinding poverty relentless. That's the hardest of all our scenarios to fathom unless I try to imagine passing butter to Ex for a year. That's a new very odd level of hell 😬. In any case, in every case, everyone is shifting around, and in each instance there is some relief in the 'finally moving' but also 'this feels like jumping off a cliff'. Across the board, you me him her the other her and them, All of Us.
Ears and I smoked joints and talked and laughed and took many long deep breaths. And ate and ate and ate. Swimming, like sex, makes me hungry.
And now, I have to jump off a cliff for a couple months straight. Relentlessly, I shall be a damsel in hell awaiting rescue hereforth. Quickie-leaning vignettes, maybe, as a writing phase? Or selling suicide notes as a side gig again?
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| a gift |
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| I don't know who healed who, but by the time I left I could float perfectly and indefinitely, my pond husband's changes required me to Just Be in a different way, different balance, different breathing, different tip of my hips. If I could do that every day, I would live forever. |
