I danced along the east river this morning, like I do most days. Today was a little different though, it was a unique celebration. Continue reading
We made up. That was the worst fight ev-ER.
I don’t fight with anyone. I leave. My boyfriend refers to me as a “flight risk”. That is a bit of my mantra.
There’s more than one reason that I have two passports.
I’ve been in Brooklyn since Friday. Later on today, when I’m done with work, I’m going to write filthy stories about Cony Island.
I’ll post one tonight.
There’s something about Anthony and I that is utterly divine. We’re never allowed to fight again. We promised.
The clap of our argument was beyond. There were bad things said and I was fed-exing notebooks of words.
And then we spent four days making up. We made up all over the place. My apartment, his place, the back of a yellow cab, Cony Island beach, the boardwalk, various Brooklyn sidewalks…
For me to have gotten as upset as I did, I can only assume he’s forever.
When the two of us get together, my life starts. I occupy my time in between with Writing and skyscrapers and all of these things I came back to Manhattan for. But when he and I are within a physical proximity of one another, everything changes.
I have to wash my face and go to work. I’m currently in my panties, wearing his shirt, slightly hung over.
No matter. I’ve got this.
Well, another lover burned to the ground. This time, it was all over words.
My boyfriend said three really shitty things in less than a seven day period.
And I snapped.
Blog tribe that’s been in my crew since this page started in 2009 know that I am a generally, relaxed and peaceful creature. Also, I will do anything for anyone. If you need something in my power to provide, have it. Just try not to rob me.
I feel like Brooklyn robbed me. It took me out of my life and put this gorgeous Italian man in front of me and literally took me for a ride.
When I was boohooing to my favorite sister yesterday over this, I made the additional claim that the best thing to me about any relationship is the Art it creates.
I’m not sure how true that is. I always say I’m in love with being in love, but I don’t reckon that is what recently occurred. I think I actually met someone I sincerely cared about, and once again was sent reeling.
When the last one and I first met, we talked about how neither of us could be hurt by the other, because we’ve both been fucked over so hard already – the encounter was already somewhat insignificant.
In any event, I spent five weeks in love with Anthony. And between you and I, it was honestly my favorite so far.
I’m grieving. I’m going to dye my hair silver today. Love to you, yours and ours blog tribe. Stay blessed. Even when the rest is impossible.
For the past 11 months, my notebooks have been in a suitcase locked away. Not the ones that are in my handbag filled with blue ink, of course. But my history.
I took such an emotional and psychological beating over a three year period, that I shut off one of the most important parts of me. Sure there’s a lot of my words floating around here on this site, but they aren’t inky.
Ink is and will always be what flows through my veins. My blood line. For awhile my life really dried up, for reasons too vast to phrase.
Considering I was married when I was 25 until close to 35, my adult life was really fueled by a relationship. My ex-husband never understood how he impacted my word art. He never gave a shit, to be frank, which is just another reason I left him 10,000 miles behind me.
The collection of tepid lovers I’ve acquired over the past few sets of months may have inspired a poem or story, nothing earth shattering. Certainly nothing soul shaking.
Then, about three weeks ago, I met someone who completely changed my life. I don’t stop thinking about him. I tap my fingers and bop my toes thinking of where we’ll go next; what flowers I’ll bring him; the sound of his voice or spark of his touch.
And finally, this morning, I opened my suitcase of notebooks. First, I cried. Not a lot, just a little. Then I called Anthony to tell him what he inspired of my morning.
I can’t even begin to get into what’s in these books. Aside from my literal life from about 2001 forward, the poetry and stories and ideas are some of my personal favorites. I simply flipped a few pages here and there. I know how my weekend will be spent.
Praises to all things divine for finally turning my page. It’s been years. I couldn’t be more grateful.