David's summary of this weekend:
"massages, candles, covers, clothing, skin, lips, moisture, heat, breath, hair, touch, fingers, soft moans..."
And he went out to a bar on Friday with his friends and came out to Redemption on Saturday to see my in my shiny new corset ("Corset?!? I'll be there!") after another party of his, and I skipped out on skiing with him on Sunday because my back is still sending twinges of BLOODYMURDER!!!!!! into my shoulders, but we made it out to Hurley's for the storyteller and spent four hours munching on stew and drinking stout, and leaning back against each other, watching with every ounce of attention the rapid hand gestures of a man who has been spreading his thick irish accent thin across the membranes of a thousand folk tales that have been a part of his pale skin since he was nine years old...
And this weekend was the weekend that wasn't. Saturday morning, I spent several hundred dollars and behaved utterly out of character, purchasing little plastic things of convenience at Ikea (which I am morally opposed to, but have to respect for the way they have absolutely anything you could possibly need when you're short on space), purchasing fancy martini glasses and the expensive kind of dry vermouth because this month's craving is Sake martinis...
And I skipped out on Ian and the Acid Trip on Saturday afternoon (and ended up sleeping the afternoon away rather than cleaning or reading or worknig or anything useful and prodyctive) because I was too sore and too tired and because I'd spoken to David and told him that I couldn't afford to go skiing and was shocked to hear him sound irritated with me...
...in a relationship of convenience, no one should ever depend on anything enough to ever become irritated...
...and we went out to Redemption Saturday night, princess on one arm as beautiful as she's ever been, Tia and her boy Dan tagging along dressed in my fineries and slightly loopy on my liqueurs...
And me in my corset, trying to remeber how to dance at the same time as learning how to move in this thing... Fending off hands and thighs, and reaching out for other arms and hugs at the same time.
I don't think I ever would have stopped hugging Ollie if they hadn't made me let him go.
And Sunday David ditched us for breakfast so it was just me and my boys and Eric's daughter Chloe and we played the "find the bathroom the REALLY LONG WAY" at Picasso's and may have just possibly gotten lost and ended up at the table where one of my coworkers happened to be sitting with all of his jock friends.
And then I drove Dan to his friends' house, to pick up Nancy and sixteen-month-old-incredibly-vocal Vincent who's got all the markings of his genius dad (because the weather was bad and I was only planning to go into work so I could spare the half hour to keep Vincent off the public transit system), and I was ambushed permanently detained by a horde of beautiful lesbians who insisted on massaging my back betwixt bouts of spinning Vincent AROUND AND AROUND AND AROUND AND AROUND AND AROUND while he screamed " GI GI GI GI GI GI GI " and forsook his mother's breasts for my imminently chewable shoulder.
I spent Sunday afternoon lounging on a beautiful man (who I haven't seen in a while)'s carpet, surrounded by down-to-earth, brilliant, warm, and most importantly, loving pagans who had me questioning the entirety of my Saturday.
I'm still questioning, why I'm not strong enough to be more like Mich with his million plants and pots of ratatouille to feed half the city (and certainly more than enough to feed the entire pagan community AND the stray cat community) and his clean floors and encyclopedias of knowledge about art, poetry, biology, math, and the way he's been an enginner working for the Canadian Space Agency (kinda like NASA but less corporate-whorish) for ten years and still hase a parachuting license, a PADI certificate, and can sing along with any instrument that his friends play.
I'm not in love with Mich because he terrifies me with his achievement of things that I'm not sure I will have the strength to even approach, and I'm not in love with David who is utterly oblivious to the nature of the question itself.
But I'm working on getting there myself first, and then maybe when I turn around I'll have the strength to do more than smile and usher you out in the morning.
And Muad'ib? Write about drug use and life experience and pain and growth and lethargy and apathy and how everything anyone believes these days is based upon the wrong set of axioms and how murder is purer than the stock exchange and how two-faced-three-tongued-ness has become more than a virtue, but a necessity based on flawed definitions...
Write about limitations and intimidations and intimacy and fear and inhibitions and pain and pain and pain and how we seek to avoid it and in doing so weaken ourselves and cause even more pain in our terror...
Write about getting caught. Write about falling through the pigeonholes. Write about writing and solace and how there aren't any magic trushot solutions anymore, because the problems are all complex carbohydrates and the world is dead and bloated and nobody finds the innocence of a one-year-old child beautiful anymore, simply bothersome.
Just write, Muad'ib. And do it divinely.
~