I could use…

A girls that crawls in bed next to me, says “aw baby that sucks,” after a bad day, then kisses me on the cheek while pulling the blanket over our heads to do things that would make the neighbours blush.

Maybe

Dixon Street.  She lived on Dixon Street.

Little white house with a chain link fence to keep the dog in.  Neighbors so close you could hear their television at night.  Forced hello’s in the morning and goodnight’s while you walk the dog.  Every perfect little life that most people hope they get.

She lived in that house because it was her parents house.  They passed it down to her when they bought a luxury RV and decided to travel the country on their retirement.  She lived there but it wasn’t her dream, just a stepping stone.

I saw her one day as she was mowing the front lawn.  She was wearing a pair of skimpy running shorts and a running bra.  Her hair was bundled up on top of her head in a perfectly messy bun that looked as if it was designed that way.  She looked amazing doing a mundane task.  I could have watched her mow that lawn for hours, but sitting at a stop sign for that long becomes suspicious.

I wish I could have asked her out right then and there.  I considered it.  Even later that evening I thought about walking up to her door and knocking on it and telling her how beautiful she is and asking if she would like to get something to eat.  But it all just sounded so fantastic and ridiculous that it would never amount to anything.

So I just let it be.  An observation as I drive by.  A treat.  An enjoyment.  Something that could possibly be but isn’t, however never fully denied to never be.  She’ll live as something special.  She’ll live on as something pure and never was but always could have possibly been.

Compliments

“I love the way you write,” she said, and it was the beginning of the end.

It was the beginning of the beginning, but I’ve always fallen for easy compliments on things I’m self conscious about.  My hair.  My clothes.  My voice and my writing.  All it took was sincerity in her voice, perceived or actual, and I was overlooking a vast ravine and wanting to jump into the nothingness just to hear her say it again.

“Sorry, what?”  Never take a compliment for a compliment unless you hear them say it twice.  You may have misheard it and they said something different, or they were just being nice and will dismiss anything said previous.

“Your writing,” she held the piece of paper and shook it as if it had bells hanging from the edges, “I love the way you put words down.  The expressiveness.  The visuals.  The oddity and randomness of it.  I really like a lot.”

Does she really like it a lot or does she love it?

“Thanks.  Yeah.  I don’t know.  I just kind of dump my mind onto paper sometimes.  I don’t really know where it comes from.”

“Well its nice.  You should do it more often.”

Now it’s just nice.  I should have just said thanks and left it at that.

I nodded and smiled a closed-lip half smile and kept my head down.  I wanted to write some more but nothing was coming into my head.  Nothing except that she might have been staring at me.  I was too nervous to look up and confirm it so my pen just swirled around the letters on the newspaper in front of me where I had been writing in the margins.

It was out of boredom really.  Sitting random places doing random things.  My cellphone was the high quality, super rare kind that could still only make phone calls.  It probably could take pictures too but computers nowadays didn’t have the sophistication to handle the tens of hundreds of pixels it was capable of capturing.  So busying myself like everyone else in the room with their necks crooked and faces glowing against the light of the tiny screen wasn’t really an option.
So I would grab a piece of paper nearby and entertain myself.  Often times it would be a newspaper or a magazine.  I’d never take a current one in case someone wanted to read it, but there was usually a day old paper laying around so I would grab that and paint the canvas with my nonsense.

Most of the time it was literally complete nonsense.  I would keep my head down and listen to the conversations going on around me.  I would start writing parts of them and then take off from there into a world of the bizarre pieced together with fragments of reality.  When I was done, or my time was up, I would leave the little piece of brilliance on the table for someone else to enjoy or become perplexed by, either way it was out of my head and splashed across the page and I’d never even remember what it was a few hours later.

I wasn’t even sure anybody read any of it.  I thought someone might read a few words and then furrow their brow at the oddness then toss the paper in the trash.  I didn’t think people actually sat down and made it through everything.  It was a chore, and I partially did it as a joke.  I would sometimes end the writing saying that the reader has wasted minutes of their life they’ll never get back reading my nonsense.  Yet, here she was seemingly reading every word.

I finally let my eyes come up for air and took a quick glance at her.  She wasn’t staring at me but it looked as if she might have been side-eyeing my paper as the tip of my pen swirled along the words of the bold headline.  Was she waiting for me to write more so she could watch?  Strange.

When I brought my eyes up and not-so-smoothly took a look at her to see if she was watching me she noticed and caught my eyes with a smile.

“Well ran dry?”  she asked.

I shook my head, “no just the right inspiration hasn’t come along yet.”

“Oh.  What kind of inspiration do you need?”

I looked down away from her engaging smile and interrogating eyes, “I kind of know it when I see or hear it.  It takes a hold of me and my mind unfurls like a flower.  I don’t really control it.”

“Unfurls like a flower huh?”

I nodded.

“That’s kind of poetic.  Those visuals I was talking about.”

I don’t know if it was being conveyed on the outside of my skin but on the inside I was feeling flush and blushing.  I’m not used to praise or admiration in anything I do.  It always felt fake whenever anyone would say something nice and I never know how to take a compliment.  I froze and she kept talking.  I felt like I was sweating.  I completely forgot how to communicate with another person.

“I uh, yeah.  I don’t know.  I-, uh, uh huh.  I’m like-, uh, heh,” I wanted to bang my head on the desk and groan so loud but she was still staring at me, or at least it felt like she was.  She was still sitting there trying to engage with me and my tongue’s decided to swell three sizes too big and cut the circulation off to my brain.

“You know you could just write about me,” she tilted her head down and tried to catch my lowered eyes.  I looked up with my mouth slightly open in surprise.

“Uh…huh?”  I always gave the most eloquent responses when confused.  This is why I preferred to communicate in written word, I could write a hundred times better than I could speak.

“Me.  If you don’t know what to write about then write about me.  Make me a character.”

She was smiling.  Why was she smiling?  Write about her?  What?

“What would I even write about?”  I had forgotten about my awkwardness and engaged in the puzzle of what/huh/what are you talking about.

“I don’t know.  You’re the writer.  I’m just trying to give you some inspiration.  Selfishly of course.  I want to read what you’re going to write next and if its about me I’m curious to see where you’ll take that story so, yeah.  You can just write about this, right here.  Our conversation.  A back and forth and see where it goes.”

I wish she would stop making eye contact.  It’s so annoyingly polite and she was being too nice.  It felt like a trap but I couldn’t help it if it was.  She was asking me to write.  She requested my words written down for her.  The abyss was long and wide and never ending and I was going to fill it with words for her.  About her.
They would build a bridge from one end to the next and she could walk along it and peer over the edge to see all of the beautiful things I’d constructed below.

And all it took was for her to say, I love the way you write.

Rudderless

Brave new worlds.

Untraveled roads.

The paths with no footprints.

Virgin skies.

Pure blue seas.

The places we want to go and have never been.

The things we want to do that we’ve never done.

Beginning anew and endless starts.

Ending doing nothing and beginning to follow my heart.

88 mph

I want you against the wall.

I want you on the bed.

I want you wrapped around me.

I want you pressed tight into me.

I want you when you look at me right before you kiss me.

I want you freshly out of the shower when your hair is still dripping wet.

I want you when you fall asleep in my lap watching movies late on a Saturday night.

I want you to look at me while your dark hair hangs down over half of your face.

I want you when you stare at me when I’ve said something stupid.

I want you when you’re crying because you’re upset.

I want you when you’re crying because you’re happy.

I want you in your shoes.

I want you in your dress.

I want you in your lipstick.

I want you with your rabbit ears and fake eyelashes.

I want you all around everywhere and in between.

I just want you.

When you have no thoughts for thinking

Let’s make this about a girl.

What better motivation is there than the kind of girl that takes over your mind and won’t let it go?  It wraps around her wrist and swings along with her walk, taking you for the ride as long as you can hold on.  Everything she does is noteworthy and you don’t have to strain to find magnificence in the way she bats her eyes or hums a tune.

She doesn’t need you to force it, either.  It’s natural.  It’s not something she tries to do or you try to do, it just happens.
It happens when you see her face for the first time in the morning.  It happens when you’re missing her at night.  It happens when her legs are wrapped around your waist and your lips are finding new ways to press against her skin.  There is nothing unnatural about the way you fit with the girl.  You’re a circle spinning on top of a circle.

You can dance.  You can sing.  You can do things you never thought you could before, and even if you can’t do them well you lose the fear of looking like a fool.
Why?
Because she doesn’t care.  All you need is her smile and when she points it at you all of the dumb things you’ve done are just there for laughter and dammit if he doesn’t have the best laugh around.

Let’s make her everything.
It’s dangerous and rarely ends well but while you’re in it, its worth it.
She’s worth it.

 

The girl with the red hair

I saw her standing there against the back drop of a fistful of trees, but the hard focus of my lens made it appear as if she was in a forest.  She wore long Bohemian clothing that swayed in the slight breeze after it tickled the leaves above her.  I held my camera up and stared for a few moments before dropping my eyes to snap the shot.  There was a waviness to her hair that cascaded down her shoulders.  It was a perfectly aligned mess.

She wasn’t looking at me.  I don’t even know if she saw me, but I couldn’t stop looking at her.

There were freckles peppered across her face, as if she dropped a can of red paint and it splattered back randomly in small droplets.

I took the picture, several actually.  I snapped them as she stood there and looked randomly around as if she were waiting for someone who should have already been there.  It feels so rare to catch these glimpses of beauty unencumbered.  No requirements or obligations, just observation.

She disappeared in a random direction with a random man and I’ll never see her again, but at least I got to see her that once.  I got a picture of beauty and for that I’m thankful.

Black Sweater

I miss that black sweater you used to wear.  I think you called it a cardigan or something.  I’m not good with fashion and I don’t know all of the specific names of all the little pieces of clothing, but I loved that black sweater.  You wore it perfectly.

It would hug your sides.  It showed off how amazing your hips are, the way they hour glassed down your frame.  Every button would be fastened from top to bottom and it would squeeze around your waist closer than anything else in the world.  That sweater was perfect.  I miss it so much.

The fabric was so soft.  It wasn’t new or anything but it was soft.  I loved unbuttoning it slowly.  Do you remember the way I used to fiddle with each of the buttons when I was undoing it?  Looping it in and out as I circled my thumb around before finally letting it go.  There were six buttons.  I remember because I would sometimes count them out loud as they finally slipped free of my fingers.

I remember the last time I saw that sweater too.  You’re the reason it’s gone.  You decided to surprise me.  I stopped into your place on the way home from work.  It was late and I called you and asked if you were awake.  You said, “barely.”

“I’m coming in.”

“I’ll be asleep,” you said.

“Either way.”

You weren’t in bed though.  I went into your room and didn’t see you until you came out of the bathroom.  All you were wearing was a pink thong and that soft black sweater with the six buttons.  The V-neck cardigan that sloped down your chest and hugged your body the way I liked to at night.  The piece of clothing that pressed up right underneath your breasts and seemed to hold up your cleavage and dare me to dive into them.

I ripped that black sweater off of you.  I didn’t bother with the buttons.  I didn’t bother with the fabric.  I just ripped it off of you.  I picked you up and carried you to the bed and we had some of the best sex we’ve ever had.

I really miss that black sweater.

When your daughter’s school is anti-woman

I don’t do a lot of blogging.  I prefer to lose myself in creativity but something recently pissed me off and I wanted to vent about it.  It’s going to make me jump off of a cliff of ranting but it’s frustrating and doesn’t seem to be changing, despite the bullhorn placed to its mouth in today’s society.  I’m afraid it’s just going to fade away.

My 11 year old daughter told me on the drive home from school last week that a boy called her a Stupid Ass Bitch in class.  She said it without any emotion and it didn’t seem to upset her but it made me mad.  I asked why he did that.

She said, “because I wouldn’t let him use my glue stick.”

I seethed during the ten minute drive home from school.  I ran things through my head about just letting it go because it didn’t bother her, but the more I thought about it the more angry it made me.
She wouldn’t let him use her glue stick and that’s the natural response he gave?  It was extreme and vulgar considering it was a boy calling a girl these names.  The word bitch has much worse connotations when directed at women, so there is no “it’s awful when anyone gets called a bad name” nonsense.

I asked my daughter if she told anyone and she said she did, she had told the teacher but the teacher was busy and didn’t hear it.  The only answer my daughter was given was “okay, sit down,” and a passing “I don’t want to hear any cussing” to the class in general.  This boy’s verbal assault was not addressed individually.

So I decided to email the teacher and I wasn’t satisfied with the response.  I didn’t tell her the exact words that were used, simply “some vulgar language was directed at my daughter.”
The teacher’s first line was apologetic in favor of the boy.  She said that the girls were rude to him but she would investigate further (this despite her saying she didn’t hear what was going on).   At that point I decided to let her know what words were used and was further let down by her follow up response.

My daughter is a rule follower.  She is pushed to tears if we’re going to be late for school because she doesn’t like the attention of walking in after the bell rings.  She finished homework well before its due.  I’ve asked her numerous times to skip half days because no work gets done anyway and she refuses to stay home.  The information that the teacher gave in response to my email and her follow up goes against everything I know of my daughter.

The teacher said that the boy had his feelings hurt by nearby girls not wanting him to use the glue stick.  The boy then lashed out with “you stupid…” but managed to hold back the nasty words.  Yet, according to the teacher, the “bolder and more outspoken girls” filled in the blanks and spread rumors of what he said.  They then went onto harass the boy at lunchtime so he had to go to the Vice Principal.
The teacher followed this asinine description of events by informing us that she told the boy to ask other peers or her for supplies if needs them in the future to avoid these kind of triggers.

I was floored by her response to this situation.  I was not expecting them to string this boy up on the flagpole by his underwear, but she completely ignored any wrong doing of his and took his words as to how the events occurred!  She called my daughter a liar by saying he never said mean words.  (We confirmed that she heard the “stupid ass bitch” part first hand and she said yes, she heard the words out of his mouth).

The way she categorized the other girls as bolder and outspoken made it come off as a negative trait.  That these were mean girls picking on this poor, little boy.  That they were a scourge of the playground and the boy needed to be coddled.  How can a woman in today’s society be taking this position?  Outspoken behavior should be encouraged when constructive.  Boldness should be cheered.

I didn’t respond to that email.  There was no point in doing so.  I wanted to.  I wanted to email the principal and ask if this is how the school sees the female population.  I wanted to ask why the boys take on events were accepted as what actually happened.  I wanted to cause a fuss and make problems about this incident.
The reason I didn’t was my daughter.  She didn’t care.  She didn’t want the attention and I didn’t want to cause problems for her with a month left in school.

Which is a shame because I wanted to be her guardian.  I wanted to defend her and if she said this boy spoke those words then she isn’t lying.  I wanted the school to know that this kind of bullshit is unacceptable.  I feel like I should have kept pressing and made a bigger deal so the next time a boy verbally assaults a girl a proper punishment will be applied.  I wanted this boy to know that he can’t get away with talking to girls like this because he’ll grow up and it’ll be acceptable if that’s his initial response to adversity with women, to call them a nasty name.

I’m glad my daughter wasn’t bothered by it because, unfortunately, I’m sure it won’t be the last time some neanderthal male calls her something awful.  I just hope she knows that I will always be there to defend her when she needs it.