Creative inspiration hits me like cocaine used to
Surging through my veins
Breaking my head wide open
In the most divine way
This high is fleeting, and precious
The most dazzling fireflies all within reach
If I can choose just one creature
Bottle it
Examine it
Long enough to understand it’s beauty, and relevance to me
The come down is worth it
They will say we live in a democratic society.
They will say that we are free.
For we are satisfied with the illusion of control.
Of Free Will
Utopian mirages blur our lack of control.
I lost my train of thought for 8 months.
Perhaps it was the Zoloft
Or Topamax
Or Netflix
When we question their actions
They will distract us with devastating chaos.
Expertly inflicting fear and directing our anger elsewhere
United we will fight their battles in the name of freedom.
We will die for ‘democracy’.
While they acquire foreign commodities
Increasing their power
Their potential
We will be satisfied once again
because we are free
jb
When I was young I fancied pretty boys.
Their outsides matched my insides.
Pure, wild, and clean
Now I’m drawn to gritty guys.
My insides match their outsides.
Being pretty didn’t set me free.
Jason
Jason was twelve years old and pissed off. The kind of pissed off that makes you need to physically demonstrate your frustration even if you’re being forced to sit quietly and wait.
Sitting with his arms crossed tightly across his chest, they heaved with each deep, heated breath. His bottom jaw jutted out, and his teeth were clenched together too tightly. With flushed cheeks, bangs glued in pieces to his sweaty forehead, Jason sat, kicking the front legs of a chair. Every bad decision you make lands you on a scratchy couch in an ugly waiting room. It was a far fetched theory, but had begun to make an increasing amount of sense recently.
Moments later he was sitting across from his vice principle no less relaxed. She was definitely getting uglier, he thought. Each time he saw her Jason gathered more unpleasant facts about her face, her hair, her clothes, and today it was her smell.
Todays horrific sensory experience was now being topped by this aroma of dusty mothballs. I don’t know why she thinks anything, including moths would want to come near her belongings. It was bad enough sitting outside of her office she’s so terrible.
Half of the things she says he doesn’t hear and the other half he’s heard before.
Do I think my mother is going to be happy to know I’m back in her office again he hears her asking him. Duh, no.
Ms. Mothballs continues with a stream of rhetorical questions Jason wishes he could answer, but decides to draw an emotional border.
She can’t help me. She can’t even see me clearly. I’m in this all by myself.
Therapy
Thrilling. That’s the emotion that comes to mind, but I don’t say this out loud because it doesn’t answer his question.
Again my therapist asks me, “What is the emotion you’re feeling right now, can you describe it?”
We are talking about something important, I’m sure. I tuned out 30 seconds ago and began studying his subtle movements, facial expressions in reaction to my words, searching for confirmation that my carnal attraction towards him was a mutual one. No, this is not a pattern of mine. Yes, I understand this is a red flag and considered unhealthy behavior. The knowledge of this has not stopped me from having incredibly detailed daydreams
Analyzing my therapists motives must be counterproductive. It’s definitely time-consuming, and exhausting for two main reasons:
1. I’m unable to ask him direct questions out of common courtesy, and probably boundaries. (a fuzzy concept with an excellent name)
2. The space between my appointments forces me to come to my own conclusions (dangerous)
Today I met him thirty minutes late for my 11am appointment. Often I’m sure I’ll become an entirely different person by the time a scheduled event occurs. That I’ll be ready.
This morning, like many other mornings or afternoons, that didn’t happen.
I wasn’t up at 6am running in spandex down to the beach, grinning from ear to ear, and mentally reciting my list of things I’m grateful for. I was in my bed, and made a seemingly innocent decision to scroll through the feed on Instagram. Big mistake. I now know everything about someone named Matt, and his wardrobe choices over the past two months.
Once I arrived at his office we spent time talking about my visit home, and how I’d like my family dynamic to improve. How painful I considered the prospect of asking my Mom for a hug, or even worse, to be the one initiating affection.
The session came to a close, and I was relieved. There hadn’t been mention of the ‘issue’ I raised last week. I was exhausted, vulnerable, and couldn’t represent myself accurately.
What had I said exactly? Geez, something about not being able to take him seriously because he’s attractive. Admitting I have motives when interacting with men I’m attracted to. I hope I hadn’t said that last part. Gathering my things, while internally celebrating my good fortune, he started to speak.
“Blah, blah, blah, what you brought up last time, blah, blah, I didn’t forget, blah, blah, it’s important, blah, blah, talk about it next time, blah blah.”
That was my signal to go.
But, not before he left me with some gems to mull over for two weeks.
“I like those pants…. Only you could pull something like that off… I always like what you wear… You seem spacey today. It’s not an insult. You’re pleasant company. I always enjoy your company.”
Perhaps there’s nothing there, but you haven’t seen the person these words come out of. You would want to see something too.
The Vintage Store
“It’s quite a commitment,” I say.
Leonard and I are both standing still, assuming our individual ‘contemplative’ positions, and staring up, at the peacock architectural piece above the cash register.
After a brief silence Leonard speaks. “I’d never thought of it that way. How so?”
Knowing that he understands what I’m saying, or at least considers my opinion valuable I begin to verbalize my strands of thoughts. Each time I do this with a person I’m taking a risk. The conversation will go only a few different ways.
Leonard seems to fit into the second category. I know this because I’ve felt energized since our interaction. It could also be the reason that when he walked into store I recognized him. You can feel Leonard when he’s in a room. There’s a displacement of energy. You can feel it pressing against you like you’re in a small elevator and a man gets in with you. In reality, the vintage store is 1,000 square feet, but the feeling’s just same.
One year ago Leonard came into Macalistaire looking for cowboy boots. He wasn’t able to settle on a pair that he liked. There was a pair that fit him, were reasonably priced, and were precisely what he’d been looking for. He’d left that day without them.
I wasn’t sure why he prevented himself from acquiring them. It wasn’t a financial issue I’d decided. Was he fixed on finding something better? Did these boots not illicit the feelings he’d anticipated? Perhaps he has trouble purchasing things for himself.
Until today I hadn’t seen him again.
But, really… who finds what they’re looking for and walks away?
Leonard does. And he comes back one year later asking where the boots are.
What happened to them? It’s kind of precious.
“I thought you were gonna buy a pair in Arizona,” I remind him. My memory makes an impress on him I didn’t anticipate.
As our conversation evolves I begin to see how much it matters to be remembered. Perhaps what I do, how I think about people, and diligently observe them isn’t for waste. I can’t think of a better gift than to be remembered- to matter to someone. Leonard has a file in my brain that contains our shared experiences, and personal memories he’s shared with me. And those memories are the gifts that he gives me. This is how my world expands.
to be cont…
I’m your any time girl
your some time lady
in good times
bad times
woman
I’m your come hither
whisper sweetly
touch you tenderly
rub you
baby
I’m your sadists victim
your hopeless romantic
your quiet storm
Patiently waiting
for you
to be Someone
for me
When I was young, my mother was the most beautiful person in the world. I would lay in her lap looking at her easily tanned, long legs escaping the white denim shorts she often wore. She was so lucky to have hair on her thighs that bleached blonde in the sun. I would do the same thing was I was old enough I planned-shave just past my knee, let the sun bleach the rest of my hair, and wear white shorts. I wanted to look just like her.
Her arms too, tan, and spotted by occasional freckles were perfectly dusted with bleached blonde hair. One arm she adorned with silver bangles, gifts from her uncle, bought in Vietnam, while serving as Assistant to the Secretary of Defense during the war. I didn’t know this then, and wouldn’t until I began wearing them at 32 years old. Then, the light tin jangle consistently reminded me of her presence, and this security warmed me from within.
My mother stopped wearing the bangles because she started having an allergic reaction to the metal. I’m not sure why she stopped wearing the white shorts. Shaving seems to irritate her skin now, so that too has ceased. My beautiful mother stopped doing many of the things I loved. I miss laying in her lap. Hearing the light tin jangle on my own arm deepens my solitude.
I’m trying to understand how to ask for what I need without breaking in half.
Katharine Story – Boyfriend Sweater Mini Dress. Please click the previous link to purchase, and/or see more of Katharine Story’s one of a kind creations. 
Genius isn’t a word to be used lightly. If I catch wind of the word in a casual conversation my ears perk up. It’s as though alien life on earth is being discussed with complete normalcy. I can’t tell you why I take the label of genius so seriously, but I do. Everything cannot be genius! Soon average, hoo hum things become genius, and there’s nothing left to get excited about.
Anyhow, this whole post is supposed to be about my iTunes Genius. In the last thirty days it has accomplished two relatively intelligent things. One of them I’m excited about, and the other… eh, not so much. Genius led me to an Album I’m crazy about, and iTunes Genius has electronically overridden my overdraft protection at Bank of America.
The Album is Superflu by Saint Privat
xx JB
