Totally too late to make any sense but...

She wonders, what kind of crackery are we? We who won't bow and scrape? We who won't accomodate?

What kind of lackluster performance is this? For whom do you play at penitence?

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want wanting wanted

Oh I try, I do. I try not to want. I try not to give in to the delicious wanting of skin, of lips. I try not to want attention. Alas! I should better try not to breathe.

I try to direct my desires, to those for whom it is appropriate, warrented, motivated. These rules narrow my options significantly. Again, I fail at self control, wanting what I cannot have, wishing for what will never be, for what shouldn't be. Shouldn't. It shouldn't work and indeed it shall not.

Over, done, end of story, yes? Then stop, by G-d, stop yourself. Change your mind, for once for good and get on with it! Get on with living with life... yes yes yes, it's not so interesting over here where all the people are made of wood and going through the motions like an Old Navy mannequin. That won't help you with your looking on and such.

No, first do your homework. Like work there's an inbox full of names you don't know and links leading you through the process with your hands firmly tied behind your back. This guided communication provides safety in anonymity, because as we all know, I am much more comfortable being naked and exposed online above all. No, this way they don't know the extent of oddness peering back at them through the screen. And they won't remember me at all when I close the match, saying "distance too great", "I don't feel chemistry" or quite simply "other". I won't think less of them as they line up to tell me: no, no, no.

Oh! That's it! This is a lesson in No. Must be the year for NOT getting what I want. Perhaps I've had it easy up until now, unappreciative of how easily a wanton woman falls into my lap and writhes so rigorously. I'm a big fan of the rigor, but only when not accompanied by necrosis. Stiffening, in general, denoting an excitement, a presence, a towering "hello! I'm here" and green flag waving.

I don't consider the baggage, because of my own activities it is less clear. I have forgotten already the crazed, cuisine-laced relapse that follows a fine fucking. I missed the opportunity to truly examine this behavior before. I almost forgot the wincing pinch, the pressing down and subtle force required to get me where I need to go. I forgot I was ashamed. I forgot I was twisted and broken and in need of repair.

What shall I do if I should find a fair face to fall in love with? Shall I unplug my psyche and pretend that it works? Shall I uncover the lumps and bumps beneath the super-hero cape? Somewhere inbetween all-important and essentially ignorable I'll sit, a seven-year-old in a white t-shirt tank top not knowing male from female but knowing force and fear.

I can take my history with me, carry it like a cross and let it sink me to the bottom of the river. I could let it sink, to settle in the muck, but I'll have to remember this bend of the river and point to it on my way. Remember to forget the name of Amalek. Never forget how you were hurt. Now forget about it so that it won't keep you down.

I am the superbowl quarterback who must have a short memory. I am the historian who knows how it played out before. All the knowledge. None of the fear. May this be Your will.

My Life the Radio Show, on the Internet.

I had this thought on the way home, as I often do. Driving and thinking like I do. The thought was this: I've been effing broadcasting myself my whole flippin' life.

I have. Radio in college, at KDIC: the most phallic call letters on the planet and they were mine. I was relentless with Wimmin's Music and Fun Dyke Tunes. It was awesome fun. Theater in high school. Cheesy little publication we did in middle school. Now I tweet. I am a content generator for Facebook. I cannot stop.

I slow down, sure. I have instituted periods of enforced quietness. Problem is, eventually I do have something to say. Problem? For nay-sayers, for folks who feel like I put too much out there, for folks who just wish I'd be a little bit different, in this one little way.

Everyone's got an opinion. Sometimes it's hard for me to form one. Sometimes it's coming out of my mouth before the whole story is told. A little bit of age and a couple of lovely people giving honest feedback, and I know that I need to shut up and listen from time to time. I practice. I fear that I err too much on the side of "make yourself small"... and I can only shrink myself for so long. Eventually the real me will bust out in some expletive explosion or just a burp and that'll be the end of the honeymoon.

Please reference my doormat-asshole dial for a visual understanding of my dilemma.

Balance balance. That bitch always comes back.

Dear Blog, I miss you when I'm gone. I know it's me. I know it's in my head. I've got so frickin' much to say, but it comes at me in clumps and lumps and then I get distracted. There's this life thing, you know, the one that keeps generating all this content, and trying to wrap my arms around that. Well... life is hard, but it's all the same.

Let's remind each other to remind each other that bitching is fine, as long as we can look up sometimes too.

I have talked a lot in the past, to anyone who'll listen, about finding comfort, even divinity, in the small things. Water running over fingers. Birds singing their hearts out. An amazing sky, like a fiery divine canvas.

I gotta tell you. I'm ready for some effing large scale happiness. I'm not trying to be Miss Too Big for Her Britches. I'm just saying. If I can thread this needle, then I should be able to stitch this together. I think I'm gonna need help. I'm pretty sure that's the title of the next lesson coming up: How to Ask for Help from Others.

God I SUCK at this lesson. What is this, the fourth time through? Muther. At least.

I'm ready for the big picture. I'm ready to try this out. I'll be honest and an asshole and loving all at the same time. Respect. Give respect. Focus. Be real. Be yourself, whatever the fuck that is at the moment. Steel yourself, then relax.

Upright? Yes. Steady as she goes then, love.

Meow?

I'm listening to my cat, Milkshake, make a cat call. It really is like a telephone call. Definitely a question, 'cause it goes up in tone at the end. She's looking, intently, but not like some "I want to eat that" noise. "Meow? ... Meow? ... Meow?" She cocks her ear. Wonder if anybody picked up.

Exhaustion

Really I just want to go to bed. Like an hour ago. But I had to finish the super freaky SVU with Swoosie Kurtz playing this nutzo judge. And reminding us all that there's no shame in growing old, because facelifts alter our countenance and make it impossible to properly enunciate. Lips should be able to come together. Just sayin'.

For weeks I've been thinking about you, Blog. Thinking about how I've neglected you. Sure, I crashed my bike. Sure, I've lived the last four weeks with at least one leg elevated. I've been busy. Work has been kicking my ass. Kicking. My ass. And when I get up to get going it lays me out again. And I get up. And boom, again. Seriously. It's been weeks since I've gone without a major fuckup. You know, I'm resilient, but this? Fuck. Fuck me, man. Fuck me? Fuck you!

And that's pretty much where I'm at now: Fuck you. I'm out of steam and have two more days to pull through. I'm behind STILL at work, and not working at this moment right now, as I should be. My body is... being mortal and shit. Fucking irritating. I know, I know, it's doing what it can. I should be nice to my body, since I treated it like shit for decades. My love life consists of an online, overly-chaperoned quiz application and excessive visual hunting ("damn, she's gorgeous, ring check... married. fuck.") Like I would actually speak to anyone.

Mother's day is coming up, and I don't want to harsh anyone's potential happiness on that day so I'll say this here and now: Dear Mom: You were supposed to help, not hurt. Fuck you.

Okay so I can check that off my list of things to do.

One year, when I was in junior high, or high school maybe, I bought the recently released in paperback "Mommie Dearest" for her for mother's day. I had no idea what the book was about. I was getting a gift because she said she'd take my birthday present back if I didn't get her something. Maybe reading the back of the book would've alerted me to the fact that this was not an appropriate, dutiful gift. I was stupidly bold and daring... without meaning to be. Her reaction? An astonishing muted retreat. What was she gonna do anyway, beat me? HA! Awesomeness.

Bold. Bold and brash. And stupid.

Not much has changed really. I get by on luck and love, and I have had plenty of both. I love and luck comes to me. And when I'm lucky, I get love. I'm extra bold and brash at this moment because I have been SUPREMELY energized and fortified by the word knitting of the best poet I know. To me, for me, beautiful delicacies of syllables images blessings, wrapped up in love. I am momentarily invincible. As a result I can say anything.

I consider the Blog, the open letter to anyone who'll read it. It's a shouting in the darkness, to be sure. One sits on this side, tippity-typing and never really knowing. It's a love letter, sometimes. Multidirectional. I consider much of my writing as a conversation with G-d, you know, giving the low-down, taking stock of what's what and where, and putting in a couple of requests for this or that. I don't ask for much or very often. When I do, it's often in writing.

I count the number of sentences that start with "I" and I wonder what Gramma would do to fix that. She always just left it off and started the sentence like normal. You would assume the "I" was there. Not sure it would work here. Thinking it'll sound a lot like Tweetering or status updating. No, no. I should put myself in the picture. After all, if I am not for myself, who will be?

No, yes, I will put myself in the picture. I will not hide and I will not be hidden. I won't hide myself from you, as I've done recently. My brain bubbles over with ideas and thoughts and then I arrive at work and can't capture it. It was in the deep winter that I tossed away any concern and spent hours at work not working but writing. I was wide open and pouring it out. That changes. And changes again. You may wonder how it is that I could ever hide, an elephant behind a birch. And of course, here, on the screen, in pixels first then letters, I am all brash and bold. Naked always. Exposed, but only in pieces.

I know. I know it's not about me but about the connections, person to person. We crave it and shun simultaneously. Welcome to the wire; balance well.

Now I am tired. Tired of wobbling back and forth, unable to maintain balance. Falling off of writing, falling into the brain-suck of TV. Falling off Facebook, unable to keep up. Dropping balls like rain. Some juggler I am. Weary, I am. But I just got this safe place to curl up in, sent to me in pixels and letters. Fortify, regenerate, rest, she said, safely. No harm will come to me here. Thumb pillow, here I come.

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

When I was a kid I had an electric typewriter. I was going to be a writer. I started each one of my first four novels with the same line: It was a dark and stormy night. I was Snoopy, on my house, with an imaginary Woodstock flying in circles around my head.

Then, much like now, I found the process of getting ready to write to be a big distraction in actually writing. I loathed having to change the sheet of paper, one for another. I wanted one long sheet of paper so I wouldn't have to stop. I wrote based on the title, which I always deliberated over for at least as long as it took to get the typewriter out and set up.

My stories then were of beautiful people doing beautiful things, being stunning and fabulous. I had no idea what I wanted, except that it should be excellent. I had no idea what excellent looked like, but I could describe the scent of the wind and the way it bends the new grass all day. Details, it seems, I've got.

When I get seriously stressed out, that's where I go. Into the details. I remember being somewhere once, where I really really really didn't want to be. But as things are often out of our control, I went into what was controllable: water running over my fingers. In a moment of sheer nail-scraping undesire I went into the water. I think that's when I started to pray, for real, for need, to assuage the fear. And this is the message I got then: this too shall pass.

And of course it did.

Today. Today is different. I have total control. Well more or less. I control what happens next. If I want to flake out, I can. Sometimes I do. If I want to get down and get to it, sometimes I do.

And that's where I start to watch myself, and wonder, "Shelby T., why do you do that to yourself?" I'm good at wishing. Really good. I've got a VERY active imagination. Very thorough imagination. Very detail oriented. I've also got a penchant for chasing what feels good. This makes me only proficient at taxes and excellent at fucking. Just saying.

Now, that chasing the good feeling... that comes back to this past Saturday's Torah reading, if you can believe that. Those poor G-d chasers Abihu and Nadab just wanted more of the estatic vision. Who could blame them? There was already tension: would the Shechinah appear and reside in what they had built? Moses and Aaron going in together, what's going on? Where's G-d? So in their great passion, they brought strange fire, breaking the rules, these priests. And what happened to them? The story goes that G-d zapped their souls, with a red beam through the nose, leaving their bodies and clothes intact. Some say they were drunk when they went in, breaking another rule stated nearby in the text. That's still chasing pleasure, and at the wrong time too.

Careful... careful with that motivation to feel good, to be at the pinnacle, the highest high. No one can live there, no human. There is a time and place. You may get lucky. You may see the face of G-d. You may feel ecstasy. Or you may have to keep working.

I watch myself, watching movies, not studying. I have watched myself put more in my mouth than I could stand, just for the sensation. I have put myself in emotional pretzels, just to feel passion.

I still want the story to be excellent. Still not sure what I want. But a little age makes the concept of planning quite desirable.

Careful, how fast you go around that curve. Yes, the ride is sensational. And then, there is the rest of life. Careful.

When?

I am mostly impatient. On a minute by minute basis, I am constantly jumping head. On a theorectical plane, I want results. On a tangible plane, I want explanations. I consider that I might have some sort of quantum-affliction that will only be diagnosed 1000 years from now that prevents me from being in just one place at one time.

Perhaps I'm just an obsessive multi-tasker. That surely comes to play in many spheres of life.

I want the ankle to heal. I want to ride my motorcycle... I want another motorcycle. I want to go to Israel. I want someone to kiss. I want to feel. Everything.

And then I remind myself: be careful of what you want.

I want to live, by G-d, loudly. So you can't get me to swear to this grand theory when I'm weeping my eyes out, feeling the low after the intense high. That doesn't mean I don't mean it. It means I'm busy wailing and mourning. DND, BRB.

You know, good shit often hurts when it's gone. That's just how it works. Like love. Like skin.

I want to heal. I want to feel. I am obsessing over not obsessing. Not so much in a corkscrew spiral downward. Maybe in a gearing up to spring?

Spring, new, rebirth. I hate myself again for crashing my bike. I was waiting so long all winter for good weather, warmer weather.

I wait, I wait. And my insistence on Now brings it crashing to a halt. I need to slow down. Even further than before. Slow. Way. Down. Change direction. Is this me telling myself to chill? A voice from the other side of the room that is still just me: There is love out there. There is language in there. Just wait.

Great. I do need practice in waiting.