Dud Sea Scrawls The Writing, clearly, is not on the wall!

Don’t ever say I love you unless you mean it. To do otherwise is a kind of cruelty that I don’t think those who perpetrate it even consider. Saying it isn’t nearly enough. When you say that you love, those to whom you have spoken these life-affirming and miraculous words go to look for that love. They ask themselves why and how you love them. And so to be sure that the gift they think they heard you give voice to is for them, to make certain that these words are truth, they seek it out–the tangible and intangible exhibition of your love…

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Fuego’s Blog

…I’ve got one all my own that comes out as a result of having lost my…or being in a state of loss about…my thing. It is as if it made me well, or helped to…as well as I am, anyway. Without it I froth and spill over, at the mouth and other orifices…

And that whatever else he does (or more specifically–gets all wrong), he will get that right. He doesn’t know it, but I am his secret champion where they are concerned. I want him to be good and beautiful in their eyes for forever.

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It comes down to this FACT. I am being psychologically warfared by one or two or both of the following things. One: you know. Two: my biology. Or far worse: the intersection of these two…you know…because of my age. 26. That time…I hate to type the rest…in a woman’s life.

And I really want to say so but know that the fall-out would be disastrous. Utter calamity is what I would unleash, so I’m going to leave everything as it is. But these smiles had better get gotten under control before we next see one another. I plan to not give myself away…

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She and I can’t really spend long periods of time together without a situation bubbling up. I wish things were different. They are not. Just before she got out of my car, all of the venom in her dried up enough for her to ask me “What’s wrong? Are you frustrated?”

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So, what happens is that pieces are all any one person gets. Which are just swatches. As in of fabric. But a collection of swatches can make a quilt. And to look at one part could be really jarring to all your senses. And then you incline your head a little to the left and tilt the head down a bit and then there is comfort and love and harmony. And then if you turn your back on the quilt, god only knows

I am half afraid it will be dismissed and/or lost and/or misunderstood. If none of those, then completely effective.

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I am much more comfortable with blurring, where things slide back and forth into one another, sharing, ambiguity, by day-ness and by night-ness…Mercurial and fey are standing down for consistent and ordinary. By day. And I’m dying while the sun is up.

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I’m taking what the kids call “hillbilly heroin.” It’s medical name is oxycodone. It ain’t pretty. Below you will find a list of things about which I have burst into full-fledged tear-streaming hysterics about since I’ve been taking this drug:

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I will always call. And I will always write. And I will drop anything to be there. Where ever I need to be to get things out of the clouds and down on solid ground. For real, this time. I’m a sort of grown up, now, and I’ve realized that some people need you to do whatever you can to help them find their way to you. They try, you know, but really have no idea how to navigate really human pathways. But quality is quality and you don’t forget that easily.

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…And I’d learned a few words and phrases in Malayalam–which did NOT come from “The God of Small Things,” thankyouverymuch! But I’ve forgotten them all. Language dies if it isn’t utilized.

At one point I was thinking what it might be like to live in Washington, D.C. Didn’t pan out. Then there was that one night I was a stalker. For like thirty minutes. Then I was over it. Didn’t pan out.

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…it was so fucked up because there is this entire section of people who were–a significant percentage, you know…well…they were actually traced back to places in Europe. The particular ancestor that they were able to single out. But they’re obviously Black.

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Trouble, my dears. Trouble is what sometimes a girl gets into. Because though people who actually know you in the material world think it’s neat to read about all your little idiosyncrasies and sexually-charged quips you “publish” in the virtual world, they always have a problem when…

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…no longer liking someone whom I’d liked MORE THAN JESUS LIKED SELF-SACRIFICE…for the first three weeks. Three weeks, ladies and gentlemen. Plus or minus. Plus if he was really, really bright (literary, artistic, older–gotta love a few gray hairs). Minus if the most he had going for him was his nationality.

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I think it is that women are taught very early that this should be one of their priorities. We get dolls and we must name them. No mother walks around with unidentified, uncharacterized children. Women name babies. Girls name dolls so that later we will know how to name babies. I don’t know any men who have naming fixations.

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The weight of all the demonic thoughts I share, of all the self-destructive desires I breed, of all the self-designed paralysis I am building up and up and up…that a body would want to move away from that lest they become bogged down in it, forever, themselves…well. I can’t blame a body for opting for a wide berth around the mess that is me over the cool breeze that other people blow across your cheek when they kiss you.

Also, and I might have just been in the mood for this sort of thing–searching for reassurance that this can be so–, but their fights were never “this is the end of us” fights. I liked that. I hate yelling and fighting between people who are supposed to be in love with one another. But I am learning that it can be borne–that it is inevitable, apparently–even by me. I still hate it. But that someone can still love me even as he is angry as hell at me…well…I am expanding my definition of loving, I guess, to include this.

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I am a teacher.

I am employed by a save-the-planet, hug-a-tree, don’t spank the kids, use your inside voices, walk gracefully, hands in your lap, grace and courtesy lesson plans, learn to pour water beautifully, watch our garden grow, teach 4 year olds to write in cursive, concrete not abstract learning, sing John Denver songs in a circle…Montessori School.

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People have all sorts of fancy names for things that are used but are given away or found and then sold all over again. Vintage. Consignment. Thrift. Recycled. My favorite is rummage. I like it because of its versatility. Without any sort of inflection, it is a noun, an adjective, and a verb. It is, if ever I thought to sit down and compile a list of its sisters to flesh out the category, my kind of word.

And it’s hard, I’ve discovered, to not be…yourself. To…sort of…see what the world will be like, a bit, if you withdraw from it. A bit.

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…unless they ask you, ever, how they can make you happy. Because they want to make you happy. And I haven’t been asked, so I’ve not said. And perhaps he doesn’t need another hungry mouth pulling, pulling at him. But he should remember that I didn’t find him.

I kid you not. I could have lied, you know. But what for, really? I still read romance novels at Christmas and summer breaks to give my brain a rest…is what I tell myself. How I started is…well…for the porn. The sex in them is amazing, if your imagination is as vivid as my own.

I still call out to a particular Him in earnest whispers, beneath red-black skies, with and without manipulative moons’ illumines, to come to our place. My bed.