Cozy

“Strange place….” Awareness whispered in Ingrid’s ear. “I don’t know this place.”

Ingrid smiled quietly over her shoulder.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. It’s safe. You’ll remember it in a few minutes.”

She felt him shift slightly on her back. He was sometimes skittish, not quite certain of some places and environments. As he warmed up to a place, he would start to relax. Right now, his long tentacles were pulled in tightly between their two bodies, his skin cold next to hers. He seemed a bit hesitant to move too much but his wide eyes were moving quickly around the rooms as she entered into the house.

“Hi!” she called out loudly, sending her voice out before her to alert Bruce she was downstairs. Awareness clenched just a bit tighter at her back, flaring his nostrils. She could hear him breathing with slight pants as he started to register the smell of the unfamiliar house. His tongue danced along his lips once in a while and she felt his body warming ever so slightly as he continued to stare around.

Taking a left, Ingrid headed up the stairs to say hello to Bruce. She was looking forward to seeing him; it seemed like it had been a long day. She wondered briefly what they should do for dinner.

As she moved passed the sofa, she felt Awareness reach a long arm out and touch the blanket there. He warmed another degree on her back as he registered a familiar texture. She moved up the stairs and Awareness looked at the pictures with big empty eyes that said little. She felt his hand slide along the closet door when she passed it and then felt him tuck his cold hand back against her body.

Bruce smiled up as she came in his office, gave her a quick kiss and then moved to join her downstairs. Ingrid felt Awareness shift happily on her back, warming quickly at the sight of their familiar friend. She reached up to hug Bruce and felt Awareness reach, touching his skin as well. His tentacle wrapped around his arm, snuggling in closer, and squeezing just a tad. She smiled to herself. Awareness always delved when he felt comfortable.

Over the evening, Ingrid and Bruce enjoyed each other’s company and Awareness relaxed enough to climb down and explore. He remained within reach of Ingrid, returning quickly after touching a door or staring at a chair. His little body chilled easily in the space and his long arms moved stiffly under the load of hesitation. But he became more relaxed as the evening moved on. Ingrid kept an eye on him, checking to make sure he was alright. She was familiar with this process; they had done it several times over the last weeks. Awareness had to adjust to the new space each time but he was getting quicker at it. She could see that he recognized things around him quicker even though he remained shy of cabinets and corners. Knowing that helped her worry less about him over the course of the visit.

The next morning, Ingrid tucked Awareness and herself in her car and headed towards their side of town. Awareness stuck close to her as he always did when they were away. His body still had the slight chill that he kept away from home and she could feel his alertness darting around. The landscape passing the windows was familiar but still new to his eyes.

“We’re headed home again,” she said quietly to him and reached over to turn on the radio. The familiar voice of the radio announcer seemed to help Awareness calm down. He felt his small body warm up a degree and the tension left a bit of his muscles. He smiled over at her and ran his hand along the dash. His tentacles got longer as the muscles relaxed and she watched him sneak his fingers around the cracks of the door to the glove compartment. After a bit of time, he seemed happy that everything was there and he reached over to touch her hair. His hands had warmed up with the familiar environment and she knew reaching behind closed doors always helped him relax more.

Over the drive Awareness became warmer and chattier. He babbled in her ear about the church off the road to her right and then reminded her that they needed to visit the grocery store. His eyes became warmer, moving with familiarity over the traffic lights while his busy little fingers explored all the nooks and crannies he remembered.
Parking, Ingrid got her bag out of her car and grinned when Awareness scampered up her arm. He liked his ride inside the house. As soon as she opened the door, he was down and running. His little frame glowed with warmth and pleasure. He reached under the couch, found the box he knew was there and grinned up at her. She just laughed and returned to taking care of the unpacking.

Over the next couple hours, she could hear him in the house. Awareness loved to poke through closets for no reason other to know what was in there. He dug into the laundry basket and poked around under the sink. She heard him tapping on the water heater and turning the faucet on just to see the familiar force of the water. When he brushed passed her to reach into a cabinet, she laughed. Always the curious little bugger, he almost seemed to melt around the edges in the eagerness to remember what was in that dark space.

Ingrid pulled together her bag for work. Tucking lunch into the pocket she called softly to Awareness. She found him looking at the pictures on the wall. His eyes were full of memories and laughter when he looked up at her. Grinning, he climbed up to her shoulder to head off with her and she smiled herself as she slipped the key in the door. Awareness snuggled down; his long loose muscles draped quietly over her shoulders and down her back. They looped along her waist, warm and soft. His breath snuffled in her ear, no longer hyper aware of the smells because he knew these by heart. Together, they warmed each other on the walk to the bus.

Laundry Day

Found this in some old files - a bit dusty and could use a work over - but thought I'd put it up anyway. Interesting to see how we change over the years.

***********

“Is his waist really that large?” Stephanie balked at the size of the boxers she was folding. She felt the same jolt of shock when folding his large jeans that were finding their way into her laundry with alarming regularity these days. The jeans looked large enough to wrap around her twice. “Funny, he never feels that large in person.” Her forehead creased in irritation when she tried to reconcile the size of the faded t-shirt in front of her with the man she thought she knew. How had this happened? How had any of this happened?

Fingers slid over the cloth, smoothing and tucking the next shirt into the correct shape in a folding technique was automatic, practiced for years on her petite clothing. Above puzzled eyes, her forehead crinkled again.

Suddenly a hand covered the small of her back and she felt a tall, unyielding presence leaning over her. It was looming, inevitable, blocking out all space and light in the room while it pressed forward, insistent, and unstoppable. Stephanie stiffened, determined to not let it crush her. “You’re a fighter… fighter…fighter,” she chanted to herself to calm the panic.

“Hey sweetie. Thought I’d bring a bottle of wine to go with the spaghetti tonight.” His voice cracked against her and she jerked back from his quick peck on her cheek, heart scrambling to find footing in reality.

“Jesus Fucking Christ! Don’t you knock anymore? You scared the shit out of me… oh God.” She slumped into the bed. Instead of its firm surface she found herself flailing in piles of lumpy socks, tiny underwear and gargantuan sweatshirts and sweaters. Suddenly her entire wardrobe seemed to be made of Velcro and she felt claustrophobic. The rush of adrenaline only fueled the panicked feeling. “Fighter” whispered through her head again and she tore clothes from her, throwing them as far from her as she could.

“Sorry, here” He reached into the mess, laughing. “… Ouch… hold still…Why are you wriggling so much? Good grief, it’s only me. I didn’t mean to scare you. … Damn it, calm down.” He tried to help disentangle his black pants from her legs before she tripped herself and went down again.

She flicked a pillow case off her lap as she calmed. Feeling foolish and embarrassed, she shrugged off his attempts to help. “I’m ok. You brought wine?”
“Yeah, stuck it in the kitchen. I thought you heard me come in. The radio isn’t even on. You ok?” He reached down to help her up and then tilted her head up to him, trying to assess her state of mind.

“Why didn’t you knock?”

“You knew I was coming over. You gave me a key and I never knock anymore. Seems logical. You didn’t have a problem with it last night.” He straightened up indignantly. She shrugged in response.

Turning towards the doorway she shrugged again and shook her head quickly. “No. No. Of course not. Of course it’s alright.” She left the laundry on the bed and went towards the kitchen. She’d concentrate on dinner she told herself firmly. That way she wouldn’t have to keep looking at his polo shirt swallowing her tank top. Determined, she went to go boil some water.

“Want a glass?” A cork popped behind her.

She shrugged, not committing to the idea one way or the other.

“Cold out there. Heard it was supposed to be down to 23 degrees tonight.”

Silence hung between them.

He tried again. “You’d be proud. I think I finally figured out that excel sheet that was giving me crap yesterday. ‘Course it was just some silly mistake on my part; Jerry started laughing so hard when I told him what I had done that I don’t think I’ll ever live it down.” He paused, continued. “But, at least it’s done and I don’t have to worry about it anymore for the rest of the night.” He cocked his head, swallowed some wine and watched her stiff shoulders. Then he took a deep breath, which raised his shoulders, and stepped forward.

“Isn’t that good?” She felt his breath on her ear as he leaned down and spoke in a quiet, humorous tone. Surprise and tension jerked through her body, his head bounced of the cabinet and the burner sizzled when the sloshed water hit it.

“Jesus Christ! What’s with you today?” It was his turn to swear.

“Nothing…Everything.”

He loomed.

Something snapped in her and she rounded on him. “You’re everywhere! You take up room in my washing machine. You sneak up on me, walk into my space unannounced. You stand over me, look down on me. You’re twice my size and you take up too much space in my house. You’ve got a bottle of shampoo in my shower, a toothbrush next to mine and shaving cream stashed under the sink.” She tried to remember to keep her voice reasonable. Hoping to calm herself so she could make sense of what was going on, she started to pace.

He watched.

“I’ve got your jeans in my dirty clothes. You just show up in my bedroom, unannounced and suddenly I’m planning dinner for two. Even at night there’s an arm pressing me down. You hover over me with a glass of wine and I’m trying to just stay afloat.” She stilled and turned slightly away from him. Her hands were shaking.

She stirred the sauce. She could feel him behind her. He was now just as tense as she was. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him poured a glass of wine. The focused deliberateness in the action told her more than words would have. He handed it to her and looked down at her. He took a sip of his own wine.
She sipped the wine.

Time stretched.

“Stephanie… You’re 5 foot 1. Of course I’m twice your size.” The controlled tone of voice kept her still and unsure of what was coming. He continued quietly. “I don’t hover or loom. I didn’t realize I was pressing myself on you unwanted.” She felt poised to run if she needed to. She knew she was reacting a bit irrationally and that she should calm down, back off. She couldn’t.

“I know.” She mumbled, embarrassed from her outburst. “It’s just my house has been my house for so long. All mine and just mine. It’s weird to fold your laundry and have you taking up space in my bathroom.”

Sauce bubbled.

“You slipped in unexpected, uninvited. I watched for it this invasion but didn’t see it until now. All these little things just built up under my nose without me noticing. And, now you’re here. Looming, large and cumbersome” His eyebrows rose at that and he set his glass down on the table. “And your pants are big and take up too much room in my washing machine.”

“Uninvited?! Now I’m some kind of invader?” He stepped to his coat. “I didn’t realize I was imposing myself upon your good graces. Despite my size, I’ve never used it to intimidate anyone into tolerating my presence.”

She watched him shrug into his coat and felt a shift. A different panic was beginning to set in and she took a step forward. “Don’t –“

“I’ll leave you to your house. I’ve got better things to do then to stay where I’m not wanted.” He clipped his words when he was angry.

She felt frozen, not knowing what to do. She wanted the safety of her cocoon but she didn’t want to see him leave. She reached for her wine and tried to think faster than the door was shutting. She failed and the silence pressed in on her. The lack of his presence rose in her mind; it took up so much space she felt she couldn’t breathe. She shook her head and turned back to the stove.

The empty table with the half empty wine glass loomed at her back.

Birds of a feather

Sarah worked thoughts. She molded them, coated them with colors, packed them into square boxes or wheels. It had taken fastidious attention at first. In the beginning she had had to learn each word intimately, turning it over and around in her hands, listen to it whisper its desires and fears. Sarah discovered what kind of skin certain phrases had and what they liked to feel against their bodies. She noted which thoughts were friends and which were enemies; which ideas like to be alone and which ideas craved company; which conversations craved praise under a spotlight and which preferred the humble shadows.

Sarah also watched people accept these ideas. She discovered some people preferred a certain phrase packed in a red circle while others seemed to take the phrase better when it had a green stripped cushion around it. Some words seemed to slip straight through a person without them having been aware that it had touched them. She studied the thoughts were mutilated once they’d made it into a person. She watched as a purple wheel of an idea slid into someone and was then crushed and twisted ruthlessly until it became a yellow box. The yellow box then came flying back at Sarah and she stared at it like she’d never seen it before.

For a time, her time was filled figuring out how to package certain ideas so they would be accepted quickly into the people she talked with. Sometimes the creations would bounce of someone; sometimes they’d sink in slowly, working through some resistance initially but finally making it in as they changed shapes and colors in the other person’s mind; sometimes they made it inside but fell heavily under the gravity of disregard.

Try as she might, Sarah was never able to create a combination that didn’t have to undergo some change as the other person accepted the words she gave them. She could get close to the right shape and color sometimes, but there always seemed to be the need for a subtle change on the other person’s end of things. And she found the same thing happened with her.

She watched the phrases produced by other people and she felt they had a tendency to come out in ways she’d never seen before. Words that she thought would normally be shiny and metallic triangles were given to her as flat, octagon disks. She worked to dismantle these disguises and rework the words so she could understand them. None of the thoughts ever came home to roost without the same tweaking she witnessed in other people.

This process had become so familiar that it happened in the background. She was only aware of the routine when it was extremely important that the ideas and thoughts be accepted by her conversation partner with as little manipulation as possible. Most of the time autopilot took over the molding and shaping and conversations were fairly smooth. The effort of translating became second nature, a reflex that she took very little notice of.

One day, she was shocked back into awareness. She was talking with someone and watched the thought float towards the person and slid inside easily. This person didn’t need to make small changes to the colors or textures. There was no grinding of gears, no manipulation of thoughts. She watched wide eyed as the ideas settled in like they were as at home there as they would be if this person had created them. A little shocked, Sarah tried to brush this off as an anomaly that wouldn’t be repeated.

Then came with another surprise. This person produced a new series of words and ideas. As they came towards her, Sarah froze in disbelief. She’d never seen anyone produce words identical to the way she would have done them. She felt them ease into her and she could detect no tweaking that needed to be done. As they settled into her, she felt as if she herself had produced the thoughts. They didn’t feel alien - didn’t need to be quarantined until they had been fixed. She had never realized such a thing was possible.

Over time, Sarah discovered that this was not an odd occurrence during conversations with this person. In fact, the opposite seemed to be true. Words were traded between the two with such ease, thoughts took on the proper color naturally; there was no quarrel in either of them about the ideas and how they should be formed. Sarah began to crave this newness. During these conversations she found there was no need for autopilot; there was no need for any struggle at all. Muscles that had moved automatically in the background for many, many years found that they could rest, a sensation they had never been able to experience. She felt softer and more at ease – less watchful of the ideas flowing towards her. There was no longer a need to brace for the struggle to change things into something that she could understand.

And life continued. The same caution of shaping thoughts, the same frustrations of watching them fighting to find a home in other people followed her. Her automatic pilot still did a lot of the driving. But Sarah found that she looked forward to the times of rest, when conversation could be had and there was no need to shift colors or shapes for the ideas slid in cleanly and with acceptance.

New Paints

Trish feels heavy against the pillow. Her limbs are weights too heavy for her bones to move at this moment. Through the haze of exhaustion, her skin registers the breeze from the ceiling fan pushing her deeper into the mattress. She's trapped. Her brain is betraying her, making her a hostage who is conscious but unable to move to freedom. And, like the hostage, she watches her capture through bleary eyes. Her brain is going about it's work, indifferent to her needs and focused intently on sorting the materials in it's hands. Abandoned in this world of flickering images that she can neither slow down or sort out, Trish lays helplessly and waits for mercy.

From her spot, Trish watches the strange process before her. Thoughts become a physical form, ghostlike images that cloud the air around her mind. Images, smells, thoughts, and experiences are rushing to report to duty, answering an inaudible call that had gone out earlier that day. She can hear flickers, clicks, murmurs fill the area; her brain plucking each of them from the air to sort them into piles. It plucks an image, turns it, tries to fit it against another, discards it for another. This process is repeated until the fit is seamless. Unrelated words are answering the call now, creating a chaos of noise that is colliding with the whirs and pops already coming from the complicated process before her. Trish witnesses her mind pluck them quietly from the air and sort them into the appropriate piles. Detached and distant she considers the process; she can't seem to figure out the ordering system in use here.

Her brain pauses briefly, Trish pushes the advantage and rolls onto her other side. Her eyes are trained to search out the red numbers on her alarm clock. By the time the numbers register her mind is back in control and is focused intently again. It's moving through the images and sounds now, traveling around bodies, tunneling between relationships. It grabs moments from years past and swirls them with minutes from the yesterday. Trish watches the moments spin so fast they finally merge and become a new color. Sounds are ground with words creating a glittering substance. Her brain plucks more and more from air around it, tediously clipping, matching, merging them into miraculous new substances Trish has never really seen before. It seems to be putting together a new pallet - a new stock of paints to work with. Textures are being recombined, resorted, reassembled - her brain painting a new map from the ragtag army of new and old images and thoughts.

Hours pass. Her brain frantically continues it's work and Trish begs it to just let the day end. Can't her mind understand that she needs to function in the morning? Does it think this is productive? She grows frustrated with the endless shuffling it seems so intent on. She wants control of her body back. She needs to be allowed to sleep or at the very least be able to get up and distract herself. Instead, she's being forced to lie here and watch this insane alchemy. She whimpers quietly and her brain coldly rebukes her, like a scolding parent who is trying to think and will not tolerate any distraction. She's been confined to her room and has been commanded to stay there until it is appropriate for her to come out. She cowers back and surrenders.

The flickers continue to arrive. They pour in and are tossed up, then crushed into one paste or another in her brain's mortar and pestle. Her mind's fingers reach out, snatch a bit of this and a pinch of that. Dazed, Trish lays and just watches, long since giving up figuring out the reasoning behind the process. Her brain seems to appreciate the ceded control and whirls double in it's efforts. Finally, a tornado of tugs, pinches, aches, pains, wounds and victories all twist together violently. They shudder for a minute, the mixture is alive and trying to determine if this is a stable match. Finally it heaves itself into stillness and becomes a calm pool. The breaks and tears that have occurred in years past are settling down. They fit against each other, one void accepting the excess of another. Her brain steps back, seemingly satisfied thus far, and begins to paint a salve over the new images and thoughts, soothing them back into stasis. The new colors seem to be a perfect match though Trish can't quite make them out; the vibrations coming from the new mixtures heat her skin, lulling her further into complacency. She is being seeped in things she doesn't yet have a feel for. There is an unfamiliar coating of recombined understandings - strengths and weakness are mixed together to create a new salve for her new wounds.

Trish's brain stops, panting and weary from the intense focus. The silence is mind-numbing after the chaos that preceded it. Trish wearily regards her mind with a measured look when she feels it letting her go free. The hostage situation ends with the sharp bursts from the alarm by her head. She rolls, hauls herself up out of bed and forces her way into the shower. She recognizes this familiar feeling of trust. Her job is to go about her day and trust that this new skin will become comfortable. As time passes, the newly combined elements into a new fine wine. Her brain will step back and the two of them can relax in her patio chair,sipping on wine and enjoying a new view of her life.

But first a shower. It's gonna take a while to get used to this.

Treasures

Shelly smoothed her hand down the length of the dress. The sleekness of the garment translated to a cool silky feel beneath her hand. Grinning and eager, she reached up for the hanger; she was ready for tonight.

This dress transformed her into someone sexy and confident. Rationally she knew she was still the same person she was each day; the shape of her legs and the texture of her skin were the same as they had been yesterday. Sure, her hair had been dried and styled after her shower today rather than left to dry but her core was no different; her desires, secrets, and goals remained unchanged. She pulled on the dress and when her head appeared at the top of the dress the shoulders the dress settled on were the same shoulders she'd seen in the mirror yesterday. As the hem rushed to its proper place, Shelly relished the snapping of the material as the length fell into place. The zipper was ushered quickly up her back to the top of its track and a hand smoothed down the front, laying the dress against her. Shelly stepped back to take in the final product. She was giddy with the difference she felt.

She twirled and twisted, encouraging the skirt to dance with her and the waist to skim lightly just above her hips. The dress teased her mouth into a smile and she felt the blood in her veins with an awareness that had been missing lately. This was the dress she chose for the nights where living and playing seemed lighter and easier – the nights when the mundane tasks could be forgotten – the nights when indulgences of pleasures and laughter were encouraged. The clean lines, heavy silkiness and seductive movement of the dress coaxed a bounce into her step. Shelly treasured this dress, immersed herself in joys and treasures in this dress, escaped in this dress.

She stepped into her heels. Then allowing the spin in her head to spin her body, Shelly threw one last glance at the mirror. She quickly closed the closet door and snatched up her purse. When tonight was over, she'd carefully clean the dress and store it once again. There, it would hang, silently, patiently, until she could indulge herself again. But that was later and this was now.

She grinned, locked the door and tripped towards the waiting car.

*

Shelly pushed her wet hair back from her face, smoothing it with a practiced gesture. Her mind wrestled with the order of the day while she blindly reached for her jeans. Thoughts of necessary chores rolled through her head as she performed her unconscious dance. First the right foot went in. She straightened halfway up with the first pull then bent again. The left leg raised; the left foot went in. That was followed by a rise onto her toes as the waistband was pulled up and a quick small twist to settle everything into its proper place. An efficient twist of the fingers and a slight flick of the wrist would secure the waist band and complete the process. Shelly completed all of these steps as she stepped out of the closet and glanced around.

Shelly felt the comfort of the pants hanging from her waist. The jeans hugged her thighs with just the right encouragement, reminding her that there was protection from the variety scrapes that one can accumulate while pulling weeds or mowing the lawn. As she headed to the kitchen to finalize her plans, she picked at the signs of wear the jeans showed - a string here, a small tear there. Today was yet another day of small tasks and mundane chores.

She stood quietly next to the kitchen counter and finished her coffee. Staring blankly at the wall in front of her, Shelly's mind worked quickly through her plans for the day. She blinked it all into order, set the cup down and turned for the door. This was her life. Small tasks of grocery shopping, vacuuming and folding laundry hardly seemed glamorous. Taking the recycling out and washing the car didn't require more from her wardrobe than comfort. This was the pair of jeans that proved that. This was the pair of jeans she lived her life in.

Test of Time

We will stand like the trees. Bend when we must, break when it's too much, grow tall and strong, patient enough to wait out the droughts. We will lift our faces to the sky and drink in the rain with joy and enjoy the lightening with quick fear. We will dig our feet into the ground and hold on with all of our might.

We will remain silent when we should. Tall, proud and humble, beautiful.

We will take your breath away.

*This is a re-post of sorts - from an old blog hidden in the memories of the internets. This is a beautiful friend that taught me many things over a series of trips to the west coast. He never failed to be exactly what he needed to be. This is my only way of introducing him to a new friend.

Telling notes

Laughing a little, we rolled over. I settled back against his side and nestled my head into his shoulder. Light breathing filled the room and he stroked over my shoulder. Small comments drifted between us and I could feel a laziness settle it. Grinning, I propped my head up on his chest and looked at him.

“Why don't you play the piano for me,” I coaxed him out of our bed and shooed him towards the living room. My piano lay ahead – I remembered him commenting on it a few nights ago. I was eager to hear someone else play. The piano always seemed to speak to my secret place.

“Just so you know, I'm not playing for you in return.” I joked, popping his bottom, warning him not to expect me to perform for him in return. I never played for anyone – playing the piano created a path to a secret place of mine – not many were invited down that path.

“That's fine.” Confidently he sat on my piano bench. I stood slightly awkwardly by the piano. It is an upright and I didn't want to curl up next to him on the bench but I did want to be where I could see him as he played.I was eager to hear him play, watching someone play pieces that they love is a treat.

His fingers pressed the keys and I was startled. They weren't soft. They weren't slow. They weren't light. They didn't ease over the white keys and tease the black keys forward. Instead he ran over them, mashed them, forced them. I shrank into my seat I beside the piano.

A mass of sound waves pounded over me. It could be described as nothing more refined than that. From the waves hitting my ear I did not need a visual to know his foot sat heavy, foreboding on the pedal – forcing it down ruthlessly - trying to draw out more sound but not realizing he was choking the very sound he was creating.

I couldn't bring myself to look at his fingers which carelessly pounded each note from the keyboard. They were quick and uncaring. They didn't bother to draw out each note or caress it to fullness, leaving some heavy and some light. There was no acknowledgment of difference between soft and hard, quick or long. They ran over each sound as if each note was no different from the one before or the one following. I sat, shocked, as note after note rushed towards me, calling out for help as he ruthlessly ran each one down without notice.

I barely managed to glance up at him, feeling horror course through me. He looked over and smiled, confident and happy - slaughtering note after simple careful soft note as if they were no more than an incidental happenstance in his life. My horror must have not made it to my eyes.

“Do you recognize this? Beach Boys” he said, continuing to ram notes through the air between us. There was no distinction in his fingers, no thought or coaxing in his hands. My body wanted to withdraw, rushed and undignified, into a ball – retreating from such lack of awareness. It couldn't imagine itself next to someone that could not imagine slowness. It couldn't understand someone that didn't dwell in the quietness between notes...someone that didn't understand the beauty of the rest, the value of the silent breath, the quietness of the slow coaxing of a simply melody, the importance of drawing out a soul not crowded by a sustaining pedal.

He ran over it all, covering individual voices with a heavy foot that refused to let up enough for a single thought to catch a breath. Oblivious, he choked the life out of each line of melody.

The war on sound halted and silence filled the air. I heard the heat in my apartment cut on – loud and hissing – insistent that we pay attention. Realizing I was frozen in place, I jerked my eyes towards his face and form. For the first time, he seemed only like a mound sitting on my piano bench, a hideous formless mound, not defined by anything – not even his own skin. He appeared a mindless lump that trumped through wild life and failed to notice delicate Violets he probably trod upon without notice or care.

“I'm sure you play much better than me,” he said, leafing through my sheet music that I stored on the piano.

To him I'm sure I muttered something quiet like “Definitely not – how long have you been playing?”

To myself I whispered, “I may not play as quickly or as many notes – but at least I don't commit murder.” I knew later I would need to caress my keyboard back to life.

Seat of the Soul

My experience of my world starts with the skin – is absorbed physically into my body and spread out to the rest of my consciousness. I gather bits of information seep into my skin and read vibrations that pound my body; then, when it is all collected, my brain begins the translation of what is happening. The translation is needed for the future, for the time I will be required to speak about my experience and my life. The time between the first sensations and the beginning of the translation is pure – a time when I am able to communicate with myself with intense intimacy.

My soul resides just beneath the skin, instantly translating myself outward and interpreting messages coming inward. The soul is caressed by both my skin and my muscles, massaged between them with growing strength and smoothness as I evolve. I’m wrapped in a give and take of soul and body – each one feeding off of the other in a symbiotic relationship that moves in perfect harmony. Within this exchange, no words exist; not once will my soul misunderstand me; I trust it implicitly to understand without the need of language. I am greedy for that silence in which everything is wholly understood; where nothing is fragmented into understandable pieces. I wallow in that space that is swollen with no need to speak.

Itch

Shelly’s skin itched something fierce. The insistent irritation invaded her thoughts and tore her mind from her task. Her skin had developed tiny needle pitched voices that pierced her brain directly, demanding attention. Shelly’s finger muscles began to rebel her brain’s command to remain at ease and began to twitch. She knew this was a clear sign her fingers and the voices were winning.
Telling herself that she was just providing minor relief, Shelly’s hand drifted to her forearm. Blessed calm blanketed her at the first light scratch. The voices stilled and everything inside her focused on that light touch scrapping over her skin. Nothing had ever felt better against her body; no silk could be have been more luxurious. For a few minutes, she lived in a world of perfect; perfect sensations, perfect sounds, perfect calm.

Then, her fingers became a bit heavier and the scratching became a bit more intense. The change was almost imperceptible and Shelly didn’t even register the shift at the beginning. As her fingers continued to move, she slowly became of their weight and the shape of their nails moving into her skin. She started to become alarmed when she felt the bite sinking into her arm deeper than she had intended but she couldn’t stop her scratching. She watched as they continued to dig and scratch at the irritated skin that had been screaming at her moments earlier. And then, as slowly as she had become aware of the increasing intensity of her scratching, she became aware of prickles riding the rest of her skin.
Her thigh wanted attention so badly it started twitching as if it were trying to make the journey to her hand instead of waiting for the hand to come to it. Her back flinched in anger when its itch was ignored. Her ankle begged her reach down and treat it to the same rough treatment her arm had received. Shelly’s hands flashed over her skin, scratching and tearing into each itch. They lighted like butterflies and dug in like plows, never quite quick enough to sooth one spot before the next bellowed for attention.

Shelly’s body rocked with the violence, moving and arching under the nails that provided both a salve to the itch and a slight pain with the pressure. As her hands answered the prayers of other parts of her body, the greed slowly began to be quenched. Her back no longer pitched and heaved seeking attention. Her thigh quieted down and lay content along her bone. Her hands still moved to answer smaller requests but instead of violent sweeps they were now hiccups. Shelly became quiet stillness broken by a small jerky motion that lapsed back into stillness.

Gathering her body around her, Shelly stood and moved softly toward the bathroom. Perhaps a glass of water was in order. Perhaps she just wanted to wash her hands because they felt as if they were coated. She wasn’t quite sure why she moved. She just knew the storm was over and that she could now return to what she had been doing a few moments ago. She leaned in and picked up the glass. Her eyes drifted up with the glass, she met her eyes in the mirror and froze.

Her skin. It was gone. But it was still there. She blinked and looked down at her hands. The fingertips were crusty with sloughed off skin; cells packed the recesses of her nails. Beneath this grime she saw new skin covering her palms. Her forearms blinked back at her in the healthy pink hue that appears after the last of a scab has fallen away. Shelly turned on the water and washed the last evidence of the old layers away from her hands. Drying them, she noted the sensitivity that hadn’t been there before. She ran her hands over her stomach, feeling the freshly exposed nerve endings flicker uncertainly, new to the feeling of touch. Her calves were tender to contact. The newness of her skin was smooth, baby like, but the muscles beneath the new covering remained as firm as they had been earlier.

Shelly stepped back from the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. Before her was a new woman, fresh, unmarred, and vibrant. Her skin shone with eagerness and freshness. Yet, she wasn’t new. She felt the years of experience and hard work supporting this new sheath. She would still be able to run as fast; she would still be able to lift as much; she would still remember everything the years had taught her. Those lessons ran deep and clear to the bone. But now, it seemed, she had a new way to sense the world around her. Here, coating her body, were new sensations to replace the spots that had been dead. There would be new touches and new scratches. But for now it was just new. Shelly looked over this new suit calmly. She breathed in slowly and grinned, accepting the gift. She was prepared and eager to start again.

Accepting a Gift

When we lose something infinitely important to us we splinter apart. We burst apart, pieces of us fleeing in shards, flying to get away from us. In that split second, our perception of time is slowed and we watch the explosion drive parts of us from us, frozen in our shock and helplessness. There is no stopping this flight. Some of our pieces will return. Many will be damaged but will heal with time. These pieces will snuggle back into their home and our lives will appear normal. But the pieces that don’t return will leave a vacancy.

Now is the time to remember- loss is not crippling. No doubt that we will forget that we lost something and reach for what was once there. Our hands will grasp the empty air, our feet will fall through the space, leaving us gasping in fear until we find floor - now at a much different level than it was before. That sudden vacant space is not empty - merely waiting.

Perhaps we chose to leave it empty, a vacant reminder of what we’ve lost. It can become a memorial of void, adding nothing to our lives - merely a vacancy we carry throughout our days. A space that we skirt with averted eyes, hoping if we stop interacting with it, the emptiness will slowly fade.

Or, perhaps, we choose to search for the closest replica of what we lost. We can sift through materials, assemble approximations, paint surfaces to mimic the old parts. Carefully, oh so deliberately, we can try to rebuild a hollow reincarnation of what we had before, desperately hoping that this trickery will lead us back to peace.

But, maybe there is a third possibility. Maybe we can be strong enough to stop and watch the space. Perhaps we can stare into and allow ourselves to remember what was once there, revisit the pain, and let that go. Perhaps if we stand there long enough, we might begin to see the space as receptive instead of empty - a new space for us to create within, tempting us instead of tormenting us. Where we once felt loss, we can feel a calling, a luring of the creative- an urge to redefine what will occupy that space. We can allow ourselves to be seduced into the space and then we can begin again, molding and creating anew. Giddy, we can start shaping our ideas of what should replace it.

Throwing out restraints, we may fill the space with something that resembles the lost item very little. In redefining and shaping our view of the vacancy, we can create something extraordinary to take it’s previous occupant’s place. We can create something that feels softer and warmer; something that fits our souls closer; something that doesn’t chafe quite so much; something that is stronger and unexpected.

Perhaps, if we abandon restraints - we can create wings where we had legs.

Mr. Odd Job Says

Originally this blog had two contributors - Mr. Odd Job - we had a kind of call and response. Mr. Odd Job has been busy - but sends this response to this one...

Mr. Odd Job's Bed

I hug the narrow strip of land, my back to the expanse of dark behind me. The waters roll and my breath catches. I am a stranger at the sea, and I have come to hate and fear her like a primitive. Though I am layered in cloth armor, the ocean reaches for me. I can never tell if it is intentional or not, and in truth it doesn't matter. In the daylight of a stolen afternoon, I can enjoy the expanse. My body uncurls and I feel gigantic and free. Blood swells in me as my dreams relish in the open calm of sheets, pillows and blankets. In this moment, I have no dominion and no dominion has me, the ocean loses its malevolence, becomes an extension of me and I float, swim and dive in the my own skin.

Ocean of Bed

At the start of this journey, I stayed close to shore. I laid myself gingerly on 'my side' of the bed and stared across the empty space next to me. On the other side of the body pillow I hugged like a life raft, a great empty ocean mocked me. No matter how often I quieted myself and held onto the life preserver, I would wake up confused and lost when I woke up in the uncharted waters. The night stand would be to further away and I had to strain to find the snooze button; the edge of the bed seemed so to great a distance for my short legs to reach to.

So slowly I didn't realize I was doing it, I learned to swim, float, and dive. During my sleep, my body let go and trusted itself. No longer did my toes search out to find that ankle and my back decided that it wasn't searching to lean against something warm anymore. My arms decided they were tired of the fruitless search for a chest to rest on and my head began to race eagerly to the pillow instead of a shoulder. While my brain rested, my body taught what beauty there was in the weightlessness of the ocean that had frightened me a short time before.

Now I stretch to each far corner – testing the limits of the bed. The pillows that used to be body floats are slowly becoming more of a hassle than a reassurance. My limbs have found the easy rhythm of this ocean and they rest quietly in a dreaming back float, no longer searching for anything. We've all found home.

Morning Companions

Jackson's eyes snapped open; she heard Routine rustling beside her, a clear indication she was about to be herded to the shower. Her detached body began the climb from the bed and the cool walk to the bathroom. The radio buzzed behind her with the same volume it did every morning. Routine bustled around her freeing her from the need to think about reaching for the hair dryer; he erased the need to really see the table she skirted on the way into the kitchen. Routine ensured the eggs were made, her gym bag was a packed, and her wallet and cell phone were in the proper purse. She was eternally grateful every day at lunch that he oversaw to her nutritional needs.

Routine efficiently ran the the mornings in their house. Jackson willingly allowed him control and disappeared into the background. Routine worked in silence and she smiled at his focus. Even so, Jackson thought she heard sounds echoing through her head. Routine familiar rhythm rocked her body and Jackson began to listen to the sounds else in a daze.
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"He makes eggs every morning. This morning they seem to be a bit fluffier. I wonder how that happened."
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"I think I'd like to find a gentle man. I wonder if that would work..."
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"It's Friday. That means it's movie night. Hope the movie's good."

These sounds didn't even come through as conversation to Jackson. She felt they were on the other side of the side of her cocoon. Perhaps this other person was talking to Routine to keep him company. She certainly wasn't much of a companion in the morning and didn't want to intrude on the conversation.

"I wonder which bus will show up first today. Maybe I should put on my headphones instead of read."
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"We don't normally stop here. Oh...it looks like the "Hey Lady" didn't get on today. Hope she's alright."
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"His skin looks like he uses lotion. Wonder if he does lotion his elbows. I think that might be odd for a man but who am I to say. His hair cut is perfect – every hair in place. Too cute and a bit scary."

Jackson was stunned. The sounds started to pound past her, one right after another – never giving her space to hear the silence. She wondered if it bother Routine but he seemed unphased, continuing his methodical plod into the new day. The conversation's pace increased until there seemed to be no space to draw a breath.

"She looks like she' really running hard when she runs. Her form makes her look like she's not in control of her own body."......."I love living in an active town."........"I mean, really. It's 7:30am – it's not so hot that you need to be only dressed in shorts. But you do look prettier when you run that way.".........."They're in full army gear with backpacks and running the other way. Wonder if that means anything. Wonder if the guys in the shorts would feel inferior if they had to run past the army guys."

Routine resolutely plodded with her, keeping her company as she walked across the campus and headed inside the building. Everyday, she felt him leaving her side about the time she stepped inside and pressed the button of the elevator. He usually just wanted to see her safely to work. As his presence slipped further and further away, the sounds she heard faded with him.


"Why is there something in my mailbox – who in the world leaves things in my mailbox between 5pm and 7am!"
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"Wonder will Jackie come up to say hello today."
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"Coffee sounds like an excellent idea........"
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Silence.

Locked in

I stare calmly out the window and watch the city slide by the bus window. My headphones in my hears but the device attached to them is silent. I sit and listen with a placid face.

Inside the cage of my chest, I feel it, scraching relentlessly to break through. Screeching in an unknown language – there are no words that conveys their meaning, yet I understand each piercing sounds. I control the flinch threatening to cross my face.

The creature beats itself against the walls, bouncing off of them in a fury that threatens to shake my entire being and I feel my muscles clench into stone in order to contain the violence. Frustration screams from the creature in the form of vibrations and furious shaking. I can tell it wants free.

Would be claws would rip my throat out and my breathing becomes shallow in a concentrated effort to give it as little room to move as possible. Maybe if it's constricted, it will stop thrashing and quiet down. But my reasoning fails. It becomes more animated in it's need to lash out and hit. I become more resolute to quiet it.

I long to give it control - to let its words become mine – to give it command over my fists. I long to throw the hissy fit that is raging inside of me. At times I believe that if I could just let it free, it would fly from my body and leave me alone, calm and once again at peace. But I know that this is an illusion, a dangerous plot the creature whispers inside my head at a volume that seems deafening.

I will have to wait it out. The reasoning tone will seep into my thoughts and over the course of the days, I will talk my creature into a state of calm. It will once again become part of my soul and we'll sleep together through the night, comforting each other.

Until then, the battle will be exhausting.

The bus stops and I gather my things to my shoulder. Stepping to the door, I drop the headphones from my ears and cheerfully thank the driver – the same as any other day. The walk to the apartment is as slow and deliberate as any other day. My creature is visible to no one but me. Somehow that comforts both of us.

Black Silk

Finally, it was time to indulge in the most decadent thing she’d ever worn.  She tried to give this to herself once a year.  Once a year she wore nothing but black silk.

Earlier in the day, she had stripped her sun dress over her head, dropped it to the sand next to her bag and froze in pleasure.  Her firm belief had become firmer.  Yes, the first time in the year that the sun and wind caresses every inch of skin you can possibly give to it is one of the sweetest moments of each year.  She had pulled the sensations of the warm sand up through her feet and concentrated on spreading that through her limbs.  Then she had set off for the water. 

She started stripping slowly in preparation for this moment of the year.  First came her forearms and a bit of ankle between her shoe and pant leg.  For a couple weeks, that’s all that she could expose to the cooler air.  But she was so eager for the touch of the sun she indulged the small spots that could handle the weather.

 Gradually the creeping months peeled back her sleeves, revealing the elbows and continuing the slide upwards to her shoulder.  Her pants became lighter and shorter.  She felt less weight pressing her down as the days went on and there was a feeling of giddiness descending around her.  She now had slightly tanned arms and her legs loved the heat of the sun.

As the sun grew hotter, she traded tennis shoes for toenail polish and flip flops.  Straight heavy skirts were cheerfully abandoned for light summer dresses that let air flow through her outfits.  Then the summer dresses came off leaving a bikini. 

Then she traded the bikini for black silk.  Tonight.

She sunk into the water and watched the sky turn darker and darker.  Eventually the entire world wore black and she felt in suspended in it.  She laughed at the moon and pulled herself into a ball.  Flipping, she drove herself down, further into the core.  She could feel blackness slide along her body and she turned, rising towards the surface.   The night air was cool on her face but she could still feel the blackness on her face.  The separation between the two surfaces was less defined here.  She was less defined here.

She lingered as long as she dared and then, drawing in a breath and smoothing her hair back from her forehead, she headed towards the beach.  She started the slow process of dressing again. 

First the bikini and then a sundress….

Pancake Layers

Standing on the back porch, I heard the door behind me slam shut and felt my sister come up beside me.  I held a red-headed doll in a fancy dress in my hands.  It was brand new and for my birthday. She admired it for a while and I could feel her wanting to hold it.  Then she asked me if she if she could hold it.  I didn’t want her to!  It was my birthday and this was my doll.  But then I remembered - since it was my birthday I could do anything I wanted.  I said sure and handed it to her. Then I bite her.  Then I got a spanking – on my birthday.

Getting my own jar of peanut butter, one I didn’t have to share, always made me excited.  Jumping down off the bus and running inside was always so much more exciting when you knew that you could scoop up creamy peanut butter and lick it from the spoon.  The jar would last as long or as little as you could stand.  You didn’t have to share unless you wanted to be nice.  The thick butter would stay on the spoon and you'd insert the whole spoonful into your mouth.  Then you withdraw int slowly, skimming the first layer off and feeling it change shapes in your mouth.  One spoon could last a very long time if it was eaten right.

The red dishes were being laid out on the table cloth when I got home.  I had been looking forward to this all day.  Mom had made ravioli special – just because it was my birthday and that’s what I wanted to eat.  There would be a salad and Cherries in the Snow later for dessert.  I felt a thrill watching the fancy dishes, deep cherry cut glass red, sparkling as they were being placed on the table.  The light seemed to dance in time with my tummy.  All this just for me because today I was special.

I got a doll that was the size of real baby, just the thing I had been really really wanting. My neighbor had a baby doll that was the exact size of a real baby and I wanted my own life size doll.  Those small dumbed-down versions weren’t for real girls.  I got her and carried her around, pretending she was real.  My sister made her a couple dresses that had her name on them and she became a real comfort to me.  Her body continued to fit mine as I grew and she remained a child.  I talked to her in college and cried on her shoulder when I got a divorce. 

The wrapping paper came off and there it was.  There was a soft leather bound, blue bible.  My name was printed in gold letters just like I’d seen on other bibles at church.  The sides were gold and the corners of the pages rounded, allowing my fingers to slide over them gracefully.  There is nothing more perfect than a book that lays just perfectly in your hands, whose pages stroke your fingers back with the same softness you stroke them with.  Years later that book sported more highlight colors and pen marks than I would have imagined possible.

The box did indeed hold the alarm clock that was advertised on the outside of the box.  I guess I was old enough to get myself up now.  The small radio alarm clock would snooze for 9 minutes and then wake me up again.  The pattern is ingrained in my sleep patterns now.  In high school, it woke me with classic rock and John Boy and Billy.  In college, it spat me out of bed with a annoyingly pitched alarm that bleated instantly at my head.  During its last days, 15 years later, it edged me awake and out into the world with NPR voices.  

Tossing the towel over the rack, I reach for the hairdryer and freeze.  Cocking my head to one side, I concentrate certain that I’m hearing things.  Who would be calling me this early in the morning on a work day?  Picking it up, my heart starts beating just a bit quicker – it’s my parents – I wonder what’s wrong.  “Happy Birthday” mom says cheerfully.  “OH!  Thank you!”  The worry dissipates and I smile.  I had forgotten I was a year older today – leave it up to a mom to let me know there’s one more year passed in my life.  I leave the house that day with a smile.

Soon, there will be another layer in my stack of birthday pancakes.  They aren’t all steamy and delicious, or soaked in comforting butter.  But the layers that arrived cold have been warmed over the years.  The butter and syrup have soaked in delicious spots and I take a bite and savor each layer.  So many different, complicated flavors, simple flavors -  spicy, sweet and bitter.  Most importantly, they all blend together to make something delicious – my life.

Ink

I stare at the character - wondering if this is the correct thing to do.  Asking it to exist forever in my skin seems like a big step.  Would the two of us get along as we both aged?  Were we compatible enough to coexist in the same body.  Was I sure I wanted to explain it over and over again?

The bite of the needle keeps me focused, unforgiving in it's insistence that you pay attention; the buzz keeps my nerves jangling.  The sudden stillness of the air shocks me; the artist pauses long enough to gather more ink, wipe the blood from my hip and grease the needle. The soft sting of my raw skin comforts me and I feel an immediate relaxation through every single muscle.  Then, I feel his hand touch my hip, the buzzing starts up again - bringing my nerves with it, and I tense immediately, preparing for the return of the bite.

When it's over, I stand up - feeling slightly smug and a tad victorious.  I've got a new badge - a new addition to my body.  There, on my hip, is a new piece of jewelry - but one that won't snag on my cloths or break when accidentally jerked.  I don't have to worry about it ever matching my outfit or display it for others.  I'm content to know it's just there - decorating my skin, dancing when I move.

For me, tattooing about making a concept a living part of you.  It's about taking a thought into yourself so deeply with it that you can no longer feel the difference between you and it - so that it moves when you moves, grows as you grow and changes as you change.  The concept has now changed you visibly as much as it has changed your soul.

Strings

I sat, staring at the table, swinging a leg, hoping that the meeting wouldn’t turn into the time waste that they always seemed to be.  Trying to think of ways to make the most of my time, I started making a mental grocery list.  Of course, I had forgotten that one actually had to have a menu in order to plan a list of groceries, so I sighed, shifting both in my seat and in my head.

The other people in our small group filled the conference table one by one, dripping in from the rain to puddle in their seats with the blank look of people attending a meeting that they neither understand the need for nor feel the desire to be at.  Behind every chair stood the invisible boss that had ordered us to trudge through the rain.

The corner of my eye caught a silver haired lady walking into the room, capturing everyone’s attention.  She was a stranger to our weekly group staring session but she seemed to think she belonged in our group.  Pulling out a large black folder, she established herself as the answer to all the questions we’d developed over the last month.  The sheet of paper she carefully laid in front of her was an exact copy of the one in front of me, only hers had answers following each question mark.  I shifted again, preparing to be enthralled or to at least give the impression that I cared about what would be said today.

She began to speak and suddenly my attention snapped into place.  Here was a person who seemed to be made entirely from a human salvage yard.  Her entire body seemed to function independently from each other, as if the parts had not yet learned how to work together.  Each motion, breath, word seemed to come through as a string of unrelated events and I watched in a kind of stupefied fascination.

She moved her hands as if they were perhaps controlled by a distant remote control.  Someone was playing a joystick somewhere, trying desperately to get the hands to create a complicated cat’s cradle.  Or maybe the game was based on a grandmother knitting and the grandmother had managed to tangle her hands in an inescapable trap.  Either way, her pink tipped fingers seemed to be still functioning under the command of their previous owner and rebelled against any pleads her brain may have been making to help her supplement the points she was making to the table around her. 

Her facial expressions had little effect at emphasizing any points that came from her mouth.  Her cheeks seemed to work on a random pulley system that jerked them upwards towards her forehead at unpredictable times.  During the middle of points, where a smile was not needed, a joker like look suddenly sprung into place and her lips yanked upwards without any consideration for the words she was trying to form.  The entire time this stranger’s face continued to scroll through a random selection of expressions, much as a screensaver sifts and displays pictures.  The lips always arrived into position slightly behind the eyes or the cheeks slightly ahead of the rest of the face.  Miraculously, nothing ever seemed to work in harmony with each other as if each muscle was warring to take the lead in the expression that was rising to the face.

I began feeling as if I were watching a dubbed movie; not only did the facial expressions seem to be out of time but the speech seemed off to.  Unbelievably, her lips seemed to be forming words vastly different than the ones that were landing on my ears; perhaps this was a ventriloquist act gone horribly wrong. 

Overwhelmed by the strange symphony in front of me, I watched, mesmerized by this strange interaction in front of me.  I couldn’t look away from her.  Even her breath seemed to run independently of her control.  Her chest jerked slightly or her shoulders twitched upwards, all in an uncoordinated attempt to allow the lungs to expand.  Without concern for the rhythm of her speech, air seemed to bubble up at odd times, something she seemed blissfully unaware of.

I sat back, stunned, a trapped witness to this oddity dancing before me.

The meeting ended with little accomplished, just as every previous meeting. But as I gathered my papers into my folder, I felt transported.  My short walk back to the office slid past me unnoticed as I tried to replay what I had just seen.  Back at the building, I entered the elevator, blinked, and convinced myself it had been a really odd dream.

Meet Giddy Freedom

The hand of Giddy Freedom pushed me forward; I stumbled just a little and laughed out loud.  She’d snuck up on me and started pulling me towards a walk as soon as I stepped out of the building.  Her offer was incredibly tempting, especially when I weighed it against the dark dungeon of the gym and the never ending run of the treadmill.  She had beckoned so seductively that I tucked my head and headed towards her, suddenly intent on playing hooky.

Giddy had led the way through the campus and headed across the quad.  The sun brought out short summer dresses and white legs.  The campus was covered colorful dress splayed against brilliant spring grass.  She and I ambled, bumping into each other; energetic electrons bouncing off each other and working ourselves into frenzy.  We giggled like embarrassed curious school kids when we saw a couple kiss and gawked at the shirtless young man catching the Frisbee.
 
True to her style, Giddy had suddenly streaked across the lawn and began twirling around in front of a fiddle player.  I leaned against a tree to give her time to work the music out of her body.  I understood – I could feel the flutter that the bluegrass encouraged growing in my own chest.  Just as mesmerized as she, I watched in a trance and lost myself in the voice of the guitar player when he hesitantly began a ballad.  We were off again.

Now, she was pushing me; I could feel her hand on my back.  I could feel her urge me forward, laughing in my ear that we had nothing to do, nowhere to be, there was nothing stopping us from anything.  Ms. Freedom always knew the little things to say.  Her touch seemed to sink inside my chest and stir everything up but I didn’t speed up or slow down.  Instead I simply expanded to let Giddy ease inside my body.  She was a great fit – she rode just below the skin and I knew that the rest of the trip home would bring nothing but amusement, beautiful impulses, secret smiles and bouncy steps. 

Giddy and I were gonna have a fine spring stroll – just the two of us.