Miniature Creatures

I can only think of three things that I would like to shrink down small enough to carry around in my pocket. My cat Cedric who is scared of everything and everyone and is also known as Bootchie, bootie bootie bootie, Ceddy, Ceddykins, Cedrico, love bug, pumpkin face, baby seal and bebe, among others. The disturbing thing is several past lovers have also had some of these nicknames but that's another post. The other two are my pseudo niece and nephew Madeleine and Benjamin. They're so silly cute I want to squeeze them til they pop. But fantasizing about shrinking them down to pocket-sized charms is pretty satisfying. I would even wear flannel shirts with a front pocket solely for this purpose. Not only would my pocket be overfull with cuteness but it'd probably be a pretty entertaining mosh pit of creatures. Madeleine is sweet as can be with an undeniable dose of drama queen. Benjamin is cool as a cucumber and acts as if he's been through all this a thousand times before. I love all three and each gives me the same ache in my belly that I associate with adoration. Who wouldn't want to carry that around?

The Great Pretender

I distinctly remember when I was 12 having the thought , "When I grow up...".   The tag line wasn't anything grandiose like being a space astronaut, a famous popstar or the first lady president.  All I wanted was to be comfortable having conversation with other people.  I had this idea that once you've hit adulthood, things like socializing suddenly became easier.  I'm now 32 and I still struggle.  I find ways to avoid my discomfort through things like tango--thank God there's not much time for talking, at least in the literal sense.  But I found myself at a tango party last night and I didn't feel much like dancing but I wanted to be there and socialize.  And I wasn't able to be me.  Unless being me is sitting quietly eavesdropping on conversations I pretend to be a part of.  Or excusing myself to the bathroom one too many times because although I'm smiling as big as I can, acting interested in what's being said and sitting in your company, I feel like I'd rather be anywhere else but there.  And it's not disinterest in the conversation, it's over interest in what I'm thinking and feeling to which I only become aware of what I'm thinking and feeling.  And so I go to the bathroom and get a moment of respite in the stall in which I pray for the strength to continue on and to know I'm going to be ok.  After all, there's nothing really wrong, right?  A trail of my thoughts would convince you otherwise and I'm painfully aware that it's my mind running the show.  A madwoman intent on outcasting me and making sure I am convinced that I don't belong here.  The discomfort is entirely visceral.  It makes me want to cry, and sometimes I do.  Last night I did not.  This morning I did.  I remember when I was even younger I wanted to be a professional football player when I grew up.  And that gives me hope.  The likelihood of me achieving one dream over the other falls in favor of finding some peace within myself and the world and making conversation with you.  Football, I figure, can wait for another lifetime.

Remember...you're amazing.

I'm going to tell you about my day. I was

many different animals and I morphed into one after another
in different mediums ...meaning sky, water, earth, air. And
I traveled at tremendous speeds up into the atmosphere and
out into space where I twirled around like a bunch of
lights the size of dust particles. I was my own roller
coaster and I picked up speed and felt myself spread but I
never came apart.I didn't have any hair or any body for
that matter. Just gold dust. And when I came back to earth I
manifested as a white beam of light that was almost silver
which thickened...eventually twisting into coils and then
ropes and finally my physical being. I felt beautiful. I am
beautiful. I am happy and free.

I'm wearing silver slippers and a matching dress. When I twirl the skirt goes above my waist and my underwear shows. But I'm able to bend over while still maintaining my modesty. It cinches at my waist and has spaghetti straps. There's little flowers spread out along the hemline and even though my shoes are high-heeled, you can't hear them on the floor when I dance. I can trill across the floor on my toes and arch my back so that my head is inches from my beautiful bum. Inches may be a stretch but so was the rest of it.

Tasha dances

I had a friend that died when we were 25.  I can't remember her dancing but I can picture her walk.  Her pterodactyl arms, limp at the wrists so her hands always faced you waiting to be kissed, knocked knees and her ass moving back and forth daring you to try and look away.   She was hilarious.  Unapologetic, sex-crazed, dramatic.  Her mom called her a tornado.  She was lovable.  She visits me every once in awhile in my dreams and I was lucky enough to be with her again last night.  I struggle with loneliness.  Give me a minute, a few hours, or worse a day without plans and I think I'm alone in the world and nobody cares about me, my purpose non-existent.  I've been anticipating the fear of being alone this weekend since I have absolutely no plans (shock!) but Tasha's visit has provided me with some peace.  She was waiting for me.  Just patiently waiting.  I had left her because I was hungry, was having a hell of a time getting some food and then I ran into a friend, drunk, and couldn't decide what to do.  It seemed like hours since I was gone but I brought my friend back to the table and there Tasha was with her disheveled curly blond hair, sitting with her eyes closed, just waiting for me.  When I awoke my mind immediately starting racing trying to figure out what I was going to do with my day, it must be something productive or at least something fun.  And then I remembered my dream and thought about Tasha and none of it mattered.  I'm really grateful for her.  I'm going to be just fine.

crater

I got a comment about my bloody toe first thing this morning.  I noticed it last night but only for a brief moment and not enough to wash it off before I went to bed.  But this morning it suddenly seemed like a bigger deal.  It appeared to be a centimeter in diameter and several layers of skin had been removed, either from a heel or from the sole of a shoe.  It could have been any number of times last night that this occurred.  I was stepped on multiple times by multiple people.  This was not the fault of my leads but rather the fault of my tired body and my decision to ignore this before I headed out to dance at 1130 last night.  I lasted about 45 minutes and even that was too long.  At least I looked good--in my dress I mean, not in my dance.  I wore my asian inspired black and white skin-fitted dress. Sexy, tasteful, somewhat hot. Many positive comments on my appearance and red lips.  No comments on much else.  I just got back from the sauna.  In this I discovered my bloody toe doesn't add up to much more than a scrape, a small cut 3 mm across at best.  I'm relieved, as this somehow makes me think my dance wasn't all that bad.

traviesa

So earnest are his eyes that I can only laugh nervously and comment on his gaze. He says, “yeah, it's important”. I don't even know what he's talking about. I only know how I feel. A mixture of discomfort and regret and a satisfaction that I can not explain.

I don't remember the first time we danced together but it's only been a few months at the most. I typically giggle and don't take it too seriously when I'm in embrace with him. I have a hard time following and the connection for technique is not there but there is a connection of mutual understanding and attraction. The more I laugh the more he aggresses. I pull back with my body and I am confused in my mind. He lets off and I lean in again. It's a game of yes and no, a delay of the inevitable.

This morning I woke up next to him. I'm not sure I ever fell asleep and I feel tired. My mind questions my integrity and my value, my actions and my motivations. I am tearful. He tucks my hair behind my ear and tells me it's okay, “I know” he says, “it's hard”. I ask him what he does when...and he understands before I finish my sentence. He says, “I pray, I just pray all the time”.