When my mother sleeps, she is like a child. There is the pale cool flesh of her legs, curled protectively, and one hand under her cheek. There is the rush of air in and out of her body, stirring a wisp of hair near her mouth. Her bed clothes are old friends scattered about her body, and as she sleeps on her side I am reminded of her fragility, a reality that supersedes relation or name or age. She is no longer my mother, Terry, 53. She is something else: a pastel wash of impressions that I think I may have no claim on. Where is the color of myself when faced with the visage of my sleeping mother?
And because she looks child-like I long suddenly, deeply, coal-red and ice-hard to protect her. Myself rears up and suddenly my shoulders square off, my brow pinches, I stand with legs apart, ready to battle for this person. To protect her sleep, to prolong it and sweeten it and treasure it. As if I become mother and she becomes the child and in this swapping of roles I can forgive her nearly anything. I see vulnerability; it breaks my heart and heals my heart and pounds in my ears.
She won’t know I watched her for this little while, will not know that I watched over her. She will not know that I inched forward and gently covered her feet with the edge of her blanket, or that I tucked the edges of the curtains in, preserving a mid-day dark for mid-day dreaming. She will not know that I loved her in those moments. Loved her and forgave her and keened for her. She will not know.
And in her sleeping we both find some respite, which is clear water and rain-wet breezes across a blistered soul. In her sleeping she let’s go, and so do I. her rest is my rest, and so I walk away, and let her sleep on.
I lead a life that is not my own. If there were one thing I could warn you about, a singular fact of make-or-break, it would be that. My life is not my own. It hasn’t been for a very long time, if in fact, it’s ever been. It is true that we compassionate souls really ought to lead lives dedicated to others, but this is not that. My life is tangled, messy and more importantly knotted inexorably to the people around me, namely my family.
They say dysfunction is fun, but this is not necessarily true. I stop short of saying that it’s an outright lie because I have often found myself laughing at the ridiculous nature of my current existence, but since such laughter is often a mix of hilarity and irony, desperation and weariness, I hesitate to associate it with actual joy. Dysfunction is for a lack of a better word, messy. It…embrangles. (Look that one up the dictionary, it’s a kicker.)
But the thing is, I’m more than my life. Does that make sense? I mean, I’m more than my situation, my lack of control, my deeply embrangled life. I am definitely – muddled, but I am also beautiful and strange and wonderful. I want you to see that, to focus on that and not the mess.
See, there’s my mom. I’ve been taking care of her for a long time. She needs more than I can give her now, but walking away… I can’t even imagine a universe in which that’s an option. And my sister, I helped raise her, and that job is never done. My dad… I love him. I need to keep loving him. I can’t walk away from him either. But the sick thing, the really mental insane thing is that my family has actually created means of stunting me in this place. Weird shit like, not knowing how to drive. Asking my mom to teach me creating a huge, a weeklong conflict, a power struggle between parents. And living at home is my only affordable option right now. I’ve been a student for a million years and students don’t make money. Plus my mom and my dad have no idea who to teach their kids about making it in the real world. They never have, they never will and they’re not too hopeful about my potential success because I am naïve and trusting and a bit ditzy about real world stuff. Doing my taxes is beyond me and paying an electricity bill… Well, I imagine this isn’t a difficult thing to do, but I wouldn’t know. No one’s ever explained; no one’s ever showed me how. I just don’t know.
These aren’t excuses. They are pathetic powerful facts that I am trying desperately to overcome. I want a life that is mine, I do. I’m trying, and I’m scared and I’m tired. I feel like I’ve been trying for years and years and years. I’ve got years more to go. I am only twenty-five, but this wheel has had me turning for far longer than that. I mean, it seems most days like I was born old, born exhausted. Childhood while sweet, was fleeting and violently ended. What I came out of it with was a talent for words, a passion for knowing and a dogged determination that I couldn’t give up even though, to be honest, there are days when I wish I could. This business of living is not easy for me. I’m not sure it ever will be. But the difficulty is only one factor, like my mom’s sick co-dependence is only one fact. You can’t live your whole life for one factor.
I’m taking steps, little ones, powerful ones, complicated ones. I’m asking for help, I’m admitting I can’t control it all, I’m risking and hoping and making mistakes. I’m also drawing boundary lines and happy lines and goal lines. But it’s all a process. A weird one, but a necessary one. I just hope the process doesn’t scare you off. It takes someone strong to be in this with me. I don’t know if you’re that strong and I’m not sure I have the right to ask, or expect you to be. But I can hope and I do hope. Hope saves my life a thousand times a day. I wonder if you can understand that. I wonder if you could want to ever understand me.
You were in a Tuesday night dream that broke my heart. You were vivid and beautiful and you’ve haunted me ever since. It is as if every little longing bit of me came together, and there you stood; just a bit taller than me, with those deep dark eyes and your somber face. Tight curly hair tucked behind your ears, which were both pierced. Odd for most men, but not for you.
Your hands were strong and my cheek immediately knew the shape of your chest, because when you held me the first time I knew you’d hold me for all time. You were narrow and broad and safe and so serious…except when you looked at me. Then your whole being softened and your eyes glowed and what elation I felt, fast potent elation because I knew I was that which made you happy. Content.
I love you and I wish you were real. There are days filled with a thousand moments when I need your strength, and your surety. I cannot give you words enough to express the way I have waited for you, and hoped for you: the way that hope has twisted at my heart and squeezed my soul until even my breath needs you.
I have believed in you for too long, and denied myself much imagining. Except for Tuesday night, when you sneaked into an average dream and reminded me that you’re still here and that even while I have tried to push you from my need, you are yet a part of me. And this bone deep blood hot faith in you that simply will be not put aside… It scares me. What have I but to believe in you? To trust that you are there, and I am here and someday here and there will come together.
In the dream you wore a gray t-shirt and blue cotton button-down over-shirt and a look on your mouth that floored me. You were not what I would have picked out, or wanted or openly day-dreamed. You were better and shocking. Beautiful. You were so beautiful…
I wait for you, beloved. Please, don’t stop waiting for me.
(A short heart-felt write inspired by a dream I actually had Tuesday night. How powerful the mind is, how beautiful it’s creativity).
Don’t tell my you’re sorry. That word is hateful to me, and it’s a fucking excuse. What you really mean is this: “Oh. Sucks to be you” or maybe “I understand, I do but I’m really damn grateful its not me.” For both of those sentiments I want to kill you. I’ll wrap those emotions of yours right around your neck and pull.
I’ve forgotten what any other kind of ‘sorry’ is like. I can only look at it these days with a sneer. I loath the word and loath its use. Sorry is weak. Sorry is pathetic. Sorry is the ultimately useless gesture. It means nothing. Stands for nothing and counts for nothing. Its empty, the best color of empty. Pea green with empty.
Because if you are sorry, that’s different. It’s the strange yellow feeling as your words and emotions and situations slide right under my skin. They slip in with razer-blade sharpness and I store them there in my skin because that’s all I can do. That’s what being sorry is really all about it and it can’t be conveyed in a word!
Touch, sometimes. An expression. A sigh. These are good things to give someone. If you’re wrong, if you’re right, even if you have nothing in common with that person except your willingness to keep a portion of their shame under your skin, that is enough.
Silence.
Silence is my best gift to you. Its what I want you to give me when you’re truly, sincerely and bleedingly sorry. I’ll house your secrets and your uglies under my flesh and all I ask is that you do the same.
Maybe I’ll need to see the scar from time to time, run my fingers over the lump of my own messy humanity. But I won’t ever tell you that I’m sorry. The day I do is the day you know that I’m not.
I thought I heard weeping though I was fairly sure no one was actually crying. I drifted in and out of the pages of my book, the story coming at me painfully, guiltily because I can’t be sure. I am escaping into the ink and the block type, but there are snatches of sound. They come at me in between letters, and echo at me as I turn pages.
This is what I tell myself.
“You only think you hear it because you should be hearing it. You should be crying and she should be crying and you should both know about it. Your words and her words, ugly. Ugly. They deserve tears. It all deserves tears.”
But I’m not crying. At some fork I’d gotten beyond crying, at least with tears. There were other sorts of wailing’s going on inside of me, the kind I’ve gotten familiar with and call friend. It is a kind of warm pain, copper colored partnership between myself and grief. We hold onto each other and I’ve forgotten who keeps who afloat. We bob there and I say things and she says things. Words. I’m swimming in an ocean of words.
Another chapter down, another event catalogue. Here is where the author begins a slow accent up the hill of his story, his story within the story. Here’s where we peak, trembling over the edge –
Wait. I know I heard it that time… I’m sure.
Could be the dog. Serves me right if it is the dog. Angsting over the dog snoring, sure it’s my mother cocooned tightly in the wrappings of her drunk and smeared justifications, weeping. Always weeping.
I think I’m hearing it because I want to be hearing it. At least that would be a relief, at least I’d be tumbling down, motion after so much stillness: head over heels, like falling in love, that same sinking. Down into my belly, bring me down into my belly and hold my close old friend. Tell it’s okay not to cry. “Bliss. Bliss. No need tonight, sweetheart. No need.”
But you want relief after so much pent-up-ness. You want to froth over your edges, no need to see how raw you are. Can’t make out the places where she bites at you, nip-nip, tiny little ‘v’s and upside down ‘w’s. Frothing, bubbling. Up and up and up some more, all those carbonated little girl bits thrown out and over.
You’ll die down, eventually. Not because she’s sucked all the tickling gas, but because you of your own free will have let it go. After a while it will be liquid spilling down your smooth glass sides and there will actually be tears this time and you won’t see the print on the page. You’ll be so grateful to be blinded. You’ll be so glad…
I get up, putting the book aside in a smooth motion that gives me pleasure. I’ve done this one thing a thousand times – mark page, close book, set it down – but for a moment I’m caught at the grace, the carelessness of it. I pause next to my bed and stare at my book and hope I can be so graceful on my feet. I’ll check her room first and she won’t hear me.
I walk down the hall staring at my toes. My socks don’t match but freezing feet don’t care. Little sister: sock thief.
I am quiet, I am careful and I listen hard, leaning forward like I’m reaching towards my mother. Like I’m six years old and I can just see her face past the edge of my straining fingertips.
Be okay. Be asleep.
I got up because I was sure, intense weeping, I know I heard it. The kind that leaves you bleeding between the legs, you see the shiny evidence of how alone you are and you know there’s only yourself to clean up the mess.
I’ve cried like that, birthing my self inside out. I swore in between my tears, with my tears, that if I ever heard someone making the sounds my ears were eating up, I’d go to them. “I won’t leave them alone, like I am alone.”
She’s not crying. Oh god. She’s asleep, her mouth is puckered and ugly and her uneasy breath is like so much flatulence between the sucked-in lips. But sleeping. Thank you. I stand there, I watch her. I am balanced on the balls of me feet, perched in the air.
Grief slithers up my intestines, hugs me close. I would wrap my arms around my belly, but I stay still, just a little longer. She’s alright like this. Safe. Weak and sleeping.
I walk away, down the hall to the bathroom that is dark. I like the dark, the smell of shadows on shadows. Something wet clings to my chin. More then gathers in the corner of my mouth. I’m crying but not enough. Never enough for the things we said.
For the things she said.
I came home today in a really bad head-space. It was as if, knowing that today was my last day of classes, as soon as I knew I was going home I hit the wall. Almost out of no-where I became angry, short tempered and extremely frustrated. Coupled with my dad being stoned and chatty, and Care being angsty and on her period, by the time I walked in the front door, I was ready to blow. Little did I know, so was mom.
She worked her first full 8 hour day today. Apparently it was eventful and though I don’t have all the details (”I can’t even tell you where I’m coming from, I did things today I never thought I could, you can’t imagine”) I do know it was hard on her. Her body isn’t ready for this kind of work, and she get’s home freaked out because she’s so exhausted and wiped. She drink’s and then does all the chores, which Care as suppose to have done but didn’t.
Meanwhile I go lay down, all I want is my bed, the oblivion of sleep. I have no idea what mom’s been up too, I can’t handle Care’s stuff (by now mom and her have gotten into it, mom attacked, Care burst into tears, cue slamming of doors) and I think if I can just sleep a little, get out of this strange state, I’ll be alright. I admit it, I wasn’t thinking of anyone but myself. I was totally self involved.
By the time Care pulls me out of bed around 8:00 mom has made dinner, cleaned up the house and had her evening brandy. Mom serves me but I tell her the pork chop isn’t done. I already feel extremely sick to my stomach, I know I should eat and I do try. Mom starts lecturing me about not taking my multi-vitamin but the last two times I have, I’ve thrown up. I can’t take that kind but Mom is convinced its because I’m not taking them on a full stomach. I try not to get into it with her, very mono-syllabic replies but this only makes her more angry.
Our show ends, the kitchen needs cleaning. Again I’m being totally self involved, but mom instead of just asking if we’ll clean it, starts bitching to dad very loudly about how oblivious and arrogant Care and I can be. We didn’t even offer to clean up the kitchen, even after she pulled an eight hour shift and came home and cleaned house and cooked. We’re ungrateful and we’re spoiled. I feel guilty. Fucking me, should have thought of cleaning the kitchen myself. Way to go Bliss.
Carrie and I clean. We take the dogs out, get the cats in and go to Care’s room where I’ve promised to proof read her online homework. Carrie has locked the door, which I didn’t know until mom starts freaking out in the hallway. “They’ve locked me out now, Daniel. They’ve locked me out!”
I unlock the door, at the same time Carrie says in arrogant explanation, “Mom, I didn’t want you in here and yelling at me,” while I lie, “The wind probably blew it shut. You know how my door locks when it gets slammed closed.” This is all wrong, all wrong. “I get it girls,” she says, using the wall to steady herself. “I totally get it.”
Mom goes to take a shower. There is more arguing between her and dad, more slamming of doors. Care goes into her room, plugs in a movie on her computer and I got to the living room. I’m robotic now, I turn on the tv and stare at the screen. Mom goes to her room, dad fTVlows. I listen to their conversation, or rather, mom going on and on. She’s right about some things (”They didn’t even ask how my day was”) and wrong about others (they’re pushing me away, I’m always the bad guy and they’ll find some way to justify their behavior”). Of course, she told us she didn’t want to tell us about her day and we’re distancing ourselves because there’s nothing left to do.
I watch part of a LifeTime movie about a girl with drug addict for a momther. Too close to home, so I watch BizzarFoods instead but that just makes me sick to my stomach, so I switch to Discovery. It’s my crab-fishers but I know if I watch the show I’ll only dream about the ocean and wake up with an aching heart. I go back to LifeTime.
I don’t know what signal I’ve been waiting for that tells me I can leave, but finally mom seems ready to settle into bed. She’s still angry, still talking to herself (”I’m not the bad guy here, its not fair. I’m so angry and I’m not the bad guy”) and I shove off the couch, turn off the living room light. I go to her room.
What can I say though? These lips have turned to stone and my mind, full of words, all ugly words, won’t give me something to pacify her with. There’s no placating her and I don’t have the patience, the energy to try. I imagine slapping her, or kissing her violently. This is a strange image, I stare at her while trying to figure the Fruedian combination of violence and sexuality. I know that if I were any less intelligent, I’d be crazy. I really would be.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I don’t think you are, Bliss.”
She’s right again, how sad. I have no sorry left in me. I’m only angry now, stiff. It goes like that. I stand with arms folded into my chest, she sits in her chair. She looks fragile and fat and her lips are literally tense with anger I don’t understand and find personally weak and sickening. When did I become so hard, so iron-centered? Is this the only way I can cope at this point?
And she’s right, you know, about me being selfish. I have been selfish the last month or so. Very involved in my own petty shit. But its been a relief, god. How nice to angst over a guy who doesn’t want me, what a pleasent change of seen, worrying over me failing my math class instead trying to figure out ten to deal with my mom. I have been selfish, deliciously wrapped up. Its been nice. I’m not ready to give it up yet, to flagulate myself with attempts to keep peace, keep calm, keep mother fucking balanced.
I want to help you, mom.”
“The kitch-”
“We cleaned it, and Care and I will get the chores done tomorrow. You won’t have to do anything when you get home.”
“You two are so involved in your little worlds. I worked an eight hour shift today Bliss, on my feet except for a half hour break.”
All I can think is, “Welcoming to the fucking real world Mom. You and Jo-Schmo.”
She dismissed me, finally. “Go to bed Bliss” and I crept towards my room, arms locked in at my sides. I opened the door gingerly (Carrie, please just leave me alone, ignore me) and promptly locked it behind me. I cleaned up quick and I don’t realize I’m crying until I can’t breath. As I sit down and comb out the cat’s fur I silently weep. I’m good at that, crying without making a sound. It would be beautiful in a movie scene, something really heart wrenching, woman doubled over, shoulders pinched and face streaming. No sound though.
I get up. Blow my nose, turn off the light, hope that if some one actually decides to walk past my door they’ll think I’m sleeping. Carrie will leave me alone, having already closed the evening in the only way she knows how and Mom will see the lack of light and shake her head, because she’ll wake up at 3:00 am but at least I’ll be asleep, like she prayed, because she cares.
I have a single candle burning, and the hard light of the computer. The skin on my face it tight with dried salt, my expression once again, robotic. I want to go numb, want to shut down and close off. I’ve done it before, so easy, you just slip past that line…
A door opens. Carrie. I stop typing, turn my cold face towards my door. Don’t get the knife, don’t unlock the door. Boundaries are for squares and all of that.
“Oh, sorry. I thought you were asleep with your candle on again. I was worried.”
“Nope.”
“Are you okay?”
“Uh-uh. How was your movie…”
“You got into it again with mom, didn’t you? You look like you’ve been crying too.”
“Carrie, I’m done with this tonight.”
“Okay, alright, sorry.”
For Carrie I won’t go numb. Even though I’m almost as pissed at her right now as I am at mom, Carrie’s heart saves mine. She was worried about the candle. That’s good. Be worried about the candle. At least that’s safe. At least that’s alright.
I was on Deviantart.com this morning, procrastinating the day in geneal. Sorting through photography and manga and digital art, I noticed that so much of it looks the same, especially the bits done by the ‘angst-artist.’
Now, angst has its place. I write with angst and struggle with angst and enjoy a dosage every once in a while the same kind of glee I enjoy sushi. But angst really ought to be doled out in small portions and it shouldn’t be the whole focus on one’s craft.
Yet there I was, staring at picture after picture of it. Angst-artist’s making angst art. You know the kind I’m taking about: a photoshop portrait of some pale anemic teen-something. Maybe she’s dressed like a vamp, and standing in the snow. And crying. And it’s a statement about – oh uhm, the futility of the feminine plight or something.
Bleh! “Enough already, really,” I want to tell that shivering crying scantily clad teen something. “Eat a candy bar, go wash all that make-up off and find yourself a patch of sunlight honey, cause it ain’t all that!”
Do I sound like my mother here? Why yes, I do. But there’s something rather satisfying in witnessing angst without being angst filled your self. And I honestly don’t know why this rant deserves its own post, except that I’m creativity barren at the moment and feel I ought to write something, even if it’s only this.
(Uh. Okay, so I guess I’m not totally angst free after all. Candy bar anyone?)
A half hour was just enough time in which to go completely mad.
Thirty minutes, hardly anything at all and yet within that fragile span of time, the mind could do things…
The problem is not with those thirty minutes themselves, but rather the things you could be doing in those thirty minutes. Math homework, a phone call, a meal. In thirty minutes you can listen to ten or more songs on your mp3 players, take a bath, finish a chapter in a good book, watch a game show. Thirty minutes is enough time to get dishes done, take a nap, finish a work project, put on your make-up, run to the bank.
But when you’re tired, when you’re lacking motivation and reasoning, thirty minutes is just plain hell. When you’re sitting at a desk you cannot leave, and even the phone ringing would be a welcomed respite, thirty minutes feels like an eternity.
You’ve run out of things to do, there are no more folders to be edited, no more online articles to read. You’ve already checked you online blog, and noted the most recent postings of your favorite sites. You’ve answered every inane question thrown at you with patience and endurance, have cleared out old phone messages, tidied up your desk and checked your posture, more than once.
You readjust yourself in your seat, and then readjust yet again because you’re still not comfortable. Lips are pressed together to keep you from yawning, you’re desperate for someone to come up to you with a problem that requires more than a thirty second answer. Hell, you’d go for a fire-drill at this point, never mind the snow and ice and cold.
Anything, anything at all. Anything to eat up the minutes, things to do that will swallow these minutes whole one by one.
…28.
…29.
…30.
She put on pajama’s she knew, layered herself with the familiar, the comfortable. This she understood, the cream-sickle orange sleep pants, the stretched out tank and holey gray sweater. While let herself only have one – maybe two – selfish thoughts, feeling thoughts. She touched her neck where he did, caressed herself trying to sum up something: comprehension, a complete and thorough catalog of sensations and their due mental reactions.
She pulled her hair back, up off her neck, and secured it with a clip, pressing for only the barest moment the strands of hair he’d taken such liberties with not so long ago. She turned her head into the ends of those strands, tried to smell him out on her. She was pleased when she found herself disappointed that his scent was not present, worried that she’d even be looking in the first place.
“I’m shit at relationships,” she told him and this was utter truth, chagrin irony for she who so clinically and desperately thought about relationships, not sure if she was more enchanted with the potential therein, or the actual thing itself.
But how could she know the difference? Despite being horribly familiar with the high only potential provided, she didn’t actually know anything about what came next. What did happen after the first date? Hell, what suppose to happen on the first date? And how provincial was she not to know?
The mirror comforted as much as her own scent in her own clothes did. The girl – the woman – looked back with an expression not unpleasantly pursed in confusion. Her stomach was clenching yes, her breath did not come so easy to her lungs, yes, but what was this other thing? The fleeting terrifying moment when she thought, just before she got out of his car, “What…if…”
And the very fact that she had this thought, god, did that mean he was right? So unfair then, he should think to see her so well? Of course she immediately discounted his claims. “You do want too. Want me… First time I looked at you,” and so on. He was too confident, and quietly so, which of course caught her attention the way little else could. Did he know that? had he calculated that? She’d not considered the possibility till now, her gut filled up with ugly acid at the thought, she wanted to throw it away but discipline would not allow it. File it away Bliss, it will be justification for later, if things go bad.
Discipline. Control. Awareness, recognizing each thing immediately for what it was, no mystery to startle, shock, leave you at loose ends to look the fool.
…shit at relationships.
But oh, sigh. Everything else. To feel… As if it could be, to even entertain the idea, that was delicious. “It will be my gift to you,” he had said. He had meant something else, her body, her virginity, naivety but she would make of his words what she wanted. She was allowed that here in her room, where her thoughts were all right to simply be. Only she here to think herself so very inexperienced and ridiculous.
And it was ridiculous to her that she could sleep with him, that he could even expect her too. He didn’t know her, assumptions aside. Yes, perhaps he saw what she herself would not look at, what her family and friends allowed to be dormant – for your own good – but at the end of the night, in that moment where she looked at him and wondered, he had no right to whether or not she said yes, or even looked at that word, yes. And that was something he recognized, told her in those calm soft respecting tones, he knew that.
So, in the meantime. What now? Not regret, a wasted emotion and blessedly uncalled for here. But caution, hm, caution as to how proceed. No question about going forward, she’d not shy away this time, it was safe with this man to be at least bold enough to say yes to something: his voice, his eyes which could be uncompromisingly serious but gently so. There was his palm, smooth, her forefinger tracing the inside of it, and his neck. She would like to curl up and press her nose to his neck, to rest herself safe and without demands by him, into the crook of his arm because she longed for that.
“How would you start it?” he asked, “your sex scene.” She couldn’t think of an answer to satisfy then, something that could have rung true enough that he’d take it seriously. Now though, she knew. She’s start there, with his neck, in his arms. He wouldn’t caress her, wouldn’t press or tease. He’s stand still, like a statue, and she shy thing would sidle up to him and find out what it felt like to press her mouth to someone’s throat, to taste that fleeting scent, to know if his skin was rough or smooth.
In this safe version that couldn’t be screwed by reality, he’d let her do this without needing or expecting anything back. And maybe that was it, the expectation, the need she didn’t trust. His, or hers, terrifying either way, a great black hole of things that could happen. She didn’t know if she wanted to be sucked in, didn’t know how to let herself be if that was the right thing to do.
She didn’t know.
Didn’t. Know.
Didn’t.
Didn’t let him think he could get further, his hand where some one else’s had been and she telling herself, “Does this feel bad, like before?” She didn’t let him kiss her, maybe scared she wouldn’t feel anything at all, all suspicious about potential lesbianism confirmed. “You on a date? Guy or girl?” the cashier had asked. “Guy. Well, today guy,” and that was probably the most honest admission as to date.
She didn’t let herself sink into it, that murky gray place where she let go and believed him, until the very last, right before she got out of the goddamn car.
The murk. Only way to understand it of course, was to dive into it. And who said he’d be the safe choice? Or maybe there was no safe choice. What had the literature professor said? “I’m a big proponent of experience over innocence. But there’s a price to pay, there’s always a price.”
She had sat in his class room – gods, it felt like ages ago, now – and thought about that from her safe place at the desk, pen in hand, paper underlined twice with the quote. She had thought, “Hm, yeah. Experience, price to pay. I might agree with that.” But here she was now, and the supposed agreement felt like so much tissue clumping wetly in her hands, falling apart and a real fucking mess to clean up.
And was he thinking about all of this? Ninety-nine percent probability as to a negative, Caption.
Yes. Well, why would he?
She had a hard time believing someone’s thinking – even a man’s – could be so boxed that all he’d surround himself with just that moment, him in her, owning her. Yet always there was that, flag up, a green light. Yes, he had said. Why, she had asked.
But she wanted things, little things: knowing the feel of his hand in hers (and what a lovely fit they’d been!) and his familiar hand, undemanding at the center of her back. She’d like to recognize his scent and call him on the phone, asking, “How was your day,” because now she had a right to know. Did she have to sleep with him to have those things? She thought not, but felt really very scared, because he probably did.
“I’m gentle,” he’d promised. She’d believed, though it didn’t sway her to jump on his ever so generous offer. She wasn’t going to sleep with him just because he said… “You want to. I can see it, and you know it.” Well, she knew a lot of things, all of them almost useless until some one had use of them. And she knew… No, not without a future, your future. Your heart, and me safely ensconced within.
Little girl, such ideas we have.
But maybe in a month. Three months? An idyllic time table for an idyllic concept and FrouFrou playing on the mp3. “Its good to be in love. It really mess’s with you, just like everything. I’m really happy you’re in love because every color goes where you do.”
Not love though, something else, he wants something else, a thing with less brilliance to blind, why be blinded when you can squint ever so pleasantly? God, now she’s mixing prose.
But he had inspired her, maybe she would kiss him for this, the words coming on fast with that organic meant-to-be-written sensation. Maybe he’d know at some point, see it in her face which apparently he could read so well. He’s see that glow, the creative one in her belly, a mother’s gleam, fertile ground seeded with experience enough to warrant words, wonderful precious delicious orgasmic words.
“Have you ever had an orgasm?”
“Yes, I’m a fucking writer. I’ve had it all!”
Words though, could only lend so much light. She knew they gave half-illumination on purpose, so you’d keep searching until you saw the room clearly, the expression, see that scent, see that sound which will be the perfect touch to that sentence you’re butchering with too many words.
But words wouldn’t give her his voice to answer the nagging question.
“Now you’ve seen it, the glimpse of how it could be, are you going to date me just to fuck me?” Words supplemented reasoning though. His reply, maybe yes. Not to fuck, but to plunge in deep and pull out, tugging on my need of him. And there would be other things, my laugh, my sardonic wit, carefully cultivated.
(My need, my wit? Let’s not confuse POV here honey).
Now that we’ve analyzed the shit out of it…
She had thought, maybe this would be the work he eventually wanted to read but now she suspects not. This, as bare as her body. For him to read the words, like his hand slipping in, pushing between her legs or fumbling to re-button the shirt he’d sweetly (yes, just now she can admit the sweetness of the gesture, sweeter if born of heart need, not just body need) taken liberty with.
Will it be enough for her to know she’s said these things, felt them? After the second date, when either she will let him touch her, or she’ll stay her course and say nay, then she’ll come back to this and be again comforted. You see, she needs comfort Joseph, she needs it as a skittish animal needs your peace, your patience. Understand that and you might have a chance, understand that, I beg it of you or this won’t work at all. I’ll – she’ll – walk away. And you should know, she’s got that mastered.
“How was your date Bliss?”
“It was good.” She’ll say this with a smile only half practiced. “He’s really down to earth.”
“Did he try to kiss you, I saw him leaning in.”
“Kiss me, yes…” Other things as well, persuasive man with the lovely hands, thumb caught between her teeth because she’d let him touch her mouth with fingers where his own lips were out of the question.
“Well, what happened?”
“I wouldn’t let him.”
“So what happened then? Is he gonna ask you out again?”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure there’s a second date in the future.” Notice, as to the first question, she says little enough. Smile, laugh, she picks and chooses what she tells them because honestly, Mother will not approve of his hand down her shirt, his sure advances, her last minute consideration.
“I’m so happy for you Bliss, and he’s cute too. Does he smell good?”
“Yes, he smells good. I’m happy too.”
You don’t really wanna hear about me being sick do you, what with Edward Cullun (or as I still think of him, Cedric Digory) staring at you oh so teasingly. Wait, is that a teasing look? I suppose it’s meant to be, teasing with a dash of alluring angst?
Ed/Ced is up there though because since I’ve been sick I’ve read through my store of books (four in the last week and a half) so I picked Twilight to give it another read through. I did the whole series in about a month, really easy reading those books, with careful if simplistic writing that does more to feed my angst interest than challenge my writers mind.
But as I’m reading through the first book again — and having watched the movie twice — I’m really wondering what the big deal is. How come I’m hooked? Is this just another ‘Knight in Shiny Armor’ (or in Edwards case, knight in shiny Volvo) story? Its safe to say that people are constantly recycling classic’s and I’m feeling like this is just another girl-meets-vamp story.
I do like the more contemporary setting, and the interesting little variations that the writer — what is her name? Meyers, that’s it! — has taken on the vampire mythology. Once more, when we move into the rest of the series we encounter darling Jacob Black (yes, he’s my favorite character) and Meyer’s take on the whole werewolf verus vamp thing. I liked the whole idea of ‘imprinting,’ very romantic and a rather ingenious plot move on Meyers part. Which I’d like to add, she desperately needed by the middle of the second book.
Was I disappointed in the movie? Yah, definitely. I came away feeling that it was all way too rushed. In the book Meyers takes her time in developing the relationship between Bella and Edward, but in the movie we get a few breathy scenes, some fast driving and some bad dialogue and bam baby, we’re in love!
More over, in the book Meyer really focus’s on the fact that Edward is man — teenager, whatever — out of time. The way he speaks, his mannerism, even the way he writes tells us he’s cut from a different bolt of cloth, and that makes him wholly unique, even if he weren’t a vamp. I wanted to see that on screen and we didn’t even come close. Once more Bella seems…whiny? Yes, definitely whiny and weak, where as in the books she may be clumsy, but she’s got spunk enough to make up for it.
Now, I know that the director for New Moon (the second book/second movie) will be a different person – thank god, haven’t we had our fill of blurred forest shots and wide-eyed close-ups?! – and it will be interesting to see who they get for this next installment. My sincerest hope is that they don’t rush the storyline, now that they’ve decided they’re definitely doing New Moon. Oddly enough New Moon was my favorite book in the series, but mostly because we get to meet Jacob Black, so…
And speaking of Jacob Black, I’ll scream if they replace him for a different actor as the rumors have it. I’ve even heard that Edward might get replaced, I’d be really surprised if they do that though. I imagine the fans will have something to say on that front 
If nothing else, the best thing I’ve gotten out of the whole Twilight craze is an appreciation for some new music, namely Black Ghosts and Paramore which you can find on the sound track.
I still haven’t answered my original question, why am I hooked and honestly I can only surmise that it’s the taste of something different that has me coming back for more. I don’t usually do vampires or werewolves, but Twilight is lovely escapist entertainment. You throw in a heroine you can emphasize with, a good looking guy who can play the piano and the ever loyal friend with smoldering eyes, I guess you’ve got a recipe that will appeal to a lot of different tastes.