words..............to live by
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Posted:Nov 5, 2016 1:49 pm
Last Updated:Dec 1, 2016 1:16 pm
9268 Views
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Having been chastened, she sat contemplating the possibilities for any further forays into writing just for the fun of silly. It seems that her sense of humor wasn’t as clear to others as it was to her. That the slip twixt tongue and lip was a massive one filled with drooly bits that were not only distasteful, politically incorrect but also alienating to some.
Ah well, writing is not for the faint of heart.
Words are powerful, of this she was well aware. Her judicious use of the word love was one that proved that surely. Yet, it had always been possible for her to find humor in the most awful things. In some way, it was an imperative to find the humor there….how else to survive after all?
Words were like food, they gave sustenance, filled her up, made her laugh, cry, chortle, brought her to tears. When others listened to music, she listened to the lyrics. She loved a room filled with people. Wandering through, picking up the words, tones, a pad in her hand.
As a , words took her to worlds she’d never dreamed of, to thoughts she’d never posited, filled her with possibilities, promised something outside of where she stood. The girl who climbed trees and ran like the wind but woke every night with a pounding heart, found strength and power in words.
Wrapped in a book, she could lose all sense of time, her mother sometimes needing to shake her to bring her back, reminding her that dinner was ready, or bed was calling her name.
In her life, words gave her ways to escape, to endure, to take care of others, to demand. Her words were used for purpose, to fix something, to find money, to teach, to build, to explain so that people could see a need. But never did they simply get to be the words.
Until now. Now she had time to use words as she wanted, to lay them one aside another, provoking, soothing, leaping over each other with laughter or sadness….with shame…or remorse. A grand puzzle of emotion, catharsis, or just fun. It was exhilarating. Free.
And yet, that’s not really true, is it? Until someone else reads what you write, it’s just words on paper. Like any art form, it doesn’t really exist until someone else sees it, hears it, eats it.
This is not a mea culpa. I do not believe in censorship. Not even of myself. Smiles
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Succulent is a synonym for...
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Posted:Nov 3, 2016 1:21 pm
Last Updated:Dec 1, 2016 1:24 pm
8921 Views
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Zaftig
I love this word. This is a word we women who have hips and asses and boobs use a lot. It’s not a word for bony scrap meat women. It’s a word for women who eat, who revel in the taste of love, life, who salaciously lick their lips when talking about dry rubs, snork. It’s a word for women no longer worried about bikinis.
Wait, what?
Yes ma'am. Truth is being spoken here so if you don’t want to listen…not to worry. feel free to disregard. Zaftig women don't care. That worry left the room when they decided that their body was never going to be a size 2 and that the men who loved their bodaciousness were just fine with that.
No, we really don’t look great in some of those slinky tops; the ones that prepubescent girls are noted for. But slide them into something that cups their ass…..lord have mercy. Something that skims over those beautiful full breasts where babies suckled, oh god, save me grown men find themselves puckering up, hands rising, ready to latch on, it’s a playground. Uh huh.
Not saying you skinny girls need to eat yourself into 500 pounds of booboo’s mama, just saying men favor meat on a bone, soft flesh to a sharp elbow. Not a single man I know will let a muffin top scare him away from a woman who is lustful, who can turn him inside out til he drops over onto the soft cushion of her body, replete. Not a one.
And that myth about zaftig women being grateful? Pfft.
You will crawl, begging for more. We are THAT good.
Just sayin’
if you want another RT image........just check out Lala....the Goddess put in some overtime when she spun that women out. she is the epitome of ZAFTIG. but I didn't get her permission to use an image so..........damn, I should have thought of that.
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Symposium Post Being Thankful
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Posted:Oct 30, 2016 2:30 pm
Last Updated:Nov 4, 2016 8:52 am
8204 Views
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[imGE]It is a simple thing to be thankful for the good things in your life. The joys the happiness, the days spent with loved ones, shared lives, moments of triumph.
It takes a different type of strength to be thankful for the times that tore your life apart, that made you question why you existed or if you should even continue to exist; to be thankful for those people who called you hateful names, for the jobs you lost, for the times without money, for the that died, the friend that betrayed you, the family that left you, alone without help when you most needed it.
But here you stand….still stand. And somehow, all of those terrible things, illness, trauma, death, poverty, did not stop you from surviving. Here you stand.
Thankful for what you survived. For whatever it is in you that kept you going. That made it possible for you to take that next step. To not once or twice, but more times than anyone should ever have to, you stood up, moved forward, not back, without blame.
Look at you. No matter what anyone else says, you are still the fuck here. That counts.
Be thankful for THAT. For your spirit. For not accepting defeat no matter how many times it beat the door down to claim you.
Be thankful that YOU are a bad mofo, with enough love in your heart to forgive all those who tried to crush you.
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Whither thou goest
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Posted:Oct 29, 2016 4:45 pm
Last Updated:Nov 3, 2016 10:21 am
8064 Views
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In the dark of night, the long hours before dawn, sleep eluded her. She lay still, quiet, adrift in the memories that clung to this place, the walls that remembered the peals of laughter as clearly as they recalled the sharpness of doors slamming, sobs swallowed down dry throats.
A house is a living thing, made up of sounds and smells of wet dogs, burnt toast, dinners served, ’s’ sweaty summer bodies ripened in the sun, the walls holding all of it in; filling it to bursting with life’s energy, with love, tears, hope, pain, joy, anger, pettiness. A house is only as good, or as bad as that which kisses or kicks at its walls.
When all the living in it is done, a house no longer breathes.
Rising from the futility of a sleep never coming, she moved through the empty rooms, her hands brushing against this or that, touchstones in the dark, no light needed to guide her to the door leading out to the porch where she stood, arms wrapped round, her hands resting at her neck.
She stared across the land, this land that had been her life. This place she had come to as a young woman; where she had borne three , been loved as she had never believed she would be loved. She had fought this land, bringing it to its knees more than once, it bringing it to hers so often she'd lost count. Beside her man. A man who she hungered after.
The night was lifting around her. Breakfast to be made, to tend to…
Her heart flew from her, chasing after him even as she turned to the door; her hand ran along the shingling....... a caress.
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Him
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Posted:Oct 25, 2016 12:19 pm
Last Updated:Nov 20, 2016 8:50 am
7504 Views
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The mere thought of Him made her whimper.
All of those empty years of cold analytical play, of short term dalliances, of wondering if she had made the wrong decision in asking for release.
But now, now she felt lighter, new. Now there were days of anticipation, longing. She felt the fullness of being a woman again. The ache of desire.
She would catch herself drifting into fantasies, reading the same page of a book over and over as her body pulsed. Shaking her head, she would try to walk it off, take the out again….his eyes curious but happy as he trotted back to the park.
The nights came earlier, dark by 6:30, snug on her bed, with the on her feet warming them, a cup of tea in her small hands, her mind still spinning out images, sensations, curling and uncurling.
How to ignore the growing need, how to not watch the clock, to check for an email yet again, to make sure her phone was charged, to slide her hands…. no, this was not allowed.
Aware of every nerve ending, she slid under the soft quilts. This sweet torture was filling her up, driving her.
Turning on her side, she allowed her mind to drift, to float. She held a wooden spoon in her hand, pressed against her lips.
This is how He found her. His large hand in her hair bringing her back to life.
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Pick One.......a non election post
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Posted:Oct 23, 2016 9:16 am
Last Updated:Oct 28, 2016 10:47 am
7116 Views
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I remember the fall when Margaret got scarlet fever. Everyone was afraid of polio so no one could go swimming. Mama sent me to the farm early because it was far away from the city. I stayed there for the whole summer until right before school started. When I came home, I wanted to bring all the bits and pieces I collected for Margaret to her but mama said she had to call first. I was skipping in place waiting to be set free to run the yards separating us. Grrr.
Finally, she was off the phone and I could go, mama calling after me trying to tell me something, I just waved and ran. Margaret’s mom standing guard at the door to their house, brought me up quick.
She always said to call her Minnie but I just couldn’t. it wouldn’tt come out my mouth no matter how hard I tried. She sat me down on the steps, her voice very quiet, like it always was but broken, like it never was. She told me My Friend couldn’t play or move or even talk too much but I could see her, yes, every day, as long as I could be quiet, gentle, calm.
“is she going to die” tears burned down my face which she wiped away with her hand.
“I don’t know. ”
“does it hurt”
“sometimes.”
I took the stairs to our room…the room where we always played when we were at Margaret’s house, the one with the door to the attic, the shelves filled with books, a window over the street where Margaret lined up her dollies.
It smelled of medicine, stale, old. It usually smelled of grape bubblegum and some weird cleaning thing. Margaret was sitting up against pillows, her hair wet against her forehead, her eyes too bright. She smiled, tapped her bed.
I sat on the bed, spilling out the bag of keepsies, telling stories for each precious thing but never really meeting those eyes. The whole time, my stomach felt wrong, my heart going fast. She didn’t talk much but held each stone or pod like it was spun glass.
Mrs. Margaret came in and said I had to leave. Margaret pleaded for more time, but my feet were heading to door.
“will you come back” her voice trailed after me
“Every day” I whispered
She was asleep already.
I ran home, terrified. My mama caught me up, holding me tight. Later that night mama and me, we made a box filled with tiny things, all wrapped separate like. My sister the saint helped too. So pretty. We put dates on each one. The next day when Mrs. Margaret called, I walked over there carrying it careful.
“One a day until you don’t need one and we can go look for things together.”
Her fingers roved the box as her Mama left the room, hurrying down the hall.
“Which one is today?”
“I don’t know. You do.”
And she picked
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nothing to see here....move along
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Posted:Oct 22, 2016 12:09 pm
Last Updated:Oct 23, 2016 9:17 am
7367 Views
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apparently if a woman posts a blog on balls, it's like a red flag to a bull.
I have now hidden the post,
hmm, how shall I say this.
riballed ( and yes, I know how it's really spelled) humor has it limits. and I have had my fill of emails from men seeking particular services.
so.........
I will seek illumination elsewhere.
maybe i'll open a forum.......weg.
an aside......did you know there is a man whose scrotum swelled to 132 pounds? just sayin'.......this is serious stuff, here.
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10
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clean up on Aisle 4
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Posted:Oct 16, 2016 1:21 pm
Last Updated:Oct 18, 2016 11:30 am
7718 Views
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There is in me a true fascination with how men think. I’ve studied it for years. I have a large number of male friends, gay and straight. I was when young more at ease around men then around women. After I was assaulted, I became driven to understand the why. The men I had known until I was 15 were men of kindness, some rough, some gentle but always men that protected and cared for women with a sense of duty and great civility.
Living more a boy’s life than a girl’s life, I’d been privy to the ways of boys and found them easy to be with, not devious in general, not particularly given to conversation but when asked, as filled with dreams and deep ponderings as any girl I knew. I preferred the outdoors, running wild, bare feet, climbing trees, dares to dolls, dresses, and secrets. This was in part why I trusted boys/men and felt little or no concern in their company as I grew; even as I began to desire them, to think of their hands touching me, their lips on mine.
So how it is possible that a boy who is one day looking at a girl with curiosity, perhaps lust, some sense of his mother, turn into a boy, and then a man who now looks at a female and sees only a piece of meat.
Who or what changed them? Other men? A society that devalues women by selling cars with women draped across them like dead elk? Where a double bagger is a term we all know? And laugh at?
And where little girls think first about being pretty, second about being liked, third about being the same as everyone else….and not so much at all about being smart or successful?
I have to say, I don’t think it’s the way men think. Sure, there are assholes out there. But I’ve met just as many women that I’d rather not know as I have men. And I know a lot of women who allow it. Who let it happen. All the time. Every goddam fucking day. Giggle, giggle. Oh, you! There are just as many women out there being just as stooopid and just as chauvinistic….. seriously. This is now officially America in retrograde.
I think men think in a linear fashion while women think in spirals. We both get there. It’s not such a big deal……we are the heart, they’re the gut…..we need both……let’s move on. Notice I left the brain out? Cuz we both have brains. And yes, this whole thing is a massive over generalization. What is scary is the large percentage of both sexes who seem to have scooped out their brains and left them at Walmart.
Most will never find them…..Walmart is very confusing….I’ve never found the section that sells condoms….ever.
I’m done. I’ll just say this , never go shopping on a Sunday. It’ll fuck you up.
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truth in advertising......we style
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Posted:Oct 15, 2016 2:09 pm
Last Updated:Oct 22, 2016 12:10 pm
7705 Views
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One’s true self is usually shown to very few. Most people show the person that they think others will find acceptable or the least unacceptable…..we are, all told, a timid lot. To be exactly who you are at all times… is this an act of courage? Or more an act of stupidity? It can result in unemployment, incarceration, shunning and isolation. And yet, they say that the truth will set you free.
So, a little truth in advertising:
I’m a liberal pragmatic anarchist. I vote largely democratic because they tend to be more liberal than the others. but that doesn’t mean I like the choices that are out there. Politicians are a particular breed and while necessary, not trustworthy…..
I am a submissive. I deeply enjoy pain and BDSM delivered by a Master who claims me as His. Understand that I have also have run agencies with huge budgets so I’m not a gidgetty dodohead. This is a sexual preference….don’t understand? Doesn’t matter. I don’t understand wife swapping or polyamory.
I have dabbled in the black arts and still have ties to the Wiccan community.
I have been arrested for my politics but consider protest key to change. I was going to say go ahead and shoot me but that’s just too real now.
I have been fired for not going along. I’ve been hired for the exact same reason. Life is rich.
I married but never bothered getting divorced.
I raised a who is now I man that fills me with pride.
I am a women’s libber, have been for eons. Gee, you ask, how can you be a sub? Oh well, life is a mass of contradictions.
I was gang r**ed at the age of 15, again at 20 and I turned into a right stinker for a while. I used men like toys for a long time. Not proud of it, but hey, payback is a bitch and so was i.
I was raised catholic, studied Buddhism and if I’m anything at all at this point, I’m a meditating fool with no clear idea of what happens when we die except that I dearly hope there is something out there.
More than anything else, I think of myself as a strong, loving woman.
Got any truth you want to tell? Or question that’s burning to be asked? Go for it. I’m a really good listener.
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9
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When he came back
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Posted:Oct 11, 2016 2:19 pm
Last Updated:Oct 15, 2016 2:09 pm
7528 Views
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She turned her head, yes, it was him. If it were possible to scream in the middle of the day in the middle of the city, she would be screaming now. Instead she ran.
Someone pulled on her arm, yanking her backwards and she fought, twisting, her hands curled into claws. Two women pushed at the man. Throwing up his hands, he crossed the now clear street, glancing back over his shoulder. The women, held her softly, murmuring, cooing, lowering her to the cold pavement. Slowly, her breath came back to her, her eyes filling with tears.
“Shh, shh…. He was only trying to stop you from running into the street”
Nodding, she tried to stand. Their hands supporting her, she shook visibly. They exchanged looks, not knowing what should happen next.
“Do you need help? “
“No….you’ve been more than kind. I’m… I’ll be fine. Thank you for helping me. Please, I’m fine.”
She scurried off. The women stood watching her, not at all sure that they had helped.
…….
Yanking the door closed behind her, she climbed the stairs slowly. Her phone was ringing. She walked jerkily past it, filled a glass with ice, Jameson’s. As she pulled one arm out of her coat, she lifted the glass with the other, swallowed half the drink.
Was it him? How to be sure. Her mind sprinted backwards, forward. Such a long time ago now with not a word, a whisper. Her heart pounded. She swallowed the rest of the drink, fell back into the chair, her fists pounding her thighs, a low keening beginning to fill the room, deep, trapped, and her throat not daring to let it loose.
Her body shook. She knew it was him. No, it wasn’t possible.
She showered, to ward off the deep cold in her bones, wrapping herself in an old robe, curling up under quilts still shivering uncontrollably.
When the lock turned in the door, she sat up. When the steps climbed higher, she did not move from the bed, though her hands searched for the phone in the coverlets. There was no place to go, you see.
There was ever, only this.
When he stood, at last in front of her, she fell to her knees beside the bed.
A sob broke loose from her throat. She could not breathe.
He closed the blinds.
Tossed her phone into the hallway.
And it began…….
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4
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This is how i do halloween.
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Posted:Oct 10, 2016 2:44 pm
Last Updated:Jul 10, 2017 2:55 pm
7623 Views
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First it was the witch that flew with black and purple gauze floating high and low, her bony fingers reaching out, snatching at the wind that carried her. She appeared without warning, her skeletal face twisted and gnarled. The moved to the center of the road as they passed the house.
Then, a spider web growing daily up the stairs, over the hedges, engulfing the banisters and crawling up the side of the column. You could see some spiders against the white of the column, spinning, spinning. When the bats began to fly under the orange lights on the porch, the took to walking on the other side of the road, clutching the hands of their parents and moving quickly up the road.
And yet, they did not say hello to the old woman who lived there though their parents did.
One day one of the dads said he’d seen her outside with a shovel the night before and wondered about it. Within hours all the on the street had gathered, and they stood across from the house as dusk claimed the light. They could see her. She was in her front yard, wearing a long dark shawl.
“My dad says she always wears it. He thinks its elekant. “
“What’s elekant?”
The other boy shrugs. The watch in silence as she places things around her yard and then goes inside. It’s too dark now to see what is there.
The next morning, they meet as a group and stand in silence across from her house. The day was bright and they could see the pumpkins and the sun striking the glass of the candles. But ….
There were tombstones.
And the spider webs have already spun out and over them.
One boy whispers “The shovel”.
As they stood there, staring…….
She stood in the window looking down at them.
She opened it, saying rather quietly but loud enough for them to hear. “Tomorrow…….I’ll get you tomorrow my pretties”….and cackled.
They scattered like leaves in a draught.
On Halloween, the candles were lit in her yard. Fog blew across the tiny cemetery though the night was clear. The sound of screams came from her window, muted but there. A cauldron sat on her porch where she hovered, dressed in black wearing a witch’s hat wrapped in her shawl, rubbing her hands together.
They were all together and their parents trailed behind them chatting.
She turned, spotting them
“Candy? Candy? I have Candy”. She crooned in a horrible slimy voice.
They ran, pelting across the street and into the safety of the porch where the grandfather was patiently dispensing goodies.
The parents fell about laughing. As she poured them all a glass of wine, she took off her hat and waved.
Curiosity won out and one by one they came back to claim their candy, walk through the graveyard and touch the plastic spiders. She gave them all spider rings to wear home. They sat on the stairs across the street watching and laughed at how scared all the little were when they came to the house.
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7
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tending your garden
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Posted:Oct 5, 2016 1:36 pm
Last Updated:Oct 13, 2016 2:23 pm
7792 Views
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Some people are there forever
They are part of the fabric from which you are woven, embedded in the very fibers of your days and nights, so much a part of you that without them the world would be less your world, more just a strange place you are forced to inhabit. Generally you can count them on your fingers and not run out of fingers.
Then there are People that enter and leave quickly, but leave marks. I wonder about them. Is it their intent to leave marks or is it just a careless nature. Still, the marks are there to be dealt with either way, aren’t they?
There are People who hover around the edges, never quite committing. Not a good buddy or a friend, but someone who calls, assumes, presumes. Someone who might be fun, entertaining, asks for nothing much, gives nothing much. When you notice that they’re gone, you shrug.
Sometimes there are People who step into your life for a few years, throw it up into the sky, fill it with stars, make it shine, then disappear as if they were never there. Oh, how the light dims when they leave.
And the ones you never see but could call at 3AM and they come, no questions asked.
So many people in our lives, the ones we need, the ones we want, the ones we carry, the ones who carry us. All of us connected at a single point, each of us believing that point to be themselves.
This is your garden. Tend it well. Make sure the weeds are pulled so the land doesn’t sour. Shine your light on the flowers often, fill the air with laughter.
Rejoice. This is the where you will find the only true peace you will ever know.
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5
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coming home
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Posted:Oct 4, 2016 2:51 pm
Last Updated:Oct 13, 2016 2:23 pm
8231 Views
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The two walked slowly through the playground, not looking at the other playing on the swings or climbing up into the wooden fort. They walked with their heads a bit lowered, eyes on the ground, not speaking but hands clasped tightly as they moved up the short hill and past the tennis courts, along the path that ran beside the woods, quietly disappearing from one breath to the next.
If anyone noticed them, it was of no import. It made no real impression, left no lasting image. Even the crossing guard did not recall them. Just two of so many at the end of the school year, released to the beginning of summer like birds from a cage, flying with the suddenness of so many wings at once.
No, no one could be blamed.
The town scoured the woods for days but they found nothing.
The parents wept for the cameras, then moved. The town was glad of that.
It was only the that spoke of the two. Of their soured milk and rotten fruit and them so rich. The smell of pee on their clothes, the way their eyes shut tight if you touched their backs in tag.
It was many years later when one of the now grown and teaching at the school, looked out at the playground and saw two grown people sitting on the swings. Alerted, she watched to ensure that they were not interacting with the . Something….
She rose slowly and walked out of the building, crossing over to the playground. Nearing the swings, she smiled at the two.
“Hello Joe. Hello Terry”.
They looked at her and smiled back. “Hello Jessie”, they said in one voice.
“Welcome back. “
They nodded at her. Rising from the swings, they joined hands and moved to a car parked alongside the road. Terry looked back over her shoulder and waved.
Jessie felt a sob catch in her throat as she raised her hand. She hoped now it was safe for them to stay.
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To link to this blog (wickedeasy) use [blog wickedeasy] in your messages.
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