The article I just read says “men who do housework are sexy.” The article is dumb. Decent human beings are an imperative. Sexy is a hundred steps beyond that. Why do people keep writing this crap? It’s as if the entire pay per view media complex is conspiring to keep your expectations low. These types of articles make you believe that the best you can do is settle for decent – why stop there when sublime is what you want?
Pretending decency is enough to get you off is a waste of your god given creative power. Settling for decent is a betrayal to yourself and your partner. Aren’t we here to challenge one another to be more? Don’t you want to be more? Decent is a low bar. No one wins a championship ring for wiping out the sink, why give something as incredible as your heart for that?
And some will tell you it’s hard enough to find decent. When they find it they just want to rest there at that easy plateau and wash dishes together. They’ll say “What you are looking for is a fairy tale, it doesn’t exist.” But I think, No, YOU are the goddamn fairy tale, and if you exist to make your dreams real, they better be fucking sexy.
Love sits in folding chairs, packed trains, and idle thoughts waiting for a break in conversation
Love sneaks a poem into your pocket that is destined to become a hard pearl of dryer lint;
Love under cooks your steak and demands your praises. Everything bleeds out;
Love paces, wandering the cracks in the hardwood floor questioning the integrity of its foundation;
Love tears a hole in your screen letting moths and birds and debris in. Love refused to filter. Everything bleeds in;
Love keeps you awake at night with worry. Love doesn’t care what you expect. Love waits in the dark, a hard pearl of dryer lint;
Love scribbles in your margins. Love crosses out your key words. Love sends you to the printer and lets the best part fall past the bleed;
Love leaves you no options. Love doesn’t come with insurance. Love doesn’t carry a first aid kit;
Love waits for you in paper cups and paper cuts;
Love sits in the library and reads you, skipping all the dialog.
No one ever bought me a diamond ring, though one did drive across country pulling tiger lilies out of ditches and filled his truck bed with them to be mine.
He opened the truck gate and those flowers glowed in the morning sun mightily. He was all salt sweat and tired from days of driving, his weary face beamed in the sun just for me. The birds were singing like they’d been waiting all night to queue up the moment. The storybook beauty of it isn’t lost on me, that morning was right out of a fairy tale.
I wish I could tell you a fairy tale ending, but we weren’t each others’ stories.
Broken hearts will cling to anyone; and my, aren’t I easy to cling to for those that are broken like that. They come to me all raw and vulnerable and I love them, I do… but I know to throw them back. Even a flawless diamond will appear dull and muted if the cut is poor.
And I threw him back, him and his flower bed, all the way back to Carolina. I wish I could tell you it was bittersweet but it’s only that way looking back… Back then nothing stuck and I didn’t want it to, my heart was scared and Teflon, cruel and non-reactive, and his heart wasn’t much better, empty except for daydreams.
Dispersion causes the white light to be separated into multiple colors
I’ve been married twice, and proposed to some times past that; Once I laid in a bed of tiger lilies and pretended for a night that I was a diamond, but I’ve never been offered anything past the daydreams of broken men. I sit with that, my weary face beaming in the sun… the light a diamond reflects is referred to as its ‘fire’ … The remaining rays of light travel into the center of the diamond and bounce off its internal walls.
Once, mother and I calculated the sum of my sick days and determined I’d lost two full school years of classes to pneumonia. It dawned on me today that the spottiness of my early education was more than just incongruous learning, it was a strange way to time travel.
I would sleep, fever, and dream for days at a time, too weak to care about dates or whether the sun or moon was up. When I woke and was able, I’d build elaborate worlds out of modeling clay and construction paper. I spent from morning till night in my stories and fantasy.
After some weeks, I’d arrive back to my same desk at school, same teachers, same friends, same chicken-fried steak. But the classes had advanced, and my friends had memories of learnings and events that I didn’t. I just had these disjointed thoughts. That’s what I mean by time travel. I had a memory of school, long bits of absence from time, and then there I was in the future again.
So, when we wonder “where did the time go?” I’m more inclined to think it did slip away, somewhen. We fall down these rabbit holes and can’t remember when we’ve been. I wonder where all that extra time collects?