Friday, August 29, 2008

I am an idiot

the Economist Beekeeper Sex God in SMS: ...reve en dormant...envie de toi...

me, asking the Swiss roommate what it means

her, replying it means he wants me

we, giggle

I, hesitate - but does it mean he wants me now? He wants me in general? He wanted me in the dream?

I send an SMS back: je ne comprend pas le francais guapo

Economist Beekeeper Sex God: ...ganas de ti...
[desire of you]

Swiss and I, wondering, analyzing what it means. She wants me to go to him. But "ganas" means longing, interest, I have "ganas" to eat that apple. But it doesn't mean I ask someone for it. Or, that I grab it. It means I'm interested in it. .....I am over-analyzing.

I send an SMS back: creo que deje un par de bragas alla
[I think I left a pair of underwear there]

Swiss and I are laughing our asses off and having another cigarette and another glass of wine.

Economist Beekeeper Sex God: ...mmmmhh...

Swiss and I wonder what it means. In English it means akin to meh or feh or could also be yummyeh. Swiss thinks the latter.

I send an SMS back (after debating for 15 minutes what witty reply to send): yes

Actually, the Swiss gave it to me. I feel like a moron. Like a 16-year-old moron. And, I'm behaving like one.

...nothing...
...silence...
...fuck...

...will pack for Italy...
...will grow up...
...will stop being a fucking idiot...






[interesting that I have a label called "moron" - will have to see my other moronic times]

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Fuck chess

I've been trapped in a catch-22 checkmate leapfrog wrestle-crush. Out of nowhere and completely visible. I let this happen and I am the only one to blame.

All I can fool myself into beleiving is that he is at home thinking the same things, saying he shouldn't call, we shouldn't hang out, distance is best. Otherwise, I am the fool. The smell of this clothes, the flip flops crushing bees, the way he looks just like a 10-year-old boy in certain light, the way I started to see other sides of him, the way he opened up my ass slowly over candlelight.

I am fucked.

Fucked.

Fucked.

Fucking how this happened.... fuck.

And then, it is only logical and reasonable and the next best move to be retreat. Protection and calm and far from assault or risk. All my balls landed in his court. Although I played it cooly, I still gave more than he did. I risked greater distances across the board. In my honor, I did verbalize my recognition that in no way was he manipulating me since I was compliant and interested in all the activities. Granted, in my admission, I wonder if I wasn't completely transparent.

I can only hope he's not fucking "Catwoman" or maybe I hope he is.

God, I need the vacation in Cinque Terre. I do. I do. Get back to myself. Get free again. Be quiet and solitary with a good friend. Drink wine and eat pesto. I need to get out of here.

Fuck.

I hate this part of the beautiful living.


.......

Addition:

It's not love. It's some crazy lust.

I know this because I have no fashion on making him a life partner or fostering children from Africa or my own belly with him. I could never see a life where we lived in the same apartment or visited every weekend. There's just not enough substance between us.

It's just that he's so damn nice on the eyes. And somewhat aloof. And can give a crazy ass hard spanking. And is free in that kind of rich-guy freedom, where he can go to work with slicked back hair, a suit, a tie, and use a shoe-horn to get into his expensive shoes. Then, take the hour lunch on the beach, swim for 20 minutes, lay on the sand, have girls laugh because he thinks his balls might be hanging out since the suit is torn, go back to work, catch the train, be back by 4:30pm to ride out to bees. In a painter's suit. And flip-flops. And Captain America motorcycle helmut. And a gay scarf. And then, to kill bees with his bare hand, make honey, steal stealthily from bees, organize things in an OCD fashion like stacking bee houses, tell me to be calm when I freak out, and then grab a beer on the terrace afterwards, get Thai food, eat, and use the same manipulation tactics to touch my cunt, finger my ass, fuck me silly.

These are ... a few of my favorite things.

Power, money, freedom. Who wouldn't fall for that?

So, to have it and then to not have it is a jolt.

My god he's so beautiful. And simple. He thinks I'm a spy for all the photos I take of everything. I think he's an impostor for how simply he lives.

Why have I fallen so fast and hard?

Sunday, August 24, 2008

What do I care about chess?

(I'm blurting out sometimes. Thanks BadMan for showing me.)

Bike Man told me about wielding a chainsaw against a former Swiss light weight champion who wielded a bike frame as protection. This was after the latter smashed the former's head on a vice. It was all about women and madness.

I watched him in a manic state as he prepared dinner. The strange glow of an exposed bulb lighting the small kitchen and his black frame speaking, the majority of the time, to a window. I drank a lot of wine and kept thinking, "I have to remember this."

Of the 4 hours, a half-hour was spent turning my ass to red with a crop while he jacked off above me. I got cum in my eye and it turned bloodshot. I did not cum. But I got crazy stories.

I watched a Canadian film on Putin, which scared me to sleep at 3am. And then, after I had already decided not to get up at 8:30am for the 9:30 train to see my flatmate tell stories in a festival in Vevey (an hour away), "...do you want to come sunday to the beehouses?..." The Economist is a Beekeeper.

At 10:34am "yes"

He found an extra helmet. We're going on his moto.

I am afraid of bees. The Russian girl friend will die laughing reading this.

Especially after the story I told her about me dropping to the floor as if a drive-by outside my window, knees hitting the floor and my head down -- ducking from a bee that came into my bedroom and promptly fled the giant that fell on the floor in wild fashion.

Dios mio.

Friday, August 22, 2008

The painful lesson of chess

I forgot how to play.

My father taught me when I was thirteen. I promptly forgot, as I tried to forget everything he attempted to teach me then. Algebra and problem solving trains at certain speeds meeting each other at certain times and it was summer outside and the pool was glistening diamonds and sweat was collecting in the air and boys lived around the block, up the block, down the street, over in the city.

The Russian girl friend told me I have penis envy and I thought she was talking some Freudian bullshit. And thought it meant I wished I had a penis, which supposedly has the power of the world. At least, that's what my limited conception of penis envy was. She realigned my thinking and told me that it meant I wanted the power behind the penis. That men to me are power-weilding and by "taking" their penises I get some of their power and then "control" them in a way. It's all feminist crap philosophy but it kind of makes sense. While I'm submissive to the core for some things, for others I'm the cock in the room. (And you know what I mean when I say this, don't you?) I woo, I entice, I "ooze sex" as they say, and then I get it, fuck it, get bored. There are few men who have kept me entertained and drawn and intrigued and interested and in love. So, in a way, I can comprehend this penis envy thing. Although I would call it power hungry. As James once pointed out, I am attracted - and always have been - to power.

So the dance of dating or sexual relations or fucking or pick-ups or wooing or fuck buddies or friends with benefits continues. I like it on my terms. I like it on days that work and nights that are free. And within those days or nights or moments, I want to give up my all and be beautiful in submissive worship or objectification. (Yes, badman, there is feminist freedom in submission - don't let women tell you otherwise.) I have no problem with setting term limits, and then giving up the veto pen. In fact, I need to do this. I need to micromanage my time and lifestyle, supervise those around me, and then relinquish all hope of deciding which tool to use on my supple skin.

But getting to that point is a disaster of missteps waiting to happen. A minefield of delicacies. You say, women make a move, give a number, say hello. It's not that we won't, it's probably that we take rejection harder than you do - albeit you it take it more often. There's a difference in egos here. To stereotype: men get rejected a million times a day but keep on trying. Women wake up rejected - pay differentials, societal history, a fucking "Women's History Month," the feminist revolution that never ceases with our mothers, magazines, tv ads, not good enough, too fat, not blonde enough, get a new diet drink, smoke more cigarettes so we stop eating as much, try the new lipstick, get the new car, become more like a man in the board room, leave the board room for children. What the hell is the perfect woman? And, no, I think it's easier for men, but it's not as hard. Sure, there are the same deodorant pressures, car models on the market, competition for the raise, etc, but you can't tell me we have equal rejection or equal challenges yet. Perhaps, in two generations we will have bred equally lazy and equally ambitious "people."

So, no, I won't walk up to you and say hi. You'll probably think I lack good skin, good bones, cute enough laugh with just the right amount of intellect, big enough tits without being too faked out, eyebrows tweezed without needing a pencil, breath just right.

I guess we'll both just remain on separate sides of the room. But at least I'll make eyes at you. Will you make eyes at me?

And when we cross. Fuck, fuck fuck. The longest history of genetic risk.

There is a subtle game of chess. Make a move but with caution. Come together, but there are always unspoken rules.

And last night, I blew my game. I moved too many pawns around thinking I had liberty. Thinking I had waited patiently and was back in the power position. Juggling. Thinking. Playing carefully. Not too excited to scare anyone away. Not too eager to keep anyone secure. Not too transparent in thinking five moves ahead. Not too coy to be misunderstood.

And my flatmate thought I was romantic.

Oh, no. This is a sexual chess game. Queens are naked, Kings are dominant. Rooks are rookies. Knights wear spurs.

I thought the message I sent Wednesday night was clear, "You aren't really getting 3 together for Jeudi night. I have to work Friday."

(During fucking Tuesday night, I said I wanted to see him with other women, see him fuck another woman. "Verdad?" he asked as he pulled my ass cheeks apart with his thumbs and pushed back into my cunt. "Sí, me gustaria." I was smiling over my shoulder. "Conozco a una... podemos el jueves." He slid back out and in. "Sí sí sí sí" not sure to what I was saying yes, but it all seemed yes.)

Thursday night I was clear, but hinting: "Pienso que me debes invitar a pasar la noche de viernes contigo
si no - pronto, porque es tiempo perfecto para eso"

He SMS'd on Friday that he didn't understand. "...no he entendido el mensaje... beso..." (How dense could a person be? I mean how much more clear is "I think you should invite me to spend Friday night with you / if not - soon, because it's a perfect time for this.")

I SMS'd that he should deduce what he wants to.. Then I thought I wasn't transmitting well over the waves and followed with "Lo siento - el mensaje era al azar" (Sorry - the message was random)

The hours and hours of silence following were deafening. I had moved to a vulnerable position, let down some of the intrigue and some of the hidden strategy. I had unveiled some moves, reacted too suddenly and repetitiously. (Or, I am starting to dramatize what needs not be seen under a microscope right now.)

Regardless, when I got home from work it was officially the weekend, and I had plenty of time between the dinner with colleagues and Monday morning. I wanted to plan a bit of the games. I wanted my cake, my checkmate, and eat it, too. There's the Economist and the Bike Man, both available in the same town. The Russian girl friend is gone, so no long day travel plans. And the weather is supposed to suck. Perfect combination for a weekend of fucking.

I'm just not good at choosing the next square, the next move. I was trying to plot a way in which I could have both men at some non-coniciding time. I have found myself preferring the one who is more like me, the playboy Economist (although completely not like me at the same time). His cock is worth mentioning, as it's more than a mouthful, almost painful as it knocks my cervix, thick enough in diameter to make him think he needs lube to get inside, and attached to hips that are rhythmically aware to bring me pound-pound-pounding to hungry climax.

His skin looks like cherry brownies, or, as I told him, like Neapolitan ice cream without the vanilla, but a shade of maple where his bathing trunks should have been while he sunbathed nude on his boat in southern Spain. He has a terrifically funny and yet sexy, haphazard tic when he drinks. His right eye squints half-way closed, or can't quite catch-up to the left eye when it blinks so it looks like he's winking at me in some slick, 1970's cheese porn way. The bottom of his feet are somewhat blackened from walking barefoot in the apartment, wearing flip-flops out in town, and espadrilles on vacation. He's not the best kisser, but his hands make up for that, as does his face when he buries into my pussy lips.

He told me over drinks on the plaza that he liked how we varied. Fucking sometimes with nothing, like on Sunday morning, sometimes with drinking, sometimes with drugs. He laughed as he remembered when I asked him to spank me. Me, gripping the mantle over his fireplace, leaning forward to push my ass out. Him, running to the window to close the blinds from the neighbors seeing anything and shutting the window for them hearing the smacks. His slaps were light and misdirected, unsteady and unsure. But a few landed with just the amount of force and sound to cause sonar waves of warmth throughout my skin.

Meanwhile, the Bike Man shocked me on our first date by spanking my ass with the window ajar and blinds half-way open. And on hearing me moan and seeing me not pull away, rolled me over his lap and repeated the act. The differences in action between the men were so pronounced. Even throwing in the Parisian Butcher. Bike Man must have practiced often on other lovers (European men aren't easy to discuss their other conquests), for he knew how much strength and moved his spanking around my ass and thighs with good direction, and repeating in one location only when he could tell it was raising my temperature, "You know you can take it."

And when he - unsolicited - climbed on top of me and face fucked me, I was shocked, a bit afraid, nervous, excited, wet, thrilled, and so naughtily happy.

The second time was similar. Fuck me from on top, turn me on my side, from behind. The fantasies were hot - he had been with a few prostitutes and told me the stories. But his rhythm seriously lacks any stamina and once in a while he does this strange stir-the-pot-of-honey move where he gyrates in a circle as if he's literally trying to "turn" me on.

I'm a steady pace girl. I like my vibrators to have multiple speeds in a sliding direction that I can control from low hum to high speed red alert bone-breaking electricity. I like my cocks the same. A nice, slow entry - especially if I haven't fucked in a while - followed by a build-up (nothing like a juicy plot). The build-up, of course, can include many peaking out moments. One climax on my back, one on my knees, one on reverse cowboy, change positions whenever - or don't. While missionary is boring when done every date, there is an art which can be achieved and has the same results for both me and my partner of repetitiously increasing speed while in the same position, and it won't bore me. Since there are position changes within the position itself, like the knee-pull (pulling my knees wider apart), the watch-it-like-it's-porn (me looking down and watching his cock go in and out), the push-lips-together (making a faux tighter hole), the low-saw or the top-saw (cock pressure higher or lower on the cunnie opening), the legs-on-his-sides or the wrap-around-the-waist, the legs-up-on-his-shoulders (I don't know the official names for these), biting his arm, rubbing the sweat around on my tits, reaching around to caress his balls, a finger in the asshole (of course, both the latter require a communicated interest on behalf of the partner). All of these things can make missionary a delicious position.

But not all the time. Nothing should be done the same all the time. Not even kinky fantasies.

Anyway, after the fucking, and I was spent, he hadn't cum and told me to suck him off. This seems to be his biggest fetish. Not only oral but climbing on top of me, gagging me slightly, and watching my lips around his cock. The ending to this time was me on my knees on a pillow (thank you) stroking his cock to cum in my face. I told him afterwards that it was hot and all, but frankly, I'd prefer if he was jerking himself. Maybe he prefers the debasement more if I do it, but I'm just not into jerking some cock on myself. I wouldn't seek it out - hey, can I jerk your cock into my face cuz I love it?! - and hence, not so interested in doing it. But him, jerking himself onto my face totally turns me on. That type of denigration I would ask for - hey, would you like to jerk off on my face and tits cuz I love it?!

The next date was the schoolgirl fantasy - one of my favorites. It was fun to play with the Bike Man. He sent me shopping and in the last 20 minutes before the store closed at 7pm (this fucking city is so totally lame in so many regards) I grabbed all things cheap and slutty and cute: skirts, white thongs (with or without Hello Kitty - who knows what specific kind of schoolgirl he had in mind), knee-highs. And I got spanked over his knee again and fucked with panties on (not the Hello Kitty type). He wanted some high heels and lipstick to go with it, but I'm not a lipstick-wearing girl and I didn't bring any high heels with me.

And, again, we ended with me sucking him off. On my knees, on a pillow, on the floor, and instead he jerked off on me and took photos (yet to be sent to me). I'm not one to rush to the toilet after sex to clean up (cuz I'm a dirty whore like that), but I had to wash my face off right after just so I could see.

The next date was all very similar - minus the dress-up. Fuck me from on top, turn me on my side, from behind. And end with cock sucking, laying on my back this time, after dozing off for a short nap after dinner. Not that I'm wholly complaining, because, fuck, I got off. But the repetition of kink positions and activities isn't fun. Even of kink, or especially because of the fact that it's kink, it seems even less fun and less attractive.

Since our last date, he's SMS'd me about buying a crop and is excited to use it on me. Nice to throw in a new prop, but then today, prior to our date tonight, he asked if I had lipstick to bring. Bo-o-o-ring hint that things might go the same way.

Hence, the Economist is in first place in this race, the first choice for playing games, and really the only one who requires chess strategy. There's a bit more variety but a bit less reliability, and I don't *really* like the games or the strategy I feel like I have to have.

So, I am seeing the Bike Man tonight and last night saw no one. I thought I might see the Economist last night and sent him an SMS asking very directly if he was free any time this weekend and he sent back that he was going to see his son "veo mi hijo la tarde... te llamo despues." Well, "la tarde" couldn't be Friday afternoon because it was night when he sent it. It could be Saturday or Sunday -- and I don't wait for phone calls. This was the response to my bad moves. (Or my over-dramatizing right now.) He's a playboy - although he does have a son - so I don't know what any of that meant. To me, it means: chill. Thus, it means Bike Man for sure and Economist whenever (flippantly) later. It means he has the ball in this court and I don't like that. Penis envy or not, checkmate or not. I prefer a bit more control in my playdate calendar.

my distractions

I had never seen an anal kiss or a tattooed pig

I know that the 'net has progressed to tiny bits and fleeting thoughts and spasms and pukes and taps on the shoulder and flashes in the night and ghosts out of the corner of the eye and documenting every breath or passing idea (good or bad). But I kind of like being able to spit it out once in a while, and have no reputation attached to it or any *real* traceback.

I am cleaning up the links on the right. If you find yourself misplaced, let me know.

Facebook can suck my left one -- and it does.

Wondering what will get me up in the morning next week when I have no commitments to be anywhere at anytime.

Stringing one along, balancing another, playing just enough hard to get.

Thinking I'm gaining weight by one mirror. Noticing I'm losing weight through another.

Smoking again.

Analyzing the first time - in a long, long time - I've felt like something was missing.

Praying to keep summer just one more month.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Here comes trouble

Skipped work today. Sun at the beach.

The Economist just calls to say he's come from the lake and has sold his honey and has pockets of money. He invites me for a drink.

And I was telling myself no drinking today/tonight.

Sigh.

I'll ruin myself.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

How fickle is mine heart

... or mine libido

The Bike Man was quickly replaced by hormones and desire. I'm totally PMS'd or pregnant, the latter which seems impossible at this time but - as every month - I worry. Really, I should just get my tubes tied and find comfort in knowing that using a condom will not result in any offspring. But, I'm not one to say 'never.'

And then...

Friday, 12:21
...nos vemos el sabado?..

I giggled in happiness. Of course, I knew the Economist was coming back from Spain on Saturday, but was half sure that he wasn't interested or that I wasn't going to show any interest. After all, despite a lazy bougeouis ignorance of email, he could have emailed once over three weeks. But then, I didn't, so whatever.

We want what we can't have.

I showed the Russian friend the SMS and was momentarily excited in our depressing last days of working together. I felt this way - depressed at good-byes - when our first year grad school classes ended. I had been distracted with the Butcher and decided not to see my Canadian friends, with whom I bonded closely, before they left - for good, to other schools for the second year. And such went with the Russian. The last week was a strange dance of her coming closer, more needy, and me, pushing away, believing I had serious work to focus on or she was big enough to do things on her own. She hurt her hand biking to work and I wanted to help and we visited the doctor together and the radiologist and I translated French to English (a minor accomplishment in language learning). But at the same time, I was trying to push her away a bit. It's my historical response to these things.

I'm not sure when I learned it, but after moving so much in life, at some point I realized there was no use in suffering the departures of friends or my departure. Maybe I got this when I got to high school. When we all had to pretend to be cool with emotions. And now it's a biological response. A repulsion to the person once it's established we're not to share the same geological positioning. I tend to find fault then. Tend to find other endeavors. Other occupations and preoccupations. It's an obvious defense mechanism, and I'm not letting go yet.

But then, when she came around to say goodbye, all I could think was to hug her, strongly and closely - instead of the 3-times cheek-kissing of Geneva. It's not sexual of breasts touching, but of placing hearts close. I learned hugging from the hippies in my life. Their overly-long embraces, their strong grasps, their sighs of "can you feel that? our spirits are touching!" Or whatever. But after a while, I got it. There is something funny about our US culture. When we meet people, we send the distance orb out - this is my space, that is yours - shake my hand. The Europeans and South Americans have developed the cheek-kiss. It breaks barriers and makes us human. But it still is a formality, where the hug is a breaking of all barriers. Husky, strong firemen in NYC will do it for bonding, girl friends do it for closeness, families do it for assurance. I miss hugs. And I tried to cling to Russia for a bit and she did that patty-pat-pat on my back, trying to break free. I understand completely.

So, I waited about 7 hours to reply to Economist. I was a silly schoolgirl. Don't reply quickly - too obvious and needy and eager. Don't reply too late - he'll make other plans or be put off. So, in the evening, after dinner (after thinking all day and night about what to say), I SMS'd back, "Pourquoi pas?" Why not?

Of course.

Saturday I kind of mourned the Russian and got up lazily and slowly. There were things I wanted to do and see but without a partner it was different. Got out the door and on the road at 2pm to the cemetery here to pay homage to Borges and Calvin and found so many others of note. Spent a good hour there and then trekked up on bike through the western part of town. (We never went south or west since the Russian couldn't cross into France without a visa.) Climbed a hill along the river and up to another cemetery and along the river and on and on. The Economist SMS'd me "...un whiskey a las 20h?" A whiskey at 8pm? I sent back, sure.

Kept on biking. I had to find myself again.

Came home and made dinner. And just as I was fondling myself for pre-relief, "..a las 20h en la terraza de siempre.. gusto de verte.." (At 8pm in the terraza like always - pleasure to see you.) What's with all the periods? Of course, in the terraza where we first met, like has been our short-lived habit. I was late and nervous. He was early and oh so tanned. From being on his boat in the Med, sailing and drinking and fucking and bathing nude. He was cold and did I want a drink or get one back at his place? What was the rush, I wondered. No, one here first would be good. We went back to his place and I did not perform well at all. I was super PMS girl who had political arguments and griefs about the world, but I asked how his trip was and who he fucked and how fishing was. He fucked a friend of his, and he wasn't sure if he'd forgotten or not noticed, but she got new tits. I don't like new tits, but I loved his description that they looked, while she was reclined on the boat, nervous. Nervous tits. Shaking a bit. Trembling. A nice visual.

There was no coke this time. But he offered me a smoke of hash cigarette (they don't smoke the maryjane here). It was like usual, a missionary fuck (which I had commented earlier bored me - when he asked what I didn't like or liked in men). He twisted my nipples and filled me like Andy could, god praise southern cock and northern cock! Then I passed out. The smoke gets me all the time now.

"I wanted a scooter when I was a kid," he said. "But my mother said it was too dangerous. So I asked for a telescope so I could see the moon. So I could see the American flag there. ... I memorized the terrain of the moon," he told me.

I slept off and on while he would get up and change the music, smoke some more. Leonard Cohen - Suzanne. Opera - wistful. I asked him if it was winter time. He said no. I said, I thought you only listened to opera in the winter? He replied, I was mistaken, and changed it. It is the coming down from vacation, I thought. Not that he wishes to love fake-tit girl. Not that he isn't enjoying my dozing off. I don't care. I'm tired. .... His skin, like Neapolitan ice cream, brown and raspberrry mixed. There is a slight less tan where his swim suit bottom would be. His skin, slightly scratchy from repetitive sun. His skin, warm. Like a cookie. His cock, too big for my mouth. My body - not entirely free.

I had not spent the night before and it's not that I regret it now, but I do wonder what I gained or lost. I slept for shit. With intermittant music, getting up and fucking, thirst, sunshine, elevator, snoring. I got up when the sun was starting to peek in and debated - take the sleeping pill or leave. I decided that since I couldn't find my clothes easily without waking him, I'd pop the pill. Finally, I slept a bit.

You know those weird moments where someone wakes up, goes the bathroom, and you, in desperate need of more sleep and something to drink, get up, run to the kitchen, drink a gallon, jump back into bed to pretend not to have woken at all? I think he did that while I was in the bathroom. I heard the wood floor squeaking and water and then quick run back and he was in the same, albeit slightly awoken, state as when I left him for the bathroom.

This kind of bums me out. I try to establish with all my lovers the freedom to do and do as pleased. Don't want to touch me in the morning? What do I care? Want water and to keep sleeping? Do it.

So, we had morning sex instead of sleeping. And he slept on - or wanted to sleep on - and I dressed and left. The morning at 10am on a Sunday is a delight to see for a short while.

I ate a huge bowl of cereal and drifted to sleep reading about crazy Gilles. The cat drifted in and out and I ignored an SMS from Bike Man.

Photos, writing, lazy masturbation, and a decision that I need sun but couldn't leave the apartment today and need to see the sun tomorrow made me decide to call in sick tomorrow. (Shut up, DU) So, I lazed around, cooked food when I had to eat. Read when I wanted to lay down. Played with photos. Played with myself. And then wanted more cigarettes. So, I ran down to the plaza cafe, where they have a machine. Ha. Of course. Economist in jeans, white shirt, flip-flops, sitting at a table with a brunette and a chiller for champagne or white wine or something. Out of the corner of my eye. I'm not a stalker. I get my smokes and leave, looking for a second as he is up and arranging the table for something.

I get home and go back to work, thinking a bit about him, and get "...placer de pasar esa noche 'missionaire' contigo..." Pleasure to pass this night "missionary" with you. Ha ha and ha. He's a very good playboy, or a very deceptive man or a nice guy. I'm not so sure about these things. I follow my gut through most of my life and my gut tells me that there is something very out-of-place with him. Nothing hangs on the walls. Nothing occupies much space in the bathroom - no bathroom mirror hiding spots. Glasses in the kitchen are different. But I've seen the closet and the depressingly similar work suits. And the strange porn.

It reminds me of the rich old man who tried to seduce me in his "bachelor pad," although that featured photos of his family and more lived-in look.

I do want to believe the scenery isn't changing between visits. That

that everything

but then.. KEXP plays Nick Drake's "Pink Moon" after I had sent him the album, thinking he'd like it considering his wistful smoke to Leonard Cohen. And, considering, I haven't heard that song in forever.

I do want to believe.

Because after his SMS I sent, "Placer de verte - you look good in white tonight." (Pleasure to see you ...) and he replied, "..Ole..."

We want what we cannot have.

While Bike Man hoped to see me before his week-long bike around the lake - he told me he was hungover, too, when I replied that I was too hungover and needed sleep. And he ended the SMS that he missed me, bitch. And I knew he had bought a new riding crop. And I know my tits and body are sensitive - too sensitive to be beaten, and too distracted to see him.

The playboy distracts me.

We want what we cannot have. What seems to be out of reach. What seems good and we want to return. What was good and ends up not being the same.

A lesson to remember when I return to Cinque Terre. I

I am not trying to recreate a feeling. I am not trying to have what I had before. I am trying to see if things mean the same again. I am trying to find myself. My heart. My heat. My place. My space in this world.

He collapsed on top of me after fucking. His cock almost hurts my cervix, it reminds me of Andy. Bracing himself with a bit of his left arm. A cookie burnt red arm. I found myself unable to lay there motionless, and raised my hands to his back to caress it, his arms, his back, his shoulders, the valley of his spine, the sweat spot above his ass, his round ass, his formed ass, his tanned ass, his thighs, his arms, his neck. I behaved like my men have with me and opened an eye to look at him laying beside me. His tanned, bronze face like every 1950's movie star. Fake sleep, real sleep. The intrigue is the insecurity. What makes this man even consider spending time with me? There are so many others. His lips. His nose.

we want what we cannot have - ever.

Repetitive viscious history

[not for the squeamish of stomach]

I am reading this book Gilles de Rais: the Authentic Bluebeard by Jean Benedetti.

Part one is all about him growing up and being trained as a warrior and fighting with Joan of Arc. Part two is about his murdering young children:

In his confession Poitou [his page servant for years and years] gave the following description of what normally then took place:

He declared that the said Gilles de Rais, in order to practise his libidinous pleasure and unnatural vices on the said children, both boys and girls, first took his member in his hand and stroked it until it was erect, then placed it between the thighs of the said girls, rubbing his member on the bellies of the said boys and girls with great delight, vigour and libidinous pleasure until the sperm was ejaculated on their bellies.

He declared that before perpetrating his debauches on the said boys and girls, to prevent them from crying out, and so that they should not be heard, the said Gilles de Rais sometimes hung them up by the neck with ropes, with his own hand, from a hook. Then he would take them down and pretend to comfort them, assuring them that he wished them no harm, but quite the reverse; that he wanted to play with them, and in this manner he prevented them from crying out.

He declared that when the said Gilles de Rais, the accused, committed his horrible debauches and sins of luxury he afterwards killed them or had them killed.

Asked by whom, he replied that sometimes the accused Gilles killed them with his own hand, sometimes he had them killed by the said Sille, or by Henriet [another bodyservant], or by the witness himself...

Asked in what manner, he replied sometimes by decapitating them, sometimes by cutting their throats, sometimes by dismembering them, sometimes by breaking their necks with a stick, and that there was a weapon specially for their execution....


And it goes on.. I couldn't eat the day I started this chapter. Come to find out that our first-year class field trip was between Blois and Tours, France, and his estate was bascially from from here to here, and the majority of the murders just miles from our scenic field trip.

So, little more to say than my living has been punctuated with battles of yore and evil doings by the powerful who can escape questioning or accusation because of their own status in society, and the peasants who were kind of grateful to have another-mouth-to-feed taken off their hands. A precarious and strange place for the poor. On the one hand, take the kid into your stead (given promises of their becoming rich, fed well, worked well, taken care of), on the other hand, letting an offspring go with no idea of their future. It was - slightly - different times then. Yes, definitely different but also not so far fetched from now.

A friend recently commented on how biased the media in both Russia and Georgia were. I replied "RE: media bias in both countries (all countries for that matter)...

Reading a book on Gilles de Rais. In 1420, a war between two families in France, '...it was decided that [the] immediate task was to raise an army of 50,000 men. This is an enormous figure for the period and probably represents wishful thinking rather than fact. It was common practice in the Chronicles of the time to exaggerate the number of soldiers involved in any engagement and to falsify casualty lists in in favour of whichever side one happened to be writing for. Everyone knew and nobody cared.'

Seems we haven't come very far in 600 years."

If things come in so many repetitive circles how are we to be inspired to change anything at all?

Friday, August 15, 2008

Which way to my soul?

Now I'm confused. I thought I knew the place where I was most happy. I rarely re-visit places I've been for there are too many too see yet. But I booked a train ride back to Cinque Terre because I thought my soul felt free and happy there, climbing and high on endorphins from the beauty. But looking over other photos, I felt this happiness in another place.

For what am I searching?

I am smart enough to know I cannot replace or reinstate a feeling I once had. It is temporal, it comes with the moment that IS at that moment. But if I look back and feel where my heart soared, it is there I want to return. A few places. And one is close. So, I want to revisit. With fear and excitement. But then, I see where I have been and realize I found that same feeling.

Every adventure is new. I might have a preconceived desire to be somewhere for a feeling I once felt, but it will still be its own time. I am okay with this. I am excited to see the changes. But I am also hesitant. To return, to revisit, to play again, to love again in the same place - things might change, things might be the same, it might be boring, without the same inspiration.

Hence, my love life.
Hence, my rambling.
Hence, why I don't return.

D.U., if you read this, please be gentle when we travel together. It is a pilgrimage for me. A serious moment. A necessity. A complexity. And it with you that I would share this. Push me to make new memories, but leave me to find what I am looking for.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

photos

By the way, I've added some new photos to the CDOA Flickr site. Me and the economist. Me and the bike man.

If you don't see anything besides a handful of photos when you click here, it's because you don't have access to the private viewing. Ping me if you want it.



Preview:
























The blank page

I've made about 12,000 photos in 2008 so far. It's been a nice distraction to edit them, upload, tag, and move them around.

But there is a reason and a season and a lifetime. I am not here for the internship. It's boring and I'm completely not challenged (although I did help edit a paper that will be shared at a conference). So, what am I doing here then? If I was lucky to get the internship and it's not challenging, what else should I be doing? Of course, writing. Of course.

I said it before I left - out loud and to a couple of people only. I told a couple of people at the internship. The tarot cards said it. The flatmate said it - through the tarot cards and without knowing I had an interest in writing a book. I have nights and weekends free. I am not studying. I am researching a bit for a paper that could merit publishing. But really I've been catching up on the photos and now it's time. Despite the fact that I'm still working on the photos, it is time to realize the real reason I am here.

I compiled the writings from 1997-2008, which includes some transcriptions from my handwritten diaries from when I was in 7th/8th grade. I've been writing since I was 13, that's 20 years now. I have so much. And a lot of it isn't even here with me on the laptop or the external drive. The book isn't a memoir, but it will be of sorts. I'm thinking more along the lines of short stories. It seems that's how I've written all my life. Short, creative non-fiction stories or observations. There is the inner voice that says it's boring and standard and who cares. Who would find interest in my life? But I also know I've decided to live differently than others and most of that involves taking risks and using a unique view on life and exploring sex. Most of this living other people might not opt for and might find interest in. But it's so self-involved and boring to me. I'd rather just send a bunch of it to someone to weed through and pick what's interesting, what's boring, what would merit being bound in pages.

I guess I could view it as me trying to compile my own writing, for myself, for my library. It just seems weird. And there's no way I could write a fiction book. It's not my style to invent things (although my imagination invents bizarre, dark plots continuously). It's my style to tell what I have seen and done, and add lies where I see fit or I forget the details. But if you didn't know me, it wouldn't be so interesting.

Like Catherine M or 100 Strokes girl, there is interest in spying into others' lives (even though I thought the latter was over-hyped by too much and the former wrote in too dry a fashion for the tales she told). But I guess it was their freedom and release to get it out - in public. Whereas, I do that every time I write the blogs. Maybe I should stop writing in the blogs and deprive myself. Concentrate all energies into the blank page.

That would not do. Not at all.

So, for whom would I write or compile this shit? Why? What's the purpose?

All this analysis prevents me from writing anything at all. The critic inside - the most harsh judge, the road block to any progress, the squasher of dreams, the doubt before the trial, the failure before beginning - this voice needs to shut the fuck up.

I have courage on my side. Kicking me in the ass.

All I have to do today is cut and paste. Onto a blank page.

Friday, August 8, 2008

the regions where I feel it

It's an unusual but true circumstance that as I walked down the stairs of my Paris apartment building, I felt a sudden pang and flutter in my heart. I was going to meet the Butcher for the first time and all of a sudden I felt as if Cupid had hit me with quite a pronounced arrow. I even recall stopping mid-stair, about the 3rd floor, and thinking, fuck, that's strong. I hadn't felt that since James and once with Andy.

And, when we saw each other - totally sick like barf - from across the street, I felt it grow stronger.

When I got an SMS on the lawn of my employment "compound" from the Economist, I felt butterflies in my tummy.

When I was leaving work last night to see the Bike Man, I felt anxious between my thighs.

Even my longing for the Economist is rather in the epicenter where the diaphragm meets the thorax.

When the Bike Man and I joke back and forth on SMS that I got a good deal on my bike, with a sexy man included. He says "All horny cock-hungry submissive spankable sluts get a free sexy man." I tell him that I'll be sure to tell my friends. He retorts, "I doubt if your friends attain your superlative levels of sluttishness, but tell them any way, they can always try. Photos in 1 hour - still eating." I wish him a "bon appetit, dirty pimp daddy." And he replies, "Thank you, whore of my dreams." This is when I feel a warmth of pride on my back and a smaller finger-snap in my heart.

I am alive and feeling. They don't seem to have anatomy drawings for these kinds of effects. I wonder, if people listen really well, where do they find their notices.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Whatever Lola Wants...

Days are becoming determined by sun, sun, rain, or weekends.

I am supposedly working again. Monday through Friday from 9am(ish) to 5pm(ish). I have stopped riding the bus and have an excellent Swiss Olympic from the 1980's. My fire survivor. It took a few days, but now it seems as if she is an extension of my legs. I cannot hop curbs yet, but I can maneuver through potholes and angles. I have a bike route to work that is about 20-25 minutes depending on traffic and my own speed. I have a basket, for groceries tucked tightly into a spare work bag that starts in the morning rolled up in another cross-chest bag, along with my girl shoes. I have not yet learned the fine art of European girl biking - with skirt and heels. I'm too American and my Puritan modesty keeps interferring, making me think I'm showing too much thigh (I am), showing too much bootie (possible). I certainly do not feel comfortable biking in even the flat ballet shoes and thus, you'll find me in a nice print skirt and top, with my Converse low-tops. I observe street lights and walk my bike on pedestrian paths. I'm anal about it, and I'm becoming more anal as I get older. Growing into my own, growing into parts of my father and mother, which I did not imagine 10 years ago. I quickly see my mother's face in the mirror when I turn my head. And I see my fears come out with my father's words. It's truly incredible the imprint they make physically and mentally.

But we aren't here to talk about the fine art of 2-legged transport, now are we?

I am healthy and trying to remember that I am and thank the stars for it. When we're healthy we forget how nice it can be, but when we are sick it is easy to remember the days of carefree health. Suffering is so easily forgotten sometimes. Humanity would not continue if women recalled the pains of childbirth. Copulation would not occur if we recalled heartache. Laying in the sun would not happen if we remembered the pain of sunburn. Travel would not happen if we remembered homesickness, food poisoning, or alienation. We are incredibly forgetful for all the right reasons.

Thus, the infection was treatable. The homeopathic prescriptions helped but did not cure. My American body is made of metal now and only responds to antibiotics, not gentle treatments. I went back to the doctor, waited the common wait of public health care (an hour and half) to be squeezed in. He unethically commented on the previous patients, a couple, who wanted to have a baby. And then he phoned the lab, put them on speaker-phone for me to hear, too. Again, the Group B Streptococcus. Usually it's only a problem for pregnant women passing it to their babies in childbirth. But it is an infection - from mixing the holes (again!). I sent an email to a doctor friend of mine to figure out why it's ocurring more in me in the past couple of years than before. He has not had the interest to reply. But the doctor here gave me a prescription for antibiotics, after a dismayed look and me pushing him for it. I am too tough now for gentle cures. But, I am healed. And thankful.

Thursday, 24 July, I came home from work and planned to see the Economist (the Spaniard/Swiss guy) that night. The flatmate wasn't back from her trip to France yet and I was still feeding and cleaning after the cat. (SMS to her unresponded: "what kind of litter and where do I buy the wet cat food?" I guessed in the end and I don't think he was too impressed with my 'hunting skills.') Five minutes before I was supposed to meet him I got small signs of my period. Huzzah! And he SMS'd back to me that he would not mind and was happy for me. (Every month I worry.) I met him down at the plaza for my whiskey and cigarette. He was in a suit and I melted. He had a bottle of Red Label whiskey and I laughed. He was only a suit and a bottle of whiskey and cop sunglasses. [Flickr pics available - ask via email if you don't yet have access.]

We walked to his place, passing an odd sight of a broken vacuum at an eau potable (water fountain). He showed me his motorcycle and I commented that it had spider webs. Hadn't ridden it in days. We went upstairs and, again, I took photos out of the window at the sunset. And, more daring, took photos of his apartment.

Again I was tempted to the coke and drank too much whiskey and he put on a porn. He confessed his flavors from girl orgies to transsexual gangbangs. He likes to gently spank and use a dildo on my cunnie. He tried to butt fuck me but it wasn't pliable for him. We fucked for hours and he came on my belly. And, again, I ran out before 2am.

He left for his "vacance" on Saturday for 3 weeks. The Europeans, see, have this almost obligatory, cultural vacation season of August. Everyone leaves their respective towns for the south or the north or wherever. He went to Spain to fish for calamaris or something.

And it's interesting, we want what we cannot have - always. The grass being always greener on our neighbor's wife's cunt. The longing of "over there" and not "here." The unattainable. The refused. The non-immediate. While the Butcher in Paris pines for me (for I have left for adventure and he has remained in his routine), I pine for the Economist (who has left for vacation and I have remained in my adventure). So, even though I had a great night with my Russian girl friend on Friday, I tried to SMS him before his departure to entice him with 2 hot girls (11 years age difference between us) and he slept in preparation for his own voyage. And, while I've been entertained since, it is still stuck in my mind this thinking of him. My pride is the only thing stopping me from sending him an email, which I know he can receive and is checking on the Spanish coast. But I do have pride and we are only playmates and nothing serious. So, I wait.

Meanwhile, yes, Russian girl friend and I went out and biked around and enjoyed our own time together. She knows my secrets. She might even guest-blog if she desires, just to have a private space to get her thoughts out and because I'd be flattered. Friday, she and I ended our night around the corner from Economist's apartment and my apartment, and she came up and crashed in the bed with me. No, nothing sexy, just nice sleep. Saturday we met up with her German friend and took the train to another city and biked for a while. When we wanted to jump in the lake, I was schooled by the German girl on how to change in public. They are so free with their nudity - who cares if the tits are seen or the underwear flashed. We changed under towels and around t-shirts and jumped in.

Saturday I got my period full on. Tuesday, I decided to stop by the bike shop. The end of the day is the busiest for anyone and he stays open until 7pm - which is later than most places, sadly. I wanted a headlight, backlight and to clean the bike a bit. He invited me to come back on Friday, on the national holiday, when I'd have off from work and, since I decided not to drive to Italy or go travelling and since Russian girl friend would be on her own hot travelling, I decided to do it. He and his apprentice, a young wiry tough squatter girl with muscles that would kick my ass, invited me. Even though they would be officially closed, I could come in. I sailed through work during the week with distractions.

One such distraction. Jesus fucking christ. I'm on AFF.com for kicks and because occassionally it yields some good connections for fucking (as does ALT.com). So, I got these emails from an older guy who bragged on and on about his status. Now, this city's purpose is for international organizations and banking. Basically that's it. It's great that I have a "Swiss bank account" but I have it with UBS, which is the most corrupt right now in recent history. (I was going to change it, but most banks won't accept new clients under thousands of $ and I don't have that much and I'm here temporarily so it makes things difficult.) There are hundred-thousand-dollar cars zooming around town and Muslim women in million dollar hijabs and suits that cost more than you could imagine and food that costs three times than the US and twice than Paris.

So, he was going on and on about his accomplishments and whatnot. I thanked him but told him I was not interested. But he offered the magic for me, stories that no one else would have. So, after persistant emails and wooing, I said fuck it, I'd wear what I had on at work and meet him for a drink on Wednesday night (30th), ie wearing my pink floral skirt and Converse. Our drinks and cheese plate cost more than 100$. He paid. It was boring. He was older than on his profile (said 47, was 53 or something), he claimed insecurity for talking so much, he told me from his childhood in private school to golf courses to car sales to major industry sales to the stars. He dropped famous names and had played golf with this guy and knew that guy and whatever. I was not impressed. Frankly, his stories of when he was a hippie and roadie in his 20's was more interesting to me. But yet, I was still curious. So, we made a date for Thursday night, since I'd have Friday as a holiday.

We met again and went for sushi. He ordered the wine and food. I'm not sure how much it totaled in the end, but the wine was 210chf which is basically the same in dollars. We didn't even finish our meals. I did laugh a bit and got some words in edgewise, but I was still not attracted and not interested. In fact, after dinner, we walked to the same park where we first met, and on the same bench, I tossed between go home and drink more, versus go to his place and fuck him. I went with mid-between. I'd go to his place to watch a movie, seeing as how he was not a girl killer (he brought a company brochure and business card and other telling information). We drove half-hour to his bachelor pad, to which his wife had been once. A garage, a wine storage (temperature set to so cold my tits froze) where he tried to find a 1975 bottle for my birth year and instead pulled out 2 bottles which I found cost between 200-400$ (depending), and an apartment with an empty terrace. He was a gentleman and didn't coerce me and I slept until my allergies to the feather blanket woke me up. I just couldn't summon the juju to fuck him. Not for money, not for power, not for anything.

He drove me home early on Friday and I waved good-bye from a somewhat fake address. I slept some and then ate and then slept some more as it rained.

My bike-fixing date was from 1-6pm and when it was slightly dry, I got up and biked over at 3pm. And then it started pouring on me. I still went. And was well received by Bike Man and his apprentice. I had thought he'd put the lights on and I'd clean the bike a bit, instead, I was taught how to take off the old light, wire the new one on and the back light. A delicious time spent using my hands, flirting, talking about the US and getting grease that still lives under my nails. At one point, I was sitting down on the stool in front of my bike and the apprentice had gone around the back of the building. "You don't mind if I sit on your lap," and he sat. "As long as you pretend I'm Santa," I said. His hands were on fast-forward, up under my shirt in the back and the front and down my waistband until she came around the corner again.

After 4 hours I had finished and they wrapped up shop. He had to do some "shopping" for the weekend (James, you know, pizzas) and left me upstairs in his apartment watching tv for the first time in about a year. He came back with "shopping" and we danced around each other until he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close. The magic of the Lola mouth almost made him cum, but I knew I wouldn't let it happen. Three times slowing him down and spying at him through my slit eyes. Oh no you don't. And oh no he didn't. I got what I came for.

Drifting off to sleep though he couldn't keep the distance. He climbed on top of me and straddled my face. A fantasy of his. His pelvis is violent and my mouth gasped around his plunging.

I spent the night for 4 hours of sleep and left before he had to leave for the shop. Slept at home off and on and then went to the expensive, grass beach for 7chf (7$). By the end of my time there, I noticed there was a clear separation between me and the rest of the crowd. Not like I smelled, but like I was the only single female among the families and groups of boys and single men. It was strange. I watched some weird fat men in speedos and old men in speedos and Brazilian men in speedos playing volleyball. I burned. I biked home.

Sunday, Bike Man and I met up later in the day - after I'd received 6 emails from Rich Man wondering how I was, where I was. We went down to the river on the bank where one could smoke a spliff and not be bothered. Where the rivers came together and made fizzy pudding: one clear blue, the other mineral brown. He hadn't been swimming in years and hadn't been out of his apartment in as long. We went back to his apartment with my basket full of Asian food making ingredients. He cooked dinner and we fucked. He turned me over and spanked me, closing the windows slowly to shield the neighbors. I put my hands in my panties and fondled myself, then pulled his leg closer to mine and rubbed myself on him. Then, dragged his knee into my crotch and rubbed, as I laid on my belly and he on his side, my hand in my panties rubbing harder and pulling his knee closer. I've come with toes, I've come with fingers, I've come with barbie dolls in condoms. This was the first I'd come on a knee and he whispered wow. My eyes, dreamy and longing, slightly open, glancing at his. Hunger is what I thought, desire is what I felt.

There is still a work week. So, I made it home by midnight.

And Monday morning Rich Man was semi-threatening me with worry and obsession. I actually had quite a confusion. When he dropped me off at home Friday morning, with 2 bottles of nice wine and a nice meal in my tummy from the night before, he asked if I needed money. What a retarded question. Of course, I need money. Of course, I said no. We are prostitutes for so many things. But I discovered that I am not one to prostitute if the balls aren't there. (And I mean that in so many levels.) It did take a while to finalize my response to him. Every girl's sick dream entails a way to be taken care of while she works, volunteers, has babies, writes, runs a concrete-making factory, whatever. Every man wants the same. Someone to fund their desires. And here, I was offered the moment of a lifetime. A dream come true. An older man, married (if bored with it), a millionaire going to hang out at charity balls in Monaco, owning several speedy cars and planes, who could be generous ...... but only for the right price.

I know I am thousands of dollars in debt. I know I am spending money I don't have or own or might not even make. My future is indefinite. My future freaks the shit out of me. I do not want to be one of the millions of Americans living on credit. I hate the fact I don't have control over my own finances. I am not a slave to money and I don't want to take it for no good reason. I will not own a house. I will not buy a car. I am not able to save. These things freak me out daily. And I could have easily taken his money and his gifts and asked him to come back here. But for the life of me, I could not summon any interest. I could not find the way to close my eyes and open my legs. There was just too much .... too much.... too much .. anti. Anti-me. He was a nice guy who talked too much, but he was nice. And still, I couldn't, in the end.. after years of dreaming of this, after years of reading of it, after reading about literary geniuses selling themselves for such and such. I just couldn't imagine it. The vibrations between us, around us, within the whole situation, were just so weird and negative and false. My fucking god. I turned down what could have amounted to trips to Monaco, money in my pocket, relief.

I must be totally fucking nuts.

It's like a Choose Your Own Adventure tale. Do I rescind everything I said and ask him back and say I could only fuck him with certain copious amounts of alcohol or do I move on?

I've never had this offer. I've never had this curiosity. Granted, he was almost Stalker Style with his interest in me, which threw me off completely. But I could have curtailed that.

I must be blind.

And so, here we are. Today. Today the Russian girl friend and I biked to the Bike Shop man and she got to lay eyes on him and get a kickstand. I got to make eyes - at, in comparison, a poor man who is an independent man with his own money-making store. And got an almost kiss and felt my knees weak. And I got emails from the Butcher and my heart throbbed again.

It's funny where and how I feel these men. I have claimed to a few that I more sensitive than other women, and it's damn true. I can feel a cock pulling out of my lips. I can feel without touching. And I feel my heart flutter when I connect with the Butcher, like the first time I went to meet him - an odd feeling of cupid hitting me in the heart straight on. And I can feel butterflies in my belly when I think of the Bike Man. And I can feel my gut longing when I think of the Economist. And when I thought of the Rich Man, I felt detraction, retracting my body entirely. And I trust my body more than my mind, my evil needy mind which thinks so logically and is right so much of the time but so confused in other times. And when I met my current flatmate, I knew it was to be.

As she read my tarot cards last night... I saw it all. And when I read her cards, to her question, "Why are YOU here?" Why am I here for her or in her life or in this city? The cards came up as The Joker, traveling and moving on, with The Queen, controlling the flesh and the word, and The Devil, again and again in my readings, with dependence and freedom. And my the flatmate's conclusion, without me even mentioning it previously, was that I was here to ... write a book of stories.