Your lingering fingers,
Slow and heavy like a sultry summer afternoon,
Drifting lazily towards Netherlands
Procure in me sensations
Painfully beautiful
A kind of happiness
That makes me well up
In tearful bliss
and waves of unexpected gratitude.
“Thank you, I want to say,
For finding me
When I needed you most,
When I felt so hopelessly lonely.”
Now we can be
Alone
Together
With your lingering fingers.
Laurent Benaim Photo
For every yin, there is a yang.
Full
Filled
To the brim
With your hot
Libation
With your warm, soothing
Liqueur
Steaming
Fogging up my reticence
Anointed in your
Fragrant oil
Gliding effortlessly around my rim
My little teapot
Engulfing your spout
Making me whistle
My cup runneth over
Into a wet, slick
Serenity
Slipping happily
With no resistance
Or fear
At peace
Ready to allow myself
The fulfillment
You offer me.
John K. Goodman photo
This started here, but I am still asking myself…
Does my shyness
Make you bolder,
My apparent warmth
Make you colder?
Does my feigned innocence
Make you smolder,
Because every day,
I’m that much older…
I’ve never been at ease,
I’ve always wanted
So much
To please..
All you have to do is ask,
I’ll be down on my knees.
Please
Save me
From my redundant
Eternal fate,
Take me now
It’s nearly
Too late.
Statue in the park
Is there something in
my softness
That makes you
so hard?
Does
my vulnerability
Make you
feel stronger?
Is it my
yearning
That makes
you want me?
My dreaminess
That makes you
so real?
When you’re
fucking me,
Do you feel
Like you’re
pinning down
a fragile butterfly,
Connecting me
to the universe,
Tethering me down
Towards reality?
Could my
self-loathing
Make you
love me?
Unlikely.
Sometimes I feel seriously frightened by my own happiness. When things seem to be going my way, I panic. It’s the same when I try to ski. As I gain momentum, there is a short-lived moment of extreme pleasure. Nearly euphoria. The snow is pure and dazzlingly beautiful, the other skiers are so colorful, whirling in the pearl-colored snow, speckled against the cloudless sky like so many dots of color in a Seurat painting. My body feels weightless, the speed is exhilarating. The sun warms my cold body, my belly flops into my throat, I smile like a 7-year-old on her birthday, teeth and gaps showing and BAM! I wipe out.
My magnificent painting falls off the wall and lands perilously on the ground, crushing the corner of the golden frame and shattering the glass. THUD! By some kind of miracle, I am not cut in half by a long-haired snowboard dude, snow somehow gets into my underwear, one ski has turned my leg into an unnatural angle, my extremely expensive sunglasses and my other ski are nowhere to be found and a little yet omnipresent voice in my head screams, “Dawn, you can’t ski! IDIOT! What are you doing here?”
Experiencing happiness in my life, getting whatever it is I think I want, success in most any form, always tends to feel shadowed by this huge, self-protective doubt. I try to just let myself glide. To enjoy the intermittent clemency. I try to believe that I am worth it, that it is about fucking time…but deep down-I don’t buy it. Not for a minute.
A God full of humor says, “PSYCHE!” and I try in vain to get the snow out of my underwear without revealing my round ass to the more coordinated masses.
I am the one
You placed behind a closed-door
As if I could have been any lonelier
Than I already was.
I am the one
You kicked in the gut
As if I could have hurt
Any more than I already did.
I am the one
You told how stupid, ugly, worthless
I was in your eyes
As if I could have ever thought myself any better.
I am the one
Who smiled
As if you could have taken that too.
I am the one
Who is still smiling
So fuck you.
Photo prise à l’exposition d’Antoine Agata, d’Antoine Agata
Now that I have spent far too long trying to insert this image into my post, I have nearly forgotten what is was I wanted to say. First of all, raison d’être simply means, reason for being, in French. The age-old question, why do I exist?….usually a question resolved in one’s youth, sometimes proves to be a bigger problem for certain people than others. I would have never believed that at the quite ripe (nearly falling off the tree) age of 44, 45 in July, that I would have at least resolved this existential dilemma. Really I feel like the world’s biggest asshole because I think other people have it so much worse than I do and that they for some reason surpass this disagreement. They (the other lucky people, the homeless, the hungry, the waitresses for life at Denny’s, the obese, the not too smart, the unloved, those never chosen for the team, never noticed at all, never wanted in any way) do not seem to even ask themselves why they are, for what reason they exist. They just do it.
I, on the other hand, chosen by some evil Existential God …I have been chosen to never actually move forward in any way. I just flounder in an ocean of self-doubt. I realize that this is incredibly selfish because I am neither homeless nor hungry, because people usually like me, because I have benefited for my whole life from not being ugly, because I am not illiterate, of course because I have people who love me and would happily give me a glass of wine or a bed to sleep in if I needed one. None the less, I would like to have a good feeling about something and be right. I am sick of always being afraid of my own happiness. I am so tired of doubting that some odd occurrence will really make me feel like I have a valid raison d’être.
I think I have forgotten where I wanted to go with this, but I feel better now that I stepped out for a blogging minute.
