when i grow up, i'm going to live in a beautiful house. not necessarily big, but large enough to live. it will have lots of windows. so many, you'll feel like you're living on the sun's corona because the sun will always be shining through the windows at my house. i'll have hardwood floors with nice rugs... lots of maroon on the rugs. i'll have those built-in shutters on the windows, not blinds. in the backyard, there'll be trees. not little trees and small plants, but tall trees with so much shade and moss and large rocks and a stream. and a fountain, a small one, with pretty purple flowers around it. the sun will peek through the trees in rays. the leaves will always be green. it will always be pleasant outside, except for thunderstorms at night. and i'll have a husband. we'll be happy together in my house.

it's in there. it just says it's not ready. there is a spot somewhere with tea. that's where you're supposed to write. a sunny room with tea.

it has rained for a week, and has finally let way for the sun and a crisp blue sky only cooler air could reveal. cooler air makes me immediately reminiscent of any other autumn i've experienced. my heart feels calm.

"everything ended up being alright then. everything will end up being alright later, too." a direct link to the past. any anxieties i had during autumns passed, no matter how important they seemed, are gone now. unremembered, unimportant, meaningless. one can only assume today's hurdles will eventually drop out of existence, leaving only this crisp, perfect day with barely changing leaves and nippy clouds unable to dull the warm sun rays, regardless of the welcome chill in the air. and i won't remember anxiety. i'll remember the music of this period and the clarity of it traveling across air unburdened by humidity.


my mind is always writing, although my hand is not. i run upstairs to masturbate discretely, even though chris is still at work. i come quickly, almost explosively, but pull away and interrupt the rupture before it can intensify. i pull my jeans back on and jerk the wrinkles and bunches out of the sheet, as though i should be ashamed if chris noticed and understood what i had been doing. more than anything, my writing requires companionship, needs to kindle a secret love affair. without the caress and nudges of another writer's hand, it pulls away at the most intimate moments and lies incompletely satisfied. why jerk at the wrinkles and bunches? why not find someone to help me undress the bed completely and expose a work worth sharing?

i'm with a group of friends. although i can't remember if they are friends from life or dream friends, i know i'm close to them. it's night time. i can't remember why but we've been traveling through the neighborhood. i often travel through neighborhoods and old houses at night when i dream. sometimes i'm searching for something. sometimes i'm avoiding something. always on edge. always worried.

only this time, i've separated myself from the group. they're close by and trying to work something out between themselves. where are we? where do we need to be? what should we be doing? i feel like they want me to weigh in, but i'm on the lawn maybe 20 feet away from them, and although this tall, looming house is dark, i know that somewhere inside, it's on fire. i keep the group and the house in my periphery and focus as much attention as i can on the fruit in my hands.

the fruit is blacker than the night or the house, and i think it has white pictures printed on it's skin, but i'm not really paying attention to them. it's the size of a navel orange but has skin like a plum. the fruit under the skin is a lot like a plum, too. a light almost gray color. the meat of the fruit is only about an inch thick and the hollow center is shaped in a perfect sphere, just like the fruit itself. it's so juicy that when i bite into it, i almost don't have to chew it at all. it's as if the bite disintegrates in my mouth and i'm left with the as yet uneaten meat of this fruit resting between my lips. it's taste is sweet and mild. clean. i take very small, dainty bites. i feel aroused by the slippery plumpness of it between my lips. my nibbling turns into slow, light sucking and licking.

i can still hear my friends discussing the group's next move. i am still aware of the night, the lawn, and the burning building at my side, but my eyes are closed. i am passionately french kissing the fruit i am cradling in my palms. i am teasing it. i open my eyes to gaze into it lovingly before each little nip of my lips and flick of my tongue. the pleasure i feel from the slow, sensual kisses i am sharing with this fruit holds me but does not overwhelm me. i am where i need to be. i am doing what i need to be doing. i know i am making love to the earth itself. i know i am making love to and giving pleasure to every single person on the earth as well. regardless of anything else, i know that this is what i will do until the end of time.

calm, warmth, joy.

In an effort to understand my fear of ridicule, I must understand my need to communicate with others.

My opinion of myself matters less to me than the opinions of others. If someone else thinks I’m stupid, that’s what they understand of me. I have obviously done something to make them come to this conclusion. The thought process goes like this:
- I have acted in a way others perceive as stupid.
- Others have perceived me as stupid, so I must have acted stupidly.
- I must be stupid.

My only hope is that they have misunderstood me. I am not stupid, I have merely communicated poorly. Had I been able to make them understand me,they would have seen that my action was not stupid at all. The thought process goes like this:
- My actions will not dictate who I am, the way others interpret my actions will dictate who I am.
-I feel compelled to share my intentions and opinions in the hopes that I will be understood. (“Surely if others understand me, they will see how magnificent I am and like me. Then I’ll be able to like myself.”)
-I feel compelled to silence my feelings and desires for fear of ridicule. (“Surely if others ridicule me, I am worthy of their ridicule. They will not like me, and I’ll be unable to like myself.”)


Why does my opinion of myself matter less to me than the opinions of others? And not just friends or family or people who know me, either. Why does my opinion of myself matter less to me than that of a stranger? Why do I feel I am less than a complete stranger?

instead of focusing on what would make your inner child happy, what if you focus on what will make your future self proud?

a desire for others to understand my unique perspective isn't a passion exactly, but it's a start. i want to follow this path and find out what it means. to what end? what does this offer the world?

write from joy for joy. place your importance on that. create the world around you as the world you want to live in, so that when writing about your world, you're writing what you want to write about. change things as necessary. you can discard the rest.

what in your life is calling you?
when all the noise is silenced,
the meetings adjourned,
the lists laid aside,
and the wild iris blooms by itself in the dark forest,
what still pulls on your soul?

in the silence between your heartbeats hides a summons.
do you hear it?
name it, if you must,
or leave it nameless,
but why pretend it is not there?

i feel like i don't deserve anything like a wedding or a tropical honeymoon or a beautiful dress that makes me feel sexy and look like a bond girl. i haven't earned any of those things. my parents shouldn't have to pay for those things. i don't belong to them anymore. even if all the money was mine, i'd choose buying us a house over one princess day. not having an expensive wedding means affording a house sooner, which means being able to afford to have a baby before my ovaries rot. i thought chris wouldn't propose because something was wrong with me. really, he was waiting until he could support both of us. i don't have any claim to the money he's made. i can't ask anyone else to make this day for me.

lying in bed with chris, his leg as my pillow, and talking about that intangible thing tom hanks has that makes him one of the most loveable actors in the world, possibly of all time. passion fades, but we are not left with nothing.

this is my truth --

i love chris, but i don't feel passion for him anymore.

my desire to fall in love again is really a reaction to the absence of infatuation in mine and chris's relationship. nothing will bring that back to us. not a proposal, not a ring, not a wedding, not a new house. infatuation is short-lived. it exists to inspire humans to have babies. infatuation is not love.

waking up and going to sleep next to my best friend every day is love.

providing me with anything i might need to keep myself healthy and safe, but am unable to afford is love.

helping me find answers and encouraging me is love.

what do i have to offer him? not because i want to find a way to become his wife, but because i want to show him love.

i ask him if i'm a good girlfriend.
he says yes.

i ask him why. how.
he says i'm good for hanging out with and good for sexin'.

i'm good for hanging out with because i'm funny and interested in the same things he is. the right things.

i'm good for sexin' because i'm beautiful (i start to cry.) and... adventurous.
how'm i doin'? he asks me.

good, i say, but really, it's just as i feared.

over time, we've become best friends.
over time, we've become great lovers.

this is all i have to offer.

not that it isn't a lot.

comfort, pleasure. we are more than friends who have sex.

isn't there anything else, though?

what part of me stays hidden?
isn't there something else i have that is locked away, unseen, unnamed.

i know i have something i'm afraid to give. to acknowledge.


make me happy. you know this. what you offer yourself is what you offer the world.

he loves you.

he says, the most important part of working hard is getting recognized for what you do.

show him that you're more than hanging out and good sex.

my desire to live in the country is a desire to pierce through the membrane i've created to cushion me from the world. in a city, that's necessary. i want my home to be in a place where i can drop that defense and allow myself to be ultra-sensitive to my surroundings and the pace and events of a more natural life.

"adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience." -- ralph waldo emerson

our house lies cradled in a winding loop, nestled tightly between houses very similar in size and traditional style. the ashen blue aluminum siding with white trim is framed by hedges across the bright blue front porch and evergreen bushes at either side. the back porch is painted the same surprising blue and sits up against our large livingroom window. i sit on the other side of this window on our soft reclining couch and look out into the backyard. most of the leaves are still green, shimmering against the cheerful sun in the gently urging breeze. "find your coats and hats! autumn is coming! it's nearly here!"

our livingroom walls are green, a natural, glowing shade that is slightly different , but always lovely, depending on the light source. it was the only paint color we got right on the first try. there were so many mornings in that old house when i was just sure none of this was going to happen for me. a beautiful house with space i can use the way i want to, some money for furniture i like instead of hand-me-downs (such as the nicest bed i've ever owned), and a place for everything. windows that open! a pretty, managable yard. a place i want to keep clean because i'm proud of it. hardwood floors.

and a sweet, loving husband to share it with.