Dress Sizes

Celestial Heavens
Mt Sinai
New York City (Upper and Lower Manhattan, including the Subway)
India
Magic Fairy Land
All unnamed stars in the galaxy (and islands in the Bahamas not yet purchased by Jimmy Buffet and other celebrities)

Dear Collective World Forces and Keeper of Destinies,

(Includes: Gods < all varieties>, Buddha, Genesah, Cupid, the Tooth Fairy, Fairy God Mother, Glenda, the good witch of the North, The Charmed Ones, and my Karma Fairies)

Subject:  Me

Today was low, a new low for even me.  I know I don’t pray or make offerings, go to buildings of worship or drop money into baskets, rub died fake rabbit’s feet or look for money under my pillow.  I tried that one time back in February of ‘94 that night I was standing on the other side of the twelve M16s separated by non-bullet proof glass, but after that I resumed my disbelief in all things ethereal–by the way, thanks for getting me out that situation in Singapore—because I really don’t know any of you all that well.   I wanted to believe, but all my life I’ve watched the collective touch other’s lives in magical ways that frankly befuddled and perplexed.  Your practices for disbursement and random miracles rarely made sense to me.

This brings me to the subject, me.  I read Buddha’s teachings (the abridged version), and I’ve bought into the whole Yin and yang theory of life.  At first, I thought this was paraphrasing the sentiment of the Rolling Stones, ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’, but after twenty-seven-hundred knocks from life and as many turns of fate, I saw the pattern.  I got it almost down to the last period.  I see that it’s practical magic, and that I only have to wait to see the good card after a bad card is flipped over. I do see it, in my life anyway.

Over the years, I’ve cursed the concept because it didn’t seem to apply to everyone evenly, rather it seemed favors were played or cashed in depending on who was dialing the heavens.   I’ve bitched about this to a few of you over the years but since the only response I ever got back for broadcasting my problems out to the heavens was more strife, which was meant to push me harder, I suspended my faith permanently.  Oh goodie I’d respond, another test to validate myself-worth, strength and overall commitment to my good self.  Often it felt that I was pushed harder than others because of my stance on all things ethereal, as I’ve endured and proved over and over again that I am all that, and have waited and waited, and got nothing for the sweat and tears.

I know there isn’t anything coming to me that I am not responsible for – cause and effect, yin and yang, and destiny is mine to write, rewrite, and even then, I might choose to change it, and faith in celestial beings is my choice should I choose to make it, or need a crutch to help me along the way.  OK, so you all know that I know that I have the key to me and hold the energy and power to alter my destiny.    I get it.

The thing is today’s triple whammy hit me hard.  Three rejections before noon, love, job, and Editor, come on that’s too much, even for me.  I’ve paid my dues times ten to the power of ten, plus infinity.  Stop testing me.  It’s a lot to ask of you since we’re not on a first name basis and I only tend to write to you when I on my knees.  Since you all have the power to flick the tides of fate,  go on, just do it – send me some positive aura kisses, give me a break.

Waiting on the bridge,

**Breathe, one, two, three, wait before jumping over the edge.**
Mine is a cursed heart and was the moment I told the tall, lanky man that I wanted to kiss him.  Who knew he’d kiss me back, or that kiss would send me spiraling out of control?  Since that moment, I took to writing love letters.  I write letters of love, of anger, or loss, of ache, or pain, and from almost the same instance, we started our love affair, I wrote ‘love me no more’ letters, and please ‘ release me letters’.  I beg him to be strong and not contact me—since I am the weaker one—but apparently he is weaker than I since he has never truly let me get too far away or go too long without pulling me back in.  He goes silent for a while, which hurts at first but I gradually resume normal breathing until he pops up in my instant message window, and we tango, spare, and begin again.

Some people blog to tell a story, to confess, to become famous, and then there are those of us who come out of the closet with their heartache with the wild notion of self-curing.  I don’t know if that will happen here or not, but there isn’t anything to be lost.

Over the edge, and damn the rules….
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I can’t see

It’s a mental state, my loss of sight.

I can’t see the end of my nose, or the tips of my toes, the battering on my heart, the lies you didn’t tell, the double entendres in your remarks, the way forward, but mostly how to understand the time we collected.

My heart tells me it was real, and that you were more than a fling, but less than a relationship,
certainly a bond, but what is the definition of something that endures probability and accumulates days and terminates at seven years.
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Lover, mine is a cursed heart~

A hobby of mine is writing love letters.  Some I send, and others never see the light of day or the intended’s inbox.  It’s one of my passions, like writing, listening to music, reading a good book or sitting in a broken down beach chair on the edge of the shore scrunching my toes in the sand as the waves break over my feet.  I’d always enjoyed writing letters, now emails, to friends, but it wasn’t until I had the good fortune of living and breathing romantic love that I discovered my passion for writing love letters. 

I was a firm non-believer in loving and longing, enduring passion and electricity, between two people, until I felt his touch.  From the instant, he kissed me until our last kiss it was always the same for me, like the first time. My skin tingled, little tremors exploded throughout my body, how well our hands fit together, a glove over hand, second skin, and knowing his hands belonged on my body.  It was that sort of fit; we were waiting for that moment of connection.  My heart swelled until it bursted. During our affair—romantic love would only ever be an affair of the heart—I wrote pages, if not volumes of love letters. 

I know that if a heart bursts a person dies, but having lived romantic love up close and personal and having first had knowledge of what it feels like when your brain is hooked on love, then bursting is what a heart does.  I’ve felt my skin tingle at the brush of hand, and that damn heart of mine—burst, more like my chest cracked open.   If love were a liquid, mine gushed out and filled the bubble that I inhabit.  I troll through my old letters as often as my heart allows.  It’s gooey for certain, but it’s a writer’s treasure strove.  As I read my letters to him last night my skin grew hot, smoldering, and eventually my humiliation burned the skin right off my body as I read every single pathetic word.  My soul howled “HOW COULD YOU?”  I myself wondered  the same, and thought perhaps someone had stolen my identity and written those letters, using my voice, my font, and my email address because surely I would never do anything so utterly stupid as to write someone all those inside thoughts that I keep tethered tightly to my soul. I hoped for half a second it wasn’t me (as I always do after I read those letters), but it was, and after an hour of reading I staggered to the kitchen for a filled to the rim, glass of wine.

I read an article a few years back in the Los Angeles times about the brain hooked on love.  It stood me still, at last a name for my illness, I remember reading.  Be still my beating heart, all good things come to those who wait, I said to myself.  I read with haste, devouring each word, one by one, then two by two, and then full sentences in one inhale, greed replaced patience.  I reached the end of the article disappointed to find there was no known cure, no studies at the Mayo Clinic, no clinical trials to volunteer for.  It was early days in the study.     I smiled knowingly, and whisper to the wind; absence of evidence does not mean evidence of absence. 

My love story includes all the juicy scenes a reader finds in a Harlequin novel:

 In less than ten seconds, his hands had my bra unfastened and his month was full with my breast.  His geeky façade melted around him the instant my left leg wrapped around his waist, is an overt invitation for his expertly skilled hand to travel in the direction of my panties.

But as my story is missing the ‘happily ever after’ chapter it’s not Harlequin, it’s  a woman’s story with the heroine growing as a result of the passionate romance, but knowing that life is a climb, my heroine moves forward, alone and wounded, but still standing, and smiling because there are no regrets.  I remain in stasis, hooked on love and continue to write love letters. 

Yours, until there is a cure for hearts such as mine.