Dress Sizes

I don’t want to write about you, and how I don’t feel right inside when the gap between us is so wide or when we spar, everything inside of me wells up and there is no fresh air getting through – I don’t wear anger well, or the time you are away. I dislike how I feel primitive with my expressions.  Your vanilla and I am not, you rationalize, and I cannot.  You accept and I fight.  You’re inside the lines and I like it when I cross against the lights.   But when you wrap your arms, around me, there is only passion, and it swallows me completely and in that moment, I re-bloom.  With passion comes conflict and it’s not easy.  I think you prefer cerebral conflicts to the heat of a passionate heart.
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I enjoy the overstuffed Laura Ashley chinch cushions scattered carelessly around my cerebral office, like a cup of Joe on the go, so is my office. An anywhere room to retreat to, make notes in, to take comfort in, to sip Coppla’s Claret from cut crystal wine glasses, as needed.  I purposely decorated the virtual Room of my Own to resemble the real one—it reduced my bank balance by eighty thousand dollars and the single biggest purchase in my vast, and color-tainted life—because the physical room is the gateway to me.  It’s where my girl and boy collect.   ‘Mommy, can I?  Where are my…? Do you know..?  I need twenty dollars.  Do you have a book called Wuthering Heights?’  I wonder if the eighty thousand was wasted.

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Dear Lover~

I read an article tonight in the Arts and Entertainment section on the Wall Street Journal’s website. The article was about the loss of artist’s—poets and all others—muses. The writer mentioned Zelda, Gala, Yoko, Gonne, Georgia, and Suzanne (Fitzgerald, Dali, Lennon, Yeats, Stieglitz, and Balanchine’s respectively). There were other famous muses that I remember reading about over the years, it also mentioned others that I had no knowledge of, my incomplete education, I assumed.

The journalist only mentioned male writers, and their female muses! Appalling reporting I thought, what about us women, and our muses. I have to think all women artists have their own muses, but I couldn’t think of any except for Lillian’s Dash. According to the WSJ writer, the muse-world has thinned out, and while the male artist might still have a muse, the infamous relationship between the muse and the artist is no longer. My heart ached for the romance of the past.
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I enjoy the overstuffed Laura Ashley chinch cushions scattered carelessly around my cerebral office, like a cup of Joe on the go, so is my office. An anywhere room to retreat to, make notes in, to take comfort in, to sip Coppla’s Claret from cut crystal wine glasses, as needed.  I purposely decorated the virtual Room of my Own to resemble the real one—it reduced my bank balance by eighty thousand dollars and the single biggest purchase in my vast, and color-tainted life—because the physical room is the gateway to me.  It’s where my girl and boy collect.   ‘Mommy, can I?  Where are my…? Do you know..?  I need twenty dollars.  Do we have the book called Wuthering Heights?’  I wonder if the eighty thousand was wasted.
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Disconnected.

There are days when my well of words runs low.  Will I lose the feeling to write, live, and write again and again?

My head is a ghost town, its cranial passageways have a fine layer of dust covering the ground, and my feet leave imprints. The tumbleweeds bounce off the walls leaving a trail of smudge marks on contact.  This is a lonely feeling for a writer, it’s when we are the most vulnerable, the most at risk, the most lost.  Our word pictures can’t connect.  It’s not dot-to-dot. It doesn’t work like that…

My words are suspended in their singular state inside the tumbleweed trying to connect, to form a sentence. 
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