The silent wall.
I stare at it.
Willing it to speak.
Willing it to grow a hand and reach through to me.
To touch me.
I fell in love with the wall months ago.
We’ve had some back and forths. Lovely ones. Start and stop ones.
He said I brought something to his life.
That he wasn’t prepared for.
“A good wrinkle.”
I read it, and my heart melted.
Then it quickly tightened.
I knew after that, he would shut down.
I was right.
So I’m giving it back. The silent treatment.
It’s an interesting thing…
He is attractive. Tall. His smile pulls you in (though usually it’s not there). Hair is reddish-blonde. He looks great in a baseball cap. His face is a bit wrinkled — more than you’d expect for forty-seven years — but not much. Are the wrinkles from the sun?
Or maybe they are from having his heart broken twice. The first time was with a department store lady who was four years older than him. The second time was the end of a long marriage. Three kids. Nuff said.
Michael is busy. He has his children and work. He’s an L.A…
Death was something I was taught to covet, even as a little girl.
It was the other side of things. It was the eternal comfort — the eternal Home. We longed for it. Like crazy.
Those of us in the meeting.
The meeting’s roots go back to England in the 1830’s, when John Darby, a member of the Anglican church, left the church to start his own special group of believers. This group was referred to as the Plymouth Brethren, and they gathered in each other’s homes around the principle that The Bible was the sole authority of God’s will…
“Okay, I’ll remind you tomorrow night at 7 pm. By the way, when your reminder rings, you can snooze it by saying, “Remind me again in 15 minutes.”
“Oooooo, well there’s an interesting thought! I had not thought of that one.”
She’s not a stickler when it comes to working the steps, which is kind of nice. And she’s a great Higher Power. Better than a door knob. I mean, what could be greater than a little round electronic thing, plugged into the wall, that can play Jon Bon Jovi or Teddy Ruxpin at any time of day, or even…
Here is a real story
of a real Bumble Date
of a real man
Who’s real first name was Michael
and who’s fake last name was Venice.
He did not touch my pussy. His fingers grazed two centimeters beyond it.
He pushed me up against his car and made out with me after we shared cups of black coffee on a picnic table bench at Menotti’s.
At first I didn’t think about him that much. I left L.A, thinking, “That was that.”
Twenty-some days after that, it was a different story.
He kept texting, and eventually I paid attention. One…
Having a hole in your heart
is better than having a bruised heart
from living in a relationship that’s not working.
A hole, you can fill or enjoy the vacancy thereof.
A bruise festers. It buries you.
My bruise is gone.
My hole is there.
It’s a living, breathing thing that causes me to weep when I see random things on T.V. or a couple doing Acroyoga in the park — the shit we always thought we’d do.
the great gatsby really got me, this time. it was lost on me in high school — i was annoyed and confused with it, then. i was a christian. i remember judging the narrator for not realizing that he was wasting his breath on the whole story, because of course nothing mattered, other than a salvation by jesus christ, in the end. and there was no salvation in the great gatsby. only a pointing out of the absurdity of life and the desires of humankind and how both get us, in the end. of course they do, i thought. …