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…pick up lines…

Her journal is frequently a source of amusement, and
often she’s laughed at herself, and for any number of reasons.

Sometimes it’s just obvious that she’s seen too many movies.
Other times, little insights that popped into head at odd
moments find their way to pen, and
later she is glad she had one.

Here’s One….

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Pick up lines through the ages…

1960s………….wanna ball?

1970s………….what sign are you?

1980s………….you look like you need a back rub

1990s …………you’re such a Goddess

2000s…………….have you been tested?

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“I wonder..” she thought “what the new one
will be for this decade…..”
She remembered a few that had been used on her…

>>>What’s your website…..?

Are you blogging…..?

**You look like you need a hug**….

^You’re such a doll, can I touch your hair^….. ?

) How many lovers do you have now (….?

>Do you skype …… ?

>>>>>Are you on Facebook?<<<<< ….. ya..!
That’s probably the one.”

Got any more  good suggestions ???

 

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by

… backing off …

Journal… tuesday, july 12-13th  2005

She thought about the difference between men and women…
cliche, right?  but maybe not.  Alike but different.
maybe same feelings, different actions…

And another thing… how much is men-women chemistry, how
much is cultural bias.  I mean, come on… born with a penis?
automatic member (no pun) of the boys’ club.

And that club has different rules.  Things may be changing here,
slowly, but let’s face it, men are really having a hard time with
change, and can you blame them?

They’re bigger, stronger, more agressive.  So right there they have
this advantage over women… and I know, I’m generalizing right
now, but yes, in general, and cross culturally, this is true.

Next come the double standards.  Why is is forgivable for men
to fuck around?  Are they called a slut?  no… they’re Men.
Men are just like that.

They can shut off their emotions, separate into sectional brain
of theirs, and just do what they want.  Part of that is because
they Know it will be alright in the long run, because…
….men just Do that.  Not to be taken seriously.

How many times have we heard that…. it meant nothing.
it was Just Sex.
Oh, nice… ok…. and how many have said that to someone
about ME?
It’s the pat answer, isn’t it.  Why?  Because Men Do That…

It’s like some urban myth.  Everyone’s heard it, and everyone
kind of believes it….
But know what…. I don’t buy it.  They may have impulses…
but they have the ability to control them.
They can stop and think, even with alcohol.

So in my opinion, whatever it’s worth… well…. you get the point.

Now she thought about him.  About how distant he’d been lately,
how moody and difficult to reach.  The mood swings were
becoming intolerable, and she was feeling taken for granted.

Being that that was number one on that list of Most Hated
Treatment, she made a clear decision with herself.  Back Off.
Be moody and hard to get, just like him.
The only way to know what’s really going on with him was
to not be there.

That ..”How can I miss you if you never leave?” sort of thing.

 

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by

… onion skin moods …

Journal…July 8th

“I struggled through 3 days of layers, of onion skin moods…
This day I finally figured how to charge my old phone card,
and called him.
He wasn’t home til early afternoon…7 there…I told him…
hmmmm….something…I can’t remember…and he was in a
shit mood, self absorbed, short with me.
I got mad….
“See Ya!”  I said….and hung up.

I felt bad, and after a couple phone conversations,
called him back, and said…

“We promised not to end in anger.”
and he said
“Fuck the Lawyers, let’s talk”…. and we did.

He said at first that he wasn’t sorry he’d told me, just that
he’d told someone who didn’t want the truth, and would
rather live in ignorance…
that actually, he could have never told me….
which didn’t help at all.
In fact, it Really pissed me off.

“Please!  Give me the Respect of letting me go through
3 days of processing, my way…!”  I said…
…emphatically, sternly, clearly.

And the pause let me know that he too was processing…

“It’s not going to happen again…” came the voice, unsolicited.

“Really…?”

“No….. it’s not the way I want to do things…”

“So…what…. you’re telling me…you learned something?”

“Definitely…”

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She thought about the conversations they had had in the last
few days, when he was still high on alcohol, on sex, on
testosterone, on whatever else… and he had tried to
rewrite the definitions of TRUE….
…as in Be True to Me… and
she had found it embarrassing, sad, insulting, self deprecating.

Fortunately for him, he did quickly apologize for breaking the
agreement, which was his discreet and face saving macho
style… and she accepted that.

Her head still spun with these ridiculous patters that went on
like a litany of questions, confrontations… of him and of self…

…what did you get from it, what did it do for you, make you,
give you…was she like me…was she pure…was she a slut…
was she blonde…young, adoring, aloof…what?  what was it?

what was it that turned you on? was she Like me?  something
i wish i could be?  something totally different from me…
…did she inspire you? … what!

In the end, only time and doing things, waiting for the clouds
of confusion and disillusionment to dissipate and pass, allowed
for new skies to form, and created a new palette
upon which to write the future.

 

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by

… the fourth …

How funny, to be here in July, when I am writing about this date.
I honestly haven’t thought about Alcir on this July day for many
years, and yet now July 4th in 2005 is not just in my mind,
but in my writings.  And so is the one in 1986.

Being an American… Alcir didn’t like me using that term, and
reminded me that Brasil was American too!
Being from the US, we are so self centered, and think of the
whole world celebrating Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July,
but no… They are ours and ours alone.

But I read from my friends that that picnic that happens every
year up on the ridge, in Northern California, in the summer warms,
with music and oyster bar and good beer, the one when I sang
in that Blues Band, and watched him watching me…
It’s going on right now….

The fireworks are no longer on that long beach, my favorite
beach, with the bonfire and the sparks flying into the night sky
to join the stars, and us sitting on that log.

They’ve been on the pier in Point Arena for many years, the Pier
that he loved, in that little town that he loved…
And it’s a great show.  Everyone sits on those giant rocks they
brought in after the massive storms took out the old pier.
And they sit on the balcony of the newer building down there,
the one built over the old cafe…Sophie’s Cafe, with the
Greek dancing at midnight.
The one I was sitting in when we were new, and he came by to
say hello, before going out to dive for our dinner.

The parking lot is still there, where he displayed his catch along
with the other divers, and he peeled off his body suit in front of me.

And that night… the first night… is still there, hanging in forever,
frozen on fire, a warm glow of coals and sparks to rekindle my
spirit and remind me that magic does happen, and life is good.

Alcir recently wrote
” …It’s 5 am and I am in Norway having a “few” 1664 Kronenbourg,
some shots of Glenmorangie, smoking a Jose Piedra Vuelta Arriba,
watching “The Man Show”, and the Venus passage in front of the sun,
in MY BOAT…..”

And now today I send this, my favorite quote from “Castaway”,
to him, and imagine him on His Boat, with that great big grin…

“And I know what I have to do now.   I gotta keep breathing.
Because tomorrow the sun will rise.
Who knows what the tide could bring? ”

 

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by

… talk …

After she got off the phone, after his terrible confession,
she sat for a while.
Her hands were shaking horribly, as they had been since
he’d begun telling her.
Just by his tone, she had known what was coming, and her
body had begun quaking just a bit, as her mind stood still.

And now she cried.  Of course she did, and for a long time.
The words escaping from her mouth were only for herself
and the sky, but they poured out none the less.
She cried so much she wondered if the sobs would ever leave,
but of course they did.  They washed out with the rain, and
then the journal came out.

Pages of rants, cries, whys, how could hes, how will it evers,
and so forth.  For pages…

Not that she was not experienced at these sorts of things.
On the contrary, she had been married to what had turned
out to be a sex addict, although she was too naiive to know
it at the time.
She thought he was just figuring himself out, in that cute little
sixties way, and she being in the Hippie mode, thought it was
healthy to let him.  She had trusted him implicitly.
They were going to be completely honest with eachother…
Although actually it was the seventies, and not quite as
innocent anymore.
The worst part about it was not the sex with others…
it was the lies and hiding for a month, and then the confessions,
the tears, and then realizing that a month had gone by with
his hiding it and lying, and eventually it just made her mad…
….Mad…as in Crazy.  Eventually All Trust was Destroyed.

Well, at least he told me, she thought….and quickly.
But I’m not there, and I don’t know when I will be, and he’s
way to cute and crazy Not to stray once in a while, even when
I Am there.  That Latin men thing.  Male privilege.

The ole double standards thing, which is one of the two
worst things ever, as far as she was concerned.
The other is being taken for granted.
They sort of go hand in hand, don’t they.

It was 5 or 6 when the phone rang, insistently dragging her
out of her solitary sad, forcing her to clear her throat,
put on the smile voice, and answer.

“Hello…?”

“Well… do you have anything you wanna say to me?”
the Voice came.

“Not really.  I guess that depends on what you have to say to me…”

“I’m not doing too well…. I drank almost a whole bottle” …
…she knew this meant scotch, his favorite imbibement.

“I can’t sleep, I’m not feeling too good about myself,” he continued,
“and I want to apologize.”

“What are you apologizing for?” she ventured, honestly unsure
of where he was at in all of this.

“For breaking our agreement to eachother.  I knew it was wrong
when I was doing it.  It meant nothing.  There is no relationship,
no time spent together, only sex.”

“Does she know about me?” she now wondered, as she really
didn’t know this side of him, nor how he behaved in these times.

“Yes, she knows about you, of course, what do you think?
I’m not a scoundrel.  I’m not going to tremble before you.
I’m not going to sweat…. well….
this is not a video phone, so if I do sweat you won’t know…”

Well…she thought…. he’s doing pretty well so far.  Saying
the right things anyway.  It’s just the trust thing.  The not
knowing what was true, and what would be true, especially
at this distance.  No eyes to peer into.

The conversation closed on a neutral level, he having said
what he needed to say, she unable to move forward, let go,
believe again, but now at least  in a place where she could
see beyond the darkness, the light out there at the end of that
terrible tunnel beginning to grow just a little….

 

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