You Muse Me

Ah what can I say?  After a series of bad movies I realized that I should be working on historical fiction.  I was having a bit of writer's block this week - thinking about the right town to set my story in, worrying about current accuracy of place - and having a super hard time putting anything to paper.  Then it occurs to me while watching these movies that screenwriters have certain "tricks" to make the story believable (like cell phone tower is blown up so no communication, deserted cabin retreat for vulnerability, etc.), and this sparked this rather strange AHA moment me. If I set my work in the past and use some of these Hollywood type tricks - it is not necessary for me to completly recreate a city or town brick by brick.  So for this next week I think I'm going to study of course and work on a believable outline of the town I have in mind.  Something that does not require me buying historical maps and blueprints.  In other words - I'm going to try not to over think it.

Ode to Joy (2)

Ode to Joy

                She couldn’t see his face.  His long black hair had freed itself and hid that intense look from the audience.  To them the music was sweet honey, but she knew his eyes would show the pain of practice, of agonizing over notes and tones and relationships swept away on melody.  This was her third time seeing him play this year.  She sat in the center, her golden hair pulled tightly away from her face.  She never smiled or sighed or clapped.  She was unreadable. 

                When the curtain came down the audience stood, clapping and excited.  She made her apologies as she slipped like a wisp out of the aisle.  He had come through the velvet to bow again, and watched her as disappeared again into the night.

*****

                Isa sat at the bar.  Her long legs in silky black hose crossed and uncrossed nervously, shifting position on the tall wooden stool.  She hated these places.  She hated the way they smelled of old beer and soured men.  She looked around disappointed.  Just then she heard a rustle over the door and abnormally tall looking Korean man appeared, disheveled but smiling.  Her heart thudded against her chest and her palms usually cool and dry began to heat up and slicken.  He saw her from the corner of his eye and faltered only slightly. 

                He continued in, greeting men and women alike with a soft polite smile.  His name was Kim Min-Jun.  He was a second son and he was brilliant.

                The twinkle of bar lights illuminated his smile and the effect halted her breath.  She turned and faced the tired man behind the bar.  He grinned at her broadly as he brought her more wine.  There were no secrets here.  Somehow she knew this man could read her thoughts, her shaking hands, soft flush she got when Min-Jun came near but he was the sole of discretion. 

                Min-Jun slammed back a shot from the bar, just mere inches from her now.  His breath was warm enough for her to feel, to smell the taint of whiskey on his lips.  He grabbed the cold beer, glanced quickly at her and took up his instrument towards the tiny stage.

                Some bars had Karaoke on Thursdays – but not Mike’s.  His bar was classy.  He paid students to come, to practice, and to play on his stage for cheap beer and well shots. The patrons loved it.  They swayed together in the soft music, feeling the momentary sensation of culture travel down their polyester shirts and blue jeans – all the way down to well worn boots and scuffed heels.

                When Min-Jun played, the world stopped for her.  She closed her eyes holding her cheap red wine barely breathing at all.  Goosebumps rose along her neck and arms and her nipples pressed outwards against the soft cotton of her blouse.   She felt his eyes on her.  She knew if she moved just a little more to the right, slid her legs out, cross them even that she could face the stage.  She could gaze at him fully, smoking gaze into his eyes but she dared not.  She contented herself in watching him through the mirror behind the bar.  His image a little distorted by aged glass and dirt.

                Min-Jun played a soft waltz and time stood still.  The older couples smiled at old memories and turned each other gently.  The younger crowd moved back to tables and sipped at their drinks, still smiling.  While he played, the bow pulled against the violin in a delicate flip of his wrist, and his lips parted like a sleepy child. She knew how those lips warmed skin, how they tasted sweet against hers. She flushed.

                He could see her from his stool.  The long lines of her body stretched against the fabrics, the little black skirt drove him mad.  His cock hardened against grey slacks.  He couldn’t take it anymore.  He worked his way through the last few notes, waited for the applause to die and announced he would be taking a small break.

                She heard him and froze.  He packed his violin lovingly in its case and walked to the bar.  Passing it over to the bartender he glanced in the mirror at her.  He said nothing but moved on to the back. 

                The narrow hallway was dark with its wood panels and yellowing light.  He walked slowly, his slender fingers tracing the walls as he went.  He came to a door past the bathrooms.  He opened it slowly.  Light spilled through and he could see the small table and an old daybed against the wall.  It smelled of old furniture and cardboard boxes.  He didn’t care.

                He heard her behind him.  Her sweet perfume wafted into the room.  It was subtle, classy.  He waited until he heard the door lock and he turned around.  Without a word he grabbed her and pushed her against the wall.  She moaned slightly as her breath was knocked out.  His lips pressed roughly against her as his body stretched and pushed at hers.  His cock was hard and sharp as it crushed against her pelvis. 

                His tongue darted in and out of her mouth.  Her lipstick smeared and her breath was labored already.  He grabbed at her shirt and she gasped as she heard the buttons rip to the floor.  But she didn’t move. 

                Min-Jun’s fingers spread and pushed against her bra, the fullness of her breasts spilling above the satin fabric.  His right hand pushed at her throat as he dropped his head down to kiss their swell, biting the skin, the fabric – her nipples were hard flags of desire and she was on fire.

                Isa whimpered his name and his hand moved from her neck to her mouth – covering it.  He moved his head upward and stepped in closer, burying his teeth into her neck.  She cried out against his palm.  But he kept her quiet.  Her heart thumped wildly as he stepped back suddenly and let her go.  She fell forward a bit, suddenly loose from his grip. 

                “Sit on the bed” He said gruffly.  She nodded and moved to the edge of the bed and sat as commanded.

                “Now open your legs” He walked towards her, never lowering his eyes.  She did as she was bid, opening her legs wide.  She wore no panties beneath.  Her soft folds were shaved, exposed and wet.  He knelt down in front of her – pushed her back so she lay flat.  He took his fingers and opened the lips of her womanhood.  He bent down into her.  First he moved slowly.  His tongue and his fingers working in unison.  She began to moan.

                “shhh” he cooed and she bit her lip and dug her nails into the bed.  His tongue began to move faster and faster, she squirmed – moving her hips to meet his mouth.  Finally she came – bursting and he moved his hand quickly across her mouth to shut her cries.

                He stood and smiled then at her, a wicked thing.  She sat up, pulling his hips into her face.  Her hands clasped his button and zipper, moving quickly.  His pants slid to the floor and he stood there fully erect.  She immediately placed him in her mouth.  He was warm and smelled of flesh.  She tried not to gag at his size but her jaw strained against him. 
                He moaned deeply and pushed her off of him.  She looked up, her bright blue eyes shining. 

                “Get up” he said and helped her up.  He turned and laid himself on the bed.  His shirt half open revealing his chiseled hairless chest and his cock stood wide against the night.  He motioned for her to come to him.  She slid off her heels and straddled him on the bed, sliding his cock deep inside her wetness.  He grabbed her hips and held her all the way down. 

                “Don’t move” he whispered.  She obeyed and just sat, feeling the depth, the heat.  He began to move his hips slightly, rocking her, holding her firmly. 

                “Now you” he grinned.  She began slowly, moving her hips forward and then back.  Her breath began to speed up, and her hips moved faster and faster.

                “mmmm yes, that’s it” he said and licked his lips.  She nestled her face against him and came hard, crying out into his shoulder.  He rolled her over then, giving her no time to catch her breath.  He thrust against her hard.  She moaned and sighed for breath.  He got faster and faster – pounding the soft flesh between her legs.  His hands held her hips high and her breasts moved in rhythm.  Finally he cried out and she could feel his hot seed spurting inside her.  

                He stopped, letting it flow into her, letting the sensation move over him.  She said nothing.  Slowly he moved himself out of her, his cock still bulging and sticky.  He grabbed for an old rag and wiped himself.  He slid on his pants as she touched his skin gingerly.  

                When he stood he looked back at her.  She was lovely in her black skirt and torn shirt.  Her lips were red with passion and he could see the stickiness between her legs in the ill light.  He sighed and headed for the door.  

                “Min-Jun” she cried – but it was too late, he was gone.

               

Oh the bus

I am less than impressed with the men of Seattle.  I know, I know - wide statement - over reaching - but no, not really.  They all look like weird clones of one another:  wool hat, wool jacket, beard, t-shirt and those god awful black rim glasses.  Yes, I am calling them all Hipsters.  And I'm over it.  It's not cute.  It's as annoying as everyone's obsession with recycling while they throw cigarette butts on the ground and never come out from behind their earbuds.  By the way - your music isn't really that interesting.  Oh and I know - you are probably listening to some Liberal College Station or something - but must of you are over 30 now - it's just sad.  A couple of friends and I went for dinner a few nights ago - we passed this Wine Dive where they sat around smoking on the patio.  It was like a clan of cave bears with beer bellies.  Also - straight men don't drink wine - they drink beer or hard liquor.  Gay men look perfectly fine with a nice glass of Merlot - you sir look like a douche.  What happened to real men?  You know - the ones who really don't care if their stocking hat matches their jacket and can fix my car or my plumbing -who doesn't just text the repair guy on his IPhone.  Guys you are becoming completely useless as men.  It's disgusting.  I know I'm supposed to be liberated and capable - I get it - I'm a 21st Century girl but you are still a sissy boy.  It's like over the last twenty years the real men have become brainwashed by that nerdy kid he used to kick around in high school.  Don't get me wrong - Brains are sexy.  Hipsters are not. And they would be completely useless against Zombies - so what's the point?

No Wrong Done... Ever

It amazes me how individuals who are truly malignant can continue to harm us even after we have tried to cut them out of our lives.  It is also shameful that a family would bury themselves so firmly in denial as to risk the health of their grandchildren. Most of you know about the damage my ex has caused me physically and emotionally.  What you may not know is how year after year I have tried to maintain a relationship with his family only to be hurt even worse by them.  It came to me last night, they have been
re-victimizing me for years. They have been holding me accountable for his sins and their failures by punishing me emotionally, manipulating me emotionally to hide his crimes.  When I was asked NOT to testify against him because it would hurt the family I laughed. I finally got it.  They don't care about me at all.  They only see me as a piece to keep in check so I won't give anyone the lengthy catalog of crimes he has committed. They are asking ME - the VICTIM - to help him.  What's more and this is really sick - they don't care about him either - they just don't want the neighbors to know what kind of monster they raised.

Ode to Joy

She couldn't see his face.  His long black hair had freed itself and hid that intense look from the audience.  To them the music was sweet honey, but she knew his eyes would show the pain of practice, of agonizing over notes and tones and relationships swept away on melody.  This was her third time seeing him play this year.  She sat in the center, her golden hair pulled tightly away from her face.  She never smiled or sighed or clapped.  She was unreadable. 

                When the curtain came down the audience stood, clapping and excited.  She made her apologies as she slipped like a wisp out of the aisle.  He had come through the velvet to bow again, and watched her as disappeared again into the night. 

Moments in Space

The homeless are everywhere here.  Corner to corner begging for change.  Most of them appear normal enough with their cups and dogs on leashes, woolen caps and cardboard signs.  But there are others out there too.  You hear them first, this strange loudness of voice - they are angry, shouting their internal dramas  into the chilly air.  They see you but you get the feeling that they think you can't see them.  They keep talking, dirty clothes bound in wrinkles and they move ever forward - ever onward.  They rage war on injustice, protecting themselves from the aliens, the demons  - "the man".  It is pitiful but it is not really what you feel for them - what you feel is an odd fear, and uncertainty.  Can they see through you? Are they "touched"? Because sometimes what they say has an odd ring that sounds like one of your secret thoughts and it makes you shiver.

Westlake 420

Seattle is very happy about their legalization(?) of pot.  I'm happy for them, sort of.  I do have a couple of issues with the joyous celebrations occurring though.  The first issue  - smoking at Westlake.  For those of us who have commutes that require the tunnel and the side street pick-ups - it has becoming a cloying experience of skunk weed.  I'm not offended by pot per se - but I enjoy their patrons as much as I enjoy any other addictions which makes you utterly obnoxious. It smells - the acrid smoke seems to follow whoever hates it the most - and this case that would be me as I have developed a weird sensitivity to the smell that makes me want to vomit.  Ironic really as it's often given to patients to help alleviate that very same issue. Aside from my own personal hatred of the smell, I must also speak as a parent.  When someone drinks to much, it becomes obvious and disturbing - but children passing by are not suddenly asked to take shots of alcohol simply by trying to run past.  Pot smoking on the streets is affecting the kids too - not just me.  I see the parents sighing patiently and pushing pink and squirmy brown bundles closer to their jackets in hope of filtering the fumes.  That is absurd   Why should we as non-smokers be forced to make ourselves and our children uncomfortable so you can stand around the bus stop toking?  That comes to my second issue - why there?  I want to point out that this sort of legalization is tentative at best and the sudden flood of complaints the city must be receiving about people smoking pot openly on the streets and especially at the stops is only going to fuel determination to make it illegal once again.  It's like giving a inch to be taken for mile.  It wasn't good enough that the city loosened it's hold a bit but stoners have to behave childishly and flaunt it - thereby sealing their own fates to be pushed underground again.  I know thinking logically is hard on pot - but please try to keep up. It's Parenting 101 - if you want your parents to trust you and give you MORE freedom then don't take advantage of what they do give you - act responsibly and thoughtfully among others.

Broken Music

Broken Music came in today.  I have a copy, a signed copy tucked away in the safety of plastic but I actually wanted to read it.  It starts where all great stories should  - in the middle of chaos.  I like to read on the bus, hoping someone will ask me "Hey what are you reading?" so I can tell them.  So I can share in how books move me.  I have told more than a handful of people what my favorite book is.  No one reads it.  It makes me wonder if they don't trust my judgement or is it that they just don't care enough about me to even try to understand why these words are so important to me.  I believe you can tell a great deal about someone through what they read.  There is something very secret about a persons choice of novel.  What demons are they exercising?  What loves are they holding mournfully too?  What are they missing in their own lives that they can find escaping into written worlds?  Reading for pleasure should be done often and with great voracity. There are but a handful of people that I truly admire outside my close and personal circle.  Sting is one of them.  I am excited as I've started -  his books are seeping through and I want to read everything that has impacted him - so I can feel closer to him in some strange way - like looking up at the same bright star and the same time.  Words fill us up and we can share that with the ones we love and strangers alike because they are constant.

Literary Sea

This is my year.  This year I will put my heart out on paper, let my stories breath in the open - away from my overly protective psyche.  Despite my misgivings and my self loathings I will write.  I have a novel inside me somewhere.  It's in here with my voices of doubt and the harsh words spoken to me as a child.  It is in here with my mistakes and my triumphs. And I want to share it with those who will listen, who can commit to my journey as I try.  I have moved to Seattle, to be closer to the sea and the cold.  If healing must be done through tears than so be it.  I will allow myself to drown in these tears, sailing on my literary sea.