My Seasons - Fall

Fall:














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Glances

I get it, dude. I do. I look more exciting than your beautiful wife, sitting to your side with a brand new baby on her lap. Blocking access to her womb and her heart, a tiny little presence that has supplanted you completely. My breasts are hugged by a form fitting shirt, framed by a vest designed to make them appealing to you. Hers are covered by flannel, comfortable and soft for a baby to rest against. My hips are mine alone, not occupied by a tiny being that has sucked all the sexuality that created it right back into itself, for the moment. Ah, for the moment. All the moments. That's what you need to remember, as you look at my hips and breasts longingly. The moments you've helped create. The depth of sexuality you're missing, that's causing your eyes to stray, have nothing on those moments. I hope, for your sake, that your father taught you the breadth of moments available to you now, the depth of the beauty you've created. Because without that knowle...
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Coming back to New England. The past is a potent, dangerous thing. I can't stop thinking that, can't stop those words running around in my mind. As I drive my car down streets that hold memories of me from 25 years ago, as I laugh with my family in the kind of joyous abandon I'm capable of with very few others, as I soak in the kind of Fall beauty that made my heart stutter and my eyes water when I was 10... There is so much that is appealing about this past. So much beauty that was left behind, and is just waiting to be discovered again. And so much that is no longer me. I'm drawn to be a version of myself that I discarded as unhealthy long ago. Family and home, makes me feel like I didn't actually throw away that version of me. I just hung her up like a coat I can shrug off and on as needed. My brain is screaming at me this trip. This trip of grieving my dead sister, of comforting my shattered, resilient family. Parts of me are reveling in nostalgia, are soak...
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Dreams

Dreams, I think, are stories that our unconscious mind has somehow plucked from the ether. I have this wonderful mental image of stories existing whole and into themselves, strings of fancy, dancing motes of light and knowledge, traveling, always moving, vibrating their way through the universe. So many stories, each particle, each wave of physical reality, traveling with a seed, a single kernel attached. An idea. Maybe these stories that travel our universe were created by life, because they're certainly shaped by it. Do dreamers on other worlds close their eyes and find their own landscapes, already crafted for them, ready to be populated by the characters their entire world has helped to shape? I love my dreams. I wake up sometimes, and just lie there, remembering the story I was privileged enough to become an avatar for, even for such a short period of time. Not a very good avatar, sadly. I think the authors of the world, the truly great and the truly terrible, are people w...
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