I did not write anything yesterday. I was scared that I would not be able to keep up with myself. I need to give myself more credit. Today, the 18th I will again sit down for half an hour (it always ends up being at least an hour – I have a great time, it just feels good). And if I only get to input these writings into an entry a couple times a week, that’s ok. At least I wrote. And at least I got them entered.
January 18, 2008
January 16, 2008
And so I grant myself half an hour to allow my Fiction to show his chimera face. I plead with him to hold his stories until we may have this chance together. And now I coax my lover out to the light. Let me feast. Allow my pen to fly. Pen to paper. Pen to paper. Pen to paper. I am too powerful. The muse is again flirting, allowing my presence to overshadow the greatness he can no longer hide from me nor my pen. Every day is full of Fiction. I work hard to swallow down my strong and overriding thoughts to allow this Fiction to again appear…oh.
Momet stepped out from behind the tree. She is scared you are going to walk home and never know. Momet is urgent as she says, “I’ve missed you. You see, I AM here.” She stands very still so you may see the sentient being that she is. Momet wants you to feel that she is there. Momet wants you to recognize her. For she is plain, very believable. The clothes that hang upon her and the hair that is disheveled by the forest fit her very well. Momet is comfortable in her skin. She does not question herself. She questions you.
You gaze upon Momet and feel the strength of her presence. You are reassured that yes, she is here. And yes, you were about to go home without making contact. You were going to go home and chock it up to mental playtime and maybe some auditory illusions when the leaves started to chatter.
Momet steps once back behind the tree trunk and you could swear she was never there. And so you walk up to the tree she stepped behind. Peering around the trunk an entire scene opens. This is another dimension, with nothing to do from where you came.
There are elephants dressed like Babar lounging at the base of several trees. Wood nymphs in breeches carrying clocks like the late Mad-Hatter scurry in and out all through this forest. Wood flowers, white and purple violets, Dutchmen’s breeches trefoil clover leaves and an abundance of greens cover the forest floor. The canopy of green is high and wide.
Momet’s hair is a darker shade of brown and long. It is disheveled, but not truly messy. A simple day in the forest makes it this way. Violet petals and pine pieces have found a places to rest in her hair. Momet smells of the forest floor. She smells moist and cool and dark. Pine and violets and redwood bark all blend to smell like Momet.
Her clothes hang about her without distinguishing any features. Momet’s dress shows no bust or hips or waist. Only the boat neck collar of her shift accents her long limbed neck. Momet’s dress dangles just below her knees. The gown is layers of crinkled natural fabric. The colors are lush and full – moss green over a rich chocolate brown, both over a golden sunshine warming yellow. Her feet are bare. And this makes her lithe and quiet when she moves.
Momet – gentle features, soft hands, nature itself embodied – assured, late summer maybe early fall.
Her smile is volumes in unsaid statements. Sometimes you are left wondering if she did smile. Or did she merely nod. Or even that. Her eyes must have conveyed the meaning. Is she clairvoyant? She is not a mute. She told you she was here. Momet has thrown her head back and her hair will fly and her teeth sparkle with the laughter she lets loose in pleasure and surprise. Momet was named by the forest here. Momet will guide you through.
January 15, 2008
And so my 30 minute writing exercise has begun. I have 30 minutes to write fiction. How is it that all day I have fiction going on in my head and when I finally make the time to get it out it crawls up into the back nether regions under and behind a drawer in my brain. As soon as the pen is set down it pokes it’s head out, this fiction does, he pokes his head out Kilroy style, all mischevious and tells me he’s just giving me stuff to think on until the next time I sit down to write.
“But, that’s the problem.” I tell him. I’m trying to keep my frustration and that tone of blame out of my thoughts here. ”That’s the problem. You cavort and whistle and dance around in my head all day. And then the minute I sit down to write it out as you’ve been showing me, you stop. I can’t even find you to stare at in that off-topic inspirational way.”
“Yeah well,” says my Fiction, “it’s not that important.”
“Oh yes you are.” I’m very firm as I look into thoughts with my Fiction. I know he has to have heard. ”It is very important after all. You and I both know all the stories, every single story out there, has already been told. And yet you continue to prance around here and fill my brain. I personally find it exceedingly distracting. I personally would find it a great measure of wit, self-therapy; and ok, I’ll say it, joy to have you out on paper as well. I look forward to showing the world the antics and high-jinx and wonderfully witted humor you show me every day. You are immensly important to me. For godsake, Fiction – Your virtual reality is my virtual reality. You, Fiction, are the epitome, for me, of true and pure creativity.” My tone grew softer and sweeter.
“Fiction, you alone have shown me corners of my mind I did not know existed. I mean really, who’d have guessed my mind had corners.” And I feel now compelled to be silent.
Fiction said, ” Thank you. Thank you for standing me up to hear this. You may spell my name with or without a capital F. I am not so formal as to care. And hey, don’t eat so much. You are making yourself sick.
“Sarah, I cavort and dance a beguile you with images and hope that you take these into that harder space to make them concrete and into your story. But I see you want me to tell a story. To sit back and regale an audience with a monologue to share. I may, but mustn’t you tell our audience what a wood nymph I resemble first? Please paint the picture of a garden variety wood nymph fairy with the long severely slender arms and outrageously long fingers. Don’t forget to mention the almost bony face in it’s perpetual smile. I am with wings. Sometimes without. Tell them I’ve been clothed, but not today. Today my voice is male. And today my story is that I have been pulled out from my hiding spot. I have been brought to task and am being asked to be a greater part in your life. The story today is that I hereby rise to the occasion. Fiction, why Sarah, I have plenty and more where that came from. You only give me half an hour? You’d better write quickly then. I will fill your pages. I will fill your pages with people and deamons and lovers and jokesters. Our pages will be full and overflowing in love and understanding and sorrow and joy and imagination.
“For, Sarah, once upon a time, I was a dragon. I roamed the world. I don’t know where I popped out from my egg but I understand the smells of Irish grasses and Charlemagne’s sword. I hear from the howling winds of the Siberian desert and the taste of curried men hangs on my tongue. The salted waters were by bath and my path. Do not typecast me as a dungeon dweller nor the eastern beast of prosperity and nobleness. I am both. Allow me everything. I will tell you all.”
“Fiction, now I ask you,” said I,” please take a moment to contemplate a wonderful story for sunrise.” I place my hands together in respect and request. ”At sunrise, even before, let us rise together and fill the tablet before work. My love to you.” And fiction bowed his dragon head, “My love to you.”
January 15, 2008
Yes, I wrote for 30min
Yes, I wrote for 30 minutes. Will post tomorrow. Dragons, and wood nymphs and a heart-to-heart that made me fall in love.
January 14, 2008
The Collector
I have met a people collector. Not surprisingly we met online. He collects people there. His websites, and he has several, all feature in his friends section beautiful women. He states his quest is to open the sexual door of communications. Not the other way around. He appears to have many people coming in for the conversation.
It is like a circus signing in to one of his sites. The vibrant colors and banner ads flashing like a tawdry blinking marquee at night. The crowd of faces that light his “friends” section is extensive and gorgeous. This collector has the finest of the web into his site to see the show. Most everyone is allowed entrance I’m sure. The faces displayed would get past the ropes at Studio51 and any other big city hot spot. In this virtual circus I believe I have been accepted to the club.
The circus club is complete with lobby area to read the latest happenings displayed in movie poster locking frames. The lobby walls are posted with the latest pics of recent visitors. Yes, I have been collected. I have gained entrance to a truly elite group of lovely sexually forward thinking people. And the circus begins.
The lights go down, the lobby disappears and I smell the sawdust strewn floor as I am plopped onto the hardwood bleachers under this big-top tent. The drum roll is booming out all other sounds. The spotlight flashes in on the center of the ring. The cymbals crash. Our most beautiful master of ceremonies, or host and purveyor of fine sexual open-mindedness is resplendent in all his glistening skin. He wears the Emperor’s New Clothes with panache.
He sways from side to side on the imaginary cat walk. This ring-leader and star saunters slowly to be sure the light hits just right as he proudly displays a full and glorious manhood. It is glorious. It is full. I feel a movement to reach for these jewels, to feel their weight and their heat. I would prefer to be running my hands along the muscles that are his thighs and buttocks. He is in the spot-light. For godsake he IS the spotlight. This is his show. This is his ego. It is beautiful. I feast from my seat on his rippling abs. I am enamored with the strength displayed in the smooth, pulsing pump he holds in his hand. I can imagine feeling it’s heat. This performance is in high gear.
This well-groomed, solid packed, fine definition of a man strikes several poses for my eyes; for my imagination. Surrounding him appears switch grasses and chapparel. He moves his body and he is among the waves and the wet rocks near the shore. His face turns to look at me from another angle and he is being pensive and sensitive on the sofa. As he smiles big with a boyish innocence he is in his ball cap and nothing else. The audience lights come up.
I am startled that it ended just then. I can only smile and shake my head. Nice show. The price was right. As I walk out I see have been alone in the audience. The dazzling pre-publicity looks like cardboard cut-outs now. It doesn’t change that I have entered of my own free will for a lovely porn show by an amateur of some talent. It was quite authentic and gripping and left me wanting.
Payment is expected after all. I am hounded on the way out of this cyber circus. Hounded by the publicist, hounded by the ring leader and the star. They have followed me out of the portal. They have found me where I usually reside with my peaceful lounging fantasies. Again I hear from all of them in my lesser known cafe. Each of them carring notes, surveys, critiques. The paperwork is overwhelming. The price, I’m finding, is time.
I wrote the thank you note. I submitted the letter of recommendation. I published the “critics corner” review. I spray painted three bathroom stalls with his address. It was worth it. It was clean and dirty. It was amateur and personal. It was a feast for my starved lackluster web life. If I could sneak back under the tent undetected I would. If I could hide under the bleachers to watch this collector parade again his beautiful body replete with his heavy heated flesh again I would. As the craven voyuer I am, please let me watch. Please, don’t make me tell.
Mission Statement
Simple mission statement here. I will write for at least 30 minutes every day for the next 30 days. I can write longer than 30 minutes if I choose. I can write longer than 30 days if I choose. These will be fictional pieces. There is no rhyme nor reason to the postings. They just are. Set your timer and – GO!
