Of Jumping, Parachutes and Trust

At the risk of TMI ... there is a man lying sound asleep in bed next to me. He's fairly passed out from a hard day's - fuck that, a hard week's, a hard life's - day of work.

He is not at all my image of the "man of my dreams." Hell, for all I ever knew, it could have always been a "woman of my dreams."

Nonetheless, he is here, beside me, paint caked fairly permanently onto his fingers, beer belly, grey hair, and absolutely, unbelievably attractive to me.

I adore him. To the point where I wrote a short story at which GoodBuddy called me out. "Wow kiddo. Borrowing pretty heavily from real world fantasies are we?" In fact, GoodBuddy and I were really honest about it. On a random night last year, when we'd actually gone out to party, we ran into (what shall we name him?) I owned up. "Um, let's dance, but let's keep it fairly clean. And make sure I come off hot. I want to impress that guy over there." No idea if GoodBuddy was offended or not, but there you have it.

Fast forward a bit. I'd put out all the signals. Let's meet for a drink, let's hang out. Nothing. Finally, I invited him out for Fiesta. And finally, a nibble. Or, more truly, a full on, hard core, smooch.

I finally got what I wanted.

And now, the wicked, stupid, eff'ing insecure demon in me is wondering if I coerced him, forced him, somehow manipulated him into my bed. And if he would be here if it where someone - nay anyone - instead.

All the indicators point to no. And, if I am to be honest, he's wicked smart and wise enough to stand on his own and own up if this were a fly by night thing.

So why, oh why, do I continue to doubt myself?

Years and years of therapy and it still all comes down to this. Am I lovable?

But writing this out, I realize yes. I am. And yes, if he doesn't already, we're moving in that direction. Not because I made him. But because we are. We do. We will.

Anonymity and Personality

Tonight, I went to a meeting for fellow CapeAnn Bloggers. It was begun by Capt. Joe and seems to be a great way for fellow writers and artists to reach out and meet one another. What struck me most about tonight's event is how, despite my amazing and seemingly innate love for this place, I do not truly belong here nor will I will for what I am sure is a long time. Gloucester has a long and deep history that is way beyond how gorgeous the sunrise looks from the backshore or the current political landscape. The town's history runs through bloods and bones, through stories and generations.

That being said, I had a really great time. I am sure I drank too much at the Cape Ann Brew Pub but the beer was very, very yummy. And it was great to chat with others who are involved with writing and the arts and exchanging thoughts and idea.

At one point, someone asked me, "If you're not creating, do you feel like you're dying?"

WOW.

Yeah. I mean, yes. Yes, I do. Of course I do.

The thing is, sometimes, I'm too tired to realize that. Sometimes I am too focused on shipping boxes or faxing forms or filling out budget accruals to realize that I want/need/have to be creative. In some way shape or form.

What I guess I'm thankful for, is that there are others out there who share that need. That passion. Because when you're not being creative - and you feel that closeness to souldeath - you can feel like you're going insane.

But you're not. You're just drying up. Dessication.

I am glad I skipped the gym. I am glad I slathered on the makeup. I am glad Capt. Joey started the group. I'm glad I moved to Gloucester.

When the alarm goes off in exactly four hours, I might rethink all of this. But for now.

Tomorrow, folks, I promise, a more entertaining, amusing post. Or, back to the regularly scheduled programming. Cross my heart.

So Much, So Little, So What

I have been a slacker. I haven't posted in ... ages? I honestly don't know how long. It's not like there hasn't been news to report. There's been a plethora of news. I've just been a) too tired b) too busy c) too petrified to face reality to report.

One week and one day ago, dad had a stroke. OK, technically, the stroke happened one week and TWO days ago. But it wasn't reported until last Thursday.

You never know how you're going to react to the news that you might lose or be losing someone you love Until It Happens.

Within 20 minutes I was in the car on the way to NJ. I didn't even know how much underwear I'd packed.

Viscious, heart-rending emotions aside, Dad is OK. He'll walk away from this one. Next one, not so much.

I can't stop myself from calling obsessivelly. How is everyone feeling? How did the walk on the treadmill go today? Yet I know, they're as fed up with my constant harrassment as I was with the need to be full-time nurse while I was in NJ.

Being a good daughter is a REALLY difficult job. There's no handbooks or rules guides to help you along. I can only hope and pray I'm doing the right bit...