She has long been bullied and abused by Her older sister, a cold distant person who hides behind the supposed mask of her bipolar disorder...the manifestations of which are an inability to edit her comments and criticisms, her need to be always right, and the fact that she views anyone not agreeing with her and her behavior as being "disloyal" to her.
We had dinner last night with Gayle and her husband, Gayle of the Playing With Old Friends posts of last July and August. Despite past histories and alienations, She and Gayle has become good friends yet again, trading on a history that goes back to grade school, the knowledge of one another that transcends the need for explanation and backstory.
And so, last night, as She related the tale of her older sister and her mean spirited treatment, Gayle reminded her that she has been treating Her this way since they were children, and had treated Gayle the same way. And then she capsulized what I have been saying for years:
"Forget her. She's been taking up space in your mind for years and not paying rent."
BULLSEYE!!
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
The Comeback
I've been in a bad place the last few weeks. I've been threatened professionally and it's caused me to shut down every which way...I haven't been working, haven't been reaching out to friends and colleagues for help, She and I have moved the gearshift to neutral, I've been in avoidance with almost everything because I wasn't dealing with my professional difficulties.
I still haven't resolved the situation, but at least I've taken a step or two forward, and instead of napping in the afternoons, I'm back to working, even on the projects I didn't want to know about. I sang Wednesday evening for the first time since the end of June, and was able to hold my own (no wicked pun intended, you filthy minded folk), at least until my voice gave out in the last half hour.
Perhaps I really was ready for summer to be over. It breaks my heart in some way, but perhaps it's time for "back to school", which is another whole post.
I still haven't resolved the situation, but at least I've taken a step or two forward, and instead of napping in the afternoons, I'm back to working, even on the projects I didn't want to know about. I sang Wednesday evening for the first time since the end of June, and was able to hold my own (no wicked pun intended, you filthy minded folk), at least until my voice gave out in the last half hour.
Perhaps I really was ready for summer to be over. It breaks my heart in some way, but perhaps it's time for "back to school", which is another whole post.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The Light Changes
I've never hidden the fact that I'm a slut for the beach, and will do anything to get there...well, almost anything. I've spoken of how God looked after me when I first met Her, as she grew up in a seaside town, no summer camps, no enrichment programs, just go to the beach and come home for dinner. And how God looked after me when Her mother passed, and we went shopping for a house of our own, steering us away from from the house with too much land for us to use and toward a home on a quiet side street that was, as they say in the nursery tale, "just right."
And so, sitting on the beach weekend after weekend, and vacation after vacation, I've made some acquaintances, not serious friends, just folks to stand at the edge of the surf and while away the hours, admiring the surf and the break of the wave and the ever changing collection of "inventory" the ocean brings in with every wave and movement.
Jack is a good 10 years older than me, with a full shock of white hair and the endless patience for a day at the beach. He retired years ago before he was 55, the beneficiary of a buyout package at some major insurance company. He invested wisely, and has never looked back. A few years ago, as we stood at the edge of the surf, he remarked that the summer was over, and I asked him how he could say that, as it was only the first week in August. He turned to me and explained how the light had changed as it hit the water. The sun was positioned differently in the sky. It wasn't bad, just different.
And although I agreed with him at the time, I never truly understood the change in the light.
Until yesterday.
Granted that it IS the end of August. But yesterday was a typical summer day in New York City, much the same as we had all last week, close to or up to 90, heavy humidity, a stay inside air conditioner day. But as I went out to the post office, I was struck by how different the light was from the week before, how much lighter and thinner it was (poor words to describe the quality of light, but I'm a musician, not and artist). Even at that relatively high temperature, I could see the end of summer just around the corner, and with it the end of short pants, flip flops, the openness of having nothing to do, the return to prime time television. In spite of the fact that boobs abound and the streets are rife with the cleavage that hot weather brings, it's only a matter of time until we're all covered from head to foot, wrapped in jackets and coats, longing for the return of the lazy hazy days of summer, which I will miss this year more than ever, even as I recognize that this summer has been difficult for me on so many fronts.
Sigh....
And so, sitting on the beach weekend after weekend, and vacation after vacation, I've made some acquaintances, not serious friends, just folks to stand at the edge of the surf and while away the hours, admiring the surf and the break of the wave and the ever changing collection of "inventory" the ocean brings in with every wave and movement.
Jack is a good 10 years older than me, with a full shock of white hair and the endless patience for a day at the beach. He retired years ago before he was 55, the beneficiary of a buyout package at some major insurance company. He invested wisely, and has never looked back. A few years ago, as we stood at the edge of the surf, he remarked that the summer was over, and I asked him how he could say that, as it was only the first week in August. He turned to me and explained how the light had changed as it hit the water. The sun was positioned differently in the sky. It wasn't bad, just different.
And although I agreed with him at the time, I never truly understood the change in the light.
Until yesterday.
Granted that it IS the end of August. But yesterday was a typical summer day in New York City, much the same as we had all last week, close to or up to 90, heavy humidity, a stay inside air conditioner day. But as I went out to the post office, I was struck by how different the light was from the week before, how much lighter and thinner it was (poor words to describe the quality of light, but I'm a musician, not and artist). Even at that relatively high temperature, I could see the end of summer just around the corner, and with it the end of short pants, flip flops, the openness of having nothing to do, the return to prime time television. In spite of the fact that boobs abound and the streets are rife with the cleavage that hot weather brings, it's only a matter of time until we're all covered from head to foot, wrapped in jackets and coats, longing for the return of the lazy hazy days of summer, which I will miss this year more than ever, even as I recognize that this summer has been difficult for me on so many fronts.
Sigh....
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Boy And His Book
Three months ago I posted about one of those wonderful days when everything went just right...the day The Boy participated in the commencement exercises from grad school. Yesterday his bound dissertation arrived in the mail, and I opened it to the acknowledgment section, where he recognized everyone that helped him along the long hard road to completion.
But this needs a bit of a backstory first.
We had always read books to him, bedtime stories, books during the day, books at night, from the time he had been able to concentrate on what he was hearing. The first nighttime book was Good Night Moon, with laminated pages for those lunging hands. As the years went on, the books became more sophisticated, but always age appropriate. Anyway, we were standing on the subway platform sometime during the Christmas season, going shopping somewhere for presents. He was 4 years two months old, and as we waited for the downtown train, he asked me "What does 'come home to red' mean?". And I asked him where he was getting the question from, and he pointed across the station. On the uptown side was a billboard for Johnny Walker Red. And I knew that at a very early age, he knew how to read, and had been doing it for some time, asking me the question only because he didn't understand the billboard.
The acknowledgment thanks everyone that ever walked in shoe leather, but here's the part I liked best, and I quote:
"My parents...always encouraged me to read and think about whatever my interests and passions led me towards, even (and perhaps especially) when those interests and passions included the back of the cereal box or the billboards in the subway station. That faith and support underlies this project in more ways than one."
That's my Boy, thanking me in the privatest way that he knew, harking back to the very beginning.
But this needs a bit of a backstory first.
We had always read books to him, bedtime stories, books during the day, books at night, from the time he had been able to concentrate on what he was hearing. The first nighttime book was Good Night Moon, with laminated pages for those lunging hands. As the years went on, the books became more sophisticated, but always age appropriate. Anyway, we were standing on the subway platform sometime during the Christmas season, going shopping somewhere for presents. He was 4 years two months old, and as we waited for the downtown train, he asked me "What does 'come home to red' mean?". And I asked him where he was getting the question from, and he pointed across the station. On the uptown side was a billboard for Johnny Walker Red. And I knew that at a very early age, he knew how to read, and had been doing it for some time, asking me the question only because he didn't understand the billboard.
The acknowledgment thanks everyone that ever walked in shoe leather, but here's the part I liked best, and I quote:
"My parents...always encouraged me to read and think about whatever my interests and passions led me towards, even (and perhaps especially) when those interests and passions included the back of the cereal box or the billboards in the subway station. That faith and support underlies this project in more ways than one."
That's my Boy, thanking me in the privatest way that he knew, harking back to the very beginning.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Exit Music
Back in the day, I worked for Bill Graham in New York City...not Billy Graham, but Bill Graham the rock impresario of the '60s. He was and remains a guiding force for me, someone who always knew the difference between good and evil, always recognized the the right way to do something, and he could elicit your opinion in such a way as to make you think you were a trusted advisor. And you were.
He produced weekly rock concerts, Friday and Saturday nights, 8PM and 11:30, three acts to every show, uncanny quality at every turn, week in and week out. The jobs were at an escalating level, from usher to ticket taker to box office.
I was teaching school all the time I worked for him, and so getting up and getting psyched every Friday and Saturday night after a full work week required effort. Part of getting dressed and ready for the show was my exit music. It was Gimme Some Lovin' by The Spencer Davis Group, fronted by Stevie Winwood.
Five years later, with seemingly no professional experience, I found myself on the road with Alice Cooper and Suzi Quattro, working as the tour accountant and assistant costume manager. Suzi opened the show, and then the roadies did the set change. There was house music during the set change, usually Supertramp or Average White Band. But we always knew when the change was finished by the start of Elton John's The Bitch Is Back, our signal to finish laying out the dancers costumes and find our places onstage.
Each of these songs sits on my ipod, and my heart involuntarily beats a little faster each time one of them comes on. Old habits die very hard sometimes
He produced weekly rock concerts, Friday and Saturday nights, 8PM and 11:30, three acts to every show, uncanny quality at every turn, week in and week out. The jobs were at an escalating level, from usher to ticket taker to box office.
I was teaching school all the time I worked for him, and so getting up and getting psyched every Friday and Saturday night after a full work week required effort. Part of getting dressed and ready for the show was my exit music. It was Gimme Some Lovin' by The Spencer Davis Group, fronted by Stevie Winwood.
Five years later, with seemingly no professional experience, I found myself on the road with Alice Cooper and Suzi Quattro, working as the tour accountant and assistant costume manager. Suzi opened the show, and then the roadies did the set change. There was house music during the set change, usually Supertramp or Average White Band. But we always knew when the change was finished by the start of Elton John's The Bitch Is Back, our signal to finish laying out the dancers costumes and find our places onstage.
Each of these songs sits on my ipod, and my heart involuntarily beats a little faster each time one of them comes on. Old habits die very hard sometimes
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Not Enough #11
Debra moved her feet further apart, forcing herself to come into a modified squat, her arms dangling at her sides, her cunt mostly bald and fully exposed, quickly obeying the command given to her, her shoulders still slumped in some sort of abject surrender, never once raising her head to look either one of us in the eye. "Now you, Sir Lancelot, lick." And I settled down onto my haunches, moving almost as quickly as Debra had, my will to do anything else seemingly taken away from me. I found that her legs were spread wide enough so that I could just fit my shoulders between her knees. It was an difficult stance for her to maintain, and yet she didn't protest the awkward posture.
I moved my head closer to her pussy, forming my lips into a ring, as I located her clit and ever so gently began to vibrate it by moving my tongue in and out against it, eagerly finding the sensitive area and knowing that I found it by the soft groan that escaped her lips. The woman, who I now know as Amalia, stood up, the sheet falling away from her breasts, her nipples puffy in excitement, the tips erect. She still wore a pair of sheer boypants, her dark pubes showing through against the whisper thin black nylon, a small stain of wetness showing that she was joining us in being aroused by what she was creating.
She came around the bed, standing beside us, watching, inspecting, making certain that I was licking Debra off adroitly, Debra now beginning to buck her hips back and forth as she gave into to my tongue. I abandoned the licking and just started to suck her clit, now wildly erect, standing up like a tiny cock, Debra now moaning in rhythm to her hip thrusts, stirred on by my random licking as her hips receded and pushed forward, almost fucking my mouth with her clit, my own cock now wildly erect as well, drooling with precum as I joined Debra in being lost to the surrender.
Amalia reached over and took her left nipple between her thumb and first two fingers, squeezing hard and pulling downward, forcing Debra to bend forward at the waist, making her moan with the sudden sharp pain. "You're not to cum until I tell you you can. You understand that, don't you?" she hissed into Debra's ear, barely loud enough for me to hear. Her question elicited no response, Debra being too far gone in her own private lust, the pain at her nipple just driving her further forward into her own personal playground of sensation. Neither one of us was conscious of her movement, as she stood behind me.
Until Amalia slapped her hard across the face, causing her to rock to one side, her palm and fingers almost imprinted on Debra's left cheek. "You don't cum unless I tell you to cum. Your orgasms belong to me."
And I suddenly understood that I didn't know if she was talking to me or to Debra or to both of us, but I was in big trouble, as I felt my cock jerk once or twice, my sperm spilling gently on the floor.
I moved my head closer to her pussy, forming my lips into a ring, as I located her clit and ever so gently began to vibrate it by moving my tongue in and out against it, eagerly finding the sensitive area and knowing that I found it by the soft groan that escaped her lips. The woman, who I now know as Amalia, stood up, the sheet falling away from her breasts, her nipples puffy in excitement, the tips erect. She still wore a pair of sheer boypants, her dark pubes showing through against the whisper thin black nylon, a small stain of wetness showing that she was joining us in being aroused by what she was creating.
She came around the bed, standing beside us, watching, inspecting, making certain that I was licking Debra off adroitly, Debra now beginning to buck her hips back and forth as she gave into to my tongue. I abandoned the licking and just started to suck her clit, now wildly erect, standing up like a tiny cock, Debra now moaning in rhythm to her hip thrusts, stirred on by my random licking as her hips receded and pushed forward, almost fucking my mouth with her clit, my own cock now wildly erect as well, drooling with precum as I joined Debra in being lost to the surrender.
Amalia reached over and took her left nipple between her thumb and first two fingers, squeezing hard and pulling downward, forcing Debra to bend forward at the waist, making her moan with the sudden sharp pain. "You're not to cum until I tell you you can. You understand that, don't you?" she hissed into Debra's ear, barely loud enough for me to hear. Her question elicited no response, Debra being too far gone in her own private lust, the pain at her nipple just driving her further forward into her own personal playground of sensation. Neither one of us was conscious of her movement, as she stood behind me.
Until Amalia slapped her hard across the face, causing her to rock to one side, her palm and fingers almost imprinted on Debra's left cheek. "You don't cum unless I tell you to cum. Your orgasms belong to me."
And I suddenly understood that I didn't know if she was talking to me or to Debra or to both of us, but I was in big trouble, as I felt my cock jerk once or twice, my sperm spilling gently on the floor.
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