"The muse is a fickle bitch. Like an addict in an abusive destructive relationship, you'll crawl back to her just for the fumes if it is all you can get." - said to Endy, 2009


"Some women do not long for a knight from Arthur's table to come and rescue them from their life. Some of them just want to see consuming and unquenchable hunger. I correct myself. Insatiable curiousity would do."
"Insatiable curiousity for what?" Endy replied.


It is this - that brought my muse around full circle, cruelly, in her unrelenting way - to demand, exactly like herion to a junkie, to be served. Bitch.

My first response, naturally inspired by a romantic inclination as women often are, "me", in the longing, kind of way. Promptly feeling this, I moved on to wanting to fully describe more exactly WHAT insatiable curiousity meant, and why as a woman, I'd want it over Prince Charming.

I want insatiable curiousity to mean the desire to discover what exactly triggered a sigh/look/reaction and being compelled to discover what it would take to repeat said reaction. Then, it meant one step further, away from the romantic, towards the practical. Insatiable curiousity is what compells man to experience, grow, stretch and achieve, more poigntly than the most driven of souls. It is what motivates man to evolve, to continue.

Insatiable curiousity keeps man returning to the work bench carving the idea in his head, seeing it to its fruition. A world without cancer. The ablity to retell the experience of living in a desert on the narrowest of margins. The feeling of a house once it's been paid off. What bare skin looks like underneath a garment. Getting a tattoo for the first time. Sky diving. The look that stalks a beautiful woman across a room.

Consuming and unquenchably hungry. The need to know, the curiousity of knowing the taste, touch, smell, texture, shape, emotion, that comes with the realization of that curiousity.

To be the focus of that insatiable curiousity, elevates a woman to the place of honor equivalant to the world without cancer. The insatiable curiousity is the catalyst for the romance, the consuming and unquenchable hunger, the homage that women desire.

It is why women are so focused on detaills, on learning the "recipe" or the "key sequence" that gets a specific sigh/look/reaction. If they find happiness, elation, their sense of peace or excitement, they will work to redisover it and repeat it.
 

For my 26th birthday, I have learned that my life is not linear. One does not simply go forward from a certain starting point, always to go forward. Sometimes, one must take a step back, take in the enviornment and decide whether or not to continue. For myself, I have gone backwards, a "do over" if you will, and even gone left, when I had previously gone right or straight. A decision that is still paying dividends and very much for the better, has brought me back to where I was before hand, with even more flourish than I had managed to do the first time.

Not everybody sees the necessity for their own "do overs" when the oppurtunity presents itself but if you're lucky enough, brave enough to see it as it is, I have to believe that life won't let you down. Because with this "do over" you've learned your lessons, may have already paid dearly for them. The second time, not only takes you faster to do it, but from my own experience, I have to assume that you get back to "Go" with everything you originally had, in better condition to continue.


 

I'm fed up with crappy reading material. It's understandable that given the extreme volume of my reading materials that the day would come when my tastes would exceed the caliber of my fodder. I haven't read a great book in a while and it's slightly depressing. I would argue that I could write one of my own, but alas, the things here and elsewhere are good for nothing but kindling.


 

" I am looking for some one who can take as much as i give, but give back as much as i need, and still have the will to live" - the indigo girls.

 

I can remember sitting in my truck, debating whether or not I was going to go upstairs or turn around and drive back. I sat there, thinking to myself, how do we recover from this? Is this something we can even salvage, even if we wanted to? What if the answer is no? What if this is how it ends?

I force myself out of my truck, gathering my things as I went. Better to not drag it out, the way I had originally planned and just get it over with, whatever the result. Why do conversations like this always have to happen at some god awful time of the night? Never at two in the afternoon, I wondered.

I enter the apartment, not even looking to see where he might be in it, not wanting to face him, unable to do anything but face him. I risk a glance into the office, see him there, and can’t even force a smile, a sign of relief that he is here, unable to meet his eyes. Everything about my demeanor says, “This is my limit, I will go no further.”

I go into the bedroom, drop the bag I had painstakingly packed hours earlier, recalling how much it hurt me to pack said bag. What apprehension and fear there had been. How heartsick and miserable I was at being unable to make this person I loved so much, hear me, take away what I needed him to and in turn, act upon his new founded information for the better of our relationship, selfishly for my happiness. The sheer terror at taking a stand for what I needed and actually saying it outloud, to be ridiculed, to be rejected threatened to paralyze me.

I turn around and face him, to find him standing three feet from me, tears threatening to spill over my pained and hurting eyes. Hurt, frustration and helplessness clogging my throat even as I couldn’t bring my eyes to his. “I don’t know why I’m here.” I choked out, barely above a whisper.

“I’m glad you’re here. “ he said just as softly, pulling me into a tight, solid hug.

The fight didn’t turn out like I thought it was going to, what fight ever does? But the main difference of this fight was that at the end of it, with a lot of things still left to be worked out, we both agreed we’d rather fight for us than let it fall apart. I’d also discovered that I required more growing up too. This part of his life, wasn’t about me. This part of his life, required more of him than he originally anticipated.

I learned from this fight that while I had no catalysts to blame for my paradiagm shift that brought me to this person I am now, he has several. I floundered for a while, single, lost and searching and he has me, but still is lost and searching. When I found myself depressed, unemployed, and looking down the road of self destruction, sitting on my balcony, smoking a pack of cigarettes that weren’t mine, I acknowledged that something had to change, I just wasn’t sure what it was.

I followed those nights up with drinking, hanging with people I had no business hanging with, going crazy in my own head for want of knowing what was next, or was this it? Knowing that part of my life, required me to stand up, collect my chips and find another table but not having another table to go to. (I had one, and took it, but at the time, I didn’t fully understand it or was sure I wanted it.)

I sit here and wonder if this is the way he feels. If his table has gone cold, or if he’s recovering from a cold table, at his new one. Or if he even recognized that his table had changed. That I had come along to help, to comfort. To be the knife to slash through the forest, if I could not be the guide to carry him through it. To keep the light burning, until he can decide which light he’s suppose to tend next.

 

When I was in highschool and shortly after it, I had a red and gold photo album. It had pictures in it I wish I could have back. Much like a book of writings an ex boyfriend of mine confiscated. The photos were pictures of a trip to South Padre, Orlando Studios Florida, graduation, prom. Pictures I'd have to say, that I'd give quite alot of money to have back, if I were to ever find the complete book of photos. But it is a part of my past. A book that I didn't look through often, and as such, while I've missed it, not one I've set about replacing. I hope the day will come when I'll come across this book of mine, unlikely though it may be.
 

We have acquired a kitten named Maverick. A very energetic, charismatic kitten who just happens to love 3 am with a vengence. Laying there, all sleepy and cuddly, and with a yawn, he's king of the jungle defending the world against wrinkles in bed covers and twitches stalking under them. No fingers left unscathed, no piece of bed unturned.

I have to thank Maverick for coming into my life. There is something endearing to having a little one follow you around the house and meow if you aren't in the same room - to keep the monsters away.
 

Earnestly, desperately - Love me.

I sat at a bar with my boyfriend last night, eating some dinner and chatting with my friend the bartender. This is in the wake of the biggest fight we've had yet. I sat there, thinking to myself "I want you to love me." not the least bit assured that he does. To the point, that I recalled a conversation we'd had the night before, that "got my feelers broken", and wanted to be reassured that it was still okay. That we were still okay.

We had the kind of fight that actually changes the direction of a relationship, not just the general course of it. It all started with a text saying "I've had a rough time of it" to which I had responded with "me too.". Me, asking the hard questions that I had been content to let drop at other times, that I couldn't, for this day, ignore.

I packed my bags, prepared to stay away for a couple of days and ended up on my friends' couch miserable. I didn't want to break up but I didn't want things to continue like this. I deserved more. What if he didn't love me? What if he didn't want this with me? What if we didn't have anything left? What if we couldn't save us?

Five hours later, I found myself sitting in my truck, in front of our apartment not knowing what to say but not being able to bear being away. I walked into our home, noting that it was remarkably quiet. The calm before the storm. I dropped my bags and turned to see him standing there. All I could say was "I don't know why I'm here."

He hugged me, tightly. Telling me he was glad I was here. Told me that he hated that I wasn't here when he got home.
 

I've been so distracted with busy work for as long as I can remember that I almost forgot how to write something that came from my thoughts. It had been so long since I gave my thoughts on anything to anyone that when presented with the chance to do it today, I was surprised. At least, it sounded profound at the time. (I hear it's important to sound like you mean it.)

I came to the conclusion today that its a rare person who can look at their life and not hide from it. I'm not talking about taking claim for it, but keep from hiding from it. People like me, we hide in our work. Others hide in books and in games. Constantly for the pursuit of ignoring self reflection or being left alone with one's thoughts. The bottom of a bottle, for instance, is a GREAT place to lose your thoughts. Like the disgarded book pile of books "yet to read". They aren't a pressing priority but when the time comes, and you don't want to think - time to read one of the books. Ignore it for a little longer. Five more minutes, I promise, the lies that we tell ourselves.

Whatever your reasons happen to be at that time, always negative, that you didn't want to face your own life, there's a distraction - just waiting for the oppurtunity to help you. For today, my reasons for not wanting to face my own life are simple.

I didn't want to get involved in the drama, but I'm sick and tired of watching young people make their mistakes.
I didn't want to be the bitchy girlfriend causing a scene of the middle of the casino, but I hated myself as I left, because the other girl stayed.


But here's the thing, why don't we hide from things like wondering what might have been? We all spend a portion of our lives wondering. So why do we constantly wish to get away from things that are actually happening to us, to rob ourselves of time by thinking about what didn't happen?

A fundmental truth that further proves man's inablity to be happy?


Anyway - thought I'd throw that random tangent out there.
 

I'm reading Harry Potter's 6th book for the first time, having made it one of my summer reading projects. It has occurred to me that the mark of a truly great novelist isn't the story line, it's the characters you fall in love with that propel a story to places it's destined to travel. Probably one of the reasons I'd never gotten finished with one of my own writing projects.

I am aware at the moment, that Dumbledore will die along with Sirius. I haven't gotten to Dumbledore's death and yet, tragically it saddens me to know it's coming. Kinda like the last season of Friends for me. I refuse to watch it, so that the story is still alive and well in me. I've fallen in love with the characters brought to life by the talented writers who dreamed them.

I reach out for Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice.
I cheer for Lieutenant Werner von Haeften from Valkyre.
I was fascinated by Heath Ledger as the Joker - the way the joker was suppose to be.
Robert Neville from I am Legend, the movie.


This list will grow as I've given it minimal thought, but think of your favorite book/movie and see if it's the story or the character that you fall in love with.