Dating A Weasley

He's red-haired, brown-eyed, covered in freckles. He plays ice hockey and is shocked when I show true interest in the game. He majored in business - maths and numbers are his thing. He will tell pointless stories until he's blue in the face, and follow it up with a kiss on the nose. He's a smart ass, an asshole, and he tries to dish it out. I dish it better.

He made me want to flip my claddagh ring, crown pointing out. We held hands and cuddled. I remembered all those things I thought I had forgot. He makes me feel like my short hair is sexy, rather than just chic. He told me how gorgeous I was, and how long he had waited to kiss me.

He isn't the asshole I was falling for. And I wonder at my ability to transfer affections. Or rather, to ignore my other feelings without a thought. Because when I think of The Asshole, my stomach flutters a bit.

But I'm dating a Weasley. And that thought puts a smile on my face, a slow, warm smile with soft eyes and a momentary pause as I think about his laugh.

O Fortuna

Living in the South as I do now has challenged the role I think faith should play in our daily lives.

I listened to a story told at the racetrack, trying to demonstrate the power of Satan in everyday lives: A mother and father were cooking breakfast when they received a call from the hospital saying their daughter was in a horrible car accident. They rushed out of the house, arriving at the hospital to find her bruised but well. When they arrived home, their house had burnt down. The burning of the house was an act of Satan. The people at the track nodded and clapped and amened. They understood that the family hadn't protected themselves from Satan.

I don't understand. All I could think was that someone had forgotten to turn of the stove, or left a dishtowel too close to the flames. The family hadn't been careful, true, but it wasn't because of Satan.

I believe in fate. If something big is going to happen, all the preparation in the world won't stop it. No amount of prayer or holy water or Eucharist is going to change a damned thing. Maybe other people call this God. I don't.

Lip Gloss

Writing isn't necessarily epic. I always forget this.

It can be the flash of a camera, rather than the steady lights of a stage. It doesn't need to be six novels long, trying to record how a frown became a smile. It can simply be the quirk of the corner of a pair of lips. A focus on the blossom of a secret grin. Ignore the surroundings, the hands, the feet, the other people. Just the one set of lips, shining with petal pink lip gloss, off-white teeth peeking from behind. The slight dimple forming on one cheek. Perhaps, perhaps, the crinkle of an eye, sparkling and warm.

I don't need to write that the lips are smiling because of X and Y and Z, in that order or maybe not. I don't need to write that the hands are clasped to a locketbookflowerforkwaterbottle of indefinite shape. It needn't take 672 pages to tell the whys-whos-wheres-whats-whens.

It takes as much skill to tell all that in 15 pages.

Nice guys finish last. Assholes get the girl. The girl gets left behind.

Because he wants to cuddlecuddlecuddle and wind his hands through her hair. He is a teddy bear, the kind you take home to protect, but are willing to gift upon the right person. The girl is a bitch with a sharp tongue she doesn't know how to handle, dealing cutting remarks without meaning for them to be so deep. He wants to gently tease but can't find the right moments.

Because the girl is still a bitch, and needs an asshole who can call her such, be called a douche in return, and still smile softly and kiss her forehead when she giggles. The sex would be angry sometimes, it needs to be, but still fulfilling. Other times it will be fuzzy and warm and loving, exactly what it should be when two people love each other. And when she stands next to him, his arm fits perfectly above her shoulder, like she was made to fit close to his side.

Because the asshole already has a girl he wants to fight for, even though she lies and cheats and makes him so angry in an awful way. She is too young to realize the damage from her games and the bitch talks him down when his face is red and his eyes are flat and his hands itch to get his baseball bat. When he wanders into work from the gym, reeking in a wonderful way, the bitch stands as close as she can without sideways looks. He invades her personal space, not realizing she backs away so she doesn't get closer.

Because nice guys need nice girls and bad girls need bad boys and sometimes good-bad works out. More often than not, the nice guys get heartbroken over girls with bubblegum lips and chainsaw tongues, and bad boys want to hold on to the sweet innocence carefully concealing a calculating slut.

On Being

Daydreams of guitars, primed canvas, chords, acrylics. I want to create, but don't trust myself to produce something worth creating. Another sign of my endless self-doubt and lack of self-value, I suppose. 

Reality of impatient customers, sticky dishes, bottomless glasses, subservience. I run from table to table, trying to keep them all happy, but failing miserably. Is this what being an adult is? Never happy with where you are in life? Always wishing for something more? If it is, I want to run away from it all, escape to some far off place where I can pick apples in orchards or help bring in the day's catch in return for a place to sleep and a carafe of wine. 

Wishy Washy Pandering

Oh jeez. 

I know I should ignore the ifs, whys, wheres, hows, whats, and just keeping writing the words down. But I want to KNOW and I want to know NOW. 

I'm sitting on my bed in a over-sized shirt and underwear, reveling in an empty house, listening to Debussy. I'm typing words and wanting to call it writing. The words could maybe be a story, an empty story full of hot air and worthless platitudes. It could mean little to me in the end, and even less to her.

But. But. 

It could be a tempestuous tale, wroth with significance and tears and smiles.

Attempts

Listening to Amanda Palmer always inspires me. I want to work with her on something someday, even if it is just to run her merch table at a show. 

How do you write about a person who wants nothing to do with you? I'm not sure what I think I want to say, just that I want to talk about her. I suppose I'll pour it all out, only to hide it away where the light of day can't find it. 

That's not true. I'll send it to my other half, to critique and comment and sympathize. 

Empty apartment we

would have been shared.

A lovely sunny place

with nooks and cranies packed

full of books and notebooks and knitting needles.

Second Time Around

There is another blog, floating around the interweb, with a similar name and a similiar style. I lost it, can't find it. 

I sit drinking coffee, reading words written by others, both hard and digital copies. A new phone sits next to me, another sign of the consumerism I haven't quite given up. 

As I read, I wonder. 

I've got words (stories-characters-plots-twists-endings-beginnings) in my head. But the creation eludes me. I want and want and want. Wanting does not mean success. Wanting does not mean words on a page at the end of the day. 

I've got a paper journal, full of thoughts and emotions. And another, full of poetry better left unwritten. I've got an electronic outlet, full of rambles and half-conceived ideas.