I don't like this game called love. There is leading, following, clash of differences, union of similarities, all played with the advantage to oneself, to gain a feeling, some kind of achievement. A chance encounter is a whirling beginning, plunging into pros and cons, curiosity and wanting that unknown to become solid, palpable. The prize of the chase is to gain that solidity, untrue solidity. Loose mouths and words attest to fictitious promise unworthy of prolonged dedication.
Dive in and test the waters, because they will carry you away with the current, intentions that are not your own, those of a man, a boy. A femme may try to direct the flow, so subtly, never to cause alarm and never to be traced. Drastic actions against strong courses cause rejection, tossed from its enveloping embrace. I don't like this helplessness.
Listen to his words, take his hand, they fill. I promise, they will. The taste is sweet and on the feigned grounds crafted by mutual affection is not as lasting as pavement. His is a game of gain, you are his as a temporary attachment, because his hand in yours is or will be a roadblock. The future is to be thought about and strings to pull him back are too heavy to manage.
It is not the game which is love. I long for the independent will of a man to choose. Decisive are his words and sure his vision. Love is a declaration, not an utterance, so thrust towards me the feelings of your heart. I am a choice, not a subject of indecision.
March 29, 2012
March 12, 2012
The Ring (I)
Glittering rays of sunlight hit the chandelier above the table just perfectly so that a geometric patter of triangles and diamonds arranged themselves over the polished dark cherry wood of the dinning room table just before breakfast. Grace always stumbled down the stairs at seven in her robe to brew her coffee and stare out the window to come up with another agenda for the day. Without her husband she could choose each activity without the consultation of another opinion, the possibilities were as the limits of her imagination.
She would then hear a whistle from the kitchen and produce a breakfast of eggs, or bagels, or pancakes, or waffles, or whatever classic American breakfast she had the ingredients for. Then after plating her food, she would take pen and paper, and bring it all to the table so she could write our a list for the day. Grace stared into her cup of coffee as she brainstormed. She had already worked in various coffee chains to breathe in the earthy aroma for 7 hours a day. She had already handmade mugs, starting with clay and molding figures on the potter's wheel for hours to perfect the shape of an elegant mug. She had already gone to cooking school for four months to learn all she could about American cuisine as well as French. The painting on the wall was from when she experimented with different paint types and covered canvas after canvas with figures and scenes. All the rooms in her house had been painted; she spent a week and half on that, browsing Home Depot for colors and finishes to perfectly correlated with the "mood" of each room.
Out the window was a disgraceful piece of lawn, sprinkled with dandelion weeds, and bordered with untamed bushes. The only redeeming element was a vibrant lime tree that always provided fruit in the early months of summer and bloomed beautifully in the spring. That would be her next project: to clean up the lawn, plant a garden for fresh vegetables and fruits, then put in a few flowers. She could even purchase some plants to dry and crush for new scents in her perfume line she sold to a friend in Kansas.
She would then hear a whistle from the kitchen and produce a breakfast of eggs, or bagels, or pancakes, or waffles, or whatever classic American breakfast she had the ingredients for. Then after plating her food, she would take pen and paper, and bring it all to the table so she could write our a list for the day. Grace stared into her cup of coffee as she brainstormed. She had already worked in various coffee chains to breathe in the earthy aroma for 7 hours a day. She had already handmade mugs, starting with clay and molding figures on the potter's wheel for hours to perfect the shape of an elegant mug. She had already gone to cooking school for four months to learn all she could about American cuisine as well as French. The painting on the wall was from when she experimented with different paint types and covered canvas after canvas with figures and scenes. All the rooms in her house had been painted; she spent a week and half on that, browsing Home Depot for colors and finishes to perfectly correlated with the "mood" of each room.
Out the window was a disgraceful piece of lawn, sprinkled with dandelion weeds, and bordered with untamed bushes. The only redeeming element was a vibrant lime tree that always provided fruit in the early months of summer and bloomed beautifully in the spring. That would be her next project: to clean up the lawn, plant a garden for fresh vegetables and fruits, then put in a few flowers. She could even purchase some plants to dry and crush for new scents in her perfume line she sold to a friend in Kansas.
March 9, 2012
Overestimated Perfection (III)
(Part 2: http://life-passion-love.blogspot.com/2012/03/overestimated-perfection-ii.html)
Careful contemplation bore these words: "I was married when I was 19." Why this information flowed from my commonly cautious lips, I couldn't tell you in detail. His presence affected me, not an infection that took over the body, but the mind and the deepest conception of the heart. Confusion of feelings and thoughts blended throughout my being. Only the words of a secret born in the mind caused my conversion, a conversion I had wished to avoid to pair with the transformation of figure and features. To pair this order of impetuous actions and events could cause a destructive poison to lace itself among the blood running through my veins, but I kept talking, "His name was Troy."
After indulgent inflection, I looked up at his face curious of his reaction. The shape of forehead, mouth, eyes, brows, all held the price of my utterances. His reaction wasn't extreme and I half expected him to something unfeeling to renounce the enormity of my reveal.
"Married, hmmm." His lips pressed together as if to hide something maybe, or keep himself from saying something he'd regret. What he would regret, I don't know and would not let myself guess. "So I'm guessing it's safe to say you're not together anymore?"
The shape of my mouth formed something like a grimace and an entertained smile. "No, we're not."
"You were in love with him and he left you, didn't he?"
"Why would you think that?"
"I can see it all over your face."
"Good thing or bad thing?"
"Well, you're beautiful no matter what emotion you express."
I looked away in disgust. "I meant that you could read me so easily."
"In that case, I persist in my answer. I have a talent for understanding the thoughts of others and I think yours are wonderful."
"And so this is where your curiosity is born, I'm guessing?"
"Yes. But enough of me, I owe you for sharing that..." he paused to find appropriate words to form his thought, "piece of your memory."
"Oh yes, the price." I had not thought through the consequence clearly.
Careful contemplation bore these words: "I was married when I was 19." Why this information flowed from my commonly cautious lips, I couldn't tell you in detail. His presence affected me, not an infection that took over the body, but the mind and the deepest conception of the heart. Confusion of feelings and thoughts blended throughout my being. Only the words of a secret born in the mind caused my conversion, a conversion I had wished to avoid to pair with the transformation of figure and features. To pair this order of impetuous actions and events could cause a destructive poison to lace itself among the blood running through my veins, but I kept talking, "His name was Troy."
After indulgent inflection, I looked up at his face curious of his reaction. The shape of forehead, mouth, eyes, brows, all held the price of my utterances. His reaction wasn't extreme and I half expected him to something unfeeling to renounce the enormity of my reveal.
"Married, hmmm." His lips pressed together as if to hide something maybe, or keep himself from saying something he'd regret. What he would regret, I don't know and would not let myself guess. "So I'm guessing it's safe to say you're not together anymore?"
The shape of my mouth formed something like a grimace and an entertained smile. "No, we're not."
"You were in love with him and he left you, didn't he?"
"Why would you think that?"
"I can see it all over your face."
"Good thing or bad thing?"
"Well, you're beautiful no matter what emotion you express."
I looked away in disgust. "I meant that you could read me so easily."
"In that case, I persist in my answer. I have a talent for understanding the thoughts of others and I think yours are wonderful."
"And so this is where your curiosity is born, I'm guessing?"
"Yes. But enough of me, I owe you for sharing that..." he paused to find appropriate words to form his thought, "piece of your memory."
"Oh yes, the price." I had not thought through the consequence clearly.
March 6, 2012
The Game of Deceit (I)
We sat in a circle, facing each other, though we were not all clearly visible to one another. We were all acquainted and all had chosen roles we were to assume in the next few minutes. Peter stood at our attention to direct our actions, to organize the game. "There are three mafias, two detectives, and one angel," he announced.
On my slip of paper, I had glanced: Mafia.
"What did you get?" Ren turned to ask me.
"What?"
"What did you get?" he increased his volume in his request.
"What?"
"What did you get?!"
"What?"
This time he said it slower. "What. Did. You. Get?"
Then in slowness I repeated, "What?"
He scoffed, finally understanding my ploy.
I laughed. "Ren, why would I tell you?"
"Because I asked."
"Well, that's not a good enough reason. I'm not going to tell you," I stated. "Who are you?"
"Not telling."
"Exactly."
Banter and the blended voice of conversation was interrupted by Peter's plea to start.
"Wait, wait wait! Before we start: If there are three mafias, can they kill each other? I mean, so then they can lead people off their tracks."
"Yeah, especially if there's three of them," Billie echoed.
"No."
"Oh, okay. I'm good now."
"Good." He then reached behind him to relinquish half the lights of the room, setting an enigmatic mood. "One night, in the little town of Princeton, there was a group of people and among them was a mafia..."
Perspective stretched out the figures of those looking over at me, like I was at the bottom of a grave to be mourned over. "Are you okay?"
I tried to emit an affirmative groan from my mouth. Moving hurt.
"Guys give her some room, she needs to be able to breathe."
Shadows slowly retreated from over me.
All I wanted was for someone to hold my hand. Pain would be relieved when the warmth of skin enclosed my fingers. Someone hold my hand! There, the boy with purple laces pulled over his shoes, just like mine, he was my partner. He held my hand before. When we danced he didn't let go for very long, but now I was on the floor, needing that hand more than any of those preceding moments. Hold my hand!
Jane's sister closed in on my right to catch unmoving reaching limbs in protective comfort.
On my left, I raised the other desiring it to be enclosed. He came, and all my thoughts were directed toward that hand. His face was quiet with solemness, brows perched with hurting guilt, eyes watching me without restraint. He was the one who hurt me. Yet, he was the only face that I wanted to see.
On my slip of paper, I had glanced: Mafia.
"What did you get?" Ren turned to ask me.
"What?"
"What did you get?" he increased his volume in his request.
"What?"
"What did you get?!"
"What?"
This time he said it slower. "What. Did. You. Get?"
Then in slowness I repeated, "What?"
He scoffed, finally understanding my ploy.
I laughed. "Ren, why would I tell you?"
"Because I asked."
"Well, that's not a good enough reason. I'm not going to tell you," I stated. "Who are you?"
"Not telling."
"Exactly."
Banter and the blended voice of conversation was interrupted by Peter's plea to start.
"Wait, wait wait! Before we start: If there are three mafias, can they kill each other? I mean, so then they can lead people off their tracks."
"Yeah, especially if there's three of them," Billie echoed.
"No."
"Oh, okay. I'm good now."
"Good." He then reached behind him to relinquish half the lights of the room, setting an enigmatic mood. "One night, in the little town of Princeton, there was a group of people and among them was a mafia..."
Perspective stretched out the figures of those looking over at me, like I was at the bottom of a grave to be mourned over. "Are you okay?"
I tried to emit an affirmative groan from my mouth. Moving hurt.
"Guys give her some room, she needs to be able to breathe."
Shadows slowly retreated from over me.
All I wanted was for someone to hold my hand. Pain would be relieved when the warmth of skin enclosed my fingers. Someone hold my hand! There, the boy with purple laces pulled over his shoes, just like mine, he was my partner. He held my hand before. When we danced he didn't let go for very long, but now I was on the floor, needing that hand more than any of those preceding moments. Hold my hand!
Jane's sister closed in on my right to catch unmoving reaching limbs in protective comfort.
On my left, I raised the other desiring it to be enclosed. He came, and all my thoughts were directed toward that hand. His face was quiet with solemness, brows perched with hurting guilt, eyes watching me without restraint. He was the one who hurt me. Yet, he was the only face that I wanted to see.
March 1, 2012
Overestimated Perfection (II)
(Part 1: http://life-passion-love.blogspot.com/2012/03/overestimated-perfectionn-i.html)
From his expression on his face to the hand on my waist, I hated him, his attraction to this changed figure. I knew he wasn't to blame, he was a man, a man of carnal desires, for a vision of beauty to accompany his night. But I was to cloud my personal feelings, they were irrelevant to the moment.
"Aceline."
"Beautiful," he muttered moving his face ever so slightly closer to mine. With careful progression, I laced my fingers into the curls of his hair, wondering if pulling at clumps could be discounted as a wild act of passion. He looked at me with a tilted head, however did not move in any closer. He looked experienced, countenance said it all, but hell was he moving slow. Peripherals reported hands on thighs and lips on necks with fluttering lashes. Beauty was not the answer; could I have thought of a more irrational decision. Those with mouths over glass bottles made better decisions than I had. One breath in told me that he hadn't been wallowing in alcohol. He also did not yet have his body pressed against mine, just hands cradling the small of my back to ease me forward according to his pace.
We were inches apart, hovering in some sort of preparation stage. Some couples of convenience had left the room. Then he took my jaw and dared me to turn my head again. Cheek to cheek and whisper to ear, "Tell me a secret."
"What about?"
"Whatever you want."
"What would you give me for it?"
"That's fair." He led me back to his sitting position on the couch--none were left to occupy the room with us. He sat in quiet consideration, his brow creased in a few places and his eyes cast ever so slightly to the right of my face. Our bodies were so separate, despite the gentle caress of his pant leg against the bare skin of my legs. "I would give you..." The drawn out sound of the last syllable of the word, held during the final decision of words, emulated a reflective epiphany, a soft personal exclamation. "Anything you ask."
"Trusting. Or unreasonable?"
"Or the fact that you know the value of your secrets more than any other."
Profound. "What are you doing here anyways? I don't think you would come here to hear the secrets of girls with little circumstance. If you wanted valuable secrets, you would go somewhere else."
"Let's just say I'm a man of curiosity."
"That curiosity could get you in trouble one day."
"So people tell me," he said less directly. "But that doesn't seem to deter me."
"Explaining your presence here."
"Yes." He smiled with charm and finally shifted closer. I wonder how many women melt at that smile.
"Well, let's see, you want me to think of a secret. Something worth at least your time. Hmmm."
He danced his fingers into my hair as I sat in silence.
I thought of childhood memories, but those were easily dismissed, though carelessly, as they are at the root of one's very being. What did I want from him? That would be important to consider. If I wanted something from him I would have to see him again. Did I want to see him again? Also important to consider. Would it be unprofessional to see him again? Oh hell with work, I hate my job. Secret secret secret.
He was memorizing her features at that moment. The fingers in her hair escaped to the outline of her face. Lustful thoughts had crossed his mind every minute he was with her, but he did not want to lust for her. She seemed to have substance. He wanted her, for longer than one night.
From his expression on his face to the hand on my waist, I hated him, his attraction to this changed figure. I knew he wasn't to blame, he was a man, a man of carnal desires, for a vision of beauty to accompany his night. But I was to cloud my personal feelings, they were irrelevant to the moment.
"Aceline."
"Beautiful," he muttered moving his face ever so slightly closer to mine. With careful progression, I laced my fingers into the curls of his hair, wondering if pulling at clumps could be discounted as a wild act of passion. He looked at me with a tilted head, however did not move in any closer. He looked experienced, countenance said it all, but hell was he moving slow. Peripherals reported hands on thighs and lips on necks with fluttering lashes. Beauty was not the answer; could I have thought of a more irrational decision. Those with mouths over glass bottles made better decisions than I had. One breath in told me that he hadn't been wallowing in alcohol. He also did not yet have his body pressed against mine, just hands cradling the small of my back to ease me forward according to his pace.
We were inches apart, hovering in some sort of preparation stage. Some couples of convenience had left the room. Then he took my jaw and dared me to turn my head again. Cheek to cheek and whisper to ear, "Tell me a secret."
"What about?"
"Whatever you want."
"What would you give me for it?"
"That's fair." He led me back to his sitting position on the couch--none were left to occupy the room with us. He sat in quiet consideration, his brow creased in a few places and his eyes cast ever so slightly to the right of my face. Our bodies were so separate, despite the gentle caress of his pant leg against the bare skin of my legs. "I would give you..." The drawn out sound of the last syllable of the word, held during the final decision of words, emulated a reflective epiphany, a soft personal exclamation. "Anything you ask."
"Trusting. Or unreasonable?"
"Or the fact that you know the value of your secrets more than any other."
Profound. "What are you doing here anyways? I don't think you would come here to hear the secrets of girls with little circumstance. If you wanted valuable secrets, you would go somewhere else."
"Let's just say I'm a man of curiosity."
"That curiosity could get you in trouble one day."
"So people tell me," he said less directly. "But that doesn't seem to deter me."
"Explaining your presence here."
"Yes." He smiled with charm and finally shifted closer. I wonder how many women melt at that smile.
"Well, let's see, you want me to think of a secret. Something worth at least your time. Hmmm."
He danced his fingers into my hair as I sat in silence.
I thought of childhood memories, but those were easily dismissed, though carelessly, as they are at the root of one's very being. What did I want from him? That would be important to consider. If I wanted something from him I would have to see him again. Did I want to see him again? Also important to consider. Would it be unprofessional to see him again? Oh hell with work, I hate my job. Secret secret secret.
He was memorizing her features at that moment. The fingers in her hair escaped to the outline of her face. Lustful thoughts had crossed his mind every minute he was with her, but he did not want to lust for her. She seemed to have substance. He wanted her, for longer than one night.
Overestimated Perfection (I)
I couldn't stand what I saw, the perfect curls of red on the pale delicate face. Silk that so precisely shaped its owner. Her graceful movements disgusted me. She was exquisite, perfectly made by the doings of another. I couldn't stand it; the mirror was like a curse I wished to avoid looking at. I hated more than anything how I would fit the part so exactly. One more glance in the mirror, filled me with hate and despise for its reflection. The wonderful twist is that I'd asked for all this. I thought it would make me happy. Foolish was the inciting thought to have born this change of figure and features. Still, I would continue as schedule dictated.
I opened the thin dressing room door to join the other girls clustered together in their slight last-minute primping, stray strands hairsprayed, lashes pressed with firm fingers and curled once again, lipstick layered on, necklines adjusted to perfect symmetry, perfume hanging over them in a cloud of alluring and thick scents. We all were clad in silk, cut in different shapes to adulate varied curves of skin, flesh. No girl had locks like mine, crimson stood out against black, brunette and blonde. No other had eyes like mine, legendary violet that stood out against porcelain skin. I was so heartbreakingly breathtaking. Thankfully the girls took in my beauty as business and I fit in by fastening a row of pearl buttons on a neighboring gown. My neck was misted by a solution meant to persuade a body to approach and eliminate space.
The thick red velvet curtain was thrown aside to reveal patrons of our purpose. They were draped across sleek ebony furniture, all clad in suits of different shades of profession and authority. One by one girls stalked across the room with steady eyes, abandoning my position close to the back, nearing to the inspection of expectant, deciding gazes. The last girl veiling my presence left to a man with jet black hair and a navy suit, a creme kerchief folded in his pocket. I raised my neck to face the remaining gazes untrapped by preoccupation--all captivated as I slightly lowered my eyelids and curved my lip in artful secrecy.
He was beautiful. Light plain blue eyes against tanned skin from outside work, framed by sandy brown curls that fell to his temple on one side, side burns were shades darker, trim just below his ear. The lines of his jaw defined perfection of masculinity, carved as if in reflection to Hercules. Soft pink lips were set above a pointed chin, shaped to fit over mine for this night. He was young, but he was not cocky with his stare, inviting me over with curiosity and assertive meekness.
Ethereal feet carried me over with slight quickness. He stood as I came, in acknowledgement of my submission to his request. I wondered at my reflection in light plain blue. We were taught to stay detached, but I always wondered. I always wondered.
He took my waist in one of his hands, not breaking the look into my eyes. "I'm Robert."
(beginning by: Sarah Jack)
I opened the thin dressing room door to join the other girls clustered together in their slight last-minute primping, stray strands hairsprayed, lashes pressed with firm fingers and curled once again, lipstick layered on, necklines adjusted to perfect symmetry, perfume hanging over them in a cloud of alluring and thick scents. We all were clad in silk, cut in different shapes to adulate varied curves of skin, flesh. No girl had locks like mine, crimson stood out against black, brunette and blonde. No other had eyes like mine, legendary violet that stood out against porcelain skin. I was so heartbreakingly breathtaking. Thankfully the girls took in my beauty as business and I fit in by fastening a row of pearl buttons on a neighboring gown. My neck was misted by a solution meant to persuade a body to approach and eliminate space.
The thick red velvet curtain was thrown aside to reveal patrons of our purpose. They were draped across sleek ebony furniture, all clad in suits of different shades of profession and authority. One by one girls stalked across the room with steady eyes, abandoning my position close to the back, nearing to the inspection of expectant, deciding gazes. The last girl veiling my presence left to a man with jet black hair and a navy suit, a creme kerchief folded in his pocket. I raised my neck to face the remaining gazes untrapped by preoccupation--all captivated as I slightly lowered my eyelids and curved my lip in artful secrecy.
He was beautiful. Light plain blue eyes against tanned skin from outside work, framed by sandy brown curls that fell to his temple on one side, side burns were shades darker, trim just below his ear. The lines of his jaw defined perfection of masculinity, carved as if in reflection to Hercules. Soft pink lips were set above a pointed chin, shaped to fit over mine for this night. He was young, but he was not cocky with his stare, inviting me over with curiosity and assertive meekness.
Ethereal feet carried me over with slight quickness. He stood as I came, in acknowledgement of my submission to his request. I wondered at my reflection in light plain blue. We were taught to stay detached, but I always wondered. I always wondered.
He took my waist in one of his hands, not breaking the look into my eyes. "I'm Robert."
(beginning by: Sarah Jack)
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