Good Sunday morning!
For a change, I do not plan to write about the shambles of my love life; will not be fixed today anyway, and I can’t say when, but it will be.
Not much has changed; I am still in love with a wonderful scoundrel of a man; I like everything about him way too much except for the lying that in retrospect is probaby more extensive than I have permitted myself to believe, and he will have to deal with the man in the mirror.
but too much is beautful for me to disrupt or destroy that beauty. That it attained a pinnacle of loving expression will always be true. Nothing can ever change that.
I have embarked upon, for 2 writing projects quite dear to me, Amazon’s CreateSpace, a self-publishing tool that will allow books made with it to instantly be sold wherever Amazon has a footprint, and where doesn’t that corporate giant tread?
The first project is a group of collaborative poems written with a friend (that much I’m sure of); a friend of mine Thomas Higginson, no photo of him either. Sorry.
That collection is finished; just waiting for the sample of the book to arrive, and if I like it, then into production; already has its ISBN number, so this book is real, and I am delighted by that.
Unfortunately, the sample isn’t due to arrive at my Ypsilanti house until the day before my mother’s 87th birthday. If I do not, as I would like, get to go there, I have already planned to call her and sing to her; she always likes that –mothers you know.
I am so eager to see that little chapbook, that contains two poems from “Wannabe“, with permission from the publisher (who I would prefer not to name), but… Yeah, and my so-called comprehensive book with a blurb from Harold Bloom in the most prominent position possible on the jacket, extolling my stature as a writer of significance, except that he is referring to a New & Selected not even in “Wannabe” –I am in Harold Bloom’s “Western Canon” for “Small Congregations” –the only collection of my previously published collections of poetry not included in “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code” –well, mistakes happen, I know quite well.
together these 2 New and Selected collections contain the work needed to b single comprehensive collection
But some mistakes make possible wonders that could not be possible any other way, and for that reason, I am glad for what looking back could be seen as mistakes but I am not looking at mistakes today; I am looking at only opportunities which is what CreateSpace is.
So while I wait for the collection of poems written with my friend Thomas Higginson (I may need to do a drawing of him; I assure you I can, all just from memory–what a great idea; I have never attempted a simple pencil sketch of him… Wonder how the pencil will feel in my hands drawing the man I so want to be with? –a Thomas Higginson comic book? graphic novel “graphic” as defined in multiple ways –I leap too far ahead; I haven’t even drawn the man, and the idea is forming even as I type this, but obviously the idea really appeals to me… But to have him form right on the paper in graphite from what will become my favorite pencil after I draw him? and even the two of us together, using illustrations from, I don’t know, the Kama Sutra, as a guide, not that I’ll need one. Too much heaven! –and I am a little bit skeptical about him possibly seeing this; after all, we are “just” friends, and I shouldn’t permit myself to think this way about a friend, should I?
Leap, leap, leap (into his arms –I can’t help it)
and wouldn’t you know, the Angel of the Lord returned to visit my mother who just called to warn me to make no decisions at this time; to tell me she was afraid, the spirit told her this, that now is not the time to try to sell a home because the republicans are about to seize power, although she detests Trump, yet doesn’t feel Hillary to be any better because she is a woman; she said for me to follow God, and pray for what I really want, and I did, but it’s not what she thinks it is. (I prayed to have him, of course).
My mother has no idea how involved I’ve become with a certain man, and when I tried to tell her about him, just his name; he had wanted her to be in a movie about poetry he produced long ago, but she wouldn’t, preferring that no one know she worked as a maid; she has no idea how often I have included that info in my writing, and more recently her puritanical views about sex. She would be shocked to ever know what I’ve done, and enjoyed with That Most Delightful Man. She told me then that the only man I need is “Jesus”, so when I first wrote about being with him in Chicago, I called him:
“Jésus” and that way, if she ever saw it, I was in fact talking about
in the story “Mongongo Drupe” published in Callaloo.
(read most of that story here: “Mongongo Drupe“<https://muse.jhu.edu/article/576194/pdf>
in fact, before I ever went to see him for that unforgettable weekend in Chicago, it was well before these recent events, so I guess that was for the best, as I would be unable to explain what has happened to her, and it is most definitely my life, not hers.
“Mongongo” the name of the only oil I put on my hair, and it seems to be working.
Oh I well remember my son driving me to her house in Cleveland in the pouring rain, rather as it is right now in Ypsilanti, and exchanging texts with that Most Delightful man; how wonderful that was; you don’t realize how wonderful every moment has been…. That Callaloo story only gnaws at a most wonderful surface, and even that hardly accesses what is so amazing and terrific about being with you/him…
Here’s part of that email exchange:
-on our way to visit my sick mother –she’ll be 85 next month –and is okay with my seeing you –she even told me to visit thrift shops to try to buy back the blue striped dress [of course, she has no idea what I plan to do with you –and you don’t either; hope you’ll be happily surprised –and will surprise me also; I love surprises from the right man. She’s never seen my parts in that movie about poetry you asked me to be in, and I plan to play the part with the dress for her once we arrive.
The rain is so intense windshield is completely obscured –hard to type, but wanted to forward this latest communication from the Teresa Nyong Vogel Foundation.
By the way, my ex is trying being extremely supportive of my trip to see you — though I really want to attend, that Teresa Nyong Vogel reunion is a veil removable veil to see you. He remarked to me that I must really want to see you considering all that I’m doing –inviting you and everything, sharing a hotel room –dressing for you, trying to guess what you’d like to see me wear, but imagining even more how you’ll remove it, and look at me, then touch me –my son isn’t helping with the R&B music he’s playing
–Jaheim– and that music plus what I’m already thinking is dangerous… Now Luther Vandross –“Never Too Much” –“a thousand kisses from you is never too much, a million days in your arms is never too much”
Luther Vandross – “Never Too Much”
to which he replied:
“I worry about your safety and I chortle at yr wildness and I ripsnort with passion and I flagellate with absorption and I tentacleize with tendresse as I undress the emptiness”
To divest myself of the memories of That Delightful Man would be to try to purge my mind of the best memories my heart has ever known, as an adult.
He asked for the dress I wore in his movie he didn’t just ask for it, but described it completely! How impressive that was, and I am not going to throw this away… Maybe I no longer trust him, maybe he has revealed himself to be an ordinary man, but that is just fine, I like him, no I love him anyway.
This is not the first time a woman has loved a man who still thinks so fondly of her, and even still loves her in his way… But asking for the dress, really showed me the depth of the impression I made on him when I was in the movie about poetry for which he was one of the producers and asked me to be in it; make no mistake about that!
The parts in the movie in which I wore the blue striped dress:
“While the blue-striped dress is gone, I did locate two pictures of me wearing it, and those I paste right here (photos taken at my mother’s house in Cleveland, Ohio).
Not sure of the date, but judging from my hair, sometime in the 1990’s —probably early 1990’s as there’s no evidence of graying”
I’m in the back holding Ansted, Dennis is in the front, my aunt Eva who never married, and is mother of midget Mike, and who passed for white (she had some amazing stories until her death); JoJo Holman is right behind her. The two girls are Bernard’s daughters. Bernard is a huge lover of jazz and Godzilla. My cousin Edward (who lives in Chicago, but whom I won’t see while I’m there with you —as I mentioned, he’s only been to the airport once, and wouldn’t be able to find his way home; he lives on the south side of Chicago) is sitting to the left of Bernard’s daughter who also has MS –her grandmother, Belvia Brasier Hill, as I mentioned, died from a combination of MS and Huntington’s. JoJo who lives in Tennessee is quite ill, and not expected to live much longer. Haven’t seen him since this photo was taken. We’re quite a small family with a terrible amount of distancing.
You asked, so let me tell you a little of how it was for me, flat-chested till I was in ninth grade –my mother and her sisters used to pray for me that I not remain so skinny and flat-chested. Then the miracle; overnight. I was about 14, nearly 15 –went from a girl who didn’t need a bra (but wanted to wear a training bra anyway) to a 32D, the second most rare size, I was told by the Playtex salesman visiting the downtown May Co. Department store where I would work a few years later.
You can imagine the unwanted attention I attracted.
I was just a shy little girl, shy little top heavy girl, more like the women on the maternal side of my family; and thin, raw-boned more like members of my paternal extended family. Those prayer sessions were rather intense. And my aunts were (most of them are now deceased) pleased with the outcome. Then, the most rare size a lingerie buyer told me: 32 DDDD. Now, a mere 30 DDD or 32 DD depending on manufacturer… I recall when I had the MRI on Friday being asked what kind of implants were in my body and I tried to say that I had no breast implants –the expectation now, and I hardly seem unusual about that… So many operations for augmentation, and I once considered reduction. Used to keep my arms crossed for a while, and even wore minimizer bras; used to try to hide, but my ex really liked that about me, and actually I did too, and when I was nearly seventeen was glad to be pushed up.
To both flaunt and have discretion; I was a most unusual professor.
Bras were manufactured differently then, more pointed cups and so forth, so hiding was compromised. I remember distinctly how I looked when my ex met me: a red stretch form fitting turtleneck (long gone) in church –exactly where a damaged 16-year-old girl belonged fresh back from an abortion in NYC (not legal anywhere else at the time). Ultimately, I became more glad than not of my ability to attract certain forms of attention, but I’m so much older now, and what was once so attractive has changed a bit. Tits and ass –that’s me, and I hope that you want all of that and will touch all of that –as much as you like, and I will reciprocate –maybe not in the beginning, but in stages –I need to be introduced to eroticism and intimacy… Please teach me, Mr. Delightful how to love you… How to receive whatever you want to give me, and how to give you whatever you’ll want from me… Wish that you could touch me right now. I really do.
There’s Huntington’s Disease in my paternal family (always fatal if you inherit the gene –are you familiar with that disease?–one death sentence I didn’t inherit– and why I feel that most of them are deceased, and why I was unable to know my paternal grandfather. Most of them lived in the south, Cowan, TN, at a time that races were discouraged from mixing). My paternal grandmother was mostly black, and some Indian (she was literate as was her mother in West Virginia, a small town for which Ansted is named), and my paternal grandfather was Native American, Caucasian, some East Indian (how all of that came together in Tennessee is rather strange –he was classified, as “mulatto” — I was raised to not be color conscious. My paternal cousin in Wisconsin, whose mother died of MS and Huntington’s says his mother raised him as Indian period, Bernard H__. One of my aunts “passed” for white so that she could work for the government. All my life, degree of pigmentation made differences in where I could go, what I could do, how I was treated, and I was one of the privileged because I wasn’t “too dark”, and had “good hair” (did you see/like Chris Rock’s “Good Hair” movie?).
A real division in my paternal family because of degree of pigmentation and hair texture; some of the cousins (I actually have two in Chicago [Edward, and his sister Pam]) failed to inherit this hair –not me, and I was criticized for that– sometimes praised, but always considered “different” –and now, even at my age, with weaves, wigs and various hair attachments, and hair relaxer, form of lye, mostly, various hydroxides (I don’t have to use that product), it’s become rather common for black women to have hair that simulates a texture more smooth, and long –“Good Hair” explores so many topics, including “weave sex” –apparently so different from ordinary sex, but my hair isn’t like that; is attached, rooted in my scalp, without relaxer
— as you can tell, I’ve learned to flaunt that hair; I rather enjoy tossing it, and, as I said, I look forward to you brushing it, styling it, doing with it whatever you like –if you like that. If you want, you can use your arms, maybe only one, and I could sit in your lap while you brush it –a turn on for me. You’ll have to figure out best ways to position me for many things.
I’m sorry that I don’t know more, but will enjoy your teaching me, and no one need know. Between us.
I expect for everything that you do to be a turn on — I don’t really know what won’t be, but if I don’t like something, I’ll let you know. Do you want me to be quiet when we touch, when we explore each other’s body? Or will I be encouraged to make noise? Will I be allowed, that is? I don’t want to be quiet; that seems unnatural. When we actually make love, what if I want to scream? I will probably be shy at first, but I will still yield, and overcome my shyness. I want this to be an experience unlike any experience you’ve ever had before… I want what happens to surpass anything you’ve imagined…. (I hope that you have indeed imagined us making love). I want you to want more and more and more of me…. I want us both to explode… I look forward to detonation….
What are turn ons for you?
I’d like to try to do them; I want you to be happy with me. I want you to be really glad, even about that Brazilian wax, I got just for you, my first, in wanting you to be really turned on that we’re together, alone in the hotel –one bed to rest things on, and another bed to use, ostensibly for sleeping (but only a little of that –I plan to have you as a stay-awake caffeine pill).
Between the meetings that I also look forward to, and being with you, not quite enough hours in the day, but I’ll get by on reduced sleep so that there’s time for everything I hope to do with you.
For the first time in my life, I don’t want any secrets. You’re getting the me admitting to her lack of experience despite my age.
My mother accused me of loving my father more than her, and I guess I did –I identified more with him, maybe because he’s deceased, but also my mother knew him only as a husband, a lover, but I knew him as a father, and I was an only child, and she never accompanied us on any of our walks –miles and miles…. Where I learned alternatives to the bible –the purpose of the walks, as soon as I got home from church
A while ago you told me that if we’re ever alone the fire will meld us together. We will be. Soon. Melding very soon.
“Weather is a factor, and those anticipated storms have arrived —love how the sky looks, it and the pond have merged. Love the tapping on the roof, like fingertips, becoming angry at times, and then gentle, now scarcely making contact at all, but in roof-ways, the roof remembers the rain as a splintered lover that talks in thunder, and every now and then, illuminates their way with marvelous flashes of lightning, knife blades, marvelous knife blades….”
To which That Man regaining his sweetness as I remember so much, replied:
Looks like you is stable eyesed!!!
Great photos of ver sexy you.
and the family — who took the picture? What stories!!!!
These photos were taken at my mother’s house, the home my father bought in 1963. Badly in need of paint, something my mother will try to do herself.
We have such a long and complicated story; we have history, and that is just too much to ever give up. I can’t bear the thought of you not in my life… I want to get past this, and reinstate you as the wonderful, tender, caring man you always were, the man to whom I wrote this:
All I know is that I hope to never lose your friendship (?)—but it’s more than that; I do not know the proper word for what you are to me, but won’t say it again; nothing has changed, except I do not know the word acceptable to you (and I do not want to know what I am to you —not really [because I may not like it]) —but I am convinced that you care deeply, just as you know that I care deeply about you, no matter how old all manner of official documents say you are. I like you regardless. I love you regardless, from the first time I told you. The you, you are now, wherever you are, on a bridge or not. We stood on something that connects us both literally and metaphorically —always, and that wonderful photo has life of its own. It does what maybe we can’t, at this time.
Look, today I celebrate so much, being alive for one thing, and your existence. I’m glad you’re in my world, and that I am in yours. I’m glad that our story changes, grows [every “whichway”], mutates, but does not end. I’m glad that we have a story, Mr. Delightful, and it is our story, and no other story is ours. Only this one. Always this one. I’m so glad about this Mr. Delightful, more glad than I am capable of expressing (without some help from my very best friend: YOU):
“I can run alongside
You but can’t keep up with you, your tapdancing
Shadow, your clothing made of earth and spit. But I know you
And when you wish me Happy Birthday I trade it for yours,
You not growing old, you everlasting, you infinity you.”
(excerpt from a poem you wrote for me, remember?)
and you wrote this to me:
What a moving and lovely letter, what a heart you got, a wondrous one, one that I know and got to know better, and better, and loved in the way we loved. A mind that evolved those feelings into literature, into a story for the ages.
And that art means so much to me — and this letter, just as much, meant just for me, explaining me back to me from your perspective, and through your lens. Our friendship has moved so many places the world cannot contain them all, and still goes on, growing every whichway.
So thank you infinitely for this gift of all possibility and the settling of the words’ world into a mutually respectful and fulfilling friendship. Of course that means ongoing, and how that works with collaborating, mutual performances, seeing each other etcetc — it’s all there, we just don’t know what yet, and that’s the beauty you have given us in this letter. The truth of it.
It means so much
It means everything
A complex story in which I have experienced every emotion possible to feel, and I must thank you for that, for allowing me to feel “everything” (sounds as if I’m quoting my children’s book [and new book, in which you are so involved, all those “Higginson” poems [that come out of really seeing you, hearing you —discovering you as if for the first time, [[I so want us to write more poems together, of course —I so like connecting with you that way]] –listening to everything you say in so many locations, and I know you recognize them, as honored as you are in my writing —what man can claim such honor? — that I really feel, and as smart as you are —even “smart enough” to see me – and really understanding [[parts —of you, never the whole ‘enigmatic’ Mr. Delightful] —a good thing; hope I’m never able to figure you out completely, and I am quoting two of my books):
“I want to be [‘wannabe’] eyes looking, looking everywhere [and seeing you: that is a forking everywhere].
I want to be [‘wannabe’] ears hearing , hearing everything [you say, and that is a forking everything]
I want to be [‘wannabe’] hands touching, touching everything [all of you, and that is a forking everything]
I want to be [‘wannabe’] mouth tasting, tasting everything [all of you, and that is a forking everything [romance novel]]
I want to be [‘wannabe’] heart feeling, feeling everything [for you, and this is (or rather: could be the most forking ‘everything’ of all were it not for what follows:]
I want to be [‘wannabe’] life doing, doing everything [for you, with you, because of you, through you –the most everything, for your birthday and everyday [[on which you are endlessly reborn in my heart]]] —That’s all. And that is a forking everything forking [some Midhudson Taffy also, which also must fork and fork and fork as it’s ‘eaten with a fork’]”
68! —way to go!
You also said this to me, Lord knows you always know what to say:
“making poems is making life”
and he/you said this to me:
“I have all yr books, I think, Mz Moss. I do love A Man (if she’s A Woman)”
and you wrote this to me, so much more than this,
Sitting by a calming fountain in Kiev, just after the bells of St Sofia rocked the plaza — real rocks of noise
I can say a few things: how crazy are you? am I? we?
Pretty crazy, I’d say!
BUT certainly it is a continuously reviving poem
A fantasy dream and reality scream
You are a Go For It All woman finally free
You constantly inspire, and I wish to too
Standing off to the side and cheering you on
Hey! Watch out for that banana!
The Mnemonic of Yr Palindrome
—- and when you woke this to me, Mr. Delightful,
“I should be working
Instead of smiling at you
Smiling at you”
to which I replied:
Isn’t smiling at me a form of work?
to which your reply was
And how everything started with this:
“Hey, this won’t be a business call!
I’d be calling to reestablish contact, Ms Moss, that is all.”
Surely you will recall that one stumbling block in the way of our love taking off; you called him “PSOG” (Previous Suitor Other Guy” although he had a name. When you first contacted me after waiting 25 years, you had to wait an additional two weeks, because of PSOG, and when I contacted you two weeks later, just two weeks later, to tell you that PSOG was completely gone from my life (what I want you to say now about a certain nameless GF, you know what I mean); well to convince you that PSOG was gone, I sent him and BCC’d you on the breakup email of break up emails, this one:
Break up email of break up emails:
This isn’t as difficult as it may seem,
but under the circumstances, I think it’s best to not be involved on even a minimal level. I appreciate — I really do— your continued concern, but I must try to achieve whatever I can on my own (or via members of family). I appreciate your fondness and will remember it. I agree that intimacy is not for us. Never was. I can’t say that it will be with my new old-friend, but as I once told you, worth pursuing. I like how for many years he’s cared for me —on any level. Sorry, but I can’t do a blog or even go for walks, even if that leaves me out of shape. I won’t forget my medicine, and I’ll find a way to get to that dreaded MRI on Sunday. I’ll get there somehow, of that have no doubt —even my ex has agreed to take me —I just don’t think it should be you.
You’re free to write responses to my writing —as any reader would be; I maintain a partnership in that sense with all of my readers (who are also forms of “collaborators”), most of whom never connect with me directly. And yes; you may send your responses to me, and I’ll answer them as timely as I can, but won’t be preoccupied with responding (it’s not as if I have nothing else to do). As long as such contact doesn’t suggest a sustained relationship with a possibility of growing into something else. I don’t want such growth, and such growth didn’t happen naturally.. Send me anything you like via email. Nothing wrong with that. I just won’t go anywhere with you. I can’t —would seem that I have no self-respect, and I do. I guess I can blame all of this on match dot com, a service I no longer use, and won’t use again… If I hadn’t used it, wouldn’t have to write this message. I’m quite disappointed with the service.
It’s fine with me that we don’t attempt to pursue any romance ever—some things are just present, and no need to force what obviously isn’t there to kindle. There is no fire to burn or extinguish. No fire at all. No attraction (other than my own —temporary— delusion).
I’ll also be able to get to he airport; my ex has agreed to take me if necessary. He’s also agreed to pick me up when I return to Detroit if necessary. He has accepted that there won’t be any romance between us ever again –and he’s accepted that; he and I will be talking tomorrow, and he’s taking me to lunch, and will pay for all of it! —his and mine; he won’t ask me or demand that I pay for half! (as you did). —Nor is there any romance between us, you and I, and I’m opposed to doing anything that might seem to open that door. I’m closing that door for good- -something I thought I already did. More than once. We can’t be involved in that way for many, many reasons. We’re so wrong for each other —in just about any way that I can imagine or construct a couple. There’s nothing right between us —and I can’t make it seem that way… I’m through pretending that we had something we didn’t. I did that for too long, and I’m not going to dredge up past incidents —want to leave everything buried, and bury anything that remains above ground —all must be subterranean —coffin nailed shut. Sprigs of garlic around, and a set of silver nails, wooden stakes
I’m trying to make this clear again: NO US! —NOT EVER! —even if things fail abysmally with my new old-friend, I won’t be seeking to resume anything like that between us. Just a casual friendship at best, right now (that includes Facebook). Whatever we almost or sort of had, is dead and buried, and I don’t rob graves to have some form of man in my life. I don’t feel desperate. Just divorced and available —for the right man, and that will never be you. He must ask have something to offer to me, intimacy of course, and you have none of that for me… Intellectual and emotional closeness; bonds of heart and mind —we’ll be able to connect on multiple levels —and we can’t, pure and simple.
Haven’t tried building my own Frankenstein’s monster, and I don’t want to form closeness with a monster anyway. No zombie for me either; I want a flesh and blood man who is confident of himself and seems to value me as something special —we’ll be special for each other —that can’t be you. I want the man ultimately in my life to value me as much as I value him —nothing forced; completely natural, and its not natural for you to be involved with a woman on this level, a woman like me, I mean. I’m well aware how that Teresa Nyong Vogel Prize was something you could use to a form of advantage, especially at Cottage Inn —but not to my advantage, only to yours…
We are no more! and I’m completely okay with that. I’m shedding no tears. Just moving forward, without you
—all I have holding me back is that MS-related optic neuritis (simulating blindness in my left eye) and my loss of directional skills (aneurysm related) —I can get lost so easily; remember all the trouble I had when we walked and I had trouble knowing which way to go? This is a problem I have. Perhaps it’s permanent. I hope that the man who becomes the man in my life won’t mind, that it won’t be an encumbrance for him; we’ll find ways to navigate around this glitch, I’ll call it —just who I’ve become physiologically —we all change with age, by the way, something that I know you know, and won’t mention again (would require a little grave-robbing, maybe hurtful grave-robbing, and I don’t want to leave on a vindictive note, but I am sure you know your own impotence and you tried to blame it on me).
It wasn’t just the porn vignette. Many things…. There is no path to romance for you to me. Not ever. And I don’t want a path from me to you. Not ever.
My mother commented last night that I have no need to tell anyone even that I have MS, since my disease is so invisible, and she’s particularly upset with you as it looks as if I was a prize that you couldn’t recognize for what it is. Obviously you weren’t ready to pursue a relationship with me or perhaps with any woman (you did tell me about your involvement —brief— you said, liaison with another man) —but that may be too accusatory to say. I’m not writing to solicit a response, just to finish closing a door, that I thought was closed anyway, and maybe would still be had I not mistakenly invited you as a possibility for getting me to and from the airport —Sorry for the invitation. I’m withdrawing it now, and will be sure not to invite you further to anything.
Just to make this as clear as possible:
No us. Not now. Not ever. No matter what happens.
and after this you were fine , and we could begin… one of my favorite parts was when PSOG tried to blame his impotence on me, and also said he refused to use condoms, and you told me that you would drive an 18-wheeler full of condoms down my street, and talking on FaceTime, you showed me and told me that if I could see you right then, and I could, everything, I would know that impotence around me was hardly your problem. And it certainly wasn’t. Not then, and definitely not in person. I must confess, that I really liked seeing this. Really gave me something tangible to dream about.
But in the hotel I was offered an upgrade on the room, a single king bed instead of the 2 queen beds reserved, and you answered, so, so eagerly, your arm tightly and tightening even more around me; you were determined never to let me go, now that I was yours. “we’ll take the single king” and we did, Room 304 –I will never forget that.
Oh well: Delight after Delight Mr. Delightful
Don’t you remember this?
Soon after that, you sent me this:
I can’t wait
To taste your kiss
Kiss kissing kisses
Slow you lead your
Beautiful tender lips
Just to rest there
So quiveringly touching
The moment itself
Don’t you want to remember this?
Aren’t you glad that I do? Aren’t you?
Oh Mr. D, I hope you also remember writing this to me:
Don’t be nervous, except a little, in a good way! and don’t worry about Sat — you can play by ear, and you should enjoy the Geniuses as much as you can. We’ll have plenty of time — and will probably be wanting a bit of rest… !!!
Mr. Delightful, I don’t want you to be able to forget a single second of what we have shared! including this:
“You are beautiful
3,766. I am looking forward to reading your letter and viewing the attachments
You are still this man, aren’t you? Aren’t you still the man with whom I fell in love? Aren’t you? Don’t you want to be this man? Don’t you want me to love you, even though you lied? –something I have never done? Please don’t make me regret all the poetry (including the poetry of our bodies; I know it looked divine, just the way you made me feel –that photo that I will not post out of respect for your “decision” [now that really is a “glitch“]– we’ve shared and even written together… Please don’t make me feel that I meant nothing to you…
The absolutely delightful man who also said this: ” You have always inspired me, Forkergurl”
–and of course, Mr. Delightful has always inspired me…
You just don’t know all that we have shared; Mr. Delightful, can you possibly understand the complexity of what you are throwing away? because you lied to me, rocking the every foundation of everything we;veshared over the years, causing me t0 have to question everything that transpired between us? –transforming all of it, and there has been so much, into lies.
Just really try to understand what this is doing to me, because I want you to be as delightful as you always had been, delightful and honest…
How can I be so replaceable, when there will never be anyone else like you, I know that, and as I’ve always done, I want to celebrate you! I gave myself to you fully, and all I ever wanted was for you to give yourself to me just as fully, just as completely. I have been willing to work on the terrible distance between us that didn’t drive me to lies! –Not once did I try to deceive you. Not once. Think about it. Love like mine is rare Mr. D, and it was all yours. All yours.
Very recently, on 3 August, you wrote this and lit up my heart, Mr. Delightful:
Thylias, It is Love & that is all, it is kin and Life itself.
To which I replied:
You know that I accept this. I like hearing that it is Love.
I’m just afraid that it might not be love tomorrow.
I love knowing that it is Love, I need that more than anything…
As long as it will continue to be love, I am fine.
No one can say how long it will continue to be love on this Wildest of Rides, but I am glad to take this ride with you.
And now? I still love you, but,
I shouldn’t love you if and while you are involved with your GF who should be me, and who was. Only me. I did that for you. I never lied to you, Mr. D; not once.
You are worth it, well you were, and
and I am still worth it. Mr. Delightful.
and, Mr. Delightful, I remember all.
Even more recently, in September, last month, he said, “Relax –it takes time”
after I sent him a text in which I told him how I really want to see him, and how I really hope he likes my selfies.
“Relax – it takes time” he said
and “why so choosy picky? They are all great as usual”
to which I said, “All great as usual? Nice of you to say that before you’ve been see them, I guess you do notice me and I am glad. Very glad actually.”
I have always worried that he likes how I look; I have always wanted to appeal to him physically. You see for he 44 years I was with my ex, beginning when I was 16, he never, not once, called me pretty or beautiful of anything like that. He said my head would swell, and over the years, I thought of myself as unattractive, not to mention when a grade school teacher said when I returned to visit her when I was in ninth grade, “Thylias! –you’re beautiful! you were such an ugly child!” I was. I know that.
I’ve seen this man in Chicago, Minneapolis and Detroit., and he made it a point to always call me beautiful or pretty; he had no idea how badly I needed to hear this until I told him what I never heard. And then he said it all the time, and I learned to think myself pretty, and now I have a problem with vanity… Anyway, one day Mr. Delightful sent me a text,
“Thylias, you are one gorgeous woman”
I have loved having dinner with him so much. I had my first real dates with this man.
I learned how to kiss with this man, and he can really kiss. I was touched in ways I’d never been touched before, with his fingers, tongue and, well, not an x-rated blog. but you get the idea.
In Minneapolis, when we were about to go to dinner, he said he’d come to my hotel room at 5:30 pm, and asked “U r ready for dinner?”
to which I replied, “Sure. Don’t look my best, however.”
to which he replied, “LOL”
and I had another wonderful meal with him. Sommetimes, I forget all about context. My sense of time gets out of whack. And then I accuse him of things he did not do. This doesn’t mean that he handled this current “situation” properly, because he didn’t. But when everything is added up, the list of pluses is substantially longer, and besides, what human being does not deserve forgiveness? He needs forgiveness; we all do, and this way, I get to have some peace, and continue the best friendship I have ever had in my life.
There has been enough hurt, and if he is able to love anyone, that is a good thing.
May we all be so lucky as to find someone to love.