Love, Sandee

Do you think that I enjoy putting hexes on people? No! Yes, it’s necessary sometimes in the playground of my mind for me to believe that I have this option, while we all know this is delusional.

Well anyway — but I did take a hex off a guy I decided I liked. I discovered he did something very nice for somebody. So I thought about it all and decided that for the rest of the week I’ll go on a love mission. This means that I’ll have compassion for people and their stupidity, ignorance, fear and self-loathing. I’ll try to identify with these human frailties instead of suffering from the self-righteous indignation that fires me up to a state which makes it completely okay for me to damn people to hell.

Love,

Sandee

P.S. Still, if I could only — hahahaha! — Check out this cool witch’s coven –“She must die, die, DIEEEEE! — Give me power — sickness, sickness…death, death DEAAAATH!”:

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wondered if you would be coming back.

I listened, absorbed into her situation, isolating myself from anything else surrounding me.  Normally I’d have an internal fit at the audacity of a woman hijacking my time and space.  The appeal of her energy flow was the generous spirit, despite her speaking of herself.  She had an immediate issue, and the anonymity of my being a stranger made an easier release.  She asked about me. I answered briefly and urged her to continue.

I could have stood there and listened forever how long.  She told me that her daughter said that she needed to do something about her tits.  I disagreed.  Her figure was appealing, and that was inspiring because she was older than me.  She smelled delightful and her teeth were good.  To write of it now stirs me beyond lust.  I imagined following her around — listening more.

She touched my arm here and there.  If she had kissed me, as strange as that might be, I would have suggested that we exchange phone numbers.

When she left, I couldn’t focus.

I wondered if you would be coming back to tell me more about Israel and your daughter in the Israeli army.

 

Here’s my Match.com profile – whatcha think?

Likes:

• Enjoy calling the cops on noisy groups of people
• Watching water boil
• Plunging the toilet
• Taking long bus rides through dilapidated neighborhoods
• Setting my wigs on fire after wearing them seven times
• Celebrating Halloween all year
• Eating snacks with Hattie, Jimmy and Robert at the Hebrew Home for the Aged at Riverdale
• Making five ingredient toast
• Recreating Public Service Announcements from the 1950s

I’ma use this picture of me with the piercing eyes that my sister took Xmas time.  I’m wearing my blue terry cloth bathrobe!

Maybe I’ll catch one come Valentines Day, huh?  Wish me luck!

For asexuals cake is sex

Will Cotton – The Daily Beast

(Cat forwarded this cake link to me a bit back — I’m in love with it.)

I watched a documentary on asexuality.  The documentary depressed me.  I wrote a novel with the premise that platonic relationships don’t exist.  I’m not implying that platonic means asexual.  I just believe that people want their sexuality validated.  It doesn’t have to be overt.

I try to pick them out, asexuals.  I’m intrigued by people who don’t have sexuality.  I know some of these people.

One was a beautiful man.  But…nothing.  So there was no reciprocal energy.  I had nothing to feed on.  This is subtle below the surface energy I speak of, not detectable flirting.  He was young – when I refer to my interaction I don’t mean that I considered something between us.  Though I didn’t have a desire to be with him, there still might be sexual energy in there, somewhere — helloooooo.

I was old enough to be his mother.  People may think that he didn’t radiate sexual energy toward me because I was much older, or maybe he was gay.  You may not want to have sex with the old woman but you want your own sexuality validated in some way, which would involve giving out a vibe, flirting.  Besides, I can see sexuality without interacting with a person.  With him I didn’t feel it in his aura.  I can feel sexual energy even coming from gay men if not directed exactly at me.

He had never been involved with anyone.  I assume he was a virgin.  Someone told me that he had finally begun seeing a woman.  It was hard for me to conceptualize.  In this program last night there were asexuals who had been involved with people.  Some had to explain to their partners that they had no desire for sex, others went through the motions.

This asexual group in the documentary marched in the Gay Pride Parade in San Francisco.  They are after all part of an alternative sexual movement.  Though initially curious, watching them made me irritated.  I turned off the program when I started getting heartburn.  Am I that disturbed by this?

These asexuals have events, parties, meetings, and their icon is cake.  Cake replaces sex for them.  They put cake on their invitations, use it in slogans.  They have love affairs with cake. People know that I’m a cake enthusiast – see my side-bar.

I’m on the opposite end of the spectrum, but I have something in common with asexuals — this is just wrong.  I love cake.  I love sex.  Cake never replaces sex.  Not even that sexy cake up there.

My father speaks to me

From my inner ear, in the recesses there and in the brain, you settle and speak to me and I shake my head to feel the fleshing out of this voice that has to do with who I am, and what I want more than anything I can grab, hold, and keep so solidly in a static notion that can only be captured in a moment of creative expression.

My hard copy version is on sale

The hardcopy version of my book is on sale through Amazon.   The link is on the side-bar.

I’m preoccupied with other things right now, but soon I’d like to do readings at these places:

Indian Café

Indian Road Café

The Blue Stocking Book Store

The Nuyorican Poet’s Café

and maybe some other places.

Processing the things that I’m preoccupied with is normal, so I’m not overwhelmed, I’m just moving more slowly, so that I can think clearly.  In yesterday’s post I mentioned being in possession of myself.  This means I can face what I am thinking and respect the way that I process things.  I have some trepidation, but it’s fine.  It will all die out as the days pass.  As long as I have love and the vast universe to guide my thoughts, it’s all good.

Everyday is brand new where anything is possible, right?

Wouldn’t it be great if I could maintain the idea that my success should be defined by the quality of my relationships with people?  It would be cool if I could make my goal everyday to be of service to people simply in my attitude or otherwise.  If I appreciate that work is a place where my success can be demonstrated in how improved my relationships with my coworkers are, then I can be more easily satisfied with my life.

I feel satisfied when I offer my help without any expectations or think of work as a place where I can be of service to people, leaving my ego out of it. It’s an accomplishment to figure out a way to get along with difficult people.  A difficult relationship can be a challenge that helps me.  I try to understand where these people might be coming from. I also examine myself truthfully, to handle negative feelings I have about them.  I stay humble and try not to be so easily offended.  I don’t walk around beatifically, but I want to give off energy that makes me approachable. Sometimes it’s not like that though.  I don’t want to talk too much about this because I fall short, as it should be — that’s where the lessons are.  I’m not a guru.  Life sucks a lot of the time and I am not a Pollyanna.

A woman at my job had a hiatus.  When she came back she said she had been thinking about me.  She said that I helped her see things in a positive light.  She gave me a gift.  Actually she gave me two gifts, one was a physical gift along with a card and a special note to me, the other was the gift of love and appreciation.  Another example of this type of success I experienced after a job assignment that I had was over.  The office manager there said that she would miss my smile.  She said I was a class act.  I realized that I succeeded in what I was trying to accomplish, that what I had hoped to transmit was actually received.

My Aunts and Uncle

I thought of writing a short story, an essay about my three aunts.  They are my mom’s sisters.  They have their own children but they made me feel special growing up, still now.  When I had crisis a few years ago, they all helped me.  One flew up from Georgia and stayed with me for a few days.

My family was pretty tight when I was growing up so we spent a lot of time together, my aunts their husbands my dad all my cousins, grandma and grandpa.  Grandma and grandpa were actually separated but showed up for all the family events anyway. This was all on my mom’s side.  Even though I don’t speak to my aunts all the time, I still feel a bond because of those early days.  They also had a brother, the only male, who was schizophrenic.

Shit I had a special relationship with him.  When I was unemployed back in 2000, I would visit him at the institution every couple of weeks with one of the aunts that I mentioned.  We picked him up, and ate out, usually at the same diner.  He smoked several cigarettes and would impart nuggets of insane genius which I loved.  I generally enjoyed talking to him.  He passed away in 2004.  Maybe I’ll come up with something to write about my beautiful aunts and uncle.  I’ve held off because anything I come up with is just too maudlin.

I wanted to cut her hair.

She was in the chair in front of mine.  Her hair was colored badly, overgrown, uneven past her shoulders.  I wanted to cut her hair.  I wanted to give her a bath and put her to bed.  I wanted to kiss her all over, maybe sing something to her, even though I don’t like to sing.  Just something.  To soothe her.  She could be well off by herself; but she’s sanguine, hopeful as a child about tomorrow.  That day would bring someone along for sure.  Me.  She was strong and assertive but equally vulnerable – like that dog with all the different colors and no collar who belonged to no one – its hair was unruly, dull in spots.  For a while he had managed to survive on scraps and bowls of food put out by neighborhood animal lovers — I could take care of her — introduce her to a different way, calm her.

I black out — come to…transformed.

 

You cut yourself, and I relieve the deep, metallic flow of blood with my mouth.  That ancient taste permeates my tongue.  I breathe deeply in to gather it – more.  I wait before an electric wave carries me — my mouth slides lightly over your arm, to your lips.  Taste!   Your salty blood on my tongue.  Isolated senses push my muscles, again!  Again.  Without permission.  I black out — come to…transformed.  Fused, we take our time to speak and the moistness between us evaporates into the continuum of time.

And now this — aw, it’s only a minute, 42 seconds — it’s an accompaniment to my poem — just don’t look up the lyrics!