Laughing Medusas

When I write, it's everything that we don't know we can be that is written out of me, without exclusions, without stipulation, and everything we will be calls us to the unflagging, intoxicating, unappeasable search for love. In one another we will never be lacking. ~Helene Cixous "The Laugh of the Medusa"

Friday, May 07, 2004

I've been thinking 

I'd like to envelope you in the soft glow of my mornings. The haze of not quite awake enough to think about you next to me... but enough to know your smell, your voice, your body next to mine. I still dream of you almost nightly. I don't share these dreams with you. They're not the ones that make me blush, they're the ones that make me cry.

Imagining impossibilities is comforting... hoping about a possibility that may exist is excruciating.

You're right. I think too much. But I can't quite feel my way. For now I overanalyze and overthink and look forward to thinking of nothing ... feeling only you.

posted  @ 4:56 PM

Thursday, May 06, 2004


“Scotch is an old man’s drink, and I’ll take mine with water.” Willow’s voice floats from the CD player.

“I think I will do the same.” I say to myself as much as to the stereo, settling in to my burgundy leather recliner. I used to drink without a chaser, without a mixer, without dilution. Tonight though, I protect my mouth from the full flavor of the drink. The water serving as a level of insulation from something too potent for me to attempt neat. Every drink has been too potent lately.

Thoughts scamper across my mind, and I watch them. Not really discerning one from the next unless they collide. Even then, it is only to see if they merge into one, explode into shards, or simply disintegrate. One thought hovers on the edge, hiding in the shadows. For the first time, I invite it to the foreground and admit it to myself - she is not returning. It’s as though the proverbial light bulb has come on inside my head and the roaches, my inconsequential thoughts, scatter.

I shut my eyes tight against direct light of this epiphany but it still hurts. Opening my eyes slowly, I find I am staring at a small, framed bible quote my mother made for me when I first moved out. “My cup runneth over…” is printed in calligraphy above a rather busty woman.

I look at my cup, and am disgusted by the diluted contents. I empty my cup down the sink and pour the last of the bottle in at full strength. The first sip burns my throat, now unused to the harsh reality of a drink not softened by the rocks.

I realize the song I have been listening to is ending, just in time to hear, “Water’s a lonely drink and so, I’ll just take scotch.”


posted  @ 10:39 AM

Wednesday, May 05, 2004

Writings of the Restless Mind - Part 1 

A deserted highway somewhere between California, New Mexico and Utah with crystalline yet timidly pale blue skies is where she often found herself. Sometime between mid-afternoon and when the sun sets across the front of the bug splattered windshield, where only sunglasses can save you from the gorgeous ball of fire intent on blocking your vision as you drive further west. Upon stepping out of the vehicle at some dusty desert gas station, the sweet smell of gasoline filling her senses mixing with the dry heat, she extracts her credit card, carefully slipping it into the worn slot on the pump and pulling it back out again in one smooth motion. LIFT LEVER read the digitized letters on the gray screen. She followed the instructions automatically, as though part of the machine itself, having done so thousands of times before. There was always something inherently male about grabbing the nozzle and hoisting it into its awaiting hungry receiver, squeezing the trigger as though it were a weapon, to release the gush of latent chemicals. A small stream of vapors escaped through the opening between the nozzle and tank reminding her of the mirage on the road 20 miles back, looking like a pool of fresh, cool water in the midst of sand and joshua trees. She remembered further back to the first time she was on I-15 with her family as a small child, staring in disbelief as her father described that what they saw up ahead was not water, but a reflection of the sky. Not believing him at first she stared intently at the upcoming puddle in an attempt to prove him wrong. Her heart seized briefly in a mild shock as it slowly disappeared the closer the car came to it. A smile broke across her face as the numbers on the screen climbed higher and she shook her head at the memory of previous ignorance. How odd was it really to believe that such a thing, that appeared to be so real and sparkling, couldn’t possibly be a false image? It must be a grand metaphor for life itself she thought, nearly laughing out loud at this revelation as the pump neared twenty-five dollars.

She started up from the desk as the phone rang in the familiar fashion, its high pitched double tones breaking into her daydream like an iceman’s pickaxe. She was so suddenly ripped away from the serenity of desert skies that she cursed before lifting the receiver from its holding place among scattered papers and an empty encrusted coffee mug. The droning voice on the other end of the line made her eyes burn with boredom, some financial gibberish spilling out of the black machine. The sun glared in onto the screen of her pale white monitor making it impossible to make out any of the useless information contained within. While the sunlight that reflected off of the gray building across the street was something of her only bit of solace, she knew it was necessary to shut the blinds, thus blocking out any bit of brilliance that remained in the still young day.

An uneasiness set in across her mind, brows furrowed in concentration as she typed out her bosses request into the format of an e-mail. Something was definitely missing, but was this her calling, destiny? How many co-workers had seemingly accepted their fate, happy to appease the boss, go about their daily routines and get so wrapped up into every intricate detail that it seemed nothing outside of the tiny office mattered? She figured she was smarter than that, though some of her co-workers may have said “naïve” would be a more proper term.

Everything seemed so fruitless in the context of what had transpired since her arrival at her position. Three thousand people had died only a few short blocks away on a day like any. Tip-tapping out their financial reports, fretting about some insignificant bill that had to be paid on the way to work, having no clue the fate that awaited them. How utterly insignificant everything related to the hum-drum day to day appeared when compared to something of that magnitude! No one seemed to think of those things, only how it was a great tragedy due to the loss of life. Did people realize that a tragedy was playing its hand every day for the thousands of people living in the nine to five world, walking up and down doorless hallways, back and forth until they collapsed? How many years of life were lost everyday in the financial district of Manhattan alone? She was reminded of a story of a man a few offices over who had worked at the company for 20 years. He simply came in one day and collapsed, right in his chair. His dreams of retirement, of finally truly living one day, of driving across beautiful landscapes, taking in nature’s glorious scenes were all dashed in an instant. All of the things he never did but was “going to do” laying out as a tragic legacy upon his memory. Dying on the job, the ultimate sacrifice. What was it? Had it been too many lectures from the boss? Too many “ASAP” notes scribbled by anonymous secretaries on pale yellow Post-it sticky notes? The dollars accumulated by the firm were made off of the heap of employees thrown upon the corporate fires which burned away their independence, creativity, and intelligence. They would all speak of what a gracious and wonderful company man he had been, even as the smell of his burning flesh loomed above the office in a rank stench. The next Monday, they hired his replacement.

- Adetoun
posted  @ 10:51 AM

Tuesday, May 04, 2004


I move stiffly through the day
Hindered by reminders of you
Arriving in my driveway
As I was just about to sleep

I let you in my house
And deep inside of me
Without hesitation
Right there in the front room
The door slightly ajar

You left me exhausted
Quickly, always so quickly
As only you can

I didn't even turn to say goodbye

I woke naked
Sprawled on the floor
Face down where you left me
The door still slightly ajar

I thought perhaps I made this up
A story crafted while touching myself

That wouldn't quite explain the rugburns


posted  @ 10:37 AM

Monday, May 03, 2004


Sometimes it has been all I had left
More often it has been my downfall

I stand bleeding
I could show these wounds
And pray that you'll kiss me healed
Or dress them discreetly
As I quietly walk away

The force of your
Perceived indifference &
Apparent apathy
Knocks the wind out of me

I drop to the floor
Paralyzed by the lack of oxygen
Paralyzed by the recent lack of you
Gasping for either

I know that I alone will lick these wounds
I just wish I knew if you could see them
From where you sit inflicting them


posted  @ 10:12 AM

Sunday, May 02, 2004

My Desideratum 

I went with him today... shared places and experiences with him that you and I will never share. My skin feels tight from sunburn and salt crystals left behind by the sweat that was flowing off me in streams less that an hour ago. I realize I am in dire need of a shower, and I think of you.

We traveled far today, he and I. Shedding articles of clothing as milestones were passed. It was no surprise that I thought of you in every place I wanted to be held or sneak a kiss. These are intimacies I do not share with him. I relate the scent of my sweat to you, even though it was he who evoked it... so recent and yet already fading. Memories of him dissipate quickly as I create fantasies involving you. My legs still trembling from the exhaustion he induced. Yet, my tired body wants only to find refuge in your arms.

Loneliness sends me in search of company, but perhaps I would be better off alone. I fear these indulgences of desire may prevent me from obtaining what I truly want.

Will you at least let me explain (before) you go?

posted  @ 6:20 PM


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Lane Bryant