Running with pink knees and wet hair stuck to my face, pounding around the curve of grey gravel. An simple painter's easel: grey sky, grey rain, blue wet-speckled clothes and green to fill in the gaps. Nobody around but me and the rain. Rain pelts down but my skin is numb to it, and the wind sweeps the water from the puddles in my direction. Streak those colours, sweep some bristles sideways over the picture, rough it up.
Plus:
A hot bath, no bubbles.
= natural high.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Little Red Corvette
The carpet of the bedroom floor underneath our bodies. Cuddling under his warm skin for a few minutes longer before the cool air forces us to sit up, to cover ourselves or dress.
We lie on top of the covers, rather than underneath - he doesn't like his bed to be all messed up once I leave and he goes to sleep. The sleeping bag he keeps for extra warmth is an innocuous item, but one that saves us. For I like to snuggle under the weight of blankets, my feet get cold, and besides, what kind of mean boyfriend won't let his girlfriend in his bed? We would lie in bed under the covers when we were a newer couple - what, now you take me for granted, so much so that you can expect I will come here and pleasure you (such nice words, but said as if they taste bitter, dirty) and then not even want me to lie in your bed for a while? That was one of our only fights, and I fancied that his reluctance to peel back the covers was a symptom for something more significant. I made it clear that I could disregard his preferences and mess up his bed if I wanted to, but I wouldn't because I understood that everybody had their little quirks and you abided by them because you loved them. But I let him know that HE ONLY HAD, LIKE, TEN POINTS OF IRRITATING QUIRKINESS TO USE UP AND THIS COVERS THING WAS LIKE, EIGHT POINTS. Next time I came over, he had the sleeping bag at the ready. Turns out it wasn't a symptom of anything. Now I enjoy snuggling with warm feet and feel affectionate about both his 'quirk' and his ever-practical solution.
He sometimes picks me up from work at night in town, even when it's not on his way at all, so can spend some time with me.
He gropes me when I'm driving.
I think the two are connected.
He talks about concrete and physical matters, like anecdotes from his day, things that have happened or will happen. Or else he starts bantering, silly back-forth exchanges as if the two of us exist nowhere but the present, which is nothing-talk and at the same time everything-talk. In contrast, sometimes I bring up abstract ideas, hypotheticals, analysis of feelings, theories about other people. When I do that, I can become self-conscious of feeling like I'm just talking out loud without engaging him. But often, weeks or months later, I'll hear phrases that I've crafted, my own theories and analyses, spoken as fact from his mouth.
He came to a family gathering a few weeks ago with a bloody scratch on the side of his nose, and told people wryly that he'd got in the way of a shovel when helping his dad with something. Later he mentioned to me that his dog had actually bitten him. When I was baffled as to why he would lie, he chuckled and said, "I just wanted to see how long I could keep it up before somebody realised that my story didn't really make sense!"
"...You're right, you exposed my family for their... lack of detective-level interrogation? Willingness to take you at face value?"
"Ok, fine."
"Boy, did you show them!" I started laughing.
"Shut up."
"They'll be soooo embarrassed when they realised!"
He started wrestling me with a couch cushion. I won that one.
He thinks he'll be such a good catch 'when he's thirty' and all the women are starting to turn away from the party boys and want someone with financial security who can actually look after them. And they'll be like, late twenties and starting to be a bit paranoid about losing their looks, and the biological clocks will be ticking. And maybe by then he'll be able to play the 'dad card' to endear himself even more to these sporty single ladies... Equal parts horrified (who mothered his kid, then? Where is she *cough* I in this scene?) and amused because I'm sure he's not wrong. When I went to say the above in protest it suddenly felt forward to presume myself the mother of his fantasy child, and instead came out just, "Where am I then?"
"Hopefully right by my side," he said, looking over from the passenger seat and smiling. And now it was he who was being the forward one, and I was a little taken aback. "Well, where do you see yourself in five years?" he said. "Am I there?"
"I guess so," I said.
"You say that with some trepidation!"
But it wasn't trepidation, it was more like a numbness at the bigness and greatness of it, to hear it, however tentatively, put into words.
He hugs other guys and finds it funny to pretend to be gay. He mouths the words to 'Little Red Corvette.'
God I love that dude.
We lie on top of the covers, rather than underneath - he doesn't like his bed to be all messed up once I leave and he goes to sleep. The sleeping bag he keeps for extra warmth is an innocuous item, but one that saves us. For I like to snuggle under the weight of blankets, my feet get cold, and besides, what kind of mean boyfriend won't let his girlfriend in his bed? We would lie in bed under the covers when we were a newer couple - what, now you take me for granted, so much so that you can expect I will come here and pleasure you (such nice words, but said as if they taste bitter, dirty) and then not even want me to lie in your bed for a while? That was one of our only fights, and I fancied that his reluctance to peel back the covers was a symptom for something more significant. I made it clear that I could disregard his preferences and mess up his bed if I wanted to, but I wouldn't because I understood that everybody had their little quirks and you abided by them because you loved them. But I let him know that HE ONLY HAD, LIKE, TEN POINTS OF IRRITATING QUIRKINESS TO USE UP AND THIS COVERS THING WAS LIKE, EIGHT POINTS. Next time I came over, he had the sleeping bag at the ready. Turns out it wasn't a symptom of anything. Now I enjoy snuggling with warm feet and feel affectionate about both his 'quirk' and his ever-practical solution.
He sometimes picks me up from work at night in town, even when it's not on his way at all, so can spend some time with me.
He gropes me when I'm driving.
I think the two are connected.
He talks about concrete and physical matters, like anecdotes from his day, things that have happened or will happen. Or else he starts bantering, silly back-forth exchanges as if the two of us exist nowhere but the present, which is nothing-talk and at the same time everything-talk. In contrast, sometimes I bring up abstract ideas, hypotheticals, analysis of feelings, theories about other people. When I do that, I can become self-conscious of feeling like I'm just talking out loud without engaging him. But often, weeks or months later, I'll hear phrases that I've crafted, my own theories and analyses, spoken as fact from his mouth.
He came to a family gathering a few weeks ago with a bloody scratch on the side of his nose, and told people wryly that he'd got in the way of a shovel when helping his dad with something. Later he mentioned to me that his dog had actually bitten him. When I was baffled as to why he would lie, he chuckled and said, "I just wanted to see how long I could keep it up before somebody realised that my story didn't really make sense!"
"...You're right, you exposed my family for their... lack of detective-level interrogation? Willingness to take you at face value?"
"Ok, fine."
"Boy, did you show them!" I started laughing.
"Shut up."
"They'll be soooo embarrassed when they realised!"
He started wrestling me with a couch cushion. I won that one.
He thinks he'll be such a good catch 'when he's thirty' and all the women are starting to turn away from the party boys and want someone with financial security who can actually look after them. And they'll be like, late twenties and starting to be a bit paranoid about losing their looks, and the biological clocks will be ticking. And maybe by then he'll be able to play the 'dad card' to endear himself even more to these sporty single ladies... Equal parts horrified (who mothered his kid, then? Where is she *cough* I in this scene?) and amused because I'm sure he's not wrong. When I went to say the above in protest it suddenly felt forward to presume myself the mother of his fantasy child, and instead came out just, "Where am I then?"
"Hopefully right by my side," he said, looking over from the passenger seat and smiling. And now it was he who was being the forward one, and I was a little taken aback. "Well, where do you see yourself in five years?" he said. "Am I there?"
"I guess so," I said.
"You say that with some trepidation!"
But it wasn't trepidation, it was more like a numbness at the bigness and greatness of it, to hear it, however tentatively, put into words.
He hugs other guys and finds it funny to pretend to be gay. He mouths the words to 'Little Red Corvette.'
God I love that dude.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
That's What He Said.
Restless. Not sure why. After a busy few days of working and socialising, and with a barbeque to look forward to tonight, in theory I’m glad to have time to relax at home by myself for a few hours and get some studying done. Unfortunately the theory doesn’t correlate with reality, which has me skimming pages, snacking compulsively and watching the clock, glad when enough time has passed that I can do something like prepare lunch or message DW. Possible reasons for my unrest include:
- Windy day. What was that kid’s novel explaining why stuff went crazy on windy days?
- Too much tea. The ‘alert yet relaxed’ state advertised on the box was leapt over a few cups ago.
- Failure of internet connection. Let me procrastinate how I see fit, damnit!
- A feeling I need to say something to stabilise things with a good friend – there’s not a problem between us as such, but an undefined grey area which needs to be brought into focus.
- A slight wistfulness that I don’t feel like I’ve really spoken properly to DW for some time.
- I sort of felt all morning like going for a walk/run, but didn’t for lame reasons (don’t like running when I first get up, didn’t want to shower again, needed to study). Now I’m all unexercised and blah.
- Whenever I venture to crack open the pages of my property law textbook, it radiates some sort of invisible, odourless cloud that induces me into a stupor of boredom. Could you study in the face of that mysterious force?
UPDATE: The latter part of my day included noodle salad, a hilarious little dog that went into 'freeze' mode when its eyes were covered, friends and affection and plain old kissing. Man, kissing when you want to kiss is really good.
-- khere is a funky fix for guys and chicks.
- Windy day. What was that kid’s novel explaining why stuff went crazy on windy days?
- Too much tea. The ‘alert yet relaxed’ state advertised on the box was leapt over a few cups ago.
- Failure of internet connection. Let me procrastinate how I see fit, damnit!
- A feeling I need to say something to stabilise things with a good friend – there’s not a problem between us as such, but an undefined grey area which needs to be brought into focus.
- A slight wistfulness that I don’t feel like I’ve really spoken properly to DW for some time.
- I sort of felt all morning like going for a walk/run, but didn’t for lame reasons (don’t like running when I first get up, didn’t want to shower again, needed to study). Now I’m all unexercised and blah.
- Whenever I venture to crack open the pages of my property law textbook, it radiates some sort of invisible, odourless cloud that induces me into a stupor of boredom. Could you study in the face of that mysterious force?
UPDATE: The latter part of my day included noodle salad, a hilarious little dog that went into 'freeze' mode when its eyes were covered, friends and affection and plain old kissing. Man, kissing when you want to kiss is really good.
-- khere is a funky fix for guys and chicks.
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