Eyes and Hugs

We are eye contact and vivid embraces and desire. As awkward as it is to hug someone intently while embracing over the emergency brake, somehow it's working. We're holding off for now, from kissing, from groping, from fucking. But the gazing at one another, the hugs; it's like we're lovers already.

Writing With Eyes Closed

I wrote these short pieces in two sittings. I've spellchecked since then, though.

Part One

As an exercise, I guess I'll just begin typing and see what happens. Nothing in particular is emerging yet, but I'm sure that's because I know what it is I have to write, and I'm simply afraid to write it. I'm afraid that I am selfish. I want to use people for my own purposes, which are not noble. They are base at worst and trivial at best, or maybe trivial at worst and base at best.

For no reason, at least that I can discern, it felt like the right time to begin a new paragraph. The drone of commercial television is filtering through the window to my right. I've noticed in the last couple days that the neighbors are listening to the television louder than usual, or I've noticed maybe for the first time that they actually watch television. I've wondered if there is a new housemate, or maybe the neighbor went deaf in the last two days, and now has to listen at full volume. I wonder how many typos I'm making. I wonder whether it matters.

There will be more time to write again. That is, if I make it. "If I make time," as if time were a product I could shape from raw materials.

Part Two

Okay, so I'm selfish. We all are. This simply means that I have needs. I have desires that I blame society for squelching, but I'm doing the squelching all on my own. Whether it's the internalized Father of Freudian mythology, or the paternal imago of Jung, or the conscience or the soul or God or Rama or Krishna or Moses or my mom or my sisters or my guilt, it's all of these, none of these, it's me. It's me, it's me. I am my own superego, I am my own stumbling block, and I guess it all comes back to "it's my fault." And who's blaming the victim now?...oh yeah, it's me.

Andy Hallett, In Memoriam

Andy Hallett, who played Lorne, part of the Angel Investigations team, died on March 29, 2009. He was only 33 years old. He'd had known heart disease since the series wrapped, and he hadn't been acting much in the last five years. Check out the Boston Globe obituary. Rest in peace, Andy.

Joss Whedon with Andy Hallett as Lorne.

Insatiable...in our dreams

Astrid and I woke up this morning feeling all cuddly, and eventually shared timid morning breath kisses and groped each other until our sleeping clothes came off. She told me about the dream she'd just had, a gorgeously smutty dream in which she was having sex with a current crush boy of hers among the throngs at a sort of pride parade for perverts. I told her about my dream in which I'd been making out with one of my current crush girls. My entire body seized with desire when she told me about fucking her boy in the dream, and I wanted her so badly. After we groped and kissed more, Astrid's urge to get on with the day superseded the urge to get it on, and so she left bed to make us a glorious frittata with eggs, greens, shallots, and garlic. I stayed in bed and got myself off three times. Not a bad way to start the day.