Well, wouldn't you know it - Femmeruthless.com is an Aries. I should've known, given the predominance of blood-flash red, pointy weapon-like heels and the generally lusty Mars-humps-Venus vibe on this site. Where is the pen and where is the writer? It can be hard to feel like I have anything semi-coherent to say in pupa. Yet the occasion is too momentous (to me at least) to let pass without words and presence.
Yes on this day last year, I finally published this blog. It had taken years of Getting In then Out Of My Own Way as well as writing for everyone else under every guise possible. Dry as dust technical sheets, peppy marketing blurbs, litigiously toned demand documents for action and atonement, sassy little posts in Other People's Blogs, tender letters of Like to Men Who Disappeared, once even an epic eulogy I was later informed tipped the entire funeral party into relentless sobbing and of course, mind-bending erotica for private consumption (to be clear, not mine).
After the fiasco of the derby where sex seemed turned into some kind of speed test, I'd greeted the following week's silence from Kentucky as to be expected. What else could be said? Even while I seethed, I realized that it would be kinder not to treat him to a shock of laser like truth certain to fry up his innards. Surely, he realized that at Strike Three, it simply really was NOT fair.
Alas, Kentucky is either oblivious, hopeful or just determined to go on a wing and a prayer. Perhaps all three. He sends me a short, pleading yet strikingly petulant message noting how it's been a "while" since we've "spoken". It's thankfully by email, I begin to fear that if instead he'd called me, I'd unleash a sound so sub-human, a banshee would hire me. Or definitely take my number for a sub contract.
Five days ago, it was my birthday. I used to think it was irony for a Moon Child to be born on the Summer Solstice, literally the longest day of the year. However, after my stint in Hades, I've begun to view this paradox as befitting my Return to Spring, a continuation of transformative renewal.
Unfortunately, ALSO because of the same said stint, I dread it with a rising tide of fear I can't even coherently describe. As long gone as the Sewer's been, the emotions I encounter when the day approaches makes me feel like I'm greeting Death first before I can properly say Hello to Life. There's a chime of reasons supposed by the Nearest and Dearest. Is it Age? Is it Being Alone? Bad Memories of Sewerage? Or worse, Bad Gifts??
It is A LOT of things. Yet with regularity, it settles upon me in the same manner June Gloom arrives to confound every tourist in search of the LA sun during the month of. I feel weaker, even fragile, held together by a single tissue-thin piece of membrane. It's Emotional Tax Season, and I've Gots To Pays. Every little request friends and families are so used to having fulfilled from the Cancerian Coffers of Compassion begins to feel like I'm spilling blood. Yes, even a question feels like I'm being cut.
FA on feathers, fangs, furies and all sorts of folly, yes, even the serious kind.
content copyright 2011
Yep, my life, my insanity, my copyright. If you like what you read, let me know :)
Did I use your image & attribute it incorrectly? Sorry! Let me know and I'll take it down. "Sssshhhh" image on blog header by Deborah Azzopardi. It's an amazing print now available thru Ikea.