Bee aye be why
It's silly, but I want to write a little something about this, first, before I open an email which awaits. This will be a bit cryptic for anyone who doesn't know me better - even for those who do.
I received an email a day or two ago from, one could say, more or less, out of nowhere, or left field, or the blue. Annnnnnnnnddd, I guess I just wanted to say I was amazed, really (yeah, yeah, I say "really" a lot, like "of course" and "anyway"), by how easy it was for that email to touch parts of me that have been in deep storage for a long time.
So easy, as a matter of fact, that I became nearly immediately suspicious of its aims and ends.
Perhaps, perhaps there was an imagined empathy I saw therein, and trusted that imagination just long enough, almost, but not quite, to use "baby" somewhere in my initial reply. Luckily, at least I think so, discretion ruled the day and so also the reply. This word, however, and sentiment, in spite of what may have actually made it into print and upon the page and out the email door, remained in my mind and on my lips, and stopped each time at my fingertips, hesitating, and aching to pour on down through these little plastic keys. B-A-B-Y.
Perhaps, it has just been too long since there was the fabric of a dress underneath my hands: you know these kinds, yes, where when you move your hands from the rounded backs of the shoulders and down her sides to the waist, the flesh beneath the fabric moves, and answers your caress? Yes, that's all. It has just been too long since I've talked to a dress.
So, instead of typing b-a-b-y anywhere in that reply, I only asked "why?"
I lowered my eyes and glanced up through that space between between my forehead and my glasses and only asked "why," and consciously struck in my head the baby from that reply.
Then I only added in all of my distrust: "you can trust me," again, leaving the baby off the end of the promise.
Anyway, the real and unimagined fact of the matter is that I haven't a clue of what that first email was really asking or saying, and this entry is made as a notation that whatever else it was saying or asking, it was, for me, at the same time, screaming out, "call me 'baby'," softly, gently, call me baby.
One can always be forgiven for one's imagination, am I right?
***
Smiling. This reminds me of a Rachel Sweet (points if anyone here has ever even heard of her) song by the title B-A-B-Y. Gah, I had this on vinyl in college. This album needs to be played at full volume.
OMG, it's available! Not the album version, in which the vocals are fuller, but close enough.
Laughing - smiling so much, omg, she's so cute! (Sorry, profuse apologies, fanboy action, there.)
So yes, anyway, this entry before another email, because I revel in patience and things like that. Or, maybe it is not so much I like to wait, as it is where exactly I do my waiting. The waiting room in my imagination, after all, is very tastefully decorated and appointed, indeed, and uncrowded, and fit for anyone's long wait, with posters of fantastic destinations pasted upon the walls. If these get too yellowed, or faded, or torn at the edges, I just take them down and put new ones up. The management's given me quite the free reign in here with regard to these things.
Ah, now, all of that said, I think it is probably important, this being a public journal and all, to succinctly point out, in case somehow it's missed, that those are all just my musings. To admit, confess even, that it's more than entirely possible that the actual words of that email said nothing at all close to those musings - but that that is how words like those in the email, gathered together in that fashion sound like to me.
That is all on that.
It's silly, but I want to write a little something about this, first, before I open an email which awaits. This will be a bit cryptic for anyone who doesn't know me better - even for those who do.
I received an email a day or two ago from, one could say, more or less, out of nowhere, or left field, or the blue. Annnnnnnnnddd, I guess I just wanted to say I was amazed, really (yeah, yeah, I say "really" a lot, like "of course" and "anyway"), by how easy it was for that email to touch parts of me that have been in deep storage for a long time.
So easy, as a matter of fact, that I became nearly immediately suspicious of its aims and ends.
Perhaps, perhaps there was an imagined empathy I saw therein, and trusted that imagination just long enough, almost, but not quite, to use "baby" somewhere in my initial reply. Luckily, at least I think so, discretion ruled the day and so also the reply. This word, however, and sentiment, in spite of what may have actually made it into print and upon the page and out the email door, remained in my mind and on my lips, and stopped each time at my fingertips, hesitating, and aching to pour on down through these little plastic keys. B-A-B-Y.
Perhaps, it has just been too long since there was the fabric of a dress underneath my hands: you know these kinds, yes, where when you move your hands from the rounded backs of the shoulders and down her sides to the waist, the flesh beneath the fabric moves, and answers your caress? Yes, that's all. It has just been too long since I've talked to a dress.
So, instead of typing b-a-b-y anywhere in that reply, I only asked "why?"
I lowered my eyes and glanced up through that space between between my forehead and my glasses and only asked "why," and consciously struck in my head the baby from that reply.
Then I only added in all of my distrust: "you can trust me," again, leaving the baby off the end of the promise.
Anyway, the real and unimagined fact of the matter is that I haven't a clue of what that first email was really asking or saying, and this entry is made as a notation that whatever else it was saying or asking, it was, for me, at the same time, screaming out, "call me 'baby'," softly, gently, call me baby.
One can always be forgiven for one's imagination, am I right?
***
Smiling. This reminds me of a Rachel Sweet (points if anyone here has ever even heard of her) song by the title B-A-B-Y. Gah, I had this on vinyl in college. This album needs to be played at full volume.
OMG, it's available! Not the album version, in which the vocals are fuller, but close enough.
Laughing - smiling so much, omg, she's so cute! (Sorry, profuse apologies, fanboy action, there.)
So yes, anyway, this entry before another email, because I revel in patience and things like that. Or, maybe it is not so much I like to wait, as it is where exactly I do my waiting. The waiting room in my imagination, after all, is very tastefully decorated and appointed, indeed, and uncrowded, and fit for anyone's long wait, with posters of fantastic destinations pasted upon the walls. If these get too yellowed, or faded, or torn at the edges, I just take them down and put new ones up. The management's given me quite the free reign in here with regard to these things.
Ah, now, all of that said, I think it is probably important, this being a public journal and all, to succinctly point out, in case somehow it's missed, that those are all just my musings. To admit, confess even, that it's more than entirely possible that the actual words of that email said nothing at all close to those musings - but that that is how words like those in the email, gathered together in that fashion sound like to me.
That is all on that.
