And she swayed to and fro
As she walked in and out of the room,
All eyes on her.
Her movements,
The shifting of her round hips,
Rotating her ass with each step.
Everyone knew this walk,
Everyone knew what each sway of her hips implied,
And what it would mean if you could get her alone.
Jo.-
May 30, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Art of smoking...
An excerpt from the book I'm writing:
She leaned her side against the wall, took a deep drag, and exhaled the stingingly sweet smoke from her lungs out of her nose and mouth.
Clara perfected the art of smoking, and she thought about her actions deliberately and carefully each time she lit up. She loved it. She loved the look of it, the smell, the way it felt between her index finger and middle finger, always between the top and middle knuckle. It always irritated her to watch people who socially smoke holding a cigarette like it there’s a bomb between their fingers and a stiff hand. Stiff hands are always a dead give away, when you were dealing with a novice smoker. That and the way they took a drag.
Clara liked to let the thick tendrils of smoke creep out of her nose and mouth, draw it back into her lungs, and then blow it out in a long steady stream. When an "amateur" smokes, it's always a quick drag. Then they hold the smoke their mouths, never taking it into their lungs, until they practically spit the smoke out. Why bother, if you aren’t going to learn to appreciate it?
"Ok, so maybe I take smoking entirely too seriously," she thought sarcastically and smiled to herself as she watched the cherry burn and creep up the cigarette paper turning everything in its path into ash, "Like a fucking metaphor for exactly who i am..." she thought. Being a good girl was tough for someone who can’t help being bad.
She leaned her side against the wall, took a deep drag, and exhaled the stingingly sweet smoke from her lungs out of her nose and mouth.
Clara perfected the art of smoking, and she thought about her actions deliberately and carefully each time she lit up. She loved it. She loved the look of it, the smell, the way it felt between her index finger and middle finger, always between the top and middle knuckle. It always irritated her to watch people who socially smoke holding a cigarette like it there’s a bomb between their fingers and a stiff hand. Stiff hands are always a dead give away, when you were dealing with a novice smoker. That and the way they took a drag.
Clara liked to let the thick tendrils of smoke creep out of her nose and mouth, draw it back into her lungs, and then blow it out in a long steady stream. When an "amateur" smokes, it's always a quick drag. Then they hold the smoke their mouths, never taking it into their lungs, until they practically spit the smoke out. Why bother, if you aren’t going to learn to appreciate it?
"Ok, so maybe I take smoking entirely too seriously," she thought sarcastically and smiled to herself as she watched the cherry burn and creep up the cigarette paper turning everything in its path into ash, "Like a fucking metaphor for exactly who i am..." she thought. Being a good girl was tough for someone who can’t help being bad.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Stupid Quizzes
I've been taking those quizzes about what certain things define me. Ugh, I hate them. I got Wuthering Heights in the latest one. The one book I obsessed over for decades. Stupid book, that I love so much. And of course this would be my most favorite part:
"I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.—My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being."
Aww, now I have to go back and read the book again for like the umpteenth time. Reading Wuthering Heights is like sweet torture.
"I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.—My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being."
Aww, now I have to go back and read the book again for like the umpteenth time. Reading Wuthering Heights is like sweet torture.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Reading Writing Remembering
It all feels like such a joke, but I feel so happy when I finish writing a chapter. I'm consuming book after book like it was crack, and I can't turn my brain off for shit. I'm also constantly haunted by images of my past. It's coming at me in waves. I want to ask questions and find out answers about my life, but I can't. There isn't anyone to ask anymore.
I'm feeling like a pariah, a recluse. I want an apology, that I know will never come, and if it did... it's too late. It would be empty and worthless. It's so sad to see someone you love so much...and know they don't see themselves.
I'm purposely reading books written by women, and I"m finding that there is an underlying emotion behind a lot of broken characters. I find a lot of parallels.
He thinks he's a young bright thing, that someday someone will save him from his self-loathing. He thinks if he confesses his sins at the start, that if the woman knows what she's getting into, then that somehow proves how much she loves him. If she doesn't accept it then he's just nipping in the bud whatever real relationship that can develop on its own terms. What he doesn't understand is that all that invokes in a woman is either to love a broken one-legged dog or realize what a pathetic weakling he is. Either way it turns out, it's all true. He feeds off the love, sucks it dry, because he knows he can never be the man she's hopes he can be. It's silly, but women want to be the one that saves a broken man... but the only thing that can save a broken man is himself. No one can save him. EVER.
This is what I have relive every time I write.
I'm feeling like a pariah, a recluse. I want an apology, that I know will never come, and if it did... it's too late. It would be empty and worthless. It's so sad to see someone you love so much...and know they don't see themselves.
I'm purposely reading books written by women, and I"m finding that there is an underlying emotion behind a lot of broken characters. I find a lot of parallels.
He thinks he's a young bright thing, that someday someone will save him from his self-loathing. He thinks if he confesses his sins at the start, that if the woman knows what she's getting into, then that somehow proves how much she loves him. If she doesn't accept it then he's just nipping in the bud whatever real relationship that can develop on its own terms. What he doesn't understand is that all that invokes in a woman is either to love a broken one-legged dog or realize what a pathetic weakling he is. Either way it turns out, it's all true. He feeds off the love, sucks it dry, because he knows he can never be the man she's hopes he can be. It's silly, but women want to be the one that saves a broken man... but the only thing that can save a broken man is himself. No one can save him. EVER.
This is what I have relive every time I write.
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