Avatar
Please consider registering
guest
sp_LogInOut Log In sp_Registration Register
Register | Lost password?
Advanced Search
Forum Scope


Match



Forum Options



Minimum search word length is 3 characters - maximum search word length is 84 characters
sp_TopicIcon
Long, Tedious, and Pointless but Who Cares? You're either killing time at work, or bored at home so just read the damn post. Thanks so much for your cooperation!
February 28, 2005
9:07 pm
Avatar
Anonymous
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 24, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

A "Love" Story:

"After a day of sitting in a seminar on counseling techniques for people with Anger/Aggression Management issues, I retreat to my hotel with an indignant realization that I cannot control my anger, either. I just happen to be a "turn the anger inward" kind of gal. I've just lost the love of my life. I'm so behind at work my boss would fire me on the spot if he wasn't such a kind-hearted man. My recently arrived income tax refund has completely drizzled away like the rain we've been having day after bleak, hopeless day. I can't make my mortgage payment 2 months in a row. We all know what happens next--can you say "foreclosure?"

I devise a suicide plan and set a date just after the upcoming weekend. I can't suicide just yet as, within just a few dozen hours, my entire family will be arriving for an impromptu reunion. This, the result of an overly outreaching sister who wanted to attend a Japanese festival and invited everyone in the family to join her. I'm stuck. But not for long. In the Japanese culture suicide is acceptable, after all.

As we made plans for our family weekend, we had no idea we would almost lose our mother to a fatal heart attack, averted only upon the insistance of my meth-addicted brother-in-law's mother and physician father. Less than a month before the Festival, Mom has emergency angioplasty and feels better now than she has in years. I'm joyful beyond belief that my mother's life was so quickly restored, yet I continue to grieve that my partner is not here to share this with me. So I continue planning my own little "heart attack."

In honor of the marriage she says never existed, I chew up a pain-killer and smoke a bowl of sticky skunk weed. I dress in a comfortable cotton bra that, by some miracle, manages to compliment my 5'2" 240 lb. frame. I top it off with a long black T-shirt full of brightly colored embroidered flowers and pull on some thread-bare white men's boxer briefs. No one will see them under the length of the t-shirt anyway, and besides, I left my bathing suit at home. I go out to the hot tub, only for my absent love. I do this only for Bonita.

I turn on the jets and lower myself into the steamy water. I feel my body begin to relax, weightless. Almost non-existant. Soon to be non-existant. The jets stop after only 5 minutes. As I pull myself out of the water to turn the jets on once more, I'm suddenly aware of the feel of my wet t-shirt clinging to my obese body like shrink-wrap--and I'm beautiful. I return to the hot tub briefly, then decide to head for the pool. I feel so beautiful now that I know I can be with anyone I want. I feel it because Bonita is no longer here to feel it for me, to tell me over and over and over. How I long for her.

As I walk to the pool I pull my fingers through my feathery chestnut-red hair. The color is mine because I mix it myself. I bring my hands down over my large almond shaped/colored eyes, then across the apples of my cheeks, peppered with freckles. A man who looks to be about 5 years my junior is checking the pool temperature. He has brown wavy hair and a nice body--I notice, in his Levi's and tucked in work shirt. He smiles a wide, telling smile and says "Jump in! Enjoy yourself!" He leaves, but not before he throws another smile over his shoulder in my direction. I catch it. I believe I can have him. I believe it for Bonita. She thought nothing less of the beauty she sees in me.

I drop into the pool and position myself in front of the light rather than hiding in the darkness as I normally would. I can see yellow, white, and red-orange stars beginning to twinkle over my head through the light pollution of the city. I let my body move through the water. I've always been a good swimmer. I perform a slow ballet for Bonita, and the few hotel guests who are interested enough to watch from their open doors. I count more than one. Bored, I begin to swim to the steps, fearing inability to lift my large body up the pool's ladder. I think of Bonita. In three strong smooth strokes I reach the ladder and climb out of the pool like a Goddess.

I comfortably return to the hot tub. I find new, stimulating ways to position myself against the pressure of the jets, knowing what would be happening if Bonita was in the hot tub with me. Immediately upon that thought the pool area, and specifically the hot tub, surrounded by blooming shrubbery, are no longer my "private" playground. A woman and her two young sons enter the pool. One of the boys is crying. The pool water is "too cold" he cries. "Mommy, why can't we go to the hot tub." A sign blares NO ONE UNDER THE AGE OF 16 ALLOWED IN JACUZZI.

The child continues to cry and beg. His embarrassed mother works hard to appease him as I approach. I tell her I'm going to my room and the hot tub is empty. They all smile at me. I tell her if anyone complains about small children in the hot tub, she should say that a Social Worker told her it's okay to break the rules every once in a while to make a child happy, and if they have any more questions, they can see me in room 156. I do this for Bonita, for the tortured child she was, and the tortured woman she's become. The woman throws her head back and laughs as her children continue to smile at me. If Bonita were here, she'd be saying "That's my Ren'ai!"

I go to my room and begin to write this long-hand. I write it for Bonita. Later, in three long, slow, intensely separate orgasms I'll have kd lange, Keanu Reeves, and then Bonita. I like to save the best for last. I know, KNOW, that given a bit of time and ample opportunity, I could have my pick of the three, or not pick at all. I believe it for myself. I love myself, worship myself in this moment because Bonita no longer does."

How's that for love?

To all,

Ren'ai

February 28, 2005
9:14 pm
Avatar
Anonymous
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 24, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

...and no, I did not make this up. It happened just like this, Feb. 24, 2005...

Ren'ai

February 28, 2005
10:26 pm
Avatar
addicts wife
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 29, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

WOW!!!

ren'ai, I think you should publish your diary.

March 1, 2005
11:38 am
Avatar
Anonymous
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 24, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Okay. I'll take a chance. Here's some more of my "diary." I made some changes to protect my anonymoty here...

This is from a work that I hope to have published some day called "The Downward Spiral"

______________________________________

Dirt is best when it’s dark. Damp. You have to have the right spoon, a silver soup spoon that you aren’t supposed to have outside. Just under the apricot tree, where the shadows of the leaves overtake the bright Arizona sun. There. The earth is damp, if you dig down a few inches, or what seems like a few inches when you’re three years old. Sometimes the tail of an earthworm disappears into the ground just as you lift the spoon to your mouth and taste the good, cool earth. Grainy. Wholesome. Somehow filling emptiness you don’t realize you have, when you’re three years old. When you’re forty, and fucked up, you wonder whether or not you were trying to eat your own grave even as you were digging it.

To the left, that’s where Mommy keeps the garbage cans. That’s where I go to bury the mice. They go to heaven, that’s what the Sunday School Teacher says, anyway. Mommy empties the mouse traps. The mice are dirty, she says, and we aren’t to touch them, especially after they go into the “trash”. The “trash” is a bad place where “germs grow”.

When things go into the trash, something mysterious happens to them. Pieces of paper that once were useful suddenly become contaminated when they pass that invisible barrier that lives just at the rim of every “trash” can. The minute the paper passes the invisible barrier, it becomes “trash”. It’s not good anymore. Full of germs. Downright dangerous. And now, in writing this I see. It’s what happened to me, in the downward spiral.

I passed through the invisible barrier that separates the sane from crazy, fat from thin, beautiful from grotesque, smart from dull, entertaining intelligence from idiotic wit. I fell into the blender where nothing is separated from anything, and you don’t know where you are, or who you are anymore.

I looked into the mirror. The same mirror I’ve looked into to tweeze, to curl, to apply decorative sparkle and color. I looked at me. Fat, unkempt, and I asked me, “Is this the way you want to die?” Then I asked me “Is this the way you want to live?” I was just waking up from a 40 year nap. I felt confused, sweaty. I didn’t recognize that fat woman staring back at me with swollen eyes. I felt sick. I felt hopelessly tired. And I decided to fight.

Daddy would throw us up in the air. So high! We would laugh and scream with fright when we came down, even though we knew he would catch us every time. It was not my turn yet. Almost, but not yet. And that’s the way it is, when you’re three years old, and there are three older sisters ahead of you in the line. Almost, but not yet.

Daddy throws Debbie into the air, and as she screams her way back into his safe arms, her toenail catches him just under his chin, and tears a red line down to his collar bone. Not deep, but enough so that daddy has to go inside now. And almost becomes another day, and another day, and another day and then never in the downward spiral.

There’s a fence around our yard. In the back, by the apricot tree, there is a tall gray-brown picket gate with a board across the pickets at the bottom, and another one across the top. Just enough the get a good foothold, when you’re three years old.

On the other side of that fence is a big world, full of grasshoppers, lizards, horny toads and tumbleweeds. There are goatheads that poke clear through your flip-flops. But you call them “thongs”, because you’re only three years old, it’s the 1960’s and what we call a thong today, I guess they called a “G-string” back then.

No one around here knows about “thongs”. We descend from our Japanese mother and American father, somehow, into Arizona. In Hawaii, where Mommy is from, everyone knows what “thongs” are. Everyone wears them. And that stuff that college kids live off of these days, that “Ramen Noodle Soup”, that stuff comes from your Ichiro Uncle in Los Angeles, California. They don’t sell it in stores here in Arizona. Not until you’re all grown up. But when you’re only three years old, it’s not called “Ramen”, it’s called “siamin” and other kids don’t know what you’re talking about when you want that for lunch. And you do. You want that for lunch a lot.

Mostly Mommy doesn’t notice when I go over the fence. Mostly she is “busy”. There is laundry to wash, and furniture to dust and dishes to clean and a baby brother to take care of and this is only after Mommy gets my sisters ready for school, and Daddy has breakfast and coffee and goes to work. Sometimes I get to help Mommy, but mostly I go out back. I eat dirt. I bury the mice that died in the traps. I cry for them and remember to pray so that they go up to heaven like they’re supposed to.

I climb the pecan tree to a special place made just for me. When you’re only three, you can fit into the tree, and it holds you up high. You believe in lullabies mommies sing about rocking cradles in the trees. And you don’t have a cradle in the house anymore, but in the tree there is a place where I fit like the missing piece to a jigsaw puzzle. I look up. The leaves look like they twinkle as they flip in the breeze from their shiny side to their dull side and back again. Just like me, flipping back and forth—-sane/crazy, fat/thin, young/old—-in the downward spiral.

The sky is so blue, you would never know we live in the middle of an environmentalist’s worst nightmare. Smokestacks on one side, tailings from the copper mine on the other side. Who knows what the wind carries, what hides in the dirt I’m eating under that tree. We tell time by the whistles. There’s a morning shift whistle, a morning break whistle, a lunch whistle, a back to work whistle, an afternoon break whistle, and an end of the day whistle. Who would ever think this is how we learn about time? But it is, because Mommy says “You can play outside, but come in by the second whistle.” And end of day whistle means Daddy is coming home, and he is going to play with us, and sisters are coming home, and Mommy is busy making supper and there is a lot to do because there is school tomorrow and homework and baths and bedtime.
Before you realize what happened, its tomorrow and you still didn’t get your turn.

Some might read resentment into these words. Read what you will, the truth being what it is and always will be, truth. It’s no one’s fault you didn’t get your turn. It’s just the way of things in life. Sometimes you have to create your turn. Sometimes you get more turns than you want. Sometimes people take cuts in line, or push you up to the front so they don’t have to be first.

When you look at truth from the top, it looks like a 500 million karat diamond. All light and color dancing, a treasure to be certain. There is great value in truth. When you look at truth from underneath, it looks like the sharp end of the same 500 million karats, ready to drop and when it does, it will pierce you through and through. You’ll look down and realize that your legs and hips aren’t connected to your arms and chest anymore. And there will be a lot of blood, in the downward spiral.

“How did this happen?” You marvel at your ability to think with such clarity in the midst of such excruciating pain. What is this? Endorphins? Or pain meds. What difference does it make? It’s happening. One minute you’re three, then next your post-forty, pre-menopausal, 250 lb., unemployed mother of two bastard children, (one white, one black, as if color were a race…I’m piss yellow), living in a 16x80’ trailer on a little over a half acre of empty lot grown over with weeds, blown over with “trash” that escaped the confines of the “can”, covered with your own blood, barely hanging on to the memory of slicing off a thick piece of skin between your legs that’s been bugging you for the last 16 years since your last child was born. Every moment locked eternally into your memory. Every moment forever lost in the downward spiral.

______________________________________

Another little snap-shot into my life...

Ren'ai

March 1, 2005
6:30 pm
Avatar
tracylyn
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 24, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Ren'ai I'm speechless....(and I'm never speechless if you've noticed)!

This is amazing. You have an amazing soul, you can just feel it in your writings.

You have a gift.

March 1, 2005
7:20 pm
Avatar
addicts wife
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 29, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Ren'ai... That moved me. I ahve bittersweet tears in my eyes, and am sitting here thingking how beautiful you are.

I hope that this gets published, andI am so grateful, and honored that you shared this with me( Us) all here.
Thank you!!!

AW (jenn)

March 1, 2005
7:26 pm
Avatar
Anonymous
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 24, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Geez, thanks to you guys for taking the time to read this stuff. There's so much here and I know the "long" posts in the threads can be hard to get through.

I also want to thank you for being so respectful of what I wrote. It is another "baby step" for me to share this stuff here. I worried over rejection of no one being interested in it. Silly, I know, but I am insecure.

Thank you for putting my mind at ease.

Love,

Ren'ai

March 1, 2005
9:51 pm
Avatar
addicts wife
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 29, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

well, ren'ai, you are very tlaented, but I know I am my own worst critic as well so I can relate to you on that aspect.
Andi meant it when I said youre beautiful.
Glad you are feeling at ease...
🙂
AW

March 1, 2005
11:56 pm
Avatar
sdesigns
Member
Members
Forum Posts: 30
Member Since:
September 27, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Renai: You paint such vivid emotional pictures. Just wanted to let you know I enjoy reading your writings. You are extremely talented.

March 2, 2005
9:36 am
Avatar
mamacinnamon
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: 0
Member Since:
September 27, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Ren'ai:

Wow! All I can do is give a heavy sigh. It was all so beautifully writeen. From crying w/ you to having a high respect for you. So very talented. Way to go girl.

Now I'm not criticizing, ok? But, why waste all that talent and take that beautiful selfless girl and put an end to her. She is here to shine. You can read that in your works above.

I pray you will reconsider wanting so bad to leave this world, and take your place in it and shine. You touch so very many.

Love ya,

March 2, 2005
11:40 am
Avatar
Anonymous
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 24, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Hello to all and thank you so much for your kind words. You have left me feeling elated and thankful to be alive. I know there is purpose in my life. I'm trying very hard to hang in and not just stay alive but LIVE. I know you understand the difference...

So, this is an autobiographical work, and it is so intimidating to put it out there. I feel like I'm naked in everyone's line of sight and you all know how I sometimes feel about my body! It is a vulnerable feeling, but feels good to trust as well.

I'm going to put a little bit more out there and see what happens. I do want to get this published so please feel free to offer a critique.

Thank you all again so very, VERY much for taking so much time to read and post your thoughts. I appreciate it more than you will ever know!!!

Love to all of you from the soul of me,

Ren'ai

March 2, 2005
12:29 pm
Avatar
Anonymous
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 24, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

"The Downward Spiral" continued...

***Warning*** If you have sexual abuse issues this writing will contain triggers.
______________________________________

Okay, enough fucking drama—“The Downward Spiral”—my ass! I had a fucking nervous breakdown, OD’ed on oxycontin and who knows what else, self-mutilated, and then woke up again. There. There’s the truth. No glitz, no glamour, no martyrdom, no drama. Just the facts, Jack. The truth. Pathetic, really, when I strip away the decorations. Is this the stuff LIFE is made of? Strip away the decorations, wipe away the drama, and what’s left? A great big pile of shit. All you can do is hope that pile of shit is hiding a 500 million karat diamond. Then just hope you can clean the shit off it, then just hope you can see the shit through all the decorations, and before you know it, you’re right back where you started. BAHM! Yup. This is definitely the stuff life is made of.

How long have I been doing this dance, anyway? Forty years. I know there are those who would say this is an “untruth.” It’s just too convenient. “A nervous breakdown at age forty. How cliché.” “I am a walking cliché.”, states Charlie Kaufman in the movie “Adaptation.” And what the fuck is a nervous breakdown, anyway? It’s just a made-up word to describe losing your mind. Being “a few French fries short of a Happy Meal”, “one beer short of a six-pack”, “not playing with a full deck”, blah, blah, blah…

A nervous breakdown is a light-hearted way of saying one has crossed the line from sane to crazy. Mentally ill. Okay. For those who can’t stand the politically incorrectness of the word CRAZY. So, what did I have, the mental version of some kind of insanity flu bug? I mean, I got over it. I recovered. No hospitalizations. No medications. No doctors. No ambulances. I just woke up. Or did I…?

I gotta rewind this tape, or it’s never going to make sense. Not to me, not to you, not to anyone. And that’s the point of this writing, right? Making sense. Bringing it all together. Catharsis. Recovery. Transformation. Waking up when I’m finished and finding a thin, healthy, beautiful, innocent, gainfully employed, clean, strong woman who has successfully raised two children of varying heritage, living in a new house up in Sedona (i.e. the grown up equivalent of the upper branches in an pecan tree) in Northwestern Arizona. And did I mention the fact that her parents are extremely proud of her?

My maternal grandmother was a “picture bride.” She boarded a ship bound for Hawaii, already betrothed to my future grandfather’s older brother. As she sailed, her fiancé died. I guess he was her fiancé. How do you refer to the betrothed in a pre-arranged marriage? I don’t remember how he died. Some sort of illness, I suppose. I just know that my grandmother was “handed down,” like the clothes I wore in my younger days. She was inherited by my grandfather. They were both seventeen years old.

The day they met was the day they married. And that’s the way they stayed, married, until my grandmother died seventy-some-odd years later. Then it was my grandfather, (Ojiichan is the Japanese word), who was “handed down,” from his home in Hawaii, to the home of his eldest son, to the home of my mother, then back to his home on a small island in Hawaii where his youngest son cared for him.

My mother, being caught between her brothers, dared not protest their arrangement. It is the Japanese way for a woman not to enter into a dispute with the men in her family, I guess. My uncles decided that passing him around was the "fair" way to care for Ojiichan, because neither of them wanted to be responsible for him 24/7. Finally, my father stepped in and declared “Enough.” Ojiichan stayed with us in Arizona until he died, surrounded by two of his surviving children, 5 grandchildren, and more great-grandchildren than I could count. His eldest son, who could not be bothered by the death of his own father, died less than a year later--quite unexpectedly.

Although my grandmother was orphaned, I suppose the marriage was easy enough for other relatives to arrange because my grandparents were first cousins. Go ahead. Hum that song from “Deliverance” so we can get it over with… Thanks.

Don’t ask me why, but my mother followed some other girls from Hawaii to a small town in Arizona in order to attend the small college here. Her best friend began dating my dad’s best friend, and I guess it just made sense for her and my dad to date. My mom’s best friend married my dad’s best friend. My mom married my dad. And that’s how they stayed. Married. Amazing, all things considered. Five children in seven years. And room for more, one more, my brother Larry.

He came to live with us when he was five, not knowing his parents had divorced. Their union fell victim to changing times, I guess. Divorce was not so uncommon anymore, and their marriage had also been pre-arranged by their parents. I guess it’s hard enough to make a marriage work when you actually have a say in who you marry. One thing I will say, although I’ve never met her, my “ex-Aunt Yoshiko” is one of the most beautiful or most photogenic women I’ve ever seen.

06/07/03 2:15am
Fuck. I can’t sleep. Listening/watching “The Shawshank Redemption” for the billionth time. I tried to meditate. Thoughts are racing through my head so fast I can hardly crystallize them before they’re pushed out by new thoughts. I want Xanax. I have it, in my purse.

A few days ago I thought about what it would be like to slit my left wrist, and let it hang between my bed and the wall, let all the blood drain down there so that no one would have to see it. What it would be like to just go to sleep. Slip, drift. So soft. So peaceful. A little deeper with each beat of my poor, over-worked heart. Then I saw my son. Saw his face. When he comes home in the morning. He’d come straight to my room, my cavern, my hide-out, looking for me. He’d flop onto my bed, the way he does, and I wouldn’t move. He’d be the one left to deal with my shit. I can’t do it. I gotta hang on.

Remarkably, just a few days after I have this little wrist slitting fantasy, a local woman who’s been imprisoned manages to sneak a blade out of a razor, replacing the missing blade with a small piece of tinfoil to hide the fact that the blade is missing. The guards who have to check them upon return know of this trick, but forget about it on this particular day. My ex-brother in law, now a jailer, is on duty when she slits her wrist, her left wrist.

He describes the blood spray. It’s everywhere, although she was standing in a sort of bathroom area. He paints a picture of a woman, in shock, the life spurting from her body. She can’t take it back, what she’s done. It’s done. She vomits. She gurgles and aspirates it. No one wants to give her CPR because of all the vomit and mess. They stand there, indifferent, and watch her die. I’m certain she must have lost control of her bowels and bladder. I’ve seen enough death in my day to know what happens. What the fuck was I thinking? That I would slit my wrist and die like fucking Sleeping Beauty? I know better than that!

Suddenly my mind is literally screaming “No! No! No!” over and over again as a childhood memory imposes itself among the few thoughts that manage to crystallize. I’m in an upstairs bedroom in Denver, CO, where we lived for a time. My sister lies on the bed, legs splayed, nude from the waist down. She is talking to my little brother and me in a soft, cooing voice. She is telling us that there are babies inside the hole between her legs. She says the babies are sad. This strikes my heart like an arrow made of ice. I feel so sorry for the babies. She says they will feel better if we reach in and touch them, stroke them. That way they feel loved. My little brother won’t do it.

Something within me is trying to shout a warning, but the sadness of the babies overwhelms me and I reach in to stroke them. I see my sister’s fingers massaging above that place where the unborn babies live, and another arrow icicle jabs deep into my soul with the realization that this is not about sad babies.

Now, in my every-day life, I know this memory exists. I have always known it. But, suddenly I not only remember, I feel the memory. I relive it. The feel of damp and warm around my finger. The sound of her voice. The smells. My brother saying it’s not good for us to be doing this. I’m swept back in time so easily because in my mind, there’s no such thing as time. If my computer of a brain decides to reload something from the recycle bin, it does. And tough shit if I don’t like it.

So I’m there, ruminating, I believe, is the therapeutic terminology, and I can see myself. Wait. I’m just back in that moment, when I had that dream about being in the fish tank. And then I remember the shark attack nightmare. A recurring nightmare I used to have. Sometimes in the dream I would be on the surface of the water, sometimes beneath the surface, but it always ended the same way. A Great White would attack me and I would feel it pulling me apart before I died. When I met my friend Brian, and got a bit more spiritually mature, I conquered that nightmare in a dream about being in a fish tank. See, there I go. Bouncing. Up. Down.

Then this flash of thought pushes into my brain of having shark jaws, all pulled out of the body, you know, the way they boil them or something to make all the meat fall off and nothing is left but the jaws and teeth imbedded in them. Like, I did this in a past life or something. Who knows. In the next instant, I’m in the ocean. A dark, cloudy, turquoise ocean. It’s cold. The Great White attacks me. Chomp. Chomp-chomp. They bite, then pull you further into their mouths and bite more, shake their heads to break off a chunk, swallow it whole, and swim away. I imagine this shark taking me into its mouth legs first, up to great girth of my waist. It bites me in half, and I see my intestines unravel beneath me, trailing behind the shark, so deep into the water that I can’t see where the end went, and I imagine that this is the last thing I see before I die.

Am I manic right now? Is that why I can’t sleep? Is that why I “got well” after I had my breakdown? Just because I moved into a fucking manic phase? Does that mean I’m going to hit the bottom again? And again? And again? Like a big basketball, getting hammered into the gymnasium floor in a good dribble? Is that my life? Up, down. Up, down. Up, down.

I wish I could call Bonnie. I want to feel her arms around me. Listen to her snore. Feel her warmth. I’m so cold. Smell the smell of her. Rub her back. Braille. She reminds me of Braille. All her beauty marks and moles. I wish I could remember exactly the way her back feels underneath my fingers. I wish I could remember where everything is. I feel so sad. I miss her so much. I would be so lucky if she fell in love with me. I think that. I write the words. But a few moments ago, ruminating in my bed, alone, I thought, “Doesn’t it suck? That the things we think we want, we forget about after we have them?”

Would I have her and then simply forget? Forget the smile. The way she cocks one eyebrow up when she flirts, when she’s annoyed, when she’s thinking. One eyebrow. She moves that one eyebrow in so many different ways, to tell so many secrets. I think of her warm kisses. The way she touches me. I ache for, for what? I don’t know. I ache to be wanted, loved, craved, desired, admired, seduced, seducer, worn like a prize on the arm of someone who sees through all these exploding fat cells down into the depths of who I am. Maybe these things aren’t in her. It’s likely I don’t even want them from her. I just want them. Want them like wanting things, possessions.

I’m crying. I’m crying. It feels good to cry and feel it. Sad. Lonely, but good. My tears taste like melted butter. I’m fucking scared. I hate this feeling, so scared, so hopeless. What am I going to do? How will I go to sleep? I stayed up all night long the last time I cut. I forgot about that. I was loaded with drugs, and I still couldn’t sleep. I was all in a hurry to finish cutting because I knew my son was going to get up and I didn’t want him to see me. I rushed to clean up all the spatters of blood. I put the blood soaked towels in the washing machine, or I thought I did, before he woke. What am I thinking? I have all the symptoms of being manic depressive. But maybe this is just happening because I’m not taking any medicine anymore, other than the anti-depressant.

See, if I was with you, Bonnie, I could sleep. I would be asleep right now. I would be safe. I wouldn’t feel so afraid. And if I was awake, I would be near you, I would be drinking it in, being near you and not feeling afraid and alone. I would be thinking about how wonderful it feels to be in your bed, in your arms. I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate it more when I could do it all I wanted. I’m sorry I’m not the one who’s going to be there for you. What the fuck am I saying? I’m rambling. Rambling. Rambling. This isn’t going to make for a good read. Why can’t I sleep? Why am I so sad if I’m manic? How am I going to get to sleep?

Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. The fucking cursor. Blinking. And I’m out of words, but still not sleepy.
______________________________________

The picture becomes less beautiful, yet, like Cici, Mama, Sew, OMW, Cuthul, Murphy, Zinnie, OrangeBoy, Sweet Amanda, Addicts Wife, TooScared, Twinks, Guest_Guest, Tez, Workin, Marley, Silence and so many others here who inspire me so deeply, I live...

Love to all of you at AAC,

Ren'ai

March 2, 2005
12:31 pm
Avatar
tracylyn
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 24, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Ren'ai,

I honestly cannot wait to read more. It is so touching and most of all....I love the way you think cause it's so much like my mind works that I can relate and know that I'm not as wacked as I thought I was. Ha!! Seriously, it's nice to read something and relate to the way I see things as well.

There is a new song I keep hearing on the radio and it starts out saying "she called me at 2 am cause she knows I'm still awake" and then something along the lines of she called cause she just had a breakup. The the writer talks about how she has to get the song out on paper and how she feels naked when people hear it cause it's her real life that she's writing about. It sounds very much like something you could have written.

Don't ever be insecure here....that's what I love about this place and you have such a gift!!!

More, more...we want more!!!

t

March 2, 2005
12:56 pm
Avatar
Anonymous
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 24, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Well, Tracy, I guess I was getting more together while you were writing your post...

I hope it doesn't offend or upset you because there is some ugly stuff in there.

Thank you so much for reading and for caring. This place, and the security I feel here is literally keeping me alive right now. Gee, do you think I might have any codependent tendencies? Ha!

Love you, Tracy!

Ren'ai

March 2, 2005
1:48 pm
Avatar
tooscared
Member
Members
Forum Posts: 21
Member Since:
September 30, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Ren'ai you have a gift for expressing your deepest feelings into words - which is a problem that many of us struggle with, especially me. I was enthralled in your story and wanted just to make you feel better - to feel accepted and to help you realize that you are part of the inspiration that goes on with this site. It is people being honest with themselves and with others. I think people(including me) find it easier to be "real" in what we write on here versus being able to share honestly with people in real life. That is very difficult for me.

So, I am glad that you are finding release in writing these passages and I pray that you will find complete healing in all areas of your life.

TS

March 2, 2005
2:01 pm
Avatar
addicts wife
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 29, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

ren'ai..
I have to honestly say that i need ot stop reading for a moment ot re group, becasue of the triggers you mentioned, but someof the most beautiful things come from the ugliest scenarios, andthat Is my critique of myself, andsimilar writings/experiences.
I will get back to this and finish reading it in a few... I ahve to HAVE to go to the friggin grocery store, andgetthe mail that i havent gotten in a week, so, I will be back, andyou keep writing!!!!!
I love that you have shared this with me, us, and during this latest of my own drama of going waay inside my head, I have realized, through reading your posts (and others) that i am Living, not just existing, and I have a lot ot offer, andshare, and need to get out there, out of my head, and live.. It may be achey, and painful, physically for me these days , but I need ot stop isolating becasue my ass needs a zip code now, or becasue I am not as independant and strong as I once was, I am still alive, and smart , and funny, and couragous , and even though I may be wobbly now, I will still dance blissfully through this phase of my life, as we all are learning to do.

And thank god you type better than i do....My typos are making me wonder if you al think I have fingers the size of keilbasas!!!!

March 2, 2005
2:47 pm
Avatar
tracylyn
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 24, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Again, amazing. There are no words.

March 2, 2005
3:10 pm
Avatar
GullyFoyle
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 30, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Ren'ai

Beautiful.

Sadness tinged with Beauty.

You are a great artist, Ren'ai. You show us truth in the sadness and the beauty of your words.

Gully

March 2, 2005
5:29 pm
Avatar
Anonymous
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 24, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Thanks! Seriously!!!

I'm just going to keep revising and posting. I hope you all will keep reading...
______________________________________

06/07/03 @ 12:31 PM
I broke down, finally and took 2mg of Xanax. Thank god, because I was about to lose my fucking mind. I had no idea how hard this was going to be. I finally fell asleep at about 4:00 after feeling this bizarre kind of aching, completely unidentifiable, in my entire body. Had to be some kind of withdrawal.

Then I have these dreams. In the first one, I’m at the base of this huge rock formation, supposed to the Matterhorn, shit, I don’t know how to spell that. It’s a colorful rock formation, full of yellows, oranges, and reds. Fresh water cascading down in all directions. At the base, we are camping, me and a group of people I don’t recall in waking. We are challenging this formation, planning to climb it, and the air is full of our energy as we talk about our climb. We are excited, not afraid.

We take part in a ritual, where we build a wooden structure full of ladders and passages that move up higher and higher and higher. In this ritual, there are plastic baggies full of glass pieces, different colors on different levels. Not shards of glass, mind you, those pretty flat, oval ones that you can use for games like Pente or Mankala.

On my level, we have placed baggies full of red glass pieces of every variation you can imagine. Some are shiny, some dull. Some are transparent, others opaque. Some are deep blood red, others are a light pink. On the next level is orange. Younger people put the glass pieces there.

See, the higher you move on the structure in this ritual, the younger the age of the group who “belong” to that part of the structure. Then there is a yellow level, then green, then blue, then indigo, then violet. Just like a rainbow. In the last level, the children there are only 3-4, maybe 5 years old.

The idea behind this ritual is that you have to start at the bottom, my level, with all the children from the different levels trying to stop you, and it’s supposed to be all in fun. They jump on you, wrestle you, pelt you with glass pieces. And the object is to move through the entire formation and collect one bag of glass pieces from each level. It’s considered “fair” because even though the adults begin the challenge, they have to face younger people and children from all the levels, and they outnumber us easily 10:1. Besides, it’s all in fun. So, we start the challenge.

Everyone is laughing, especially the children, as they pelt us with glass pieces and jump on our backs and we are laughing as we peel them off us and grab our bags and they try to take them from us. Suddenly, the structure keels off to the right and crashes to the ground. All the children are laughing hysterically, as are most of the adults. We get up from the dirt, dust, really.

Everyone understands and then someone explains to me that the children have the option of pushing the structure over if they feel like it. These did. So, we go about gathering our glass pieces from the dust, and I’m a bit disappointed because I wanted to complete the challenge.

Suddenly I’m in the Indonesia, in a very poor neighborhood. And I see my old friend, Donna. She is hanging sanitary napkins on a make-shift clothes line outside her ramshackle home. I mean, this is a home with dirt floors, and there’s a board you have to walk over to get inside because there’s raw sewage running in the gutters below. There are all these people crammed like sardines into these little huts made of cardboard, sheet metal, discarded wood, you name it. This shack is almost like it’s split level, and the board over the sewage leads to an upper level, but I climb down to where Donna is hanging out her kotex pads. She’s crying and cussing at her husband, Rob, but he’s not there. He’s at work.

Now, see, this is weird, because in real life, Donna and Rob live in Nebraska. They are divorced. They have 4 boys, one in jail who’s like 20, a 16 year old, and twins, both soon to be 14, who live with Rob. They visit Donna from time to time. Donna is from the Indonesia. She and Rob met when he was stationed overseas in the Marines. Donna got pregnant, told Rob the child was his, though it’s obvious he did not father this child. Donna admitted to me later that she believed her eldest son had, in fact, been the product of a union she shared with another boyfriend who was Samoan—a big, tall man. Not like Rob, who is a self proclaimed Red Neck, and stands about 5’4”.

In my dream, Rob has opted to move to the Indonesia because he wants to make Donna happy and keep their marriage alive. He knows she misses her family. I arrive to find her crying and cussing him because she has tried to wash out these used sanitary napkins and they are still blood stained. Not badly, but shadowed with blood.

You have to know Donna to know this would be completely unacceptable. She kept her house so clean that she actually used to wash her dishes before she washed her dishes. I don’t know how else to explain what she did. She walks over to me, in tears, saying she started her period, and Rob doesn’t make enough money for her to buy a box of pads. She is angry with him over this, and she throws the 4 pads as hard as she can, over her shoulder. They scatter into the wind, and it doesn’t matter because there’s trash everywhere anyway (except in her yard). I tell her I have some tampons in my purse, and she can have them. She is grateful so I give them to her and we go inside.

There are babies everywhere. Like six or so, all girls, ranging in age from 3 or so down to just a few months old. They are all Donna’s responsibility, but I find out later that she is babysitting a couple of them, but 4 of them are her babies. I start helping her take care of them. They need diaper changes, baths, bottles, and naps.

Another oddity, here because in real life, Donna once told me that she had an abortion when she was nearly full term. At age 14 she was a prostitute. She got pregnant at some point. She had a girl, she said, who was still alive when she was born, and Donna said she watched her die. She said she only had boys after that because God was punishing her for having “killed” her daughter. Fuck. And I think I had it rough…

In my dream, I see Rob’s sister, Sonya, who’s there for a visit. In the real world, Sonya lives here, and fights a battle with cancer. But where I dream, she is well, with short hair, looking healthy, and still smoking. I’m glad to see her because somewhere inside myself I’m knowing she has cancer, but in the dream, it’s like it doesn’t exist.

Somehow, my sister Dayna gets there. I tell her of Donna’s plight, and Dayna does what she always does. She takes care of it. She goes to the store and spends her own money to get Donna what she needs. And when she comes back, I show her my glass pieces and she listens attentively. Even in my dreams she loves me, pays attention to me, and has my back.

When I leave Donna’s house, it’s to help some boys. Most of them are just pre-teen, and a few a bit older. They are prostitutes, or being raped by men. Somehow, in this dream place, it’s okay to do this to these boys. No laws against it. Most of them end up dead from the abuse, or murdered. There is one, I hear him taunting a man about how he stole $31 from his pants pocket, and the man is saying “its okay. I’ll get my money’s worth out of you.” And I feel sick. I call to the boy, tell him to follow me into a swamp. That’s what I get for watching “Adaptation” right before bed. And for feeding my snake right before that--a Boa named Jack.

The swamp is full of “Jack’s”, but they are all huge; big enough to kill me and/or the boy, who is following me, fearing for his life. The snakes approach us, but each time I grab them just behind the head, and attach them to something to distract them from us. Once, it’s a dead cat, and finally, it’s a Dunn horse, alive. But this is the biggest snake of all, and I have to do something to protect this boy.

We cross a kind of fence, into a camp of sorts, for these boys. A place of safety for them. Once this goal is met in my dream, it simply fades away. I wake up, look at the time, and feel astonished to see it’s already after noon. What the hell does this dream mean? And why do I feel compelled to include it in this writing?

If he isn’t, Larry should be my parents’ crown jewel. He is successful in business. He never got into trouble when we were growing up. He has always been a hard worker. He has always been quiet, reserved. He fell easily into the “popular” crowd when we hit Jr. High, and I followed him, by chance. He brought with him a couple of nerdy guys we’d hung out with since we were in elementary school. He wasn’t one to leave anyone behind.

I never understood how much pressure he must have been under. He and my mother. My father, well, he just did what he had to do, like always, never seeming to miss a beat. Somehow managing to find the strength to make like everything’s okay.

I guess when I was about 5, Larry and his dad, my mother’s brother Ichiro, came to visit us. Ichiro told my parents that he and his wife had separated. He told Larry she went to live in Japan again because she was homesick. He never mentioned the word divorce to Larry. A seed was planted. A seed of hope, I think, in Larry’s mind that one day his mother would get un-homesick, or that he and his father would join her in Japan. We were going on a vacation to Texas.

My father invited Larry along. Years later my daddy told me that he could tell Ichiro wanted to leave Larry with us. So Larry came with us to Texas, and after that I had a big brother. At least, that’s what Mommy and Daddy told me.

See, Mommies and Daddies try to make it easy on everyone. You, your little brother, and Larry. They pull you aside, and they tell you that Larry is not going back to California. He is going to stay with us from now on, and it’s good because now you have a new big brother. He is less than 4 months older than me, but Mommy and Daddy say he is my big brother and I believe what they tell me.

Big brothers are good, because they help you when you don’t know what to do, they protect you, and they help with homework and stuff. That’s what the big brothers on TV always do, so I think this is what Larry is to me, a protector, and a safety net. I have no idea that he might be the one who feels like he needs a safety net. Inadvertently, I burden him with the responsibility of incorporating “Wally Cleaver” into his five year-old persona.

Larry is assimilated into our family. Yes. Assimilated. Like the Borg on Star Trek. And resistance is futile. Ask anyone. Get to close to us and we’ll suck you under like the nastiest undertow on the North Shore. We change our story time routine. We change the sleeping arrangements. This is not a great idea to me. See, I have some memories already about changing sleeping arrangements.

I remember holding my bottle, and climbing into the crib where I knew my mommy was going to put my new baby brother. She found me and said “Oh, you still want to be my baby, don’t you?” as she lifted me out of the crib. I must have been just over a year old because Danny, my little brother, was born only 13 months after me. I got moved to a bottom bunk bed in a crowded room with my 3 older sisters. I remember waking up without my bottle a couple of times, crawling around in the bed trying to find it, trying to cry quietly so I wouldn’t get scolded.

Now my 40 year-old mind thinks “What the hell? I still was a baby, for crying out loud! That little boy should have chilled in the bassinette for a while or something.” But it’s a little too late to drop this note into the Thomason Family suggestion box. Besides, the Thomason family is autocratic. Suggestions are something others might listen to with a guise of politeness before they make fun of you, or explain to you how stupid and fucked up you are…

Who are the people, scientists or whatever, that decide when a baby actually has the ability to recall shit from their childhood? I have a memory of laying on my tummy in a place that I now know was my Obaachan’s and Ojiichan’s home in Hawaii. I was laying on a little quilt, and there was a cracker near my face. I was trying so hard to pick it up and bring it to my mouth. Later I learned that when I was about 3 months old, we went to Hawaii. Now, it might seem ludicrous that someone would give a 3 month old baby a cracker. But guess how old I was when I started getting teeth? Bingo! Not only that, but I remember the smell. Anyone who’s been to Hawaii knows that smell, and you never forget it. However, until I visited Hawaii in my teens, I always associated that smell with my grandparents because most of the time they came to visit us, and when they opened their suitcases, there was that smell of flowers and ocean and fresh fruit and pristine beauty. Only when I was older did I come to understand it was the smell of the islands, not Ojiichan’s Old Spice.

I don’t know exactly how old I was when my oldest sister, Olga, first became sexually inappropriate with me. In a cardboard box where our family photos are stored, there are photos of me naked, at about age five. I remember I was getting ready for my bath. Most of the time I bathe with mommy, or Dayna. On this night, I was going to bathe with Dayna.

My Ichiro Uncle instructed Olga to drag me from the bathroom when I was naked so that he could take pictures of me, and she did as she was told. Those pictures have always been in that cardboard box, just like a school picture, or one of the family on an outing. Like “normal” pictures, except that I’m crying hysterically, and trying to use my skinny arms to cover myself, and contorting my body, legs twisted like pretzels, trying to cover everything else. I have a clear recollection, at the end of that photo shoot, asking my uncle if he would please just take a “regular” picture of me, and he did, in a way. I mean, how can you take a regular picture of a naked kid still heaving from the sobs that racked her body only minutes earlier?

I have always wondered about the negatives of those photos—well, not always. You see, it was only recently that I realized that what he made Olga do to me was a sick, fucked up thing to do to a kid. And what’s worse, I always wonder where my parents were. I think if my dad had seen this happening, he would have put a stop to it yet a part of me can’t shake the memory of him and my mother laughing at another petty humiliation.

In our family, it has always been permissible to make fun of the children at the expense of their dignity. It was done to all of us, as I’m sure it was done to our parents, and we do the same to our children. Seems like we are a bunch of crass nincompoops who’ll do anything for a laugh at any expense, but mostly at the expense of any innocent bystanders. Since we breed like rabbits, it seems most of the innocent bystanders happen to be children.

I recall once after being stepped on by a horse, coming into my Uncle Daniel’s house crying and foot throbbing. When I told my dad and uncle what happened, my uncle responded with a completely straight face by asking whether or not the horse had said “excuse me”. Everyone except for me thought this was tremendously funny.

Now that I’ve nowhere to look but up, I contemplate the abuse hidden in our jokes and sarcasm. When you’re laid out flat on your back, you find yourself with a lot of time to think about things. I talk to myself about making changes. I talk to myself about dying. I talk to myself about helping my kids commit suicide. After all, they’re at least as depressed as I am. Who wouldn’t be, with me for a mother?

I think about my little set-up. Candles, a chopstick, and an over-flowing trashcan. Arranged to tumble like a domino chain-reaction. To burn the house down after we’re all dead, so no one will have to deal with our bodies or the fucking pig sty that has gradually become our home as I’ve slowly slipped deeper and deeper toward the slime covered bottom of my mind.

Buried in the slime are memories. Things I drank and toked away years ago, or at least I tried to. I dropped acid and fucked, to sweat and trip things away. I ate “shrooms” and laughed at the ugliness as it melted and sank to the bottom. Every once in a while, these memories try to bubble up on me, like that shit inside a lava lamp, the way it floats up and down, up and down, up and down. When those memories try to rear their ugly heads, there are more drugs to swallow, more men to fuck, more women, too, one day when my self confidence is so well hidden that I feel certain I will never attract another man for the rest of my life. And why would I want to? Actually, I seem to have been born with the ability to fall in love only with gay and bisexual men. “Something in my spit”, I used to joke, but I never really thought it was all that funny. Those were some painful relationships, and I let my self-worth and womanhood be greatly defined by their outcome. Anything to torture myself. There’s more than one way to self-mutilate…

What is it about these memories? Why did I bury them in the first place? I would tell, have told clients I counseled that our minds are much like our bodies. There has to be a certain level of maturity and strength for a baby to learn to walk. The things that our minds are too immature to comprehend, we tuck away. When one’s mind and spirit are mature and strong enough, these memories are regurgitated for further mastication by our consciousness.

And it doesn’t taste good, nor does it feel good. I'd liken it to vomiting up barbed wire and trying to chew it through and swallow it, or spit it out and leave it to rust. Both way it hurts like hell, and there’s lots of damage to repair. It takes time to heal, a long time. And sometimes, in our fear, we wrap ourselves up in the barbed wire, trying to get away from it but all the while tearing ourselves apart. Is it any wonder I find comfort in razors, oozing blood, and pieces of my flesh? How did I become so violently molded? Where do these graphic imaginings come from? Is this who I am? I guess it is, in a way.

I have often told my clients that you have to tear down the house, foundation and all, before you can build a new one. Man, that was easy for me to say. Now I understand how they must have felt. The desperation. The fear. The hopelessness. The intimidation. The loss. Yes. Loss.

It hurts to let go of the old me, that place where I was comfortable—at least for a while. I’ve transitioned out of that place and my old “house” that was me is coming down all around me. I feel as if it’s being bulldozed right out from under me, while I stand in the living room trying to dodge wall studs and ceiling tiles. The thing is, once that bulldozer gets started, there’s no stopping it. It moves forward and does its job. I know that somewhere inside myself, I’m sitting at the controls. Totally. And that part of me is saying, “Hey! This is great, Ren'ai! A new life! A new house! A new you! Right down to the foundations. A whole new floor plan!” But somewhere inside me is a scared kid who just wants to find my baby blanket. A blanket that I held and carried with me everywhere until it got so ratty that one day my parents sneaked it away and threw it out with the trash. I was devastated.

Then there was my doll, Pinky. She also mysteriously disappeared, although I’m not sure how. I do know that I asked my Grandmother about a hundred times if she ever found it at her house. She never did. And now, lying on my back, buried in the slime of my Jell-O brain, I think about how I’ve always had this weird thing about getting attached to inanimate things like blankets, dolls, a certain pair of shoes, a jacket, a T-shirt, furniture. Stuff I would wear until it was just hanging on my body, completely worn, faded, and full of holes. Worn chairs and sofa leaking their stuffing like a skull leaks brains—after someone takes after it with a hammer, or a .38 Special. Now I know why. I guess you do, too.

Safety. When I was little, I had no control over whether or not my raggedy old blanket disappeared. But by god, when I got older I could control what I wore. In the first grade it was the “apple” dress. A little dress with a matching purse that my Aunt Emiko sent me. In the second grade, it was the green velvet dress with the long white lace at the end of the sleeves. In the third grade, it was the long peasant dress with elastic around the neck, bodice, and sleeves. I could go on and on and on. Even now. I have my big comforter. I have my Albuquerque Aquarium shirts. I have shirts missing buttons that I still wear and when someone points out the flaw, I simply state that “just because a shirt is missing a button doesn’t mean it’s no good. Why, where would we be if we looked at people that way?” Oh, boy. Does anyone out there think I might have some control issues with roots a little deeper than what I wear and for how long? Yeah. Me too.
______________________________________

Hello to all,

Yes, I did think about helping my kids suicide with me. I think if I would have pushed the idea, they might have gone along with it. They are over their suicidal ideations for the most part, and I would never consider such a thing now, even in the state of mind I've been in. I thought about deleting that part, but it seemed like it might defeat the purpose of this so there you have it. I hope I never get that sick again!

Love to all of you,

Ren'ai

March 4, 2005
12:46 pm
Avatar
tracylyn
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 24, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

So I actually had to print this out and take it home to read and reread so I had the time to really comprehend it.

I'm very impressed. You have incredibly deep thoughts and feelings and to be able to understand your own thoughts and put them out on paper the way that you have is a true gift.

How close are you to publishing? Have you looked into it? Do you have enough written to get published.

I write some peotry to clear my thoughts and think a lot about publishing them but I don't have that many yet. Right now, they are just more my personal therapy.

I'm ready for more.....

March 4, 2005
1:15 pm
Avatar
Anonymous
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 24, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Well, if you're willing, I would love to read some of your poetry.

I don't have enough to publish at this point. I have a friend who works for Paramount, believe it or not. She does production coordinating. We went to school together. She has been after me for YEARS to write a screen play for her. She really wants to produce so she said she'll "option" it for me and then see if she can sell it. I just haven't gotten around to putting it down on paper, though I have an idea of what I would write...

This autobiography, well, I'm not even close to half-way finished. "Mi Vida Loca" or "My Crazy Life" has been so "full" of stuff that sometimes I don't know if I'll ever get done. New stuff keeps happening and I haven't even finished writing all the old stuff yet! Not even close!

But I'll keep plugging away. I do have a piece of fiction--a short story, that I'll try to get published when it's finished and that'll probably be my first "real" submission for payment to a magazine...

Thanks for hanging in there with me, Tracy.

To everyone else who has read and commented or not, thanks to you, too. I just feel like I need to put this out there.

Love to all,

Ren'ai

March 30, 2005
6:17 pm
Avatar
Anonymous
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 24, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

I had to pull this thread back up because of the first post when I wrote "A Love Story." Several days ago a friend of mine took some pictures of me. It was the first time in my life that I ever looked at pictures of myself and saw beauty.

No need to respond here. I needed a reminder for me.

Love to all!!!

Ren'ai

March 30, 2005
10:27 pm
Avatar
sewunique
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 27, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Ren'ai,

This darn title again, no, no, not the words..........you get the award for the longest thread title out there! smiles

March 30, 2005
11:11 pm
Avatar
mamacinnamon
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: 0
Member Since:
September 27, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Ren'ai:

I read the damn post and I want to respond.

You have always been beautiful. I'm glad you are finally opening your eyes. Let's keep them open and see the positives and the beauty that surround you. They've always been there ya know. 🙂

March 30, 2005
11:23 pm
Avatar
addicts wife
New Member
Members
Forum Posts: -1
Member Since:
September 29, 2010
sp_UserOfflineSmall Offline

Ren'ai..
I know you said no need ot reply ot this, but Im glad you pulled it up for a reminder to you, and that
I am soo glad you saw the beauty in yourself and in the photos...
I always thought you were beautiful, and Im so glad you saw it!!
Luv Ya' lots,
((((hug)))))
~AW

Forum Timezone: UTC -8
Most Users Ever Online: 349
Currently Online:
28
Guest(s)
Currently Browsing this Page:
1 Guest(s)
Top Posters:
onedaythiswillpass: 1134
zarathustra: 562
StronginHim77: 453
free: 433
2013ways: 431
curious64: 408
Member Stats:
Guest Posters: 49
Members: 110959
Moderators: 5
Admins: 3
Forum Stats:
Groups: 8
Forums: 74
Topics: 38560
Posts: 714251
Newest Members:
charli55, SeaG1ant, shawncanwe, lianot, dagaf, duminy
Moderators: arochaIB: 1, devadmin: 9, Tincho: 0, Donn Gruta: 0, Germain Palacios: 0
Administrators: admin: 21, ShiningLight: 572, emily430: 29

Copyright © 2020 MH Sub I, LLC. All rights reserved.
Terms of Use | Privacy Policy | Cookie Policy | Health Disclaimer | Do Not Sell My Personal Information