Free writing…a little something written in July

Here take my hand child
Don’t be afraid
Don’t gaze up at me suspicious
Don’t you recognise my face?

Think, think child. See me.
Don’t you know my name?
I was there when you were born child
You and I are the same

I saw you when you were lonely
Cried when I found you in pain
Got you up in the morning
Made you catch your train

Watched you clean up the mess
Again and again and again
I rubbed your brow when you were sleeping
Felt you going insane.
From listening over and over
To the same tired refrain.

Not to worry I am here now
No child don’t you fret
Your cheeks will dry in time child
Your path is not set

I’ve always been beside you
Even when all seemed lost
Saw you holding an abacus
When you were counting the costs

Come home to me baby
I’ve always been here
It’s time for a new chapter
It’s time to shift up a gear

Let’s face the future together
Let’s go to the moon and back
Let’s compose a new beginning
Lets mix a brand new track

I’ll step up to do the vocals
You can hop onto the decks
It’s time to surrender to the music
And let life take care of the rest.

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Starting over: a post marriage pick me up

What do you do with a life? When corners are filled with wrong turns and regrets and the room of it, for you feel boxed in some days, seems like a badly decorated, tight cacophony of mistakes.

What do you do with a life? When you survey the scene and don’t recognise how you got here with such an assortment of pieces, some broken others aged, worn.

What do you do? When the collection of people and places before you seem alien and you want to exchange a thing or three or refund the whole lot. When you want to take back even the young fragile coffee tables that you didn’t really know what to do with and can’t remember now why you purchased them on a sensible whim in the first place. What. Do. You. Do?

Most things won’t go back. The low coffee tables with their short legs are non-refundable. But they amuse. And come in handy when you just need a place to rest a weary brew.

What will I do with a life, my life? Perhaps first I’ll find the concealed door and let myself out of this one room. I’ll pack the bits and bobs that I have to take with me and head on out. I’ll open up life and be more outdoorsy. I’ll set up camp somewhere where the sky is above and the sea is below and I’ll tread water. I don’t want to keep my feet on the ground I want to keep moving so that walls, ceilings and floors don’t hem me in and lock the light out.

The suffocating migraine of years gone by promises to make my brain implode and seep from my ears. Running like a gazelle into this life is all I can do to stop the hot hot molten aftermath from claiming me.

I’ll take this life and fling it wide open. My life won’t be a box it will be without form. Infinity must have a centre, a starting point so I will be my own beginning and there will be no end. Possibility will stretch in every direction.

I know what to do with a life, my life.
I must live.

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Dance me to the end of love

I have never been a fan of fairground fun or rollercoaster rides with their plummeting see saw motions. And yet this brief affair has pulled me down and left me weightless with butterflies and mosquitos flitting and fighting for space in the pit of my stomach.

It’s over but what a thrill it has been. I think I got carried away and stayed too long. I looked up and then was surprised to find everyone gone and myself alone. The walk home will be a little hard but at least I don’t think I’ll get lost. And there’s always music. It was a love affair of sorts but this time instead of being paralysed by heart break I’m dancing to the end of love. Swaying and spinning my way home until the fair is back in town with a new attraction.

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The era of non trust

How do relationships work these days? I mean what are the actual mechanics that make it tick along?

Let’s look at the order of things.
A. You meet someone online that isn’t repulsive that is actually interesting that you fancy to whatever degree.
B. You exchange telephone numbers.
C. You arrange to meet in real life.
D. You get on
E. You have sex
F. You arrange to meet again
G. You get on
H. You have sex.
Repeat C-H for a couple of weeks
And then you discover that actually no one minds fucking other people right in front of or behind the back of the person they are meant to be primarily fucking and that instead of relationships we are all involved in one huge fucking orgy. You sort of suss out that the guy you are seeing is disposable and that you too can partake in the delights of this mass fucking bonanza. And that is exciting because it brings that variety and summons the spice that is so crucial to human life.
But who on this planet has the time? I have a demanding job. I have a social life that due to a Lazarus style resurrection is pretty healthy. I have two children. I have things to do damn it! So where I wonder am I supposed to fit in the juggling of sex partners? How the hell do I message the guys that I’m interested in without getting sacked, without my kids turning into Oliver Twist extras, without losing my mind?
I have considered getting a PA. But can’t afford one.
I have considered checking messages once a day. But it’s too addictive.
I am wired. Hooked on and into the system. And I quake.
Maybe having kids screws up my chances of success in this cut throat business. But I refuse to let motherhood define me or my sexuality. I wanted to have lots of amazing sex forever. That’s why I got married. And now? I must whither and die consigning my vagina to a lifetime of mechanical toys? Forget it. Nope. No way. I need a man between my legs with his heart beating fast not Duracell batteries operating an imitation. So what to do? What. To. Do?
Well no point in letting a good ride go once you’ve found one is there? I’m going to use this one until the sex ceases to feel fresh and exhilarating. And until I can no longer fathom the idea that it is a relationship only of sorts. When those moments present themselves, I will ask again for exclusive rights. If it’s a no no from Mr F then, like Ciara, I’m Out. We are all disposable in this era. And to a certain extent that’s no bad thing. We learn to let go of each other and accept that we own and control no one but ourselves. It’s all rather Buddhist actually. As long as we are all honest with each other. Lying, cheating bastards like my ex don’t deserve a place in the house of free love. The trouble is, I think people like him provide the foundations on which the house is built.

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A friend with many benefits

Shit. Shit. Shit. So Mr F is actually fucking awesome. We meet for drinks and talk on and on. I love staring at him and letting my eyes speak my thoughts. I say I want to fuck you right now. I say I love that you tower over me like the two sphinxes that Atreyu must face in The Never Ending Story but I hope you will not destroy me. I say you are a gift from God even though you do not believe. I am not sure you see the words tumbling around my head.

Later in your living room, as we lie on the rug, in the centre of a street lamp lit lull, I smile at you. You catch traces of the upturned corners of my mouth and ask what I am thinking. I am happy. I am mystified that we have so much in common. Sex with you is an awakening. Like a defibrillator you bring me back to life. I do not tell you these things. Somethings I keep for myself. Control clutches at my throat not wanting, not ready yet to let go. You are still distant. Despite you rocking me, despite the undulating waves we make, there is no orgasm. That vulnerable firework, the feeling of a pulse echoing inside is mine and I do not share it. I hold it back. Wrap it up and lock it away along with my heart. You can not have all of me. It is too soon.

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Sex in the City of London

Ok so I have begun to refer to my new bed friend as Mr F. Partly because I am channeling my inner Sex in the City Samantha and because I always liked the brevity of Carrie’s Big. And also because when I asked for exclusive rights to his dick he said he didn’t want to put all of his emotional eggs in one basket. So he is now without a personality. Devoid of characteristics that might make me care. He has become for now at least just someone to fulfil my sexual desires. I do still keep abreast of developments on Tinder and now also Okcupid but goodness it’s a lot of work! Mr F may wish to keep his options open but I’ve got better things to do than to search for fresh meat. All I need is someone to tide me over until the end of the summer. For now I’d like to think that what I’ve got is a pretty efficient system.

He wants to sample all the dishes on offer at a cheap Chinese buffet while I like to order exactly what I like from the a la carte menu. But I guess when it comes down to it there’s no accounting for taste when both of you are just really fricking hungry.

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