Chakra kisses

 

You gave me seven kisses.  An awakening trail of breath and softness.  Each one the intent of your heart.  Each one a gift.  Each a line on the map you drew of me.  One on my crown for bliss and understanding; an amethyst kiss, thoughtful and considered, filled with knowing wishes.  One on my third eye, indigo kisses, so that I could intuit your meaning; see into the centre of you.  Trust the singing of my instinct.  One on the curve of my throat (which tickled bright blue), to connect us through air and water and fire; a code kiss to unravel the meaning between us.  One on my heart.  A lingering green kiss.  Filled with compassion and a willingness to be.  A promise of lips and a future of moments.  And one on my belly, where my laughter lives.  And my fear.  A kiss the colour of the sun.  And your breath wove tales of how it could be, if we believe and listen and know.  You kissed me above my womb. The coral kiss of desire.  And you lit up my body with a fire of carnelian and ochre and tangerine.  And, for your seventh gift, you kissed the base of my spine, to ground me.  A ruby red kiss.  A shower of garnet.  A flame glow to hold me.  Namaste, lover.  I see you.  

The Madness Unleashed

Right.  *deep breath*.  I’m alive.  But, fuck, only barely.  I’ve just spent 3 days in the Waterberg*.  Nice, I hear you say?  WRONG. There were 7…yes, count them, *seven* children under the age of 8. Chaos.  Pandemonium.  Colossal mayhem.  Oh.  My.  God. 

Now amongst my mates I’m either called the baby whisperer, “the bad influence” and /or “Mad Aunt Dolce”. 

The first refers to my ability to put any child to sleep.  I don’t know how, but it’s possibly because I don’t care if they scream themselves to sleep, that they can’t manipulate me with their wiggling and whining and that, for me, it’s more about giving their harassed parent a break, than actually getting them to snooze.  I can be fairly fierce. And once they calm down, the patented combination of a crooning song/softly read story and the ability to rock like a legend, and they are gone. 

“The bad influence”, let’s be honest, is because I have the mental age of a 6 year old.  I stick out my tongue, pull faces, talk gibberish and bang things against other things with the best of them.   I’ve been known to encourage children to jump on beds, eat their bogies and share gross tales of slime and grunge. 

“Mad Aunt Dolce” is because I do this as a grown up.  I will crawl through a storm water drain (if it’s safe), eat an ant on a dare (slight of hand rocks) and bark like a dog on command (if it distracts a fractious child).  Parents are both appalled and delighted.  Children generally get completely past themselves and get wild and overexcited.  They are told, in my fiercest voice, that they must do as I say, not as I do.  As I swear at caterpillars and howl like a loon at the moon.  The best part is at that exact point, when they are getting revolting, I can give them back and walk away.  *grin*

But this weekend?  Ggaah.  One child had the will of Hitler, as well as his genocidal tendencies (towards insects).  Another was his willing Goebbels.  Another, who despite being very sweet, had a catty and wanted to shoot everything.  Another was teething, and screamed for most of the time she was awake.  Which was a lot.  One refused to wear clothes.  One chewed everything she got her paws on.  And her brother whipped his willy out every 6 seconds to piss on everything, including a rather annoyed sleeping grownup. 

They climbed, crawled, shuffled, bit, wailed, shrieked, poked, prodded, beat, wiggled and snot trailed their way into every single crevasse and hole.  They trashed every room.  They demolished every toy.  They tripped and bashed and fell.  They bled and oozed and poo’ed.  Generally, they were madness unleashed. 

And, of course, every time one of them snuggled into the crook of my arm and gave me a cuddle, I was lost again.

Fukkin’ kids.

*melt*

Grrr.
One massive prophylactic weekend!

*It was absolutely stunning though. Even if I was pining.

the voice in the sea

In the dark wash of the sea I hear a voice again. An old familiar. A reasonable voice. Calm and clear. But, I know (I remember, in the bones of my bones), full of damage and fear. A voice that asks, whispers, “How can this be? Think about it. Think, my friend. There must be something wrong. Look, listen. Be careful, dear one, tread light. The way is treacherous and pitted with pain. Are you prepared? Are you strong? Why risk so much for so little. Why travel such a road? Why, why why?”

And I rock in the waves, the voice a current beneath, and I rock. And wonder. And weep that the voice is not banished. And sing to myself a lullaby. Soothing and soft in the dark. And hum with the song of the sea. That siren song of wash and ebb. Of flow and swallow. And of moon and mist strung stars. And I pay attention to the low shush of the water and hope it will drown more this time. Drown the voice and ceaseless whispering. Drown the doubt and the shame and ache of it all. And perhaps, when the tide is gone, I’ll be, just me, on the shore again.

The Boardroom

Duncan was late.  The boss would have his balls if he didn’t fix the AV before her meeting at 12.00.  And it was 11.45.  Fortunately, he was pretty sure it was just a fuse in the plug points under the boardroom table.  He dashed into the boardroom, barely glancing at the panoramic view of the city through the glassed wall of the 27^th floor.  

The Salon Slut Diaries: A purrfect Pedicure

An hour and a half of heaven. Carrie Anderson is the daughter of my mother’s friend, so when moo recommended I go to her, I assumed it was a bit of a nepotism thing. Mum eventually bought me a voucher. And bloody hell, am I glad she did. Carrie is cuter than a button, soft spoken and has the most infectious laugh. Blonde, with the biggest blue eyes ever, she is chatty without being invasive, and deeply solicitous of her clients comfort. And, her attention to detail is meticulous. Man, and the massage….*swoon*. 30 minutes of toe curling bliss. The paint job is brilliant…although, we’ll have to wait to see if it lasts the required 4 weeks. All I can say is, I’m hooked, and the next one is booked…and at only 100 bucks, I’m smiling too! On happy slut.

Value: You get what you pay for / Nice Price / Eina! / First Born Child

Treatment Rating: Naaaasty / Serviceable / Oooh yes please / gggaaaaaahhhheaven

Pedicure: Cloven hoof / Basically Speaking / Gorgeousness / These toes shall smite thee

Added Bonus: She’s just down the road in Harfield Village….so I don’t have to drive a million miles away.

Call Carrie on 0825729766

Accidents, HIV and the Public Health System

So, this morning I did what every self respecting girl of the modern times does and pottered off for an AIDS test. *pat pat pat*. I didn’t want to faff with the whole doctor/gynae/pathologist=large sums of money routine, so I thought I’d take advantage of the VTC* programme that the government insists is the inalienable right of every South African. Or something.

there is only now

Time melts. Holds no meaning in its cogs and wheels. Slips by unnoticed. Unmarked by the moving hands of clocks or the rising and falling of the sun. The minutes are water. Fluid and running. Hours ebb and flood. The night is an ocean. And floating on its star-reflected swell, I wonder how time can liquefy. Dissolve. Transmute. How its value changes with its suggestion. How its marching tick can turn to a murmur in the dark. With your breath on my body and your hands in my hair. How long a moment can last and yet how little there seems to be when the world intrudes with dawnlight. But here. Here in the shadowless, timeless mere. You hold my hand and float with me. Across seas, where time is obsolete. Where yesterday is just the gloaming trace of indigo. And tomorrow a pattern of gold in the sky. And you whisper beautiful truths in the whorl of my ear. “With you; there is only now.”

stolen afternoon

A stolen afternoon. The air heavy with autumn and sleepy dreaminess. The half dark of a curtained room. Unexpected. The slow unbuttoning of a crisp white shirt. A tempting line of lace. Laughter. The careful, studied curve of a collarbone. A trace of lips. Of finger tips. Ley lines of luminous telepathy. Kisses softer than breath. Softer than smoke. Built with premeditated anticipation. Curled around smiles and closed eyes. The unhurried line of shadow and skin. Languid. The hours marked only by touch and the moving of the green lit sun. Until the light grows soft. And then dark. And streetlight filters through the quiet.

bedroom etiquette: top tips for boys

 

I was thinking about boys in bedrooms, as you do.  And it occurred to me that some of our lovely SA lads might need some pointers on “staying over” etiquette.  Just five friendly pointers, mind you.  Not hard and fast rules.   And, I’m assuming that “don’t steal all of the duvet” goes without saying.

 

1. Ok, so I’m only going to say this once.  Under no circumstances is it ok to stay over at someone’s house and steal their side of the bed.  Not sure which is their side of the bed?  Have a look.  There is usually more than the usual girly paraphernalia on one side of the bed. Books. The latest edition of Vanity Fair.  Lip balm. Large intimidating vibrators*.  Stuff like that.  Sleep on the other side.  Even if you have some fekkin’ good excuse for only sleeping on a specific side of the bed**, don’t.  It’s rude. 

 

2.  I’m not hugely fussy on the whole “socks to bed” story.  But please don’t try and shag a girl with your socks still on.  She might say it’s ok.  But it’s not really. It’s kinda tacky.  It says “my comfort is more important than turning you on”.  It’s something Ricky Gervais’s character from “The Office” would do.  And no body, even laaaahoooosers, want to actually be Ricky Gervais’s character from “The Office”.  “Socks and sex”.  It’s just naff.  Take them off, and then, afterwards, you can put them back on again.  Tell her it’s so that you can warm her lovely, beautiful toesies…you might even get a blow job in the morning.

 

3. Do not ask where she keeps her sex toys on the first night.  And then ogle them and make faintly embarrassed, disparaging noises.  If you can’t handle them, don’t go there.  Yes, her vibrator might make your trouser snake look like an earthworm, but remember, she’s delighted she’s snagged such a lovely (real, live, sexy) gent to warm her bed, so don’t think she’s comparing.  Generally, we don’t compare plastic to flesh. Otherwise we’d be forced to compare ourselves with Pamela Anderson. 

 

4. Dutch ovens are not funny.  Ever.

 

5. Do not wake her up from her delicious dreams of George Clooney and Anderson Cooper by poking your Glory into the small of her back and leering something like “rise and shine baby cakes, RISE and shine”.  You will be asked to leave.  Rather, if you’re in full salute and you’d like to encourage her to inspect the guards, wake her with a trail of uber-soft kisses down her shoulders and back.  Or a light trace of her body with your feather-like finger tips.  

 

Use ‘em.  Don’t use ‘em.  But, next time, don’t be surprised when she suddenly has an “early meeting”*** and then doesn’t return your calls.

 ______________

 

*Girls, sometimes its worth packing your guy away.

**Professing that you’re scared of those testicle eating pixies does not count

***On a Sunday.

iB.O.B.

I just followed a link to this.  A little innovation for those of you who …um… like to whistle while they work.  

“Like music?  Over 18?,” the website asks, before introducing OhMiBod, a B.O.B that hooks up to your iPod (for godsake) for hours of musically enhanced fun.

Now. Where’s that Marilyn Manson version of “Personal Jesus” again?  Followed swiftly by The Rogue Traders “Voodoo Child”.  And possibly anything by Rage against the Machine.

Karaoke anyone?  After all, it ain’t over ‘til the fat lady sings. 

__________________
*Why thank you, Jenty for making my Tuesday afternoon!