Dolce and the very large hangover

 

 

I’ll tell you this for free: traffic is bad enough without rolling waves of nausea threatening you with the rising panic of your utter lack of an expedient escape plan.  I’ve just had the longest drive into work.  Ever.

 

Last night my loveliest family, extended family and heart family and I trundled off to Stardust *for the first of my birthday parties.  Stardust* is a “theatrical restaurant”.  Being a “theatrical girl”, it was a match made in heaven.  It’s one of those singing waitrons type places.  You get food, then suddenly your waitron is on the stage belting out a Chicago number or crooning a 40s swing tooon.  

 

I ordered the table next to the stage, settled down and made my first mistake; two bottles of Pongratz**. 

 

It was downhill from there.

 

And now I hurt.  And I’m green.  And great billowing waves of biliousness keep threatening to unman me.

 

And if I can just make it until 1pm, I can get my meeting done and go home to my snakepit.

 

Eep.

 

I’m too old for this nonsense.

 

*If you ever go.  Get Shannon as your waitron.  She does a rendition of “When You’re Good to Mama” that will blow your socks off.  She also sings in a band called Heart Shaped Heresy. 

 

**What’s a birthday without lots of bubbles?  *gag*

that picture

Curled into the slow ending of a day.  Stillness cupped in the muted cry of gulls and the soft crush of waves on rocks.  There is only the rise and fall of breath and the unhurried metamorphosis of light.  From winter blue to the soft opal sheen of peach and lilac and aquamarine.  Straight lines of colour against an infinite backdrop of blue.  A stripped afternoon edging into night.  With only the gossamer ties of whispered words and the quiet lull of music to frame the day.  Warm arms.  The rhythmic eloquence of a heartbeat.  The fading of the painted sky into indigo, magik’d with stars.   And no place I’d rather be, than in the twilight dark with you.

The Reaper: the Journey

Evelyn waited on the ridge, as she’d been told to do.  The wind howled and whistled along the bones of the mountain, biting at the exposed flesh of her neck and wrists.  In the distance she could see the valley, her village, smoke rising from the small collection of homes clustered together in the stark landscape.  She was cold.  The rage and fear and sadness had subsided for now and all she could feel were the teeth of the wind.  She turned her eyes to the dark grey ranges around her and before she saw him, she heard the harsh cry of the eagle. 

 

The huge, golden bird soared up from behind the black peaks and swooped down to the ridge in wide, keen circles, to land on the open rock.  The bird was the size of man.  Dark eyed, intelligent, he looked at Evelyn curiously.  Cocked his head to one side as if examining her.  She raised herself up to her full height and stared back without fear.  The bird nodded, unfolded his tawny wings, rose into the air and gently picked her up in his black claws.

 

The air grew colder as the eagle flew higher. Despite her resolve to be fearless, Evelyn closed her eyes against the vertigo the threatened to overwhelm her and clenched her hands in fists.  The eagle flew.  Over the endless mountains of the hard lands.  Over the crags and peaks and valleys.  Over bitter lakes and hard rivers. Over the flats of scrubland and the dry earth of winter.  And still the eagle flew.  On and on he flew, the pulse of his wings the only measure of how far they’d come.  Evelyn forgot time, forgot distance, forgot all in the rushing of the air and clasp of the eagle’s claws. Fighting back the fear, she forced herself to open her eyes and saw a monstrous black peak, rising up to devour the horizon.  And felt the first quickening of despair as she realized she would never find her way home.

 

The bird slowed and began to circle down towards a narrow path etched into the face of the rock.  He set her down before hopping on the ledge and ruffling his feathers in the wind.  She thanked him and he looked her over again with his dark, serious eyes and inclined his head up the path.

 

Evelyn wrapped her cloak more firmly around her.  On the exposed slope, the wind felt crueler.  More intent than before. Dangerous with the vicious abyss to her right.  As the bird took flight, she watched him ride the wind into the sky and then turned up towards the path.  Stepping carefully along the narrow, roughly carved trail, she inched her way up the mountain.  For hours she walked, numb to everything but the next step she had to take. As night fell, she huddled against the unforgiving stone, eating the last of her bread and apples, unable to sleep, but too afraid to continue on in the dark.  

 

As dawn crept along the skyline, she rubbed feeling back into her arms and legs began to climb again.  As she approached the summit, the path narrowed, until she was forced to lean into the granite face of the mountain to keep a precarious balance against the drop and the wind. Tears of frustration and exhaustion welled in her eyes.  She cursed the bag of stones that thrust the garnet in her hand.  She cursed her father.  She cursed the eagle.  And just as she was about to give up, sink to the ground with the rage and the pain to keep her warm, she stumbled round a corner and found a level open space leading back into a shadowed cave.  She cried out in relief, allowing the tears to come, bowing her head into her hands and sobbing.

 

A shadow in the entrance moved and a voice said; “You’ve done well, Evelyn.  Welcome.  Come in, my child.  I am the one you call the Reaper.”

______________________________

 

Chapter 1: The Choosing

 

 

 

 

Vive L’Anniversaire*

*sop alert

On the 30th of May 2006 I wrote my first post on a blogspot blog. A week later, I wrote my first post for Blogmark. I cannot believe how my life has changed in the two revolutions of the sun since that week.

I look back over the last two years (and the year before that I lurked like a professional stalker), through numerous transmutations (of blog-home and character) and I can quite honestly say that the challenge I set myself that long ago Tuesday afternoon has been met.

I no longer live my life apart. On the couch. Safe. In the lead up to that first post, I changed my job, I challenged myself on how I really felt about relationships (with friends and lovers) and I realized that I would never find joy without the threat of a little pain.

So, people of the blog. Thank you. For lurking and bleating and poking and flaming. For meeting and drinking and snogging and squeezing. For listening and reading and eye-rolling and believing.

You’ve changed me in ways you will never know. And I will never be able to tell you how important you’ve been to me.

Here endeth the sop.

An addendum to the DW

Right, so when the LB* made the booking for our DW, he regaled me in the conversation he had while booking:

 

LB: “Room for two please”

 

Booking lady: “Ooooh, lovely, will you be bringing your wife Sir?”

 

LB: “No”

 

Booking lady: “Um. Right  [awkward silence]  Ok.  Name please?”

 

We giggled.  The perfect start to a DW.

 

So when we arrived at the room, I HOWLED with laughter, because there, artfully arranged by “accident”, was not only a bible, but a Bridal magazine too.

 

So I whipped up the bridal mag, hooting with derision, and prancing around the room pointing out meringue frocks and hideous table settings, only to be utterly silenced by the ad on the back cover:

 

 

The gods are a fuckkin’ bunch of sarcastic bastards.  Nice one, oh thunderous ones.  Ha. Ha. Ha.

 

*Laughing Boy

 

Stone

My sadness is like a stone.  A flat pebble, grey and smooth, in the palm of my hand.  Small enough to wrap my fingers around.  But there.  Hard.  And I turn it over and over.  Like worry beads.  Like faith.  Like benediction.  But the turning only makes it smoother, more familiar.  Until it fits the curve of me like a whisper.  There is a solidness to my sadness that is strange and deep and comforting.  A solid, grounding weight that makes the return of light a gift.  A reminder.  My talisman.  Held in my hand like a stone.

DWs, Dorks and Delightful Postal Surprises

Aaah.  So how apt is it, that just as I’m preparing* for my first DW in a long, loooooooong time, I receive my prizes from Nurse Myra  for her much fun limerick competition.

Hilariously, I had to pick up the parcel from good ole’ SA postal service, who are notorious for their odd employees.  Postal Dude** grins broadly and says, exceptionally loudly; “Hey, lady, I need to see when your birthday is.”

Cue blank, arched-eyebrow look.

“Ag, lady.  Your ID book.’

Ah.  *sigh*

[takes proffered book] 

“Aaah, thanks man.  Hey, your birthday is soon.  HEY, You’re 33.  Like in two weeks or so.  Cool.” 

[wanders off to find parcel]

*eye roll*

[Postal Dude ambles back…no rush here.]

Even louder:  “Hey lady, it’s from your friend Nurse Myra.  Who lives in Australia.  How cool is that?”

Dork.***

I just smile and nod.  If only he knew. 

So Nurse M…thank you.  I luuuuuuuuurve my prizes.   What a haul…can’t wait to try the sparkly straps.  And I really, really like the Alex Lloyd. That boy can sing.  And what the hell is a Nurse M prize without a pussy.  Gorgeous, just gorgeous!

I also luuuuuuuurved my DW, even if it was attacked by crunchiness and lergies.

*grin*

*packing of lingerie, defuzzing of fuzzy bits, grinning with glee
** He worried me that he might indeed go postal
*** Someone once told me that a dork is apparently the bone in a whale’s penis?  Well.  Ok then. I can’t find corroboration. But hell. It’s the best description I’ve heard!

Alone

The girl was alone in the wood.  The trees were dark and foreboding.  Their twisted roots and trailing branches snagged her feet and hair.  She was alone.  With a tear streaked face.  And cold, blue hands.  She was walking.  She’d long given up running.  Her breath was still ragged, but more from the sobs that choked her.  One foot in front of the other.  One more step.  She walked on through the forest, unseeing and deaf to the rustles and creaks of the wood around her.  She wasn’t lost.  But she wasn’t clear where she was either.  It was unimportant.  All that mattered was that she kept moving.  Kept moving along the overgrown path.  Towards the other side.   Where flowers grew.  And the meadows sang with larks and the wings of small insects.  Nothing grew on the dark floor of the forest but moss and lichens and twisted toadstools.  The densely woven canopy shut out the light and muted the sounds of faraway birds.  The drip of water and the ancient sigh of the trees hid the smaller sounds of furtive animals.  She was alone.  And for all her tears, it felt good. 

Relationships 1.01

I’ve been thinking about “ex’s”.  As you do.  And wondering why we don’t have “exit interviews” when relationships end.  You know.  Like when you leave a job.  And they have a final developmental meeting to help the business and the individual work out how things could have been better.  What areas might need attention.  Or what really worked well.

And I was thinking; if we weren’t the ego trapped, pathetic, emotionally crippled lumps of meat we are, it would be an excellent opportunity to work out why a relationship didn’t work.  And, if we were capable, we could think about the stuff that we could work on, or shrug our shoulders at the stuff that we’re not too fussed about.

Dolce:  I really, REALLY loved our time together.  But you have hideous breath. And I can’t imagine spending another month, let alone 25 years, snogging a dustbin.
Candidate 1:  Brilliant.  Thanks for letting me know.  I’ll chat to the dentist.  Oh, and you fart in your sleep. I don’t mind as such, but it’s a little disturbing that you can fart the Flight of the Bumble Bee while deep in REM.  It kinda freaks me out.
Dolce: Thanks mate.  It’s a pity.  One day I’ll find someone who has a penchant for Rimsky-Korsakov.

Or

Candidate 2: Dolc, babe.  You shag like a weasel, and that’s great, but you’re a domineering, bitchy, emotional blackmailer.  And I’m sick of hanging out with your mother.
Dolce: Oh.  Shit.  I thought I had that under control?  Sorry mate.  But you know, it probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.  Your house is a pig sty and I can’t handle your taste in porn.  I mean, hot lesbian action is sooooo passé.

Or

Dolce:  I don’t want this to end, schnookems.  I love everything about you.
Candidate 3: Stop stalking me bitch.  That restraining order isn’t just for show you know.
Dolce: Oh baby.

You know.  Useful stuff that you can take forward into more successful love careers.

But no.  We usually just tout out the old “it’s not you, it’s me” [Read: I hate your guts and I rather eat cat droppings that share another second with you].  Or “I’m not ready for a commitment” [Read: With you, you clingy, self-obsessed git].  Or “Let’s be friends” [Read: at least then I can still avail myself of your collectors’ edition series of DVDs without having to put out afterwards].

Even better, you could get reference letters to take into future relationships.

“Candidate 2 needs to work on his attention to detail, but dear mother of god, he has a tongue like an electric eel”

“Dolce is exceptionally well read, but she still licks her plate at the dinner table.  However, this in no way hinders her ability to impress potential in-laws.”

I think this could work?  I mean, why *is* it so fukken complicated?

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.