Musings of a Butterfly

“ Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you're allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It's like killing yourself, and then you're reborn. I guess I've lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.” Charles Bukowski said that. Let's see. I haven't written in a while. I have completely changed my life in the past few months. A mother, a daughter, a sister, a real estate agent. I had all these labels pinned to me that I didn't want. I felt apathy. I felt disconnection. I didn't want any of it. I don't really know how the course of your life changes completely...if it's just destiny or if it's something that, deep down inside you know that you have control over, just by putting out into the Universe...

Afternoon Mimosas. Deep ambient rhythm on the Bose Ran out of cigarettes Want to smoke But want to quit What to do? Don't feel like walking down the hill And then up the hill And then up the stairs Puffing and panting, wishing That I had quit already.

Connecting, like magnets on that first night She hesitates; the last Bart train leaving the platform, Not wanting to leave his side First kiss, on the platform; holding on “Don’t leave me,” she thinks, “I don’t want to,” he thinks. They end up at the Holiday Inn The night, full of their desire Beautiful, endless, beautiful, Holding on. Holding on. In the bathtub, he holds her, caresses her, kisses her, Washes her, pushes her hair out of her eyes. Wet silence in the night, broken by little droplets of water when they move. Making love, endlessly, passionately. All throughout the night. In the morning they dress. She smokes a cigarette on the balcony As they watch the morning begin on the noisy city street below They go for coffee, The passion and desire of the night still fresh When her eyes lock with his, she has to look away His eyes bore into her soul, she thinks he can see her from the inside out Several rendezvous ensue. A...

You see her, walking down the street. Mumbling to herself, pushing the shopping cart Wild, dirty hair; yellow fingernails, missing teeth You don't want to look at her because you are afraid Of the truth and the sadness behind her eyes You don't want to take the time to ask Because you are afraid that her truth might be yours Years and years from now. Broken promises and regrets. False truths you believed in. Caved in; torn to pieces; Pieces of you, pieces of her. You don't know which is which.

Curtains closed,  city street sounds below.  Inside, dark blue, your silhouette breathing slowly, next to me against crisp white sheets. Our bodies writhed and twisted a few minutes ago,  the need for each other almost unbearable. Thirsty; hungry, we fed upon each other, as if tomorrow may never come. Tomorrow you will go again and disappear. My want and need for you will still be incessant. But now I am good at pretending it isn't. 

Have you ever felt like you have been given a second chance in life? A kind of rebirth? A metamorphosis? Transformation? Whether it be through a conscious decision to do things differently or whether it came about during a life-changing experience? Something happened early this year that has made me rethink everything that I thought was important to me, through habit of living a life that suffocates your soul and stifles your creativity. As a single mother struggling to raise two boys I was running a real estate business that I had gone into because I wanted to help people to attain their piece of the "American Dream". Homeownership. I had previously been working on a large mixed-use development project near San Jose airport, and when that project was finished they offered me a job in Property Management at their San Francisco offices or a good severance of a few months salary and a project completion bonus, which would net me enough money to start my own real estate busi...

She has no burden. She stands, at the edge of a very high, grassy cliff,  head back, face up to the sun, arms wide open, and feels the warmth of the sunlight on her face. She has long black wavy hair. She is barefoot, wearing some sort of off-the shoulder gypsy dress that ripples, long and flowing with the wind. She feels light; a tremendous joy, and dances atop the cliff, a few feet away from an enormous drop into a peaceful ocean of blue. Precarious. Joyful. She dances to the music in her head.