Sugar euphoria

Or what results from a sweet induce coma

I had slept as one content and spent but not from orgasm and still there had been a fulfillment that made even the sleeping itself sweet. Then I woke and it had all been somehow different, I could not have said for certain how for it was not as tangible as say the ugliness of hairs erect on the back of one’s neck nor was it the haunting displacement  in the near anticipation of du déjà vu but it too was a misalignment of one’s psyche. I was uneasy and got more so with every shallow breath taken and still I pressed on washing then readying myself for the day ahead.

Woman Clothed with the Sun by Alice Pike Barney

At half-seven I stepped out the front door, into the sunlight and knew right away with certainty that the sun had been flipped upside down. As alarming as it had been it did no more than set my mind at ease for no longer did I have to fret at what it was that had so set me on hedge. I went back inside to check the news but it had been business as usual on all the morning shows and news outlets. I was late getting to the shop and noticed nothing out the ordinary for most the day. Well... there had been an unusual number of women celebrating being ten pounds lighter. It kept popping up the entire day, women treating themselves to an extra peace of sweet in praise of their good fortunes. I was positive it had something to do with the sun but did not understand how until moon rose and it was closer.

My love my care,

Simone

The Stunner

I sometimes see a woman so beautiful I want no more than to write her a happy ending and it is not always just a charming face either. Sometimes it is no more than a small gesture or kindness done that makes her in that moment worthy of notice. I’ll give you an example; there is an elderly oriental woman who panhandles at Young and College in front the Starbucks on the corner. She sits there silently with a baseball cap in her hand looking slightly embarrassed and apologetic. I’d often give her the change from my coffee rather than tip the barista and feel pretty okay about it until a few days ago when I saw this pretty black girl sitting beside her with Tupperware in hand. I’ve seen this young woman before and thought her lovely enough and even spoke with her once something about notebooks and her being French, Caribbean from Martinique but it was not until I saw her sharing her lunch and listening with open interest as the little beggar whisper some secret to her did I want to write her story. In that moment she was perfect heroine and goddess deserving of brilliant happy end. Oh, and beautiful, she truly was. Her smile held such tender understanding for the little woman sitting next to her it filled my heart and broke it all at once.

first female astronaut candidates

I imagine that in order for something like that to work well – me writing her happy ending, that is - I would have to interview her and find out what that constitutes for her because it simple would not do. Now, would it? For me to write for her some happiness I dreamt up but which she finds hellish.

My love my care,

Simone

My ideal, the wrong me

I’m often cruel without having been sentential and can even be sentential about my cruelty but then the focus of my malevolence is almost exclusively self so I image there is no help for it. 

  

Tamara de Lempicka's Dormeuse

I loved this man once for whom I wanted to be a hundred impossible things. I would see him and instantly take catalogue of my flaws. He made me desperate for with him I was nothing but want. Want for his love, for longer legs and smaller waist and firmer tits. It drove me mad wanting to be younger, faster, stronger for someone who was no more than sweet for who I already was and so I left him. It took time for me to love again and when I did it was to a man who right from the beginning kissed me as if anticipating a long parting.

My love my care,

Simone

April’s fool

I really do believe in love you know and that despite never having seeing any true manifestation that could not be explained away as something else. It is a matter made worse I believe due to these long conversations I have with my sister about the plausibility of romantic love where the end result is always dread of dying alone. Following that line of reasoning, lately the idea of tribe or rather our society’s lack of connect to an extended tribe where one feels ownership and connect has been running parallel with the notion of love lost. There is this idea that we love our pets, best friends, children and all else is a matter of necessity or chance. Fool that I am I want to explore more this idea.



James Childs's Bow Bridge

Then again our only duty is beauty to put forth what is true and good, which would make love the entire thing, right?

My love my care,

Simone