Thursday, July 28, 2011

Elaina's Got A Gun


Below is a scene from Surprisingly Supernatural in which Elaina argues with a friend over the "proper" way to handle a problem. 

    “So, what do you want to do?” Elaina was already pushing bras aside in the top drawer of her dresser in search of her gun.
     “I don’t think this will help. Or maybe it will…” Ellis held up a dainty black thong from the tip of his index finger.
     Elaina snatched the article of clothing from his hand and thrust it into the drawer. She nearly took his finger off by slamming the drawer shut as he reached for a lacy pink bra. Waving the gun around near his face like a novice, she backed him out of her bedroom. She knew for a fact there weren’t any bullets in the gun but the wary look on his face was worth the embarrassment of him thinking her unskilled with the weapon.
     “Let me grab some bullets and we’ll go.”
     “We can’t just bust down the door, guns a blazin’, and threaten to shoot Camilla. You can’t even take a gun through the portal.”
     “Can’t or shouldn’t? That’s a very important distinction.”
     Elaina dug through the spice cabinet until she came to the large tin labeled “Black Pepper”. She popped the top and proceeded to topple bullets into the palm of her hand. Today she wasn’t feeling the least bit concerned about concealing her weapon so she’d chosen her Walther 9mm, which she had no concealable holster for. After dropping what looked close to the right amount of ammo in her palm, she huffed out a breath, ignoring whatever Emile was trying valiantly to argue with her about.
     She started back towards her bedroom, she’d forgotten the clip. I hope no one decides to break into my house now that I’ve got the Donish swarm living here. In an effort to Pixie-proof her weapons collection, she’d scattered parts around the house in the least likely places for the Pixies to get into. Pixies hated pepper. Wouldn’t get within a foot of the stuff. They’d already been threatened with de-winging if they used her clothing as fabric again. Seeing Don in that shiny satin tunic, wearing the Victoria’s Secret tag as a belt, had nearly been her breaking point.
     “Shush,” she told Emile, stopping his lecture mid-sentence.
     “Did you just ‘shush’ me?” He looked at Don, the Pixie now alighted on Emile’s shoulder. “I think she did. She shushed me.”
     Elaina opened the cabinet under the sink in the bathroom and pulled out her box of tampons. She recovered the clip and returned the box to the sink. Purposefully, she strode back to the kitchen and lined her gun, clip, and pile of ammo up on the table. When she heard a throat clear, she looked up to find Emile and Don with identical looks of amusement on their faces.
     “You are not going to shoot Camilla.”
     “She poisoned Ellis. She’s probably turned him into some crazy sex slave by now and you’re telling me I’m not allowed to shoot her?”
     Both men shook their heads.
   “Fine.” Elaina stood and crossed the room, retrieving the pepper container and carefully reloading the bullets she’d withdrew earlier. Holding the 9mm up for inspection, she asked, “Can I at least hit her? I won’t even take any bullets. Just let me hit her with it once.”
     Emile laughed so hard he bent double, which wasn’t good considering he’d turned his back on her and that lovely skirt of his was climbing dangerously high.
     “Why’re you laughing? You’re the one wearing a skirt.”
     He straightened, wiping his eyes. “It’s a kilt.”
     Back to rubbing her temples. “Emile, why are you wearing a kilt and what exactly do you expect me to do to help Ellis if I’m not even allowed to hit the stupid bitch?”
     His eyes widened for just a moment at Elaina’s language. Gwaedonaire (the Pixie otherwise known as "Don") took a step closer to Emile’s neck, attempting to hide behind his hair.
    “We drew straws. I lost. Now I have to patrol the Highlands Festival in the park this evening. I’m supposed to be blending in.”
     “Well, I’d lose the Nirvana T-Shirt if I were you. It kills the whole outfit.”
     “I’ll take your thoughtful advice into consideration. Are we done discussing my skirt?”
     “I thought it was a kilt.”
     “Where is the summoning spell Ellis gave you?”

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

The Trouble with Procrastination Oriented Goals

So... Everything Will Be Awesome Then, Right?

Do you ever find yourself thinking, "Once this happens, I will..."?

I find myself doing this constantly, even when I know it's irrational.
"Once I'm successful, I'll be skinny."
That's a big one. It's been repeating itself throughout my life. First it was "Once I get to Junior High, I'll be skinny." Then it was High School, College, College Graduation... and so on.

Reality is, if I were going to be a size 4, I'd damned well be wearing that size right now. No miracle is going to happen over night that's going to change this.

"Someday, when I'm rich, I'll be super cool."

No, I won't. I could be more fashionable now, if I really wanted. All it would take is digging through my closet for something other than the same pair of jeans I've had for six years and a three-dollar t-shirt. If I'm not doing it now, I won't do it "someday" either. Granted, if I ever get rich, the jeans will be super expensive and the price tag on that t-shirt will probably have a Zero after the 3.

Do you have any procrastination oriented goals?

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Why Men Should Read Romances

It's a fact of life that the majority of men, at least the straight ones, do not read romance novels. They have an unending number of reasons for their refusal and most of them I can completely understand. However, I think it should be mandatory for all men, everywhere, to read at least three steamy romance novels, preferably before their first sexual encounter.

Why? Orgasms.

*Gasp!* I know... I said a dirty word.

But seriously, women would be so much happier and men would have a much easier time of it if they just took a few notes from some great writers such as Lora Leigh, Moira Rogers, Cherry Adair and Anya Bast. Any one of their books will give you multiple, exciting, and sometimes unconventional ways to induce the elusive and much lamented female orgasm. (Disclaimer: I feel I should state that this post is not based on my current personal life.)

Maybe while teachers are passing out condoms in Sex Ed class, they should also be handing out copies of Wicked Pleasure.

Friday, July 22, 2011

5 Reasons I Love New Orleans


There are many more than 5 reasons why New Orleans is Awesome, these are my favorites.

                The Doors

No, not the band. I'm talking about the wonderful, colorful doors that lineup along the old brick streets just about everywhere you look. The closer to the french quarter you get, the thicker the infestation becomes. 
I'm a firm believer that we don't have enough diarrhea-green and vomit-pink doors here in America. Of course, when put that way, it doesn't sound very appealing. But, trust me, it is. The way an ugly old Victorian house is charming with it's Jackson Pollock paint-job, New Orleans architecture and design will have you smiling even before you're drunk off that eight dollar hand-grenade. 

It's, by far, the best place to eat food that isn't in the form of a fried square of dough. (Put down your guns, I have  nothing against beignets as you will soon see.)

Port of Call might be a bar but it has the most amazing cheeseburgers you will ever eat. A loaded cheeseburger and a loaded baked potato will round-out your calorie count for about a month. So, make sure you skip a few meals or practice your quiet purging before venturing to Port of Call. Even if you're a skinny bitch and have to force a vomit afterwards, it's totally worth it.

The Wildlife

No, I don't mean the children. I mean the crawfish and 'gators! This picture here, well it's a mess a' boiled crawfish, or mudbugs... some calls 'em. 
Word to the wise, skip the corn and the boiled potatoes and go straight for the critters. And, if a handsome man offers you a crawfish and asks you how well you "suck heads", don't slap him. He doesn't mean what you think he means. Probably. Maybe.

The Scenery

That's right. A floating shack made of tinfoil. You can have one for yourself just as soon as you develop a phobic fear of alien abduction... or you decide to fish on the bayou.

This is referred to as a "camp". A somewhat dry place to get in out of the rain and off the river (or at least out of your boat) when one of the frequent, violent, and drenching storms threatens to ruin your fishing.Or "noodling". Or gator trapin'. This is the luxury model, mind you. It's got a semi-functional grill duct-taped to the shoddy wooden walk out back.

Here's where those fried squares of dough covered in powdered sugar come into play. Beignets. These little scraps of deliciousness must be made from Satan's tears. They're so bad for you but taste so good, you should add the consumption of them to your bucket list right this minute.

And for all that touristy crap you just can't live without? Poorly made voodoo dolls, hemp necklaces as thick as your wrist, unwearable hats of all shapes... and even some specialty hot sauces. The French Market is the place to be.

All joking aside, I love, love, love Louisiana. My best friend and "second family" all live there. I've lived and worked there. Even huddling in my apartment through Hurricane Katrina couldn't make me think poorly of New Orleans. If you've never been, get on down there. It's not all bar-gravy stink and Bourbon Street. And no, you won't have to "float on a door" to get to the French Quarter. Even if you did, it'd be a pretty painted door so stop your bitchin' and give New Orleans a try!

Monday, July 18, 2011

The Differences Between Real-Life Men and Fictional Men

Dangerous Pleasure, Lora Leigh
I keep coming across these articles on the Evilness of Romantic/Fantasy Fiction and how it "ruins" women's real-life relationships because they judge their husbands/boyfriends against these fictional heroes.

It has honestly never occurred to me to judge my husband against a fictional character because, obviously, he isn't fictional. He's real. And real men don't get centuries of immortal life to work on their abs and glossy, long hair.

However, I sat down to sketch out the main opposing features of Real-Men Vs Fictional Heroes. This is what I came up with.

The most radical differences, in my opinion, are in: Initiating Sex, Body Type, Money, Sexual Intensity/Advanced Techniques.

Initiating Sex:
  • In a romance novel, the hero may lean seductively against the doorway to the bedroom with such heat in his gaze that it sears the panties right off of the heroine. A crook of his finger and the lady is sprinting for the bedroom. Of course it doesn't hurt that he's probably wearing low-slung jeans with the top button open and nothing covering his superhuman twelve-pack abs and hairless chest.
  • In real life, the man is most likely leaning against the bathroom doorway after using said bathroom in any number of unattractive ways. He's probably scratching his chest hair through a t-shirt and absentmindedly looking at the wall while he says "So... you wanna do it?" (Disclaimer- this is not about my husband. I know plenty of other wives who complain about this.)

Body Type

  • In a romance novel, the hero is usually at least 6'3" with a lean, ripped body the likes of which you haven't seen since the last time you visited the Ancient Greece sculpture section of the Arts Museum. His eyes, no matter the color, are always so bright and clear that they sparkle in the sunlight. His soul shines through and melts the heroine where she stands whenever eye contact is made. Oh... and he doesn't mind that the heroine is a little older and chubby. Cause, well, he's awesome.
  • In real life, the man is lucky to be 6' tall. It's just a fact of life. Most men are kinda short. They're also kind of soft. No matter how well they take care of themselves, unless they are consuming nothing but protein shakes and spend twelve hours a day in the gym, you are not going to find a man that looks like a Viking Warrior. But guess what? If all men actually looked like that, the women would feel so freaking bad about ourselves it'd be like living in a really really beautiful hell. And the thing with the eyes? Lots of husbands have lovely eyes. However, they're probably bloodshot from waking up four times a night when your three-year-old decides the "witching hour" sounds like a great time to play.


  • In a romance novel, he's rich. He may be rich from living 700 years and making great investments or he's so good at killing bad guys while wearing leather pants that people pay him millions of dollars to thwart their enemies. Point is, he doesn't have to worry about paying the mortgage, he probably gets all the time off from his job that he could ever want and drives a car that hasn't even been invented yet. Oh, yeah... and he's gonna share all that money with the heroine.
  • In real life, he's broke, or at the very least, on a budget. There's no long lost relative that's going to kick the bucket tomorrow and leave him a gazillion dollars. He drives a used car and plays spin-the-wheel to decide what bills to pay that month and which ones get the "check is in the mail" message. But, he's got a job and he tries damn hard. (If he doesn't, dump his ass.)

Sexual Intensity/Advanced Techniques

  • In a romance novel, the chemistry between the man and woman is so explosive that the woman is in danger of: fever, chills, nausea, fainting, seeing flashes of light where none exists... you get the point. Sounds like the fine print in an ad for anti-depressant medication, doesn't it? In this case though, all the above reactions are from a need so violent that the woman can't possibly get the man naked fast enough to satisfy her urges. He knows how to tie her up, how to swing a flogger, when to invite his friends to watch/join and when to be super-emotional-lovemaking guy. And the lady is totally down for every variable given.
  • In real life, you've probably got fifteen minutes until the kids wake-up or one of you has to leave for work and you settle for a naked-from-the-waist-down quickie before jumping up so you can both go off to do all those other things that make up the daily monotony of real life. He's not spanking you or tying you up, he'd probably be speechless for a week if you asked. There is no "third" in the bedroom. It's just the two of you and that's okay. Fictional characters might not have to deal with jealousy but real men do. And, he probably assumes the woman will veto anything too adventurous and maybe cut him off completely just for attempting.

The conclusion? If reading a book helps you realize that your drunk, toothless, unbathed husband needs to go, good for you. If, on the other hand, you look at your completely normal husband and think "Why can't he be a time traveler from thirteenth century Scotland here to whisk me away and give me fifteen orgasms in a row?" Get over yourself. The real world is more boring than fiction. That is why we have books to read and movies to watch.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Vampire

TRUE BLOOD... just stop. There, I said it.

I want to like TRUE BLOOD, I really do. I loved the books. I even liked the first season and was okay with the second. Now, I think I watch it just to punish myself. It's like one of those terrible 50's horror movies that you think the screenwriter must have been trying to make a comedy that just didn't translate.

Not even an abundance of butt-naked Alexander Skarsgard and bare-chested Joe Manganiello can make-up for the turd that is Season Four. ( But Thank You for trying. *sighs*)

The storyline is so freaking far away from anything resembling the books, it's shameful. The crouching-tiger-hidden-vampire fight scene abomination between Bill and the Queen and the ridiculous zombie-faeries make me want to gouge my eyes out with my thumbs so I won't have to see the next disappointment.

I know, I know. Why do I keep watching it if I don't like it? The same reason I keep trying to eat shrimp again and again even though I can't stand the taste. Because I think I should like it.

Lest you think I'm completely evil, I assure you there are plenty of things I do like. The list includes:

  • Puppies I don't have to clean-up after.
  • Sleeping babies.
  • The smell in the aquarium at the zoo. (strange, I know)

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Go Past Normal, Take a Left at Crazy, and Cont. on to Disturbing

Why can some people get away with creating superbly disturbing stories/art/merchandise and others get treated like mental patients for doing or thinking exactly the same things?

I once made a photography instructor cry with my artwork. Sure, it was creepy but it was close to Halloween, okay? My project consisted of an *artfully* back-lit doll, swinging from a noose, suspended in a doorway, holding a knife.

Alright. So the doll had a creepy lazy eye but at least I decided against putting fake blood on the knife.

I also had some shots that made the doll look like it was in motion, climbing up the stairs. Again with the knife. (God, I'm laughing just thinking about it.)

Okay, so maybe it was a little too scary. I mean, my roommates demanded that I wrap both the doll and the knife in a shoebox and toss it in a dumpster across campus after viewing the pictures, but still.

So, I turned this project in and later received a summons to the instructor's office. The man was in tears when I arrived. He asked me if I was contemplating suicide and all I could do was stare at him. He explained that the last time a student turned in something so disturbing, the guy killed himself.

Obviously, he'd never watched the movie CHUCKY. That movie haunted my dreams as a child but I never once thought to call up the screenwriter and ask, "Hey... just wondering, are you thinking of offing yourself anytime soon? Cause you're F*CKING CRAZY!"

Honestly, do you think anyone close to Stephen King, ever tried to commit him to a mental ward when he shared his first story? If that guy took pictures of a homicidal, undead doll, no one would bat an eye.

How does one go from a normal, sane person to selling the idea of alien butt-worms that try to take over the world (DREAMCATCHER, anyone?) without their sanity being questioned?

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Like It, Hate It, Love It

Early this spring, I submitted work to a few writing contests. Being that it was my first attempt at contest entry, I wasn't sure what to expect.

Yesterday, I received results for the first contest.

The good news is that I wasn't last. The bad news is that I didn't win. I fell somewhere in the middle, which at first made me want to vomit. Then I realized that's pretty good for a first try.

Being an artist, of any medium, is a study in contradiction. An artist has to be emotional, creative, and imaginative. Writer, painter, or photographer, you also need to be able to shield yourself from bad advice and view even good critiques with skepticism.

This particular writing contest reminded me of a painting competition I once entered. One judge told me, when viewing my painting, "I don't get it. It's not very good. You should have entered something else."

I placed first-in-show and sold the piece for $450. That's the problem with art. It's all subjective.

Back to the results of the writing contest. I received three reviews and they were all completely different.
  • One judge loved it, said she wanted to read more, and only had a few revisions to suggest.
  • One judge liked it, thought it had great potential, and suggested a ton of editing.
  • One judge hated it, thought I was probably an illiterate kindergartner, and suggested my idea wasn't even remotely marketable.
Again, with the wanting to vomit.

So, what do you do when someone tells you that you aren't good enough? Should you ignore them? Tell them to go F*ck themselves? Maybe. But probably not.

In the end, after I had a 30 minute pity party, I realized (with great reluctance) that each judge had made some useful comments. I sat down and reworked this particular piece of writing and now have six polished pages that are far better for the effort.

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Parts of a Whole

I found a picture hiding in the back of a picture frame. It was of me and someone I seemed to be very happy having my picture taken with although I can't place the person or location. The only thing I know for sure is that it was taken while I was in college.

My time in college is like a dream to me. I have never since nor before been the same person as I was in college. Like during those years I was a different person entirely. Sometimes I miss that person. Parts of her at least.

She was funny and selfish, addicted and carefree, criminal and loving. But I miss parts of her. The freedom, the potential, was wasted on her. But it was there, in that time, for the taking.

Maybe we all miss parts of ourselves we've outgrown or abruptly thrown away.

Some parts stay with us forever even though we wish they'd leave. Like the smell of burnt popcorn that never completely leaves your microwave.

I wonder, when I'm old and looking back on this era of my life, what parts of me I currently contain that will have been long discarded. Maybe I'll be completely the same. Unchanged. But I don't think so.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Mass Centipede Invasion

Have you ever had something scare the pee in to you?

When I was in college my sisters and I rented an old two-story house on the edge of campus. It had creaky wood floors, two cats, a pit bull, an iguana, a baby alligator that lived in a plastic baby pool upstairs that would sometimes escape, occasionally a bat and I think there may have been a bird or two in there.

Sometimes when I came home I would find find the alligator, escaped from the baby-pool, and my fluffy calico cat engaged in a hissing and posturing contest in the corner by the door. Welcome home.

The one thing that still haunts me today are the disgusting, gigantic, evil centipedes. These things were monsters. Instead of short stumpy legs they had huge grand-daddy-long-leg legs. Rows and rows of 'em. They used to charge out of the shower drain and the vent on the wall to wage war on whomever had just sat down to pee. The way I remember it they were the size of my forearm and may or may not have had fangs dripping with rabies-esq foam. Their appearance and mad-dash for the pee-er was enough to cut you off mid-stream every time. Even first thing in the morning.

One day I decided to draw a picture of these creatures hoping to purge the phobia I'd begun cultivating. When I was done the thing was brandishing axes, pistols and blades with its too-many-legs, snarling with bloody fangs and for some reason, wearing my backpack. I guess they were thieves as well as murderers.

Huh? You don't think they invaded my bathroom with the sole purpose of burrowing under my skin in a pod-people plot to take over the world? Well, screw you. It's obvious this was their goal.

The mass centipede invasion of 2004 was the beginning of my insect phobia that has now grown to epic proportions.

That, is having the pee scared in to you.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

A Bound Book Could Kick Your Nook's Ass

Even though I think they are evil and may eventually cause the death of literature and quite possibly the universe, I own a nook.

Thank you, Nook, for being small and offering instant gratification wherever a wireless connection can be found. If I've got the money, I can learn that a book exists, become interested, purchase the book and begin reading in about two minutes.

I don't like that it takes a hundred years to go from "off" to "on" or that the little buttons now have cracks in them from me pushing them so much to turn pages. What? I read. A LOT.

I also don't like that the books I read on the Nook aren't tangible. I can't sit and ogle them and think "Wow, I've read all those books."

I can't shelve them in my house and be reminded of a story or an author I like when I walk by and I can't put them on display as if to say "look at how intellectual and awesome I am for reading all the works by so-and-so and notice how you've never even heard of some of those authors. That's cause you ain't as cool as me."

It's certainly vain, but there it is.

I have a Nook but I still buy paperbacks and hardcovers when I find something I really like because you just can't beat having a tangible copy to fold in your hands, rest in your lap and take up space in your over-stuffed house.

I love the smell of pages of new books. Ink and possibilities. I love the smell of old, used books full of fingerprint history. (God, I hope this book didn't come from someone's bathroom library. But then, that'd be a whole different smell, yes?)

I like that I don't have to charge a paperback and there are no "accessories" that must be purchased along with said paperback.

I know it's illegal in most states, but I like to dog-ear pages. Pushing the "bookmark" button on a screen just isn't the same.

I love that when I sell my book I will be able to point to it and say "Look at that. I made that." and not have to be squished on my sofa pointing to a computer screen and methodically opening "my documents".

I own a Nook but I still use the local Library at least twice a week and still can't pass by a used book store without going inside. I love buying books with interesting bindings and notes from people written in the margins before I was born. Try competing with that, Nook-borg!

So, Nook, this post is for you. I'm giving you a thumbs-up with one hand and flipping you the bird with the other. You're the wise-old pimple on my ass. Uncomfortable, insistent, and because mine is a 1st addition, outdated, but still full of knowledge.

Like it, love it or hate it. Paperback or E-book. The Library or Amazon. You can't beat a great written story for entertainment. Go find some!

Monday, July 4, 2011

Even Fictional Characters Choose Yellow Springs

When deciding on the setting for my Urban Fantasy Novel SURPRISINGLY SUPERNATURAL, I deliberated many options. I like to write about places that I have some personal perspective to draw from. I knew I was looking for a small town and I knew I wanted it to have something special.

I've hung my hat in places like Aiea, Hawaii, Bolongo Bay, Saint Thomas USVI, Plaquemine, Louisiana, and Hilton Head, South Carolina but none of them had that unique spark I wanted to ignite the backdrop of SURPRISINGLY SUPERNATURAL.

I could have chosen any city in (or even out) of this world but I chose Yellow Springs for my main character, Elaina Mathews' home base.

There's a certain magic to YS, an inherent collection of oddities that makes you think it's not at all impossible for supernatural creatures to be lurking about behind the scenes.

Light poles and trees are decorated with hand-knitted mutated sweaters. Felt flowers bloom around town where ever the creative urge strikes and no one bats an eye, though they may flash a camera.

For weeks there was a flock of Origami swans inside Dino's Cappuccinos that started with one large paper swan. I'd like to think this one was the alpha male. The next time I went in there was a smaller more elegant paper bird next to the Origami alpha. Eventually there was a whole flock of these beautifully twisted and creased pieces of patterned paper swimming in the change bowl for Japanese Relief Efforts.

In my mind, which is admittedly a bit addled and overwrought with daydreams, it's not all that far fetched to imagine a Pixie alighting on the rim of one's coffee cup at the Underdog Cafe or encountering a tall gorgeous Elf while hiking through Glen Helen.

I was in town today for an hour and I saw a heavily tattooed man (I love tattoos by the way) wearing zombie make-up and allowing an obese ferret to ride on his shoulders while walking down Main street and I was delighted anew that I'd placed my fictional cast of oddballs in this quirky little town with all its real-life interesting strangers.

Yellow Springs is a place where random cats are seen cruising the street for treats. I've never seen one that isn't a black cat. Maybe all the tabbies and calicoes are hiding elsewhere because I've never seen one. But shop owners don't shoo them away from their doorsteps and teenagers don't taunt them with sticks. Instead, citizens pause their day to swoop down and give the plump felines a pat on the head.

It's a place where every creature is welcome and the town newspaper hands out blank name tags, encourages people to wear them and "Forget facebook. Start a conversation!"

It's a place where you can sit on a hand-painted bench stenciled with quotes of perseverance, equality and creativity, watching the native inhabitants of Yellow Springs stroll by and listen to the sounds of street musicians float on the breeze.

It's the perfect place for Elaina Mathews and her SURPRISINGLY SUPERNATURAL escapades. And the perfect place for the rest of us to come and unwind. No matter how significantly unsupernatural we may be.

Friday, July 1, 2011

She Knows by SJ Drum, A Poem

So I don't do poetry very often but I had this one hidden in the depths of my computer and decided to share.

She Knows by SJ Drum

There are three kinds
Three kinds of doors in my mind
Doors always locked
Caution tape surrounds them
Doors left open, always
Drafts and dust flow freely through them
Doors revolving
Open, closed, open, closed... open

Have you seen me?
Have you seen the new me?
The better me?
The me I'm suppose to be?
I can't find her.

Every once in a while I go
Looking for her
I tear down the caution tape
Bust open the doors
Put padlocks on previously open
Block the revolving doors ajar

Sit and wait.

Where is she?
The me I'm suppose to be?
Have you seen her?

I see her occasionally
She comes and goes
Like a stranger brushing against me on the street
Taking my breath
And holding it
Just for a second

Her face changes, from minute to minute
Year to year
Much like mine

Is she the me, for you I'm suppose to be?
Is she the me I yearn to be?
The me I was?
The me I am?

I put the caution tape back in place
Cut the padlocks and pull the door
She's a warning I think.

Her hair shaggy, sun-stained
Her skin leathery, sun-stained
She moves with an effortless grace
Her wisdom, her soul transcends time

Have you seen her?
The me I'm suppose to be?
She has a smile on her face
When I meet her
She knows something I have yet to find

I saw her once, like I do from time
To time
I held my breath and let her
Walk away
Escaping me