Ms. Tralwind’s Blog

I had planned to take my time
To savor every sensation
To will myself into a hyper state of awareness
I wanted to remember every touch
Every taste
Every breath
Every beat of your heart

The door opens and all thoughts escape
Like the breath I held awaiting your arrival
The vision before me too much
Too powerful to feign nonchalance
My vision a blur of movement
As I touch you with my eyes
From every curl
To every curve
Waiting has never held such worth

In a wave of desire too strong to resist
You are in my arms
You are in my senses
You are in my blood
Every touch a warm shot of electricity
I am dizzy and unsteady under your pull
Torture has never been so deliciously sweet

7/18/08
 

Are you vulnerable in the peaceful quiet of your slumber?
Where does your mind go when it is still from the stresses of your day?
Do you dream in color?
Do you remember your dreams?
To see you lying there,
Eyes closed, relaxed and unguarded
In all your exposed beauty
Would be like looking at the sun too long.
Eyes closed, that vision would be all I could see
 
Wait. Yes, this is a lovely thought.
 
Sleep. Rest your hiding mighty heart,
Weary from holding your soul earthbound,
The weight of responsibility holds you like gravity
Rest your sentry standing poised to strike.
Close your eyes and slip away.
Let the calm take you like a lover
Quietly, soothing you into submission.
Sleep well beautiful one.
But wake soon.
The colors on my canvas
Are always more vibrant when you are in the painting
The textures more interesting
The strokes more titillating
Yes, sleep well angel full of fire
And wake to a brighter day
 

Tue 1/8/2008
- For O

You have awakened my dreams again
Blissfully ignorant of reality
Passion filled visions of you arouse my senses
I am helpless against your sway
Captivated by your presence
Lingering between gentle slumber
And supple thighs
Awake?
Asleep?
It matters not

Gentle kiss ignites the flame
Tongues dancing, dueling for control
Your lips are soft, moist and welcoming
Inviting me to explore further

Tension building
Sultry eyes glazed from hunger
I want you to beg
Could I make you beg?

You move against me
Into me
Around me
Above me
I move inside you
Savoring the slow deliberate caresses
Devouring every inch of flesh my tongue discovers
You have mastered the tease
Taunting me with retreating full lips
Baiting me with perfect breasts
Awake
I am definitely awake

Sweet ache of longing
Craving
Wanting
Desire pulsing through my body
Driving me
Enticing me
Compelling me forward
Urging me deeper
Salaciously moving to the erotic rhythm of your breathing
You rise to meet my curious tongue

I bathe in your pleasure
Bask in the sweet pain of your delight
As eager nails engrave my fiery flesh
Blindly tracing the curve of your hips
Abandoning all remaining self control
I am a prisoner to all you stir inside of me
And yet I have never felt so free

- Getting Healthy - Getting Fit - Getting To Work On Time

It’s Saturday morning, a day usually reserved for R & R for me, but with the recent shift bid at work, I got royally screwed – or should I say I royally screwed myself or circumstances royally screwed me. Either way, I was pretty much screwed period.

We have a shift bid every quarter and one’s ranking in the shift bid is based on several factors including attendance. With the last shift bid, between my performance scores and call monitoring (100% I’m proud to say) and perfect attendance (for the prior quarter) – I was ranked 11 out of 40 agents who handle the same accounts. That was nice because that meant I would pretty much get my first shift choice.

Unfortunately when my car died I had to take several days off. This counted against me for the current bid. It’s amazing how two days can affect a shift bid ranking. I went from being ranked 11 out of 40 agents to 37 out of 45 (I guess we hired some peeps between then and now). I wound up with a shift that normally I would love. Four ten hour shifts with Mon, Tues, Wed off. But when you consider that I’m still busing it, once you start tallying time – it’s no longer a 10 hour day.

There’s the 45 minutes they require us to take for lunch – which I can’t understand (30 minutes is long enough but they took a poll and I guess other people didn’t agree). Add to that a total of 30 minutes on two different busses to get to work, and 30 minutes on two different busses to get home – throw in the two 15 minute waiting periods between busses and the 15 minutes to walk to and from the bus… I think I’ve lost count… and that 10 hour day just stretched to almost 13 hours. That’s the downside of my new shift.

I don’t mind working weekends so much; the suits are gone, and there’s only one supervisor and as long as it’s not the one I can’t stand, the weekends are pretty relaxed and low key – and thankfully the call volume is low. It’s like getting paid to surf the internet or work on my book.

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You passed by again
A shout out the window to the memory of me
Nostalgia filling your mind
Music and memories filling your heart
Too long has it been
Since I felt your strong arms
As I nestled my ear to your chest Your heart beating in perfect 4/4 time
Everything was perfect in our little world
Nothing has been perfect since
But my heart remembers dancing
My skin remembers the burn
My soul remembers soaring
My body still longs
After 9 years
How can the memory be so fresh

- For Root

Writing exercise:  Write a story about someone that has an unusual phobia. Write a scene that causes that character to face his fear.

Surfing Spiders

It was mentioned in passing, sandwiched between the usual banter filling the smoking area daily. It wasn’t a surprising fear as fears go. But learning that this woman who carried herself with a confidence rarely seen in 29-year-olds was actually afraid of large bodies of water was both entertaining and intriguing. There was no explanation for it, she said. She just didn’t like being on, crossing over, or swimming in large bodies of water. It wasn’t my deep love of the ocean that made this difficult to comprehend. If any one of my other friends had confessed to this phobia (is there even a name for it?) I might not have thought twice about it. But this was Olivia!

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There is no one that I know or have ever known that would accuse me of being a girly girl. The only visually feminine thing about me is the fact that I have breasts, and as a kid, if I could have stopped them from growing I would have. I was too comfortable in my tom-boy skin and was horrified at the reality that my father seemed to enjoy torturing me with… that eventually, like my two older sisters, I too would grow boobs. As if I could somehow prevent that, I rebelled against it in every way I could as a kid. I had Tonka trucks and played with dinosaurs that would run over and attack my older sisters’ Barbie dolls. I read my bother’s comic books and wanted to be a cowboy! I did NOT want to be the girl that I was. Dresses… forget it! Makeup… hell no!

While I’d like to say that I fought the good fight and was never actually photographed in a dress, sadly, it would be a lie. There are a few pictures of me in a dress; one particular atrocity is of an embarrassing moment taken at my 4th grade square dancing performance, me, dorky as I have ever looked, in a country bumpkin floor length contraption complete with a bonnet on my head. It would take years for me to recover from the humiliation of being teased by my older siblings.

So why am I sitting here, writing this with bright neon (HOOKER) pink nail polish on my fingernails? Boobs! Not my own, of course. The tom-boy all grown up is now a healthy lesbian with a salacious appreciation and love for the very thing I loathed as a kid. Boobs. Yep, I’m a boob girl. I’m not picky, really. Any size will do, just as long as they actually appear to be boobs and not enormously large pimples and of course, they must must must be real.

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I may have mentioned that my car has died and I am between vehicles at the moment, relying on MASS TRANSIT to get to and from work. If I have not mentioned it, I just did. 

This is a whole new world to me. I’ve always had a car since I took driver’s ed. at fifteen. Some cars were certainly better than others, but I always had wheels man. This is something I never realized I took for granted. The freedom that comes with that hadn’t really had true meaning until now.

Too many times in the past I’ve run out of ciggies at 2am and been able to just hop into trusty ol’ Red, my Toyota Corolla, may she rest in peace, and shoot off to the store, returning not only with a pack of ciggies, but munchies to satisfy… ok I won’t say it because there are kids here, but if I have the munchies, you can do the math.

Too many times have I broken a string on my guitar after putting off a trip to the music store one too many times, and been able to hop in the trusty ol’ Mazda Pickup (may he rest in peace [why was the truck a HE? I don’t know]) and cruise on down to the music store returning, not only with guitar strings but another guitar strap I really didn’t need.

Just having the freedom on a whim to hop in the car with my telescope in tow and a few Heart CDs heading for the darkness waiting beyond the city limits only to get frustrated that the damn moon moves entirely too fast to really enjoy the experience…ah, but the music was bichin’ and the drive was peaceful, especially with the windows rolled down in the middle of spring.

The list goes on and on and on and on.

Am I spoiled? You bet your bippy I am.

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A soft gentle mist has grayed my day, soaking through the protective sheath of musical distractions which keep my emotional turmoil hidden beneath layer upon layer of pretense that everything will return to normal and I will be myself again.

I have chosen, this time, to feel the pain instead of delaying the inevitable with numbing substances altering my perspective. This path is better, I try to convince myself.

Why then, when I close my eyes, like looking at the sun too long, is your face the only thing I see, your voice, which is deafening above the silence this moment must contain, the only sound I hear? And yet, I haven’t heard that sound, I haven’t felt your embrace or inhaled your perfume for far too long now.

I am not convinced.

What if I forget? What if this time and distance erases you? Would I finally be free of the only love I have ever craved, the only soul I have ever loved? Would our history be in vein?

“Failure is not an option,” has given way to a sad resolve that fate may have other ideas. I am too tired to fight you this time – even if fighting you means saving us. I feel the rain upon my face, masking the tear that escapes as I let my guard down, forgetting for a moment that I am all cried out.

© Andrea D. Gonzales 2007

She peels away protective layers of disesteem
Wistfully, replacing them, a gift for herself.
The crimson décor that shines at her feet
Reflects the smile her scowl has eroded in to
With spurts of attention adorned upon her by her own hand
Hope prevails

These pages
Plain white lined from top to bottom
Are bored
They have not been visited by pen often enough

No one has taken them on a journey
To some distant place the mind created
Or the heart remembered

They lie dormant in their bed
Between red and cardboard covers
Bound by silver wire
They can not escape

They wait patiently for someone
To give them new life
To free them from their ordinary
And meaningless existence

They can’t even be trees anymore

Andrea Gonzales 4/17/02

It was on a busy street corner in San Antonio when I first saw him, San Pedro and Hildebrand on a typical hot summer day. His saddle lay beside the cement bus bench. He wore a checkered shirt neatly tucked into old dirty faded denim blue jeans. A red bandana was tied around his neck. I imagined his tan pointy cowboy boots were once cocoa colored and new. His cowboy hat dwarfed his head casting a shadow much larger than his small frame.

His sky blue beat up old car was his loyal horse patiently waiting in the background. He carried a lasso in one gloved hand. The other was covered in wrinkles and history.

Cars passed by. Some people waved or honked at him. Some laughed and some smiled awkwardly. Others drove by deliberately looking away, afraid to notice him, afraid to acknowledge someone so out of place, too busy to be bothered.

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I wonder what my cat thinks
Laying on the wooden mantel
The porcelain lamp is the only sun she knows
She knows nothing of the world outside that she can’t see through the sliding glass doors
The only wind that blows through fine dreamcycle hair
Is what the kitchen fan manufactures
I supply her food
Stifling her wild instinct to stalk
So she stalks me
Laying low around the corner
Waiting for me to pass
My leg is her prey
Her entertainment is not the expensive kitty toys
Laying untouched in the other room
But the small sea of toilet water in her bathroom playground
She has a language only she speaks
Only I understand
                  My food bowl is empty
                                     Have you hugged your kitty today
I wonder if she ever questions why I call her Lucy
And how would I explain who Lucielle Ball was
And why would she care
She owns this place after all

Andrea D. Gonzales 1/29/02