Personal Ad

Multi-faceted, passionately aloof woman, lover of foreign accents (or bad copies of same), known to do stand-up comedy in front of stray cats, and then be dubbed the ‘quiet one,’ seeks a fellow human being to adore or enjoy the following:

Silence for days on end. Then, without warning, I will burst out singing. Who knows what and who knows when?

Still laments a long-gone and sordid affair with—yes, I’ll say it—the common daily mail. My pupils still dilate, and hands shake at the thought of each single piece. Envelopes were big and bright canary yellow, lime green, crimson red, or a subtle mauve; others were small, plain, and too easily labelled junk. With my index finger, I fondled the uneven textures and traced the edges of overseas stamps, much like a bride might her new diamond. I also sniffed out the hidden clues, musk oil, sandalwood, French, Brut, cigarette and cigar smoke—and all on paper I could clutch.

Please note: If found missing, especially between six and noon, I might be rocking, shell-shocked and conflicted in front of a vacant box. Fiercely loving trees but mourning that I cannot shred every byte of paperless mail. (?)

Slaps yellow, pink, and blue post-its all over the house. Each will bear odd or dramatic quips. Pneumonics, boasts, endearing toasts, and yes even bad poetic notes. On laundry day, the pockets of my blue jeans hid three bits of cryptic scratch: 1. #ThatAwkwardNight in the Amazon rainforest, we were soaked and entangled in a mosquito net, and it was only Monsoon Eve, when not a leaf was wet. 2) To lust … or not … to fuss?  3) Forget about tweets. Let’s do some proper greets.

I am known for unusual skills. While working each day, I keep books at my feet and can pile five or six heavy, oversized ones, all atop a tiny stapler. This sent exes shrieking and running straight to the store for hair dye. How can it possibly be?

My workout routine is simple. I shadow box for ten minutes, swing twenty-pound dumbbells every direction for six, and jog on the spot for five. I do all of this within a foot of my books and a page will flutter. The second my partner casts a glance to that workspace quadrant, my entire tower erupts with a crash.

Don’t take offense, but all future love interests must abide by this one. Never, and I mean never, in public or at home, wear neon green spandex tights. I don’t care how taut your body or why it is you like ‘em. If you violate this, I’ll snub you like a skunk.

Fortunately, however, you have a choice. You can heal from this. “… In this bright future, you can forget about your past.”

See? Wow. Sometimes, I make a valid point and nail a whole line of Bob Marley all in one go. Good times.

Here’s more. Don’t miss it. I evolve too. A spandex-snub or post-song relapse won’t last forever. In fact, as soon as I share my other hobby, you might drop to your knees and pray I go mute.

Three nights a week, I attend a court-ordered, twelve-step program for ‘Exhibitionist Readers.’ Behind that damn podium, I pay for my pheromone-soaked prose. I lie to an audience, with fine hairs bristling on my necking a new aversion to the fun the world deflects. Psst … write me a teacher’s note. Keep me home on meeting night. The prose I swear will thee delight.

“Climbed a mountain and I turned around.”

Yep. Like Stevie Nicks, we’ll be doing lots of that. We’ll wring travel out for all its worth. Pinch change rosy between clenched fingertips. Top it all off with a slap on its cute little hiny.

I mean it. Be ready. For we will ride elephants, camels, buses, bikes, trikes, trams, red sampans, and of course, each other.

“Let’s give ‘em something to talk about. A little mystery to figure out ….”

We lock ourselves inside a room on a train bound for Zurich. Dazed in the dark from friction’s heat and dewing up the window. “Excusez-Moi. Excusez-Moi,” a conductor raps in staccato bursts. The noise stopped. Okay, it wasn’t real. “VITE. VITE, s’il vous plait!” he yells and pounds on the door anew.

Excuse you? Hurry? We consult each other through hungry eyes. One more hour, we think aloud, in hopes he would hear.

Feed me kiwi slices, crackers crumbling with no-fair feta, cubed pineapple, tea, cognac, coffee, wine, raspberries, and organic dates, which melt when popped into my mouth.

Whisper me sexy in a husky voice. Recite me salacious tales in a ragged breath. Let words rush and drop like fat grapes off your tongue. Say the thought of me besmirches your lovely self, and that you would not have it any other way.

Not for you, or your “Little Tiger.” Did I mention that a lover once called me that? If you ever hear gossip toward that end, do not give it a thought. I swear now, as I did then, I stopped taking those shots—or at least will tell you so each time we’re locked inside a room.

If you are prone to an easy flush, an ‘us’ there will never be. I’m of Celtic descent, you see, and forever rosy-cheeked. I never needed facial blush, which seems quite clear to most. Add to my cheeks a nip of wine, rogue kiss, laugh, or hint of beer. I am a beacon in the night and want to run in fear.

Like me, or even slightly close, we’ll be a lasting mess. Imagine us a party do, where its hosts have new carpets of white. They’ll predict our strokes right to the moment and rush us out into the night. For beings they fear will just go pop, and gushing everywhere, will us in a lonely place.

While I wait for us to meet, I’ll add, hopefully, soothing sounds to the airwaves.

“I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round. I really love to hear them roll.”

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The Road is Not the Work

“The writing has changed, in your hands, and in a twinkling, from an expression of your notions to an epistemological tool. The new place interests you because it is not clear. You attend. In your humility, you lay down the words carefully, watching all the angles. Now the earlier writing looks soft and careless. Process is nothing; erase your tracks. The path is not the work. I hope tracks have grown over. I hope birds are the crumbs; I hope you will toss it all and not look back.”   Annie Dillard.

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