Telephone Lines

The disappeared. Just gone.

The damaged now past repair.

The distant. Beyond reach.

The difficult I cut off.

The distressed, clambering back into their shell.

Communication is my oxygen. I’m gasping for air.

 

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If Somehow The World Were … Different

Time carries on. It inevitably changes things. Us. Time is history … moving. We can fight the motion, but we can never keep up with the result. But moving on without a struggle offends human nature. It’s so … defeatist.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m on the brink,

Because …

I remember how I used to think”

“Would you if I asked?” she queries me.

She wants to know what I’m thinking these days. Where I’m at. Really, where I’m going.

“If you texted me more often, you could find things out,” I say.

“I don’t like to ask”. She infers, “Would I tell her the truth?”

“Yes, I only want to see a peek

But if …

You skirt the questions … I’ll just be weak”

Where once there were no secrets there is now caution and timidity and the fear of seeming weak or needy. Instead of brilliant clarity in the relationship, there now are only shadows. Shadows which hide, grey shadings to mask feelings. An illusory mist to dampen and lubricate previously sharp emotions. A veil concealing the feared imperfections.

While dormant, the intensity is there yet. She fears it. I don’t know whether I should get closer. Or go away.

‘No, it won’t ever be like before

Not now …

The Dark craves always for even more”

 

 

 

Leaving Questions Unanswered

I don’t dream very often. At least not dreams I can remember. But the other night I did and it was very impactful.

I know what was the impetus. I was chatting with someone about thighs earlier in the evening. And you know I really love your thighs. But I’m jumping ahead here.

In the dream you got on all fours. Then turned to look back and gave me your smile to which I inevitably melt. But in the dream that’s not the way I want you. I want you closer. I need you closer. I crave you closer. I can’t live without you closer. I feel as if my existence depends on having you closer.

It’s the intimacy with you I lack. Intimacy is chemistry for me.

These days we have no communication. One by one you cut our channels. This is torture for me, as I am one who needs to communicate several times a day. Suddenly I am exiled to blankness. Nothingness.

Then mysteriously, you added one app with me. But with no warning, you cut that one, too. I am baffled. And hurt.

I kneel behind you. And pull you towards me. Your long, muscular thighs resting on my quads. Taut athletic muscle on taut athletic muscle. Your absolute perfect ass with its firm roundness rests above my crotch, my engorged erection climbing up the small of your back. I begin to feel you as I feel myself.

My hand reaches under and feels your slickness. My palm dampens your landing strip with your own moisture. Then three of my fingers slip inside you. I feel your sigh of pleasure and we begin to reconnect.

I have missed you terribly, the contact, being part of each other’s daily lives. You know I live for this daily rhythm. But my rhythm and routine have changed lately … saying goodbye to old friends and embarking on new challenges. And the progress has been mixed. And it’s been painful. Most everything is difficult these days.

As you rise slightly on your haunches I enter you. We gasp in unison at the sensation, you filled fully by my erection, our bodies finally attached. I move my hand along your firm belly, feeling the ropes of your hard abs. God I love your abs! My other hand reaches for your long, smooth throat and wraps it lovingly. At this moment you are again mine, totally.

Slowly, ever so slowly you inch up and down on me, barely any noticeable movement at all. But I feel you. I sense all your being through every cell in my body.

You just walked away. Convinced that it was the only way for you to carry on … to be a better you. A more devoted you. Even though you were going to surround yourself with all that gave you anguish and misery and brought you down to where I found you, broken. I had thought you were healing, that you would acknowledge it.  But perhaps that only refortified the strength of your convictions.

I know it’s only a dream, but I see you so clearly. Your beautiful mouth opens and your jaw juts just a fraction. Your visage in profile is stunning, a marble Michelangelo in flesh, the depth, the expression to your face mesmerizes. There is no sound … no, this dream is absolutely silent. Your orgasm comes in surging waves as I hold you tightly, passing through you to me, a crescendo that ignites the rocket I have sheathed in you . I, too, then silently climax into the mists of our engagement.

Then you are gone. I awake in a sweat. You have disappeared again.

Why this? Your leaving still unanswered.

 

 

 

I’ve Been On The Road To Damascus

No, not actually.

Damascus is a very dangerous location these days. But figuratively, yes. So much has been revealed. My mind is ablaze. What follows may seem at first like a religious rant. I assure you, it is anything but.

Damascus has been a major Middle East city for over 8,000 years, and archaeological evidence of settlement in the area dates back 11,000 years. Imagine the learning buried beneath its walls and in its ruins. The history to which it has borne witness.

It is not only a Saul of Tarsus-type voyage, revelation and conversion I have been on. Lawrence arrived in Damascus, too, on October 1st, 1918, the Great War only 49 days from its merciful end. A very different man than when he was first posted to the Arab revolt.

I have always loved the story of Lawrence of Arabia. It’s a story of clashing civilizations and cultures … Arab, British, Turkish, waning empires, the call of family and tribe, the role of duty, rugged individualism, unthinkable victory, and devastating false hopes.

And how what happens today has a long delayed and unknown aftermath. We are all an imperfect, badly flawed replica of our history.

Just before he left Damascus 4 days after its surrender, Lawrence wrote:

‘I was sitting alone in my room working and thinking out as firm a way as the turbulent memories of the day allowed, when the muezzins began to send their call of last prayer through the moist night over the illuminations of the feasting city. One, with a ringing voice of special sweetness, cried into my window from a nearby mosque. I found myself involuntarily distinguishing his words: “God alone is great: I testify that there are no gods but God: and Mohammed is his Prophet. Come to prayer: come to security. God alone is great: there is no god but God.” At the close he dropped his voice two tones, almost to speaking level and softly added: “And He is very good to us this day, O people of Damascus.” The clamour hushed, as everyone seemed to obey the call to prayer on this their first night of perfect freedom.’  T.E. Lawrence Seven Pillars of Wisdom

I wish I had perfect freedom. I do not. But I have always felt that knowledge, while not full, perfect freedom, is certainly liberating. I feel more liberated.

The Guardian published this at the time, about the capture of Damascus by the Arab armies:

Arab horsemen from distant Hejaz today galloped in triumph through the streets of Damascus. As the sun was rising over the mosques and spires, Major TE Lawrence, the young British officer whose tactical guidance has ensured the success of the Arab revolt, drove through the lines in an armoured car. One Arab rider waved his head-dress and shouted, “Damascus salutes you”.

Led by Emir Feisal, son of Sherif Hussein, now to be King of Syria, and his British friend Lawrence, who had fought the Turks all the way from Arabia, the Arabs were first into the capital.

At about the same time that they arrived, the first patrols of the Australian Mounted Division of General Allenby’s army also converged on the great city, having fought their way from Egypt to Gaza, captured Jerusalem, and freed Palestine from Ottoman rule before finally entering Damascus.

The capture of the most famous city in the Arab world was an event filled with high emotion for Major Lawrence and for Feisal, the Arab prince who had led tribesmen on their long fighting, camel march from the barren wastes of Arabia. Multitudes of Syrians thronged the streets to celebrate liberation from the Ottoman Empire. The only Turkish soldiers remaining in Damascus today are the wounded, crammed in hospitals and abandoned by their doctors.

There is a serious danger that law and order may break down in a place packed an excitable mixture of desert and city Arabs. Notables who until the last minute worked with the Turks now proclaim their loyalty to the Allies. Already there are reports that some have been shot. General Allenby’s first task will be to install a military government to keep order and restore the city’s public services.

Conforming to arrangements agreed with Britain, the French will take control of Syria. General Allenby’s army is preparing to move east to link up with French forces whose task is now to take the port of Beirut in Lebanon.

In that dispatch can be seen the seeds already sown but yet to surface of treachery, promises unfulfilled, and dreams and hopes dashed. Another legacy from Damascus.

Will I fill you in on what I learn if and when I get to Damascus? It is possible. Then again, maybe not. Like most things in life, it all depends.

That “Missing You” Thing

jay-2[1]Cassandra and I live many hundreds of miles apart, so the opportunity to actually be with one another is a luxury that will not happen often. Like most long distance love affairs today, we try to fill the hole with emails, phone calls, pictures and most often texting. We text back and forth constantly. Yet with busy lives, even these modern communication methods, though they work very well,  can be hard to fit in.

This is such a week. Cassandra has an incredible amount of stuff to get done this week, and constant texting with Marty is just not on. And our phone call this morning didn’t happen (my issue). I am one who likes to communicate a lot. This was something Cassandra really wasn’t used to when we initially started to become close. But now she is as dependent on it as I am.

I have this 9 second video she did for me a few months ago. It’s in black and white.  It’s a close up of her stunningly beautiful face, and then she mouths the words “I love you”, while staring straight into the camera. Then her big, round eyes slowly close and open. The vid finishes with her 1,000 watt smile for me. So in the absence of a high degree of direct communication this week, her little video is on almost constant replay. I’m just waiting for the part of the drive where it’s stored to send me a text message …  C’mon Man, how many times are you gonna replay this? Really! You’re wearing me out!

The one good part is that it gives me time to reflect. On what she means to me. It reminded me of this old song I like.