Old Friends

I haven't written in a while and it feels strange. When I don't put thoughts to paper (or computer), it's almost as if I am devoid of feeling or emotion, which in reality could not be further from the truth.

Sometimes, I find, I get so wrapped up in my mind that I don't stop to process or evaluate what is going on.

I think in some other life, I was an absent minded professor or writer who holed themselves up for days on end while the creative juices flowed. I can just imagine weeks with no contact from anyone outside of my own little bubble of a world. With hair ratted, desk askew, eyes burning from work and concentration, I would emerge from my utopia to address the mundane tasks of every day life.

The lack of writing has nothing to do with a lull in my life. Indeed, I've been very busy and actively engaged, especially within my own imagination. Crazy like this takes work. And frankly, it's my most favorite job I've ever held.

The past weekend was quite interesting for me. For starters, my sister and I reconnected with some of the most special friends of our lives. I found one of the friends here on Facebook and perused his friend list. On that, I found his mother. With a bit of encouraging and possibly a libation or two, I sent her a message re-introducing myself and expressing my desire to reacquaint with she and her kids. I waited with trepidation, but the very next day I received a tremendously enthusiastic reply!

Within the next day, I received an email from my long, lost, best friend and as I opened it I found myself shaking and crying. It was the best gift I have received in ages and I was thrilled that she was willing to open back up the lines of communication with me.

Today she sent a picture of the two of us riding on her go kart and I had to smile. I see two young girls with their hearts full of dreams, legs as long as the Mississippi and a bond that apparently, can never fully die.

It's been 24 years since we last spoke, but I have no worries about us filling in those long, lost gaps in time. My heart swells at the love I feel for she and her family, for our memories, the times we shared. It also squeezes a bit when I think of the time we lost in between. Filling those gaps is a huge priority for me and we are planning a reunion as soon as we can.

I feel happy tonight. I am content with how things work out and optimistic about the future, whatever it may hold. Putting these thoughts down was a good thing. Reuniting with old friends is an even better thing.

Sex and Laughter: If Only...

Tonight I'm contemplating happy endings. As a child I think we are led to believe that stories always have happily ever afters. The guy gets the girl or the girl gets the guy and they ride off into the sunset. The End. And yet, as an adult, I know this isn't true.

Actually, I've probably known that happy endings aren't always possible since before I was an adult, but never really wanted to believe or accept it. I am, in the end, a fan of all things nice and neat. And still, as much as I long for everything to peacefully play out, I am still undeniably drawn to the sad stories.

As a child, I will never forget watching "The Way We Were" with my mom, who was a huge Robert Redford fan. The closing scene is painfully heartbreaking and I can't watch it without desperately hoping that when Hubbell approaches Katie on the street an entirely different exchange will unfold before my eyes. It never does.

Romeo and Juliet is another classic example. When Juliet plunges Romeo's dagger into herself and falls upon his lifeless, poisoned body my heart shatters, splinters, frays. The breath escapes me and my throat clenches as my mind reels at the love lost. "If only..." is what permeates my thoughts. Shakespeare, being the genius he was, brilliantly captured the essence of unadulterated love, but also of love that couldn't be. I hurt at the thought.

It seems that Hollywood and Robert Redford share my penchant for love lost. Two of my favorite movies that feature this theme also highlight him as the leading man. "Out of Africa" is painfully beautiful to me and after watching it, I am left utterly spent. I'm reminded of how fragile life and love actually are. In "The Horse Whisperer" my heart breaks at the love that cannot be. The notion of two people, soul mates if you will, who cannot be together is a theme that leaves me feeling gutted and raw, and somehow still hopeful despite every obstacle. How painful must it be to love and lose? To love but not be able to live in that glory? I can only imagine the anguish and steadfastly hope for all hearts to be fulfilled.

Happy endings are super. They leave me with a warm, fuzzy feeling and the ability to move about my day, business as usual. But it's the sad endings that stoke the fires of my imagination, the chambers and linings of my tender, romantic heart. Happy endings placate me. Everything else stirs me up. And to be stirred is to be alive. I feel certain Robert would agree.

Sex and Laughter: Lay Your Hands

Of late, my mind wanders to the thought of hands. Specifically, men's hands. The notion of how amazing they are overwhelms me. Noticing a man's hands is a new phenomenon, but now that I have discovered their powerful effect on me, I find myself focusing on them more often than not.

I'm taken by how different they can look from person to person. One man can have long, tapered hands while another's are more thick and substantial. Rounded nails grace the tips of fingers as often as squared off nails or nails nervously bitten to the quick. Tributaries of veins course over the top of a hand and knuckles rise like hills on the countryside. Some are weathered and rough, while others are unbelievably smooth. Hands have traveled, hands have lived. They have many stories to tell.

As you turn a hand over, the palm is exposed. The crevices, creases and cracks of the life lines and love lines are fascinating to me. Silky smooth surfaces are interrupted by callouses and blisters caused by hard work and hopefully even harder play. I love to gently trace my finger over a man's palm and imagine what was produced by those very hands.

From one man's hands, words spring forth which produce written work that is spellbinding. Imagining the fingers flying over the keyboard as the writer sits and puts thought into form is exciting. Another man might use his hands to create a work of art or piece of music. Watching a musician play an instrument, with their fingers dancing across the strings is a captivating and perfect example of how powerfully moving hands can be. Yet another man might utilize his hands to repair something or solve a problem and while not inherently glamorous, there is strength and beauty in what he does. All of it is incredibly sexy to me.

Especially sexy, though, is that lately I find myself imagining and enjoying how hands can make me feel. The thought of a strong hand, placed on the small of my back, firmly but gently guiding me into a room leaves me reeling, unsteady on my feet. Imagining a hand stroking my cheek and tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear makes me dizzy. A solitary finger, slowly outlining the curve of my lower lip then acquiescing as I open my mouth to playfully suck on it is simply intoxicating. Hands can be both strong and gentle at once. A playful squeeze or tweak can be followed by a caressing rub, causing me to melt on the spot. Hands can be leaders, as they boldly decide where to roam, where to explore, but can also relinquish and be followers too, allowing themselves to be willingly guided and directed. Endless are the opportunities that arise.

My mind staggers at the myriad of purposes the hands possess. Function and fun, practicality and playfulness; the hands are multitasking, multi-talented agents of product and pleasure. Ever thankful of the hands in my life, I appreciate and enjoy the accomplishments and magic they create.