Archive for November, 2008


Posted in cusak with tags on Mon, 17 Nov, 2008 :: 321/47 :: 13:45:10 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I take a deep breath. It’s easier to face how much I want to let go and drift into the feeling when I’m breathing. It’s not as scary.

I hate hearing it described as “sub space” or “flying” or any of those other kitschy terms for it. It’s simply the great black ocean of release. Of safety. Of not having to drive, or be in control.


I want him to tie me up. To leave me there, bound, helpless. To occasionally inspect me, touch me, brush fingertips over skin. To murmur that I’m beautiful when I’m this package, this item, this objectified thing. Of his.

Last night he looked at me, the light still on, and called me his. There are no words for how it felt. Like gravity and love, wanting to fall desperately into it. Wanting to hear it again. Feeling his arms around me and being able to just belong to him. Without responsibility, without fear of messing it up.


Sometimes I would give anything to live in the darkness.



Posted in cusak, language with tags , on Wed, 05 Nov, 2008 :: 309/45 :: 13:45:34 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

Etymology: c.1230, “an emotion of the mind, passion, lust as opposed to reason,” from O.Fr. affection, from L. affectionem (nom affectio) “inclination, influence, permanent state of feeling,” from affec-, stem of afficere “to do something to, act on” (see affect (n.)). Sense developed from “disposition” to “good disposition toward” (1382). Affectionate in the sense of “loving” is from 1586.

“They’re out-cute-ing us,” I whined petulantly. Most men would recognize this as the girlfriend’s plea to demonstrate affection, to soothe her jangly nerves and reassure her that she was. Cusak laughed, and turned to one of the guys and offered to snuggle with him. I, unwilling to be outdone began snuggling with the girls indiscriminately, as if offended by the PDA I had seen, and trying to place it back in its social box.

But secretly, I have to tell you, I’m a sucker for it. I am an affectionate person. I snuggle randomly, capriciously, on a whim. I touch, I kiss, I hold hands with. I hug hello and goodbye, leaving all whom I have as much as a comfortable acquaintance with (much less true friendship) in a cloud of clove smoke and (most days) vanilla with my passing. It defines me, this public affection, this easily shown allegiance given through even casual gestures.

And I expect it from my lover.

Cusak admits to me that holding hands is big for him. That any public touch at all, however slight, is mountainous from where he was. That he fears losing me because this is a hurdle for him. And I smile, and nod, and promise I won’t leave him over this (I won’t, now. I never promise him the future, we’re both too cagey, too wary, too often betrayed by such promises to risk it.) I watch him sleep, I listen to his breathing, and even in the medicated silence of the late night I wonder to myself what I have to change about me. To make myself accept. To become perfect. To create a comfortable space for him to express affection, or a space in which I no longer care.

I poke at the exposed bit of this mentality, picking at the scab. Peeling it back to see if there’s fresh, pink skin underneath yet. But there isn’t. Inside, the five year old who is my id still feels unclaimed, unloved, unheld. Because no one sees her when she is. Because she is just accepted as a part, as naturally falling into place as his girlfriend as his t-shirt falls into place as a post-ironic expression of his sarcasm (“Smile, Jesus loves you,” the yellow smiley face proclaims).

It is the same part of me that recoils to know a friend of his, however far from my hearing dislikes me and refers to me even in passing as icky, the part of me that refuses to put her hands on her hips and do something about it, but instead sulks in the recesses of my mind while I tell her not to. While I rationally dissect the situation to prove to myself that she is just my id, and I owe her nothing. That the freudian complications of my emotional state are built up to give me something to be actively neurotic about, like breathing — an autonomic function.

There’s nothing resolved, we both just went to sleep.


Posted in bruce wayne, cusak, thoughts with tags on Sun, 02 Nov, 2008 :: 306/44 :: 22:45:22 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I am watching one of my favorite films right now as a sort of birthday icing treat, Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain. One of the most striking things about it for me is the little things Amélie takes pleasure in. Sticking her hands in bags of grain, skipping stones.

I am struck by my own simple pleasures. I too love sticking my hands in bags of grain, cracking the top of crème brûlée. I love the feeling of clean sheets on my skin, and the way Cusak’s breath tastes when we kiss. I love Bruce Wayne’s superman curl (right in the center of his forehead), and the sound of rain on window panes.

The simple pleasures are certainly some of the best.


Posted in real life, thoughts with tags on Sun, 02 Nov, 2008 :: 306/44 :: 14:09:34 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I have a complicated relationship with aging. When I was a child, precocious and unreasonable, I was much older than the years biologically assigned to me. Given the vagaries of my troubled childhood, this comes as less than a surprise to most who meet me.

Now, in my “adulthood” I regularly find I’m the youngest person in a room. My best friend, the same age as I (or perhaps younger, I can never quite remember) is emotionally so much older than I that in some ways seeing her next to me is like picturing a 30 year old next to a teenager. (I envy that she has her shit that together…I certainly don’t.)

This meandering is a long way of getting to the fact that I’m celebrating my birthday today. (Hence the pot noodle ruminations of a day or two ago.) I’m conflcited as to whether or not I’m enjoying being older, but the birthday itself can’t be knocked.