Archive for life


Posted in bruce wayne, cusak with tags , on Sun, 31 Aug, 2008 :: 243/35 :: 22:42:56 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

It’s such a huge word, forever, that it scares me when they use it. And yet they do, and I’m drawn into it, picturing myself, happy. Settled. 2.5 kids. A pet. A house behind a fence, even if it’s not white picket.

Sometimes I wonder how the whole of me can fit into that box. How do you squish the kinky sex, the hyper-literate, the intelligent, the huge heart of me…into a woman with a house and kids? How will I reconcile two husbands with the life I live outside? How will I decide who goes to work things, how will I know how to label myself?

The world is not set up for people like me. People with a Cusak and a Wayne. People who know that they love bigger than the world is used to.

But as (t)he(y) is(are) fond of saying, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.



Posted in cusak with tags , on Mon, 11 Aug, 2008 :: 223/33 :: 03:03:59 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I wake to the sound of the rain on the roof, and the water falling in the shower. They mingle, subtly, in my brain, water everywhere. It’s hard, impossible almost, not to imagine him standing in it.

I wrap my arms around his pillow, clinging to that last fifteen minutes of sleep. Fifteen minutes which have already eluded me. Instead I inhale, wanting to wrap myself up in the faint scent still clinging to the cotton of the pillowcase and take it with me for the day.

We sit, downstairs, waiting to have to leave, stealing little looks at each other and banking them for the day ahead. He presses his lips to mine, warm and soft, and I close my eyes.

Every morning should be this beautiful.


Posted in cusak with tags , on Sat, 02 Aug, 2008 :: 214/31 :: 10:38:31 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

He asks me what I love about him, and I catch my breath, trying to put it into words. His smile, his eyes, the way the sun slants across his skin. His freckles. The golden gleam to his look when he glances up to see me staring.

The way his voice rises and falls, lulling me into its somnolent ocean.

The smell of his skin, the taste of his breath, the fullness of his lips.

His anger, just under the surface like a Halloween bonfire. The protection he offers me, even from myself and the hateful things inside me. The comfort of his hand in the small of my back. The way he makes it safe to tell him anything.

The way he makes it safe to love.

How do I catch him in a word, in a list, in a note? How do I pin the soul of a man to a piece of paper, and make it sensible?


Posted in cusak, thoughts with tags , on Thu, 17 Jul, 2008 :: 198/29 :: 17:44:05 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

We’re in the midst of a crisis, which is why I haven’t written, but it feels dishonest to hide. Not a relationship crisis, a life crisis.

A wondering where I’ll be living in a month crisis.

The same kind of crisis that defines my life pretty often.


There are some words I hate. Crave. Moist. Cum. These words have no place in my sexual vocabulary, tired tropes that they are, staring me in the face like the ghosts of poorer writers. The currency of hacks and paid-by-the-words, strung together in sentences meant to arouse that almost always leave me flat.

But how then do I describe the need for his hand in my hair, or on my skin? How do I describe wanting to fall with him into bed and never get up again. My regret when it’s over, and I feel him pull away, knowing the space between us is widening again.

How do I talk about watching him sit and thinking of those fingers splayed on my back, his nails digging in, tracing the road of my spine?

Are there words for that, or is it all just instinct? Chemicals and reactions.


Tell me you understand. Tell me you’ve felt the pain of a lip split from chewing, the hoarseness of a throat gone dry with breathing, the strain of trying to keep in just-under-the-radar semi-silence.

I want to shout him from rooftops. I want to plead with him. I want to feel the press of my lips to his palm as he silences me, his sub-vocalizations driving me into him like a car crash.

Tell me you know how that feels.


I live at the bottom of the hierarchy. Food. Shelter. Sex.


Posted in cusak with tags on Fri, 23 May, 2008 :: 143/21 :: 10:06:39 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

This might as well be titled “Parents, Part 2,” although it has nothing to do with last night’s entry.

I was invited to go with Cusak up to his parents house this weekend (it being a holiday and all). They live in the wilderness (hinterlands, non-urbania, whatever you want to call it) and I actually said I couldn’t go. I’d love to meet his parents, I’d love to see the place they live…hell, I think the whole thing is actually pretty cool.

But I just can’t do parents before sex. And that’s where we’re at. Still at the lack of sex.

So, instead I’m staying home, just me and the internet.

He says he’ll miss me.


Posted in language with tags on Tue, 24 Jul, 2007 :: 204/30 :: 16:39:11 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

Etymology: c.1225, from O.Fr. ypocrisie, from L.L. hypocrisis, from Gk. hypokrisis “acting on the stage, pretense,” from hypokrinesthai “play a part, pretend,” also “answer,” from hypo- “under” + middle voice of krinein “to sift, decide” (see crisis). The sense evolution is from “separate gradually” to “answer” to “answer a fellow actor on stage” to “play a part.” Thus hypocrite (c.1225) is ult. Gk. hypokrites “actor on the stage, pretender.”

Words have a lot of power. Something I come back to again and again. My original online nick was nihilism, one I still pick up from time to time.

Nihilism is a sincere belief in nothing.

Is it to believe in nothing? To believe in nothing? To believe in nothing? A simple sentence can’t convey the actual meaning I’m looking for.

Which is why I’m not surprised that words are at the heart of every heartache I’ve ever had.

I’d intended to come and write about a situation that’s on my mind. Something that happened, that has roots in other happenings, and that will branch and flower into yet more. But somewhere in composing that entry I stopped. I looked at what I was saying. And I bit my tongue.

I was planning a diatribe on hypocrisy and inauthenticity. On how I throw myself into life and live it, and refuse to apologize for how I’ve done so or be mollified into submission to be accepted. I was going to discuss how I am truthful about myself and my experiences, and how everything I do and say is genuine.

But I realized something.

We’re all playing parts. We act and react and somewhere in the backs of our heads we’re calculating how much each response costs. What it’s worth to us. How to play a situation to the best advantage. The differences are only in what we’ve decided advantages are.

Are they social? Are they political? Are they personal?

And if, after attempting to determine the cost, we lose that advantage, can we cope?

I am just as guilty of this as anyone else. I have values which I hold very dear to me, but there are times when I don’t speak up, when I lay them aside, when I evaluate how much they’re costing me and ask myself if I can afford to put them down. Sometimes the answer is yes.

I had a revelation, today, about being human.

It was in the etymology of hypocrisy.