Fresh Blooms

I went out to clip a fresh bloom for my altar. I dropped it in the sink while I was filling the pitcher with water. I thought how beautiful it would look floating atop bath water! If the Captain were mine, if he were here, and he were working this afternoon, and I were not, I would surely draw a bath for him and place roses and petals atop the water to surprise him when he came home because I love him so I delight in his delight and at times, I must think he too in mine and so as we grow ever more creative and random in our expressions it blossoms into an increasingly beautiful and complex mandala of love, thereby unlocking yet greater depths to our love.

I try to banish all the old thoughts about love from my head. I cease to wonder if this is the greatest, or if I will hurt anyone else by allowing this to take root deeper and deeper within my being. I am responsible for me, only me, and not always doing such a great job at that. What will I do if I do not get this letter in the next 5 days? I cannot even imagine! I have done what I can do within the new way, doing in the old way will only make things worse.

Does he read this? Does his mind wander to me when I think of him? Surely I must be correct at guessing the later because there are times I am not thinking of him at all and it’s as though this tsunami comes crashing into my awareness. I am slammed with it, overcome, catching myself in a door frame to maintain my vertical mastery of my body. Captain, you do it, you! Just so you know that I’d long to draw you a bath and fill it with roses and wander into thoughts so private that they are making even an open book as myself blush.

So this New Orleans thing, this testing, sinking into my Creole roots… remember when love was celebrated, when romance was cherished? When more than just the love inside the bounds of matrimony was allowed? What a loss. I am sure some bad things went with it too, but it somehow seems that women must’ve been more empowered in that sort of environment. To deny one’s sexuality is too fall out of flow and become the stagnant waste swamp. In the world in which I have grown up, women like me are worse that whores, plain and simple sluts. I think about it  less often than I used to, it is no longer an ‘addiction’ or all-pervasive, but it is there, this unfulfilled desire. I would so easily, too easily give myself to any man. Yet, I do not wish to dishonor my Captain, although I fear it’s too late, because I did not remain pure to my heart. I did not have faith he was coming. If I had known what I know now, there would have only been one before him, but I am weak and I chastise myself and I long to let it go.

I watched Pretty Baby and then took the Schwinn into town to go to the post office and pay my water bill. Definitely too terrified to try to get down the hill from my house. I didn’t make it back up either, but I think that is because I am still getting used to it and shifted from 2nd to 3rd rather than into 1st. It’s more fun than walking or driving even if I have to walk the bike sometimes and lock it up while I run in somewhere for 5 seconds. I’m sure it’s fine, until the one time it isn’t. Where I come from you’d lock both wheels and have a U-bolt on the back wheel. Well, get used to it folks. Pretend it’s 1970. The bike is back!

I am almost inspired to play clarinet. Almost.