Body Betray

How is it that our own bodies can betray us so bitterly? That flesh once firm and muscle once powerful can so quickly turn on us, until we are just a shell of our former selves. It makes me ache. It makes me shudder to see such devastation of flesh when the mind and spirit are still so tenacious and potent.

now it is waiting... My uncle called and said there is no point leaving yet. He is passing slowly. No chance he'll recognize us or come to, just drugs from the pain and they turned off the ventilator. If we leave now he could linger for days- then 3 days for a funeral, we could end up there for days, maybe over a week, or we would have to leave for work and then go back for the funeral. So tonight we will stay together and just wait for word of his passing so we can make the arrangements to leave. Keeping the bags packed by the door. It is a 8 hour drive so we will need to leave right away.

It is not lost on me that the bags by my front door are very much like the bags we packed when I was pregnant, waiting for the birth of my child, this time waiting for word of his death. Is that irony? Is it satire?

My mind is wandering.

This is stage four lung cancer, there is no getting better. Just the slow snuffing of a human light. I am crying, and yet the feeling is more surreal than painful. Not like when my brother was murdered. That was a killing blow that struck my entire body, making me drop to my knees. This has been more like a flu that has drained my spirit and left me lethargic and worn down.


Update.

He passed at 3:45 PM on Wednesday June 28th.
We are beginning the long drive back to Ohio at 6 AM.

I want you to know that I appreciate all of your warm thoughts and prayers. My family thanks you too.
We will remain huddled around one another just a bit longer.

I will resume commenting when time allows. In the meantime I want to say that I miss you all. I miss this little cyber world where I have felt protected and cared for by friends far and wide.

One thing that I am reminded of is that we should all remember to say these things to each other-- You have touched my life in the most wonderful way. You have brought me joy with your affections. My life is better for having you in it.

That is what I feel tonight. Blessed. By all of the people who come here and share themselves with me. By the wonderful light you bring into my life.

Temptation

How can I resist? Her words roll over my body, caressing like fingers, searching, exploring. Discovering parts of me that have been hidden. Brought to life through the rise and fall of her breath.

She circles around me and above me. Her words wrapping in my hair and around my waist, holding me like a lover, unbidden, unexpected, and then she is there, her voice whispers in my ear, her fingers extend and touch, leaving feeling where before all was numb. I come alive in her heat, her warmth.

And the heat builds until it is unsustainable, like a star shining brightest as it nears death I give myself to her. I lay myself out for her. To await the small death that will finally explode within me.

And yet she is nothing more than a muse. A spirit that sweeps over me and then departs, leaving only cold and empty where once ecstacy dwelt. And I reach for her, knowing that there will be nothing there. Only memory.

And it will leave me more empty for clutching at the cold still air.

I am once again humbled and grateful to have friends as dear and generously selfless as Tricia... This is beautiful, and I am honored to share it with her readers. Tricia was called away suddenly, and is out of town attending to a family emergency. We're all once again reminded that while things happen and keep moving in this cyber-world, our real world life must come first. Tricia has asked me to keep an eye on things here while she's away, and I'd ask you all to keep her in your thoughts and prayers during this difficult time. - nina aoki

Savannah HNT

I recently incorporated part of my Savannah trip into an article I wrote for our new women's 'blogazine' Menage a Trois. This was my first article called 'Touch'.

I'd like to thank Lime, LeighAnn, Fletcher and SoCal Sal for coming over there and lending their support to this new venture. It has meant the world to me!

My one and only complaint is that, as the 'Vanilla' blogger on Menage a Trois I have not been able to find enough romantic/erotic posts to include on Hott Reads from the vanilla bloggers. Now I know we're Hott too. And we are definitely as erotic as anyone else out there, so I am enlisting your help. If you have a particularly steamy post on your blog, or if you have a favorite post by another blogger, please send me an email... teamweight at yahoo. I'd love to share your Hott posts with our readers.


Of course writing there has taken away some of my commenting time and I also want to thank you all for your patience while I try to juggle two blogs. And that you haven't deserted me! Thank you for that!

Happy HNT!!!
See the man... Osbasso.

HNT - Girl Talk

Step into my parlor said the spider to the fly.



Ever wonder what girls talk about when we get together?




Welcome to ménage à trois! A blog experiment which builds on the success of three very well respected women of the blogosphere! SD of Salacious Desires, Nina the Lazy Geisha and Tricia. Three women who have a lot to say about a lot of things!

Welcome to our world of exquisite femme!
Where we enjoy expressing ourselves as only women can. No subject is taboo. We talk about everything from celebrity gossip to PMS to ... well, every Friday the girls will be picking out our favorite erotica/romance posts from around the blogosphere.

If one of your posts is chosen we will email you our Hot Read link button to display on your blog.




Happy HNT everyone!
Osbasso is the man!

Shudder

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Shudder by Lumivox

Once again for Musical Monday I have the privilege to bring you a selection from the Lumivox Collection. This recording is my favorite, not only for the intense feeling with which he delivers his songs, nor the craftsmanship of his guitar playing, but this one gives me the feeling of intimacy. As I listen to the beginning with L speaking into the microphone, giving some simple directions, it makes me feel that I am there, standing in the room, watching him as he plays.

And the playing is intense. Dramatic. As with most of his playing there is a certain profoundness to his 'guitar voice' that draws me into the music itself. If the song is the story, then the guitar playing is the stage and lighting, setting up the scenario as it unfolds. The opening chords strike-- hard, fierce, like the tolling of a bell that cues the audience into expectant silence. From there it is an impassioned ride into the depths of human emotion, with a break towards the last chorus when the guitar goes from a shout to a whisper, begging for reflection.

I used the word craftmanship. I can't think of a better word for this song of temptation, realization, and regret. If music and story telling is a craft then Lumivox is a master.

I can't even tell you how long she's been standing there...
but I shudder to think.

This is song writing at its best.

Fitzgerald

Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?


I remember when I was young traveling with my father through Ohio and staying with friends on the Great Lakes. Trips we made late each winter. It was there that I first heard tales of shipwrecks and, of course, the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald was one that fascinated me in a most morbid fashion. A story I heard again and again as I grew up, from people who knew some of the men lost on that tragic voyage.

"The lake it is said never gives up her dead when the skies of november turn gloomy" To put it rather bluntly, the reason so few bodies are recovered from off shore drownings in Lake Superior is because the bodies first tend to sink (or are still on board a vessel) but because of the depth and frigid temperatures, the victims do not naturally decompose. Because of the lack of oxygen producing organisms, the bodies remain on the bottom.

The last sighting of 'The Fitz'.

This led to my morbid fascination, and later, quite obsessive study of shipwrecks. Tonight I have on my bedside table both 'Treasure Island' and 'Moby Dick'. Hardbound and demanding my attention. For the sea is calling and I am answering that call.


I have 'The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald' in my iPod and was listening to it yesterday when a man pulled up next to me in a convertible and guess what was blaring from his car stereo? Yes, the same song!

A kindred spirit I thought to myself as he noticed the echo of his own song and tipped his invisible hat to me.

It is a small world.


Listen --> Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

by Gordon Lightfoot

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they called "Gitche Gumee."
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
when the skies of November turn gloomy.

With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty,
that good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
when the "Gales of November" came early.

The ship was the pride of the American side
coming back from some mill in Wisconsin.
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
with a crew and good captain well seasoned,

concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
when they left fully loaded for Cleveland.
And later that night when the ship's bell rang,
could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
and a wave broke over the railing.
And ev'ry man knew, as the captain did too
'twas the witch of November come stealin'.

The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
when the Gales of November came slashin'.
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
in the face of a hurricane west wind.

When suppertime came the old cook came on deck sayin'.
"Fellas, it's too rough t'feed ya."
At seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in; he said,
"Fellas, it's bin good t'know ya!"

The captain wired in he had water comin' in
and the good ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night when 'is lights went outta sight
came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Does any one know where the love of God goes
when the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
if they'd put fifteen more miles behind 'er.

They might have split up or they might have capsized;
they may have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and the names
of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
in the rooms of her ice-water mansion.
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams;
the islands and bays are for sportsmen.

And farther below Lake Ontario
takes in what Lake Erie can send her,
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
with the Gales of November remembered.

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed,
in the "Maritime Sailors' Cathedral."
The church bell chimed 'til it rang twenty-nine times
for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they call "Gitche Gumee."
"Superior," they said, "never gives up her dead
when the gales of November come early!"

© 1976 Moose Music, Inc.



Happy Musical Monday!