Mystery Wrapped in an Enigma- I Witnessed an Imaginary Story

Wondering Laid To Rest

Two makes language. Two communicates.
Sad, I thought, when my sister hollered up the stairs: An airplane just crashed right into a building!
I don’t watch news.
Oh, my god! Another airplane just crashed into another building. Just now!  Just now!
My mind flips into mode. I don’t react. I ask. What is going on?
My newborn is laying next to me, where I’m reading. I look at my tiny baby asleep safe on our shared bed. I gently snatch my precious two-month-old into my arms head for the stairs and march down with her nestled to my chest. I’m fixen to set to translating this language of two.
What is being said here?
But I lost my brain and train of thought waiting for the firefighters to rescue trapped people form that crash, to evacuate the first building. Two buildings side by side airplane wounded, bleeding smoke.
Tell me people got rescued. Common firefighters get up there already! Get up get out.
It’s about time for an update. Suspense isn’t joking.  Are the people out of danger?  Like when baby Jessica was in the well. I’m not sure I can stand them in there any longer when my body feels a backbone crushing from the bottom up collapsing me one vertebrae at a time. It disintegrated and went up in a cloud of dust I can’t breathe.
They didn’t have time to get out! They didn’t have time to get out! All those people. All those firefighters. I just commanded them to get in there! They did. They didn’t get out!
They didn’t have time to get out looped my brain.
I rebooted it. It turned to rescue people charred by the other plane. No way such collapse would happen again. It was a fluke. It was only a fluke. People will get rescued this time. This building will hold as buildings do. So get em out.
Get out!
My inner voice shouts. Hurry! It works as much as cheering a team playing a game on tv at making me feel better.
Nothing feels good enough and I can’t just sit here.  Scouring the foot of the building hoping to see people come out is almost useless at so far off a screen view. Parched thirst for safety turns desperate like desert heat and blazing sun. The firefighters are in there. That’s no wet enough news. The spot on the ground I’m scrutinizing for exit movement liquefies. The tower squats down, shrinks, disintegrates, plunging my soul with it into a pile of rubble erupting ashes and dust of hope. Nothing makes sense now.
I look down at what I discover in my arms. Future in the baby face nuzzled at my breast vanishes. I can no longer imagine milk ever flowing out for her, again. There is no world now. No world for her to live in.
I ghosted back upstairs, put my sleeping child down in her un-safe spot on the bed, then went to find us some safety in a stillness, a quiet surrender to what is. Letting go of what I think and feel-a hopeless end. A world.  Allowing something that just liquified and collapsed to begin to regenerate or reconnect in me, then to my world.
What desperate heart-piercing scream erupts in these two molten crushing voices?
I sit and search, finally melting into the stillness where life is.

Till I’m wretched out of a concentration maintained fragile focus by my sister. Another airplane hit the pentagon!
Goddam! War-cries explode into being inside me. Instead of lighting up with those, I flee to a quiet place to put out the fire and stitch the world back together.
Later the story of the plane down in a field jerks my mind the other way. That one did something to me.
I imagine my people taking out the pilot and going down with the plane. Finally, I don’t feel bound and helpless. My hero’s, my people, succeeded. They did stuff for me. I feel like my fellow citizens and some pretty sacred symbolic place got rescued.
The Brave. The cost! Imagining that person, those people, instantly facing death, trusting each-other, banding together, standing up, thrills me and cancels out the already-in-the-grave feeling of helplessness. At the last-minute choosing to go down with the airplane in a spot were no one else would be hurt, fired up hope again. These are my people! Fiction or not.
Then I thought of the hijacker.
The contrast for him. Alone. Thwarted. Failed. The creeps of failure along with death. The guy or gal who may have, according to the speculation, took that plane down dies a glorious death while even the children on that flight, doomed, where not enslaved and twisted into instruments of more destruction. This is a victory even in death-or something like that.  Then I thought this is what really matters to me-to people.
One hijacker had the worst possible death. He died hopeless, a failure, crushed by letting down what he was willing to die to uphold. So, what was he upholding that mattered that much to him, then? What band of brothers did he feel like he betrayed? My emotions settled here, and everything started to make sense. This kid knew when he boarded the plane that he was going to die. He couldn’t chicken out. He couldn’t afford to really see one human being on that plane with him. No person could be more cornered or desperate, and sad. I wept for him. Then, I wept for his fellows.
When memorials were held, I scheduled my own. I’m already feeling like an American about my own American dead. So, I don’t focus there, were everyone else is already showing up. For each memorial, I brought a flower, to take time and felt the grief for each hero of a cause I don’t understand. And for his mother. For a kid compelled to shout-out that blood shrill for help. I don’t understand it. The kid, I figure, really didn’t understand it, either. We are equally lost in the world him and I. He stood for something just like my heroes. He was a person. He died failing, or triumphant. But that wasn’t what I wept for. I wept for the time he passed a beautiful American girl on a New York street and didn’t allow himself to see her beauty and love her, because he might have to kill her. She is them. This is not for me. Bitter tears dripped for the hours he spent at the airport, then on that plane looking at children, babies, couples in love, not seeing this was for him. Not seeing himself in them. I wept for his looking yet not seeing community, only death.

It took me a few years to tell another person after that first person I told. She looked at me like I’d swallowed the devil whole and alive. It doesn’t matter that I don’t agree with Osama Bin Ladin, even if he is not framed, but I let my heart try to hear the people he speaks for, is blasphemy. My position made me shake all over, but I can’t just pretend I feel different.
When Osama may (or may not) have been killed. I take it hard.
Every time the subject or name of Osama has come up for the last decade or so, I handle it by imagining Jesus getting accused. I don’t know anything, but he is my friend because I made a choice to listen to and honor him with my thoughts. I don’t know what he is saying, I’m just listening.
He just got crucified.
While my community celebrates, grief crushes me. I cry on my walk. Grief floods me making lunch, on my way to pick up my kid, while I play Runscape with my online friends, but I don’t talk about it to them. While walking off the feeling of indigence over my country taking-out my friend for me, my walking buddy Lois brings up the politics and his death. A lump grows and grows in my throat choking up tears I can’t hold back.
I lost my imaginary friend, today. Yet the grief is mostly over the idea of celebrating it.

Daily Prompt
: Mystery Wrapped in an Enigma


Government immature ineffective

I immature ineffective

Not only are
Bad guys bad
I am bad
For how I see
Bad guys

I am everything bad
Everything good

You need me

If I don’t,

It won’t




A person lost

-A horse shoe nail

Modern horseshoes are most commonly made of st...


Trading Places/Happy Happy Joy Joy!

What Everyone Needs

I’m so wanting to believe in people-including the weaker sex.  The tits-bated weaker sex.  The devoid of reason and control by tits, lured to their death by mermaids, trapable weaker sex.  I’m wanting to believe they are not a mistake.  Girls-next-door, church lady or stripper, it’s a continual, universal wonder.  What’s up with men and tits, woman or whatever?

I’m wondering.  Wondering and asking for four years now.  I always get answers.  So what  then?  What?

Looking at my breasts in the mirror, to me, is about as enchanting as looking at my hands without a manicure.  At least done nails thrill me like adorable outfits. I love looking at my outfits, any outfits.  Fashion, outfits, hair, makeup, yummy costumes captivate me, but not bare tits.  Tits in lift up lace or leather?  Hell yeah.  It’s the leather.  Trust me, it’s the design, the angles, the style shaped around the tits, tits in a bodice not tits themselves. For sure, not my pretty tits.  Not mine, not anyone’s.  But really, much less my own.  Breasts are for decoration, as far as visual pleasure.  That’s it for me.

Breasts and feminine beauty make me feel lovely and captivating when I see them.  I never want to touch them.  Except maybe out of curiosity, or the softness of the fabric they are tightly laced up in.  When I see it, it makes me feel: That is for me!  I am this beautiful.  Same reason I love romances.  It’s how it makes me feel about me.  It’s about me.  It’s how I feel romanced, loved, worshiped, adored.  Tits have almost nothing to do with it, except the feeling seeing them gives me that mine are beautiful.  That I am all this beautiful.

Men though, they go retarded instantly over any pair of tits.

Yeah, I don’t trust men.

There is just something sinister in their weakness for tits.

Not only chaste wifely woman think so.

Why do guys always try to get a twenty-dollar dance for  ten?

Oh, I so hate that!

It’s so insulting.

I know.  It’s belittling.

I just turn around and walk away.  I won’t even deal with that kind of customer.

I know, it just brings you down.  It devalues us as dancers.

Yeah, it makes me so mad.  How would he feel it he wasn’t paid for his work?  When ever I go for that stupid deal, I just feel not worth full price.

Yep, ruins your whole night.  They keep insulting us with stupid offers.

Grabby guys and ten-dollar guys, the worst!

I don’t know, but what’s up with men in general?

A tits-switch flips their brain cells off.

Just like that. You can’t trust it.

I want to. But.

Oh, god, I know!

I buy into Michelle O’Donnell’s view that God or Allah, or Universal Evolutionary Impulse, or Whatever,  did not make the obvious mistake. I mean didn’t make a mistake (even the obvious one) when men were created or wired or whatever, wrong.  Wrong.  A mistake.  But Life doesn’t make mistakes so….?

I mean when I love someone, any other flexed biceps are irrelevant.  There is actually only one man in the world.  This wonderful  utopia doesn’t seem to apply to men.  Even when they sing about it, cuz it’s what the stronger sex wants to hear.  Or something.  I don’t get it.

This question had a lot of chances to be asked.

Wow, this guy is not asking me to have sex for money!

Wait, he is.  Who or what do you think I am?  Pause.  I defer to the mind of “God” on this matter.  I understand there is a bigger truth I do not see.  I defiantly do not see it!.  I trust men are created right, for a reason and not a mistake. Takes deep breath. Sighs.  I need help.

No thanks for your kind offer.  I dance.  That’s all.   I only dance and the laws apply.

The question burns like the bright incandescent lamp that always goes out.

My wtf idea of men, is not the truth about men.  But I don’t know what the truth is.  I really don’t.  It’s super annoying.

No, you can’t touch.

Little Tommy, you can’t touch Little Betty that way…

But that day, that one day, everything changed.

It was a normal day. The ten dollars left in my left fitted jeans’ pocket feel good.  I had paid my bills and paid off all that debt. I’m ten dollars ahead and ready to start saving. Yeah.

I’m in the zone dressing to go out running when a glance up at my topless reflection in the bedroom mirror captivates me.

I glance, in passing, in the mirror its my tits.

Those. Yes!

Tits! It’s a instinctual wild animal reaction. My whole body shouts out rippling joy.  Joy’s crashing waves of smashing euphoria irresistible pleasure.

The mirror’s treasure, edible bliss!  I must have.  I must touch, now.  Reaching where no does not exist.  Water after dry days in desert intensity, this cool waterfall of deliciousness palm trees shade smiles all for me to swim in taste, feel with my whole body, tongue electrified, lightning stricken mind, on divine fire, missile target smitten emotions lunge at all this satisfaction just for me.  For me!

Oh wait, I better something… as I leap, one arm reaching grasping for heaven, the other reaches for the bill in my pocket. Here!  Take it!  I must touch!  It’s all I have!  Take it, please!

If I had 500, I would say the same thing. Or a thousand. Or five thousand. Or whatever…A man and a woman performing a modern dance.

Then.  My reflection is a reflection.  I am myself again.

Round breasts that project almost horizontally
Round breasts that project almost horizontally (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The earthshaking  pleasure, in a river of chocolate I taste with every pore of my body, and the vast space of tasted mind, the ease the universal delight of dessert, tastable delights walking around everywhere in my whole world vanishes.

I don’t’ know how anyone can live, or not live, like that.

No words suffice for the world men live.

Goddam God!  No mistake made!  Question answered.  Got it.  Okay.

The intense rushing cascades of joy from just seeing and feeling, wanting to touch!

Never felt anything even remotely like it.  There are no words.  Nothing comes close.  My emotions are just as intense and delightful, but its even the same taste bud.  Indescribable heaven of physical desire.

I don’t even understand how men handle this so exceptionally well.  I, I couldn’t handle it.  I’d go around tasting everything, begging, borrowing and stealing, more, more!   What a wonderful world!  Wow God.  You knew what you were doing.  What a sexy world!

I understand now why a man would feel like he is hungry and being deprived of all this amazing food.  It sits there wasted while he starves. He steals it, of course!  What starved person wouldn’t.  It’s stupid like: “A mans steals a loaf of bread and shit goes down.”  I might even have just taken it in that moment.  No handle on restraint, no practice,  no understanding of the harm it could cause to the wonder of beauty dessert.

Hopefully “she” would have been a big enough slut to accept my ten.

Porque yo no respondo!

Because I can’t be held responsible for what I might have done!

…Men are intensely vulnerable, sweet and  lucky.

Creation is fucking awesome.

Dance Floor

Response to: WordPress

The Daily Post

Daily Prompt: Trading Places