If You Could See the Way I See Them

I hear, and I see people.  I see people, and I see their brain.  I can see inside their brain.  I hear people, and I see them.  Sometimes I see in their brain, sometimes I see something in their life, sometimes I see talent or skills, sometimes I do not see good.

Believe it or not.  Perhaps it’s real.   Perhaps it’s not.  I am not always right or correct.  I am still not sure myself if what I see is truly real.

But, I was wondering if I wrote about what I see and hear if the world would become a different place then the one I’ve been living in.

I am prone to giving people nicknames.  I have no idea why.  It started when I worked at Dillard’s, I gave all the Florida State Troopers working security nicknames.  My favorite was the blonde handsome trooper who was my age, I made him laugh out-loud every time we talked.  Why did he never ask me out?  Why do men NOT ask me out?  I will never understand this.

Let me start with this first: Working at Dillard’s I was helping a woman with dark hair shopping for sunglasses.  I thought she had placed the sunglasses she was trying on in her purse.  I called the troopers who then approached her and to my embarrassment did not have the sunglasses.  She was a wealthy woman, who then returned to the store often sometimes alone and sometimes with friends to harass and embarrass me.  For how could I a lowly, hourly wage employee accuse a woman of wealth of theft when she could have easily afforded them?

So, here is my dilemma.  If I truly see and hear people – I am not always right.  Or am I?

Working backwards.

Higher Power – We’ve had several conversations.  I have always listened.  I bring you into the light because this one conversation was important.  I differed in his word choice.  Because the difference of a word is delicate.  It can make all the difference in the world.  The exact conversation and words I do not recall.  That is not what is important anyways.  I differed on the word choice he used when we spoke, I showed him the difference, and he laughed at my correct choice and correction.

Silver Hair – I stopped.  And, I listened.  Listening is a brain place.  Seeing into another dimension.  A place within a place within a place.  I saw this man’s brain.  Real or not, I don’t know, but I saw his brain.  Which was remarkable.  His brain.  His brain was – pristine.  Pristine.  Think about that for a second.  All that gray matter in his brain was pristine.  Not clean, not ordered – pristine.  I have never seen anything like it before.  There is only so much training can do.  This man.  This man has taken everything, everything learned, all his training, his relations, his relationships, his work, his…well, everything, and on his own…wait a second, part of it is how he is hard-wired, how he was created, the way he was born.  Yet, you should have seen it.  This man’s brain is pristine.  Wow!  Of course, he is calm while dealing with many different things at the same time.  This is hardly worth mentioning given his job and career.  Silver Hair is constantly thinking, not typical for every man.  This is a guess. He was across the street.  I was driving along and turned my head.  Because something…well, the best way I can describe it is – feelers everywhere.  Something got my attention, so I looked.  What is remarkable is the pristine nature of his brain.  I listened.  I only saw him once.  The man that came back the second time was NOT the same.  Not for a moment.  Not for a second.  They did not even look a-like to me.  If you are wondering why I do not call him Pristine, I can only say this.  I think Silver Hair is better.

Special – this man exudes so much.  Changing his shirt, I saw him.  He is bigger than his body.  His reach far exceeds.  I saw through the black face and saw the man changing his shirt.  Then, another black man walked around the corner.  And, he was gone.  These two men looked nothing the same to me.

Native/American – He is a good and bright man.  He is educated and smart.  Capable of speaking for others, a leader, capable of speaking in front of important people.  I was not worried about this man.  The second man I saw, has had several bad days.  Not necessarily a bad man, he’s done time.  He did not look the same as the first man to me at all.

Pack – This solider has been wounded stopping his career short.  There is pain all over him.  I see the burden of humping a pack.  I see the pain of a moment of innocence.  For a solider, there is not a moment of relief or let-up.  While caring for my mother, I felt this way.  I was not allowed one moment of let-up.  The back of my mind, my mind’s eye, was constantly on high alert.  I wondered if Pack had a moment of innocence that ended his career.  As I see him, he is doing well and going to be fine.

Ever So – This man I will write in another post.  He deserves his own.

I will not give everyone I write about a nickname.  Not everyone has a place in my brain for a nickname.

Random voices in the night.

I heard a voice during the night, what I saw he might not like because I asked of him to be the bigger man.  I saw him going round and round in his mind keeping his mind on something that was keeping him behind.  Instead of being a bigger man than whatever it was (probably a female relationship) that was keeping him behind.  It is not wrong for a woman to ask of a man to step up, be better than he thinks he can be, be better than his job or situation, and be a man beyond his circumstances.  It is a purposeful choice.  It is not complicated.  It is not difficult.  It is a choice and nothing more.  Be the bigger man.

I have no nickname for this man I saw.  He did not want to be seen.  He did not want me to see him.  This is not a bad thing.  It is a way to protect himself.  Nothing wrong with that.  I saw in him a disagreement, my guess between a superior and himself in which both were correct.  However, that might not be true.  For if what I saw was real and true, then he is correct.  He needs a new handler.  For the outcome depends upon the handler.  The experience, the results depend upon how he is handled.  A lot happened to me, so trying to work backwards the most that I remember is the need for a change in being handled.

There was a dark-haired man with a laptop who looked at me with curiosity.  He wanted to see my face.  This man as I saw him is overly talented.  He is overly talented for his position.  My guess is he has asked to be promoted or moved, and he is being held back or kept in his position and job.  However, I believe this man is correct.  He is overly-talented, he needs to be promoted or moved or have done what he has asked for.  For the whole world would benefit from his talent.

Working backwards again.

This is not something new or learned for me.  I have always had this.  I have just not had to show my work to teacher.  It has been instinct and intuition.  I worked with a man who had one arm.  He was a better driver than most people think they are.  He and I and another couple went to a bar and played pool.  I did not understand if this was meant to be a double-date.  Now, I have done a lot of mental work on myself since then, however what I saw in him was disorder.  Broken-ness everywhere.  Fractured pieces everywhere.  Turmoil.  Within myself this is where I take a step back from someone.  I wanted to encourage him, not make-out with him.  Perhaps it is not always a good thing to be able to see beyond people for he was a good man.  Aloneness is not good for me.  Living entirely alone, without friends or a man in my life in not a good thing.

Have you ever seen a person and been stopped?  This is not always a good thing.

So far this has happened to me twice.  I am uncertain how much of this I discern, and how much is transplanted into my brain.

I was at a courthouse, he was an average ordinary looking man.  Now, let me fill you in on something, since my second Disney working experience I have been made quite anxious about sitting down.  I am not worried or scared, I am anxious.  It is no longer a good experience.  When I saw this average looking man, I stopped.  Wow!  But, this was not good.  I had to stand up, I wanted to pace because my whole body had become consumed with what I saw.  I am the ONLY one who lives this experience.  This man that I saw was behind bars for a horrible crime, and I felt it in my whole body.  This man is caustic.  I believe this man liked to cut people up and eat them.  For me, it was like trying to breathe through toxic chemicals, then pretend I wasn’t feeling it in every part of my being.  It was such a slam in the head it is difficult to think about now.  Perhaps it was his brain that made me feel that way.  It was his brain that was caustic.  This man should never be let out of prison.  Soon enough his psychiatrist walked around the corner.  She tried to get my attention.  I listened some, however I am so much greater than this woman I was not interested.  This is not a disparaging remark.  It is not meant to be disparaging.  Part of it is that I’ve had my fill of shrinks getting it wrong and doing research on me.  The truth is – how I see myself – I am greater.

Now, this happened a second time.  I saw a man and I am walking through toxic chemicals, trying to pretend I am not feeling everything, everywhere.  No, it did not make me feel dirty, I did nothing wrong.  It did not make me want to shake or shiver, I was not scared.  This man did a terrible and disgusting thing.  I believe he hurt children.  I do not know if he will ever hurt people again.  However, he was disgusting.  Disgusting.  Gross.  Disgusting.  I am writing about him, although I have already forgotten how he made me feel.

I want to make a point about something to make sure it is understood.  I wrote about how she could never be special as he is special.  This is not a put-down or disparaging remark toward women in any way.  She.  This vague and no-named she I refer to is the she that has used me as a pet and a slave.  Perhaps it has been a she who has used me as a sex-slave.  Telling me and making me only choose her.


It better be, any person who uses another human being as an animal to be re-trained should be sent behind bars.  It should never happen.

To Russia With Love

When I was staying at an Embassy Suites in New York City, the one by Battery Park across the street from The World Trade Center there were four of us sharing a room for one night.

This was August 2001.

My mother had ingrained in me the safety of travelling with others rather than alone.  However, I have proven I am a capable traveller.  All by myself.

Here’s a fact, I stopped a pick-pocket from stealing my friends purse while watching street performers in Times Square.  I stared him in the face and he backed away – true story.  My friend never knew what I prevented.

It’s not the first time either.

While on a cruise, the one where I met Pete.  The three of us went ashore, my friend was standing taking pictures.  Her purse did not have a closed opening.  It was only a snap closure, and it was opened.  A man started to approach us, my friend(s) were oblivious.  I TOLD my friends we had to leave immediately.  They, neither appreciated, nor believed what I had prevented.  However, I saw him staring at her purse as he approached us.  They thought I was taking away their fun trying to be bossy.  I believe I prevented her from being robbed, and spending hours in a police station while reporting the crime.

In New York, we were all disagreeing.  I should have gone alone.

Why I remember my slippers that I brought from home, I do not know.  I had these house slippers that were the color of turquoise.  At the thong, between the big toe and the next toe, there was a bright yellow daisy.  I thought these house slippers said I was fun.  Or, I was trying to be fun.  They were silly.  They were not my typical choice.  As, I am constantly trying to buy items that I would not normally choose.  Just for something different.

Trying to step away from the severe cerebral me.

At least, that is who I used to be.


Coffee and Breakfast

I – am – miserable.

Waking up I am miserable.




My hot and uncomfortable bed.

My hot and uncomfortable bedroom.

My hot, uncomfortable, noisy bedroom!


Arguing with this noisy house as I turn over in my bed.  Sleep is important.  Arguing with sound reasoning – eight hours of sleep is NOT unreasonable.  Wanting to sleep for eight hours like a normal person should NOT be a problem.  Wanting MORE than eight hours of sleep after NOT receiving adequate rest or sleep time is what any person who cares would want for another person.  Read about it.

8 Ways Sleep Benefits

All I want for breakfast is ice-cold water.

But, I don’t have any ice because someone is allowed access into my home to destroy things.  Someone broke into my home while I was at work.  Someone breaks into my home whenever I am away whether I am at work, out running, or simply out of my home.  So, the water on my refrigerator door and ice do not work.  My dryer has been altered and broken.  My light switch does not work at the top of my stairs.  There are problems all over my home.  Miserable.  Uncomfortable.  Grossly unhappy.

Miserable and unhappy.

Before I continue let me say this – my idea of art and your idea of art ARE NOT THE SAME!!!!!

Pressure washing – GREEN, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER – is not art!  Anyone can do that!

Art is meant to uplift, to inspire, to provoke thought, to enlighten, and on and on.  I don’t have time at the moment.  Mad about STILL being broke!

A tall glass of ice-cold water for breakfast.  Please and thank you.

However, last night was different.  Yeah, bronzed face.  I’ll write more in another post.

Last night, I was thinking about a raspberry pastry.  A homemade – not store-bought – pastry made with cold butter filled with my homemade raspberry jam with some lemon to brighten the flavor, and cream cheese.  Cream cheese whipped in a mixer.  I think I need to make several of these in order to decide what tastes better because I was thinking of adding flavorings either almond, amaretto, orange with zest, or vanilla.  Also, I was thinking of making small mouthful pastries or your standard turnover size.

Because a small mouth full pastry that you bite into filling your mouth with the raspberry, pastry, and sweetened cream cheese vs. biting into a pastry and having the raspberry and cream cheese at the corners of your mouth?  I might have to make several batches before I decide which one tastes better?

Which one do you want?

I would serve them on my antique dishes because it seems it is the only way they are going to be used is when I write about them.  I would decide on the plate based on the design and color and NOT the name stamped on the underside.

So, a real proper pot of black tea.  Properly prepared.  Warm the tea-pot with boiling water and so on.

Wait a second.

Here’s the scene and meet.

I am working in a pastry shop that I own.  It is filled with round tabletops of white crisp linen tablecloths.  It is a chic pastry shop, it is high-fashion, filled with vintage antique knickknacks – can you see it?  It is a popular shop filled with warmth, comfort, and innovative approaches to the same tired and worn-out cuisine, breakfasts, and doughnuts.  I serve no doughnuts.

I serve him a raspberry filled pastry with a pot of Earl Grey tea, real cream and sugar on an antique tray platter, and pour him his cup of tea and place his pastry in front of him.  Then, I sit down at the table – I own the place – and we have a conversation he will never forget.

Coffee and Breakfast: April 3, 2018

Somebody sat on my head last night.

Somebody sat…on my head last night…

So, my head, my body…I am in pain, squashed down.  I want to go back to bed.

Making my bed I can feel the heat pouring through the windows next to my bed.  Pouring.  Heat pouring through like they are not even closed and shuttered.  Making a mental note – it would be nice to fix that.  Opening my bedroom door, cool air rushes past my face.  It feels like two different places in my house.  Walking out of my dusty, hot bedroom that feels more like a tent in a desert, I open the door into civilization.  Thank God for that – civilization.

Somebody sat on my head.

You have no idea what that feels like.  Combined with the lack of real food available consistently to me.  Not just consistently delivered to me.  Consistently stabilized in my home without interruptions or break-ins.

I need real food that has been alive.  To cook and eat.

What I get is mashed up bits.  Processed laboratory food, reprocessed again, with added flavor from unnatural sources, then processed again.  UGH!  Yuck!

Belly bad.

My belly is bad today as well.

So, all I want and can manage would be hot buttered toast with jam.  Strawberry jam.  My homemade strawberry jam with a mug and saucer of cappuccino and sprinkled raw sugar on top.

And, I want to go back to bed.  Because my face hurts too.



Somebody…sat…on my head.

Coffee and Breakfast

I have been thinking of this post for several days.  I have just been too tired and over-worked.  I am not sure I will ever recover from these years since 2011-2012 anymore.  With that being said…

So, this Coffee and Breakfast is a little different.  I was thinking of speed dates and/or dates where we ate, talked, and got to know one another.

If I were able to have breakfast with actual men this might be a good breakfast date – thick slice of bread, perhaps sourdough, topped with creme fraîche which has orange and perhaps vanilla flavor folded into it, topped with fresh sliced strawberries.  So, you must eat it with a knife and fork.  Plated with a poached egg or two with hot bacon grease that has been dotted on top for just a bit of flavor.  Mug and saucer of cappuccino.  I like raw sugar sprinkled on the foam of my cappuccino.

For a fast meet/date – Nanaimo bars and espresso.  We’ll need glasses of still, room-temperature water as well.  I say room-temperature because I don’t want the cold to affect the taste of the bars.  Now, Nanaimo bars which I have made for years are so good and rich you need an espresso or two to cut the rich chocolate.  They have a great texture of coconut and graham crackers which makes them a nice change from a typical brownie or something along those lines.

There were more date meals I had thought of the other day, however as it goes I can think of more than I am physically able to do in one day.

Here is a great meal – Starter – I couldn’t decide between calamari or bruschetta.  They always over-serve calamari in restaurants.  You only need a small portion.  Once calamari is cold it is no good.  Also, has anyone tried calamari on bruschetta?  Just pop it back in the oven for a bit to crisp it?  Wonder what that tastes like.  Could have both starters.  Could have three starters, calamari, bruschetta, and calamari bruschetta.  A nice red blend or a Riesling might be a good wine here.

Dinner – I was thinking of grilling a steak, Delmonico.  I would marinate it for several hours in soy sauce, Worcestershire sauce, fresh-cut garlic, and other seasonings.  Baby potatoes oven-roasted drizzled with olive-oil, rosemary, cracked salt and pepper, and steamed green beans Al dente, then same as potatoes drizzle with olive oil, salt and pepper.  When plating, just before serving, I would top the grilled steak with a small bit of cold crumbled butter, a good portion of finely chopped garlic and parsleys.  It might not need any sauce.  I would have to make it to be sure.  Perhaps a Bordeaux would be nice with this meal.

Dessert –  I had been trying to think of something different.  What about homemade toasted coconut ice cream served with sugared loquats.  The loquats have been pitted and quartered then soaked in brandy or cognac, then an egg white, then sugared.  Topped with slivers of sugared kumquat rind.  It might need another ingredient too.  I would need to make it to be sure.

Sound interesting?

Anyone want to join me?  And, when I say anyone I mean a man.  I mean a man I have not yet meet before.  Sick to death of these men who have taken advantage of me of these years.

Great, now I am angry…again.

I’ll close.  I must away.

Good night, and good morning.

David Wolfe

Be Warned!

I will never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, ever love you again!

Threaten me?!  I would rather die than be anywhere you are!

If you had stopped in 2014 I might have made friends with you again.

If you had stopped in 2015 I might have become friends with you again.

If you had stopped in 2016 I might have become friends with you again, but no longer!

I will never be your friend again!!!!!!!!!!!!

As long as I live, I will never be your friend again!

You disgust me!!!!!!!!!!


On This Day: March 30, 2018

On my fourth load of laundry and I am tired.  I want to go back to bed.  Tired of fighting those who put the bags under eyes because they want me to look ugly.  Still drinking coffee because Lord knows there is not enough coffee in this world for me.

My head is a mess and tired.  My face is a mess and ugly.  My body is a mess, filthy, dry and scaly and sagging from lack, hard callouses cover my feet and hands.  The cuticles of my hands and feet are overgrown and need to be pushed back, trimmed and cut off.  Fungus on my toes that I have yet to get rid of instead of nail polish.

I need to be polished and glowing again.  I need my heart-shine back again.  That heart power that keeps the world in awe.

Can anyone tell me how it would be possible to write and get paid for it?!  As I am dreaming of the day where I have money to pay for a house, for things, for supplies, for clothing, for vitamins, for beauty supplies, for utilities, for food of my choosing all on my own.

Brakes squealing, yeah, I saw you.  My guess is that vehicle would not have been your first choice.  I remember it was my brother who first shared with me LA Song by Beth Hart…Hang on, I am off and must stop writing for a moment…another load of laundry.  UGH!  I hope everything stays clean until its worn this time…Fuckers…wait…back again.

When I was taking care of my mother in the middle of the night I used to go into our garage which was pretty sound-proof and sing.  I would find songs and artists that were singing in my key, so I could sing along with them.  I’d only had a few singing lessons when I was just a child.  I’m guessing my mother figured she should get me lessons since I used to take my portable record player into my room turn the volume up as loud as it would go and sing along to all the Disney albums and other records for hours.

I was hurting so much while taking care of my mother mentally, emotionally, physically my mind and body were screaming for relief – I call them sailing notes.  Those notes where you sail along high and loud.  Those sailing notes where you fill your diaphragm and empty it, then empty it some more.  That’s freedom to me.  Letting it out.  Freedom.  So, I used to take to my garage and sing.

I don’t remember the exact time frame of this one, but I remember this one time driving in my car.  I knew the driver in the car in front of me was following me.  I had a CD playing in my car.  The song started, and I sang.  And, I saw him.  The man in front of me.  It was only the back of his head, yet I saw him.  He was impressed.  He was deeply impressed, amazed, he couldn’t believe it – impressed.  For I sang it perfectly, on pitch, on key, on time, with feeling – perfectly.

So, I have always enjoyed singers and artists that I can sing along with.  It’s a way I’ve found freedom in my life of work and toil and drudgery.

My mother, I think, told me she thought I should sing country which I did not like because it was not popular at the time.  But, it’s true my voice lends itself to country and the Blues.  To the growl.  To the blow the roof of the stadium seating.  Which is why when Kelly Clarkson sang Up To The Mountain on American Idol I downloaded it immediately because I knew I could sing it.

Now, I write about this because I am sick of these fuckers!

Women – you do not belong in my bed!  Gays – you do not belong in my bed!  I am so sick of writing about this!  I have a right to my own body!  I have a right to say who I share my bed with!  And, it will NEVER be women or gays!

Can you believe I actually have to write about this?!

David Wolfe – you do not belong in my bed – EVER!!!!  I will never be able to forgive you for what you did to me!  For years!  There is no way.  You may not believe this, but I do have self – respect.  What you’ve done to me cannot be undone.  Courtney was the last straw for me.  There is no going back to you because of it – EVER!  There is no way I ever want to me your friend after what you did with Edison – EVER!  The past happened, but it is OVER for me.  Believe it or not I am OVER being your second choice to every other woman in the entire world.  I will never WILLINGLY speak to you EVER again!  EVER!  I will never love you in any way ever again!

James Franco – you do not belong in my bed – EVER!!!!  You are a slave-owner and nothing more.  I was never in love nor in like with “Edison” ever!  I never had moments with “Edison” that could ever last a lifetime, or years.

“Edison” – you do not belong in my bed – ever again!

Now, does this mean for one single second that I do not believe in equal rights for every individual?!  NOT FOR A SECOND!  Not a for a moment!  You just don’t belong in my bed!  Jesus Christ!  How does this happen?!  UGH!

Another load of laundry…

I am writing and listening to music at the same time, I am hearing about Beth Hart’s sobriety and I am reminded of Colin Farrell at Home Depot.  He was looking at his phone while shopping at Home Depot.  He was so nervous.  Colin Farrell was nervous?!  There was more I said to the Bluetooth at the time, I do not recall anything else other than the nervousness.  Why would Colin Farrell be nervous?

These two remind me of the years I spent caring for my mother, I never drank.  It was impossible at the time.  Because I am very aware of what I am and am not capable of.  There was no way to drink while caring for her. I was so over-tired it was just not the same anymore.

See, I’ve forgotten most of those memories of my mother anymore.  It has not been my doing.  When I arrived back here after driving to the west coast back in 2014 all I wanted to do was write about it.  I had to get it out of my head.  I was not allowed to write.  I was not allowed to write about my mother.  I was TOLD not to write.  How is it possible to unlive the past?  Which is what they were asking of me.  It happened.

Then came the moment December 2014 when I was so over-filled I had to let it out.  I had to find the sailing notes.  I needed freedom, so I took to my Shuffle and soared on the notes.  I don’t think anyone knew I could do that, but I did.

This music has me thinking of Michael Wayne Brown.  We went to Jannus Landing in St. Petersburg, Fl. to hear a concert.  I do not remember who it was.  We must have looked an unusual couple this man who was 14 years my elder.  I was so careless then.  I remember it being after the concert, the middle of the night, Michael is no where around me, I am lying on a brick bench waiting to go home.  I never understood Michael.  His way of thinking was never something I could get a hold on.  I was careless because what’s worse than being with a man who doesn’t look after you, who doesn’t care for you, who kicks and torments rather than loves you.  A part of me was hoping to die.

I don’t write about Michael much.  I don’t write about my abortion.  I don’t write enough about my pain.  I don’t write where there is so much – words fail me.

What kind of man would love me anymore.  After being used by so many men virtually and otherwise.  What man would want me now that I am thin, but ugly and scarred over my whole body.

I guess that’s why I am left here alone without the possibility of ever having a man in my life again.

Coffee and Breakfast

Woke up this morning dreaming about the possibility of a man.

A handsome stranger and I spent a night together where it was only he and I.  Making a mess of the bed and each other.  Going from room to room as the night went on.  Clearing surfaces, finding the walls with our bodies, languishing over every touch, creating friction as our bodies intertwined.

Woke up to make him breakfast with the smell of him still on my skin while he slept.  I went to my kitchen where I didn’t have to worry about the food or my pantry.  I didn’t have to worry about if I had food, or how much it was going to cost me, how long I would have to work to buy the flour or the butter.  So, I set about the kitchen with the feel of him still inside of me and made him homemade cinnamon rolls with pecans and raisins, with a glaze of orange and amaretto on top.  Cooked some sausage and plated it on my antique dishes with some orange wedges.

Setting a table outside where there are no neighbors to spy on us, or watch as we eat, a canopy covers the patio protecting us and the table from the sun’s rays, yet allows the breeze to cool the air, where we can hear the birds singing and talking to one another filling the air with natural goodness and serenity as if wars had never started, and death had never visited our hearts.

A linen tablecloth with antique dishes I bought just in case there might be such an occasion eventually.  A pitcher of ice-cold water filled with fresh oranges and lemons.  I bring a coffee pitcher – the one from Ireland I bought because one day I am going to visit if not live there – filled with strong, rich brewed coffee not like the weak swill I am drinking now, setting about the cream and sugar, the salt and pepper, fresh cold butter, the silverware, and the linen napkins.

I don’t eat everything on my plate because I don’t have to anymore.  I am back to where I was before, eating to live well, not having to worry about food because I’ve lost the weight, and once I’d lost the weight my body kept the metabolism of the skinny me.

It is not a rushed breakfast.  It is not even morning anymore.  It is our morning, and our breakfast.  It is a luxurious morning where I get to look at his face, and I forget about having to be clever, about having to wash and do laundry every single free moment of my life, where the possibility of a greater world could exist because it would have love in it.

As he goes to kiss me good-bye, my hands touching him feeling his unshaven face and I don’t want to let go.  He starts to tell me good-bye, but he stumbles on his words looking in my eyes.

Please do not read too much into this.  It is just a dream.  It is not intended to be any specific man.  It is just a man I hope to meet one day.  A man who would want to love me enough to touch for real.

I started to remember these were the sorts of dreams I used to have.  When I went to see Death Wish yesterday watching Bruce Willis (who I nearly punched through my windshield at a gas station only as a defense mechanism there was a threat, I raised my fist to defend only to find Bruce Willis in the vehicle across from me laughing with his family) sitting next to a hospital bed, I remembered all the years I sat.  All the years I sat next to my mother’s hospital bed.  I sat next to her nursing home bed.  I sat next to her bed at home while I took care of her, and a part of my brain went elsewhere away from the pain, away from the loneliness, away from the unanswered prayers, away from the place I was living in, to a land where dreams were real, where men were real and actually attracted to me enough to want to do anything to make me theirs alone.

So, if there is anyone out there perhaps in a hospital unable to do what you really want to do, or are off somewhere unable to…well, just unable, then maybe if you read this too I won’t be so alone anymore.

Perhaps one day this could be real for me.

Perhaps one day it could be real for you too.