Pummelling

There is a most distinct whirr of summer in the air. The birds are chirpier, the butterflies are everywhere (monarchs, orange tips) and even my old dog is springier in her step. The doors to the house are open all day long and the dogs and I wander in and out, depending on the position of the sun. Something good has set in. The malaise has lifted. It's hard not to be knocked over by the glorious green loveliness of it all. And the green in Southern California is ephemeral. We're in a drought and from now on through the fall, everything will turn brown.

I have chamomile on my desk, a gift from a friend, who brings it every Sunday that I invite him for dinner. He goes to the Farmer's Market in Hollywood, and picks me up a bunch. I dry it in the kitchen amongst the hanging pots.

I wish I could talk about the book I'm reading. It's a galley and it's not out for a bit. And it's about sex (and love) addiction. A memoir written by a famous writer. I want to pictures of paragraphs every few minutes. I want to send chunks of it to old lovers. I want to say: this is it; this is what we struggled with.

And the online dating saga continues. I'm reminded that everyone does it, which puts my feeble "I wasn't bred for this" cries to rest, and fully labels me a brat for even muttering those words, but I did, to my friend Michael, who has been kind and good, and helped me through the stingray-infested waters. The ten or so men that are recommended each day as matches for me by Match.com look mostly like gang members, not that I couldn't go for a bit of rough on the right day, if the moon were at the right angle, but they're not exactly what I'm used to. Let's put it that way. Tinder is better. There is a sharper quality of photo, a little more art direction, but I'm reminded that this is for people who want a quick one in a dark alley (which I'd happily be up for, if the planets aligned, I'd had enough gin, and I didn't have to talk to them). OK Cupid seems to be the best bet. A couple of nice gentlemen have written witty introductory notes and I find myself warming towards their pictures with their arms around small children and English bulldogs.

The thing is, I am a talker. I'm not a meet-me-in-a-dark-alley kinda girl. I'm not a prude. But talking is the shit. Conversation is sexy. I want someone who will talk to me and reveal new worlds to me and wow me. I know I'm asking for too much. And I want to be bowled over and electrified and sizzled. Is that a word? I want to be sizzled, babe.

This quote I'm going to pull, because it's good, and relevant. Apologies to the author. I will give you proper attribution once you give me your okay:

"They say that when you meet someone and feel like it's love at first sight, run in the other direction. All that's happened is that your dysfunction has meshed with their dysfunction. Your wounded inner child has recognized their wounded inner child, both hoping to be healed by the same fire that burned them."

I remember this. I remember saying one day to the ex-bf, when we were in his flat in London and he was writing, and I was sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, looking out the window, drinking some tea with chai spice powder in it, and I realized that I'd felt this way before, that there old, old ghosts in the room with us. "We know each other from a long time ago" I said. And he said something absent-minded, like "Yes, remember, we used to walk in Fryman all the time." There was an energy from the beginning, and we both hoped to be healed by the same fire that originally burned us. 

It's tempting to stay single, caught up in your own little vortex, where your heart is protected and you never once have to place it outside of yourself to get pummelled (or soothed). I walk in the mornings, with the dogs, and the birds sing and I wonder what possibly could be better than this?

Wish me luck, comrades. xo MissW