Photographs of My Sister

I miss her how I remember her, when she was more mother than sister. I want her to be well and do well and love herself the way everyone loves her and I love her and the way—I know, somewhere in that heavy heart of hers—she loves me.

The way she handed me pre-packed snowballs to huck at Dad when we clomped through Christmas tree farms in the mountains.

The way we hugged each other and cried in empty rooms when one Thanksgiving some stranger had unlocked our front door before we got home.

The way she’d end dates, any date, whenever I grew bored of the boy trying to impress her; how beautiful she was.

The way she took me to a movie when we saw Dad throw Mom’s stuff onto the wet lawn.

And I know it’s selfish, but in my own troubled times, when I’m filled with doubt and rot, I miss her all the more for the jokes she made, the games we played, the security she embodied. She did it all to keep me from noticing, for as long as possible, that we lived in a house where two beasts battled daily for control, where love felt like a power play, where marriage shattered and fused again before the evening news. And she succeeded at this for many years. Indeed, I was raised comparatively well-off, for I had someone to shield my eyes from the frightening family cinema.

There exist two phases in my childhood: one characterized by the happy exuberance all children experience before they know any better, and the other reflected in my sister’s absence. When she slid south for college—for which I do not begrudge her—I became the sole lens of our parents’ violent radiation. Upon me they focused their mutagenic scrutiny—the resultant disease and dysfunction of which may someday require phonebooks to be written if I’m ever to die peacefully. Even so, it’s obvious to both of us that I got the better end of the childhood stick, having had the luxury of at least a confidante and at most a second mother.

In my sister’s childhood she had a doll with knitted wool hair. “Mommy,” she named it. She seemingly refused to be photographed without it. It was dragged through her toddler polaroids. It lied just outside the frame when she sat for her first school pictures.

In my childhood photos—in the salad days before my sister left for college—I’m invariably clutching at her hand; or, I’ve just let go, but she’s there, just about to move out of the frame; or she’s gone, but my face says she’s in the room somewhere, and—if you follow them—my eyes tell you where.

Me Lucky

And me making out with girl from ceramics class we drunk as skunks 15-year-olds behind school it nighttime her mouth tasted like wet carpet left in dark, smell real Bad and she lick my mouth no care where tongue go she got loose jelly tongue muscles just floppin and moppin it bad but me all tingly cause it first time I cheat.

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Walk through train station every morning and evening it smells like cleaner the same kind cleaner in that Mexico hotel 58 kilometers south of border where we run away together glorious nine days each day with surf, sand, sun each night some popsicles and sex we have books and fireplaces to unwind can’t unwind any further haha we damn near wound up other direction from unwinding too much but anyway every evening and morning I smell the cleaner and think of you tan, sunburned breasts, eating popsicle and smile, I smile.

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Ain’t seen you in months you skinnier every time but it never in a good way your voice sound tiny on phone but you talk tough, act strong I remember when you was tough and I was frightened child and they were getting mean at each other you said come on let’s go down the street to a movie you want to go see a movie? and you led me down street to safety and we did kid stuff and eventually forgot, forgave and went back they were done fighting but neither home both cars gone so you know they went separate ways she come back soon but me hoping he come back soon he always comes back you said, don’t worry and I tossed turned scared at night for days cause he not there to protect us and you put me in your bed said ok, ok, shhhh and I shhhed and it ok, ok and he come back sooner or later and when they both home they do fine and you go back to not raising me, just being kid cause that’s what you should been, not playing third parent, me lucky cause many kids only got one, I got three and you the best.

ISO Mature "Special Friend"

ISO Mature "Special Friend"

About me: I am a slim, pretty, well educated young woman who is looking for a bit of adventure and excitement. The basic stats: I'm 25, 5'5 111lbs with long brown hair, blue eyes and a perfect body; I'm actually quite beautiful. I work at a prominent ad agency and in my free time enjoy running, yoga, theater and painting. Meeting men is the LAST of my problems.

So why am I posting?

I am bored with dating guys my own age and can't seem to overcome the feeling that they just don't "get" me. I find the depth of my experiences just can't be grasped by most men in their twenties and would like to meet someone a little more mature. I want someone who can share advice and wisdom they have gleaned through years living and growing; not some regurgitated cliche from a Scorsese flick. I've entered a new paradigm in my life, at work and at play, and could use a mentor and a guide. Additionally, most young guys are so needy. I am very ambitious, work long hours and am climbing the ladder fast. I have a variety of interests, both professional and personal, which consume much of my time and I can't spend the night over at someone else's apartment three times a week. It is utterly inconvenient.

Jealousy is so unbecoming- young guys (and really, men in general) tend to be too insecure, too possessive. I could be alone and relatively content, but I crave a personal connection with a man. Something that is built off of mutual understanding and respect; someone to talk to, share stories, ask for and give advice and assistance. Plus, I need to get laid on a regular basis. I am a highly sexual person and one night stands just don't do it for me. I need a lover who is also a friend.... passionate, uninhibited and attentive but secure enough to be able to give me my space and freedom.

About you: You're in you're mid to late forties and starting to feel the sting of age. You're still pretty robust, all things considered, and remain fit and attractive. But your identity has always been so intimately tied up in your masculine prowess that even those first prodromal signs of frailty, impending geriatrics and eventual death have left you feeling shaken and insecure. You've made a pile of money but the rush you used to get from being a ruthless perpetrator of financial violence doesn't do it for you anymore. The stuff your money buys bores you. Your old running crew has gone into old man mode; their idea of a wild time is golf and an evening at the strip club. It's fucking depressing even with eight ounces of Grey Goose in you.

Your wife still looks damn good. She does pilates three times a week and uses that face cream made out of the foreskin of Cambodian newborns every night. But she'll only let you fuck her once a month because you've spent the past twenty years working 80 hour weeks and sleeping with hookers when you and the guys went to Vegas. Plus, now that you're working less and seeing her around the house a bit more, you've realized she is really not very smart or interesting. In fact, she's a huge fucking bore. It's like she is allergic to fun (along with anything that isn't organic and dairy free).

You need an infusion of life. A young, vivacious woman to make you feel really alive again. Someone who can talk to you about Indian index funds , the latest installation at P.S. 1 or who can just listen while you vent about how difficult it is to have so many people depending on you. Then you can go upstairs and she'll fuck your brains out while she pretends not to notice the very first movements of your ass's unstoppable downward plunge. She is so sweet and likes you, maybe even loves you (!?) so much that she'll only mention that you hump her like a truck stop glory hole when you're both too drunk to remember.

And in return, you'll be a good friend to her too, helping her out as her career moves forward, lavishing her with gifts, financing romantic vacations together and you never ever not even once think, much less give utterance to, the idea that she is on her best days emotionally damaged, and on her worst, a whore. So drop me a line this summer while you're wife is in the Hamptons. Soulless, selfish hedonists need attention and affection too :)

God's Green Earth

In the beginning, God created planets, moons, stars, galaxies...the universe. Although He loved all of His creations planet Earth was His favorite. It was warm, rich and dynamic. In fact, God loved His Earth so much, He wanted to give it a gift. He searched through His personal affects and came across a variety pack labeled flora. In one grand gesture He scattered the contents over the planet and watched life unfold. All kinds of plants erupted from the soil in a spectacular display. They were beautiful, quiet and peaceful, all while living growing and dying. It was perfect. God was so enchanted with His lush vegetated Earth He wanted to give it another gift. After looking long and hard through His belongings He found another variety pack, this one labeled fauna #1. With one more grand sweeping motion the fauna populated the Earth. Much to God's delight the contents of this package were beautiful, friendly and harmless. But a terrible thing happened. The new creatures started munching, grazing and trampling God's green earth. The plants that survived so patiently and peacefully were being destroyed by the mindless animals. God was heartbroken. In a moment of outrage He threw upon the Earth another variety pack. This one spread quickly and loudly began to devour the plant murderers. But God soon came to regret this decision, realizing that all of this brutality was only making matters worse. As He looked over the blood soaked terrain that had once been so innocent and pure He was deeply saddened. God simply did not know what to do; every move He made only seemed to cause more problems. So God did the only thing He could, He sat back and watched. He watched the carnivores hunt and feast and He watched the herbivores collect unknowing victims. But mostly He watched His beloved plants as they began to grow and change and adapt. Some tried to protect themselves, while others desperately spread their seeds. But some plants began to change in another way. These plants, left in the dark dreary corners of the Earth, began to take victims; tiny insignificant victims, but victims nonetheless. God learned to forgive the vicious carnivores, as they had no other way to survive. And He managed to forgive the herbivores for their destruction as their intentions were pure. But the carnivorous plants had betrayed God. Today the heights of heaven remain filled with a botanical bounty where all the animals of the Earth roam free. But there is no place in heaven for carnivorous plants. Carnivorous plants go to hell.