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AtThatVeryMoment

I wanted to be her.

I wanted to be twenty years younger, and I wanted to have what she had. Dying my hair blond (or whatever her latest color was) was the easy part, and I was fortunate to look vaguely like her … well, I didn’t quite have her breasts, and I was a couple of inches taller than she was. Implants were out of the question, but a little padding was easily obtained and served just as well … at least, until somebody tried to remove my dress.

That little black dress! She wore it on television – she looked fabulous in it. It looked very tiny on me, or maybe it felt tiny on me, like it was barely there – bare being the operative word.

I can sing, too. Unfortunately, I’m hopelessly an alto. I could never hit those high notes. I won’t be a tribute singer. Besides, I’m really much better playing my French Horn. That’s not to say I couldn’t sing, but that wouldn’t be my strength. Singing won’t get me where she is.

I sent her an email a few weeks ago. I didn’t hear anything back – wasn’t expecting to. She probably doesn’t tweet her tweets or post on her Facebook account. Some lackey probably does that for her. I don’t know why I did it. When it comes to her, I just lose all sense of reality.

I heard she was coming to town – a night that I wasn’t playing a gig myself. I could go, but I would look a little strange on my own – not quite a grandmother to the rest of her audience, but not far off. Some of my contemporaries are grandmothers. That’s something I’ll never be. No children, no husband, not even an ex- or two. She has an ex- already – and children. She will be a grandmother by the time she is my age. I was pregnant once, but nothing came of it. Yes, I’ve had a steady stream of ex-boyfriends, few of whom I’m still in contact with. That’s me; a breakup is irreparable. My ex-boyfriends are off limits, bad blood. I once tried to stay in touch, but that only strung him along. He didn’t want to break up, but I knew it was going nowhere. The second breakup was worse – for both of us. I can’t stand to be near him now – as much as I can’t stand to be apart from him.

I digress …

Well … maybe I’m not done digressing. I’ve had more boyfriends than she’s had. She’ll divorce hubby number two, and there will be a custody battle – and it will cost her a fortune – a fortune for me, pennies for her. I’ve probably slept with more men than she has, but I can’t know how many she’s slept with in her rise to the top. I do have more years of experience, though – more chances for discards. I can’t seem to stay with anyone for more than 18 months or so – then I have about 6 months off before I hit the fray again.

Ever since she hit the big time, I’ve followed her every move, in spite of the fact I wasn’t that fond of her first album. It was too poppy-country for me; more suitable for teenage girls just hitting puberty. She was little more than that herself at the time. There was just something about her that obsessed me – yes, I was obsessed with her even before I liked her music. It made me question my sexuality – for a few minutes, anyway. I’m definitely sapiosexual – that’s being attracted to smart people. I just heard the term used on the radio, and thought it described me up to a certain point. I’m attracted to smart people, especially if they are male. She’s definitely not that smart, so it doesn’t explain my instant obsession.

When her second album of sensually throbbing electronica was released, I was hooked. I heard the first single, Take Me Down (at the Old Ball Game), from it on American Idol with my beau of the time, and it instigated the most incredible night of sex of my life. I still get horny whenever I hear it.

Her third album debuted with short black hair and that little black dress. It was one of those unplugged albums, paring back everything to its rawest purest form (including her clothing). I had to have that dress, and I cut and dyed my hair. It wasn’t long before someone was removing what little there was of that dress and ravishing me. It’s still my lucky dress, even after I followed my obsession back to being blond. (I’m really a redhead – or probably a greyhead, if truth be told.)

My favorite album, her fourth, was universally panned. She returned to that sensual electonica that I so loved on her second album. I played it at least 3 times a day for months. I loved the beat, her cheeky lyrics, and the video to Love Me (with Bloodshot Eyes) was hypnotic. I used to watch it on repeat when I went to bed (alone) at night.

Her latest album is probably my least favorite, but it has put her back on the top of the charts. It’s a mix of the soupy country ballads that made her a star in the first place, mixed with a plethora of bubbly pop that’s almost palatable. Because it was her, I still bought it. There was one song that was never released as a single that made it worth my dime, Riding Bareback. The juxtaposition with the unplugged bonus track (Commando) from her second album, gave it additional resonance.

You’ve probably noticed that I have avoided mentioning her name, but you all know who it is. (You must!) Unfortunately, a restraining order prohibits me from naming her in my online posts.

Of course, there was one other attraction to the newest album – the artwork: short red hair, red dress. Hence, I’m back to my natural color, and wearing that minimalist red dress turns heads when I take it out for a spin in public. I usually just keep it for myself at home in the evenings, so I don’t have to worry how much of me I’m showing off. (It also keeps me from getting arrested for solicitation, which is definitely not what I’m doing!)

What do you think? Should I wear it to her concert? Or should I look retro in the little black dress? You didn’t think I was serious when I suggested I wouldn’t go? I wouldn’t miss it, even if I have to wear a wig and dark glasses.

Ooh, how time flies. Tickets go on sale in a few minutes.

That’ll be me in the front row.

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More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (33. Evol Deklaw ni)

That’s In Walked Love, backwards. There’s a jazz tune by that name. Our big band at Uni played it.

TWO of CUPS (inverted). Love. Harmony of male and female in the largest sense and all that goes with it, pleasure, warmth, etc. Inverted, it could mean folly, dissipation or waste.

Or it could mean the loss of love. Allen asked for the ring back. I can understand why. I haven’t worn it since my epiphany … um, episode. I still love him, I think, but I can’t reconcile what I’ve done … sleeping with Max, then allowing myself to be possessed.

The worst part of it all is blabbing … blogging all about it. That alienated Allen, and was generally unforgivable. I don’t blame him. Maybe it is time to pull the plug. I know you wank … want to heal … hear all about my infatuation with Marcel and my time as the High Priestess of the coterie. Maybe you want me to give in to my bisexual fantasies and shake up … shack up with Evie or go back to London and Christa. She’s too young for me, and I wouldn’t want the responsibility of healing … helping to rear her daughter.

Frankly, what happens in the coterie is probably secret, and I need to heal … hence the reason I keep typing that word when I mean to type something else. Yes, my soul needs time to heal, and adding my verbal diarrhoea to the Internet probably isn’t helping matters.

So that means I’m going to cool it for a while. I’ll pop back when I feel strong enough. Eirica is almost finished. She’s won her man (as much as she wanted to), and all that is left is a short epilogue, which I’ll post in a few days. I don’t know what I’ll do with that blog afterwards. Maybe start a new story … a story of healing … a story of becoming Scottish … a magical story of ghosts, castles … of healing. Who knows where I’ll take it. Anyway …

The bite-marks still hurt.

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (32. Dreaming)

TEN of WANDS. Oppression (inverted). Force detached from spiritual sources. Fire in its most destructive aspect. Inverted, it could me self-sacrifice or generosity.

That would be the dream I had after the dinner party. I gave away everything – even the clothes off my back. Nudity dreams are nothing nude … new to me. I’m told they happen when I feel exposed or at risk. Sometimes they are freedom dreams. This was probably a little of both.

You know me: an exhibitionist who keeps herself to herself. I guess that would be a “closet exhibitionist.” I long to have my clothes off, but worry if I show a little too much sin … sick … um, skin.

Anyway, the dream. It started back at the party, and the showing of the henna. Instead of un-tucking my blouse or hiking up my skirt, I progressively removed each garment and gave it to a member of the coterie. (Elsa got my panties – strange.) Anyway, after I had taken it all off with a few members of the coterie remaining, we all went back to my house where I proceeded to continue giving things away … to anyone who came by at that point … until everything was gone except me and my house, which I duly gave to Evie.

Talk about a lucid dream … that was probably the most lucid dream I’ve ever had, except maybe the one about having silver skin, but that was a long time ago.

“Force detached from spiritual sources.” I think of that line and wonder, was the dream an attempt to reconnect with the spiritual? I had to purge myself of the wordy … err, worldly? It’s possibly, but at the end of the dream, I found myself giving my body to the men that were there, including Marcel. That may have been my consciousness trying to regain control, as the dream turned so suddenly. Before anything happened, I awoke – a sure sign of that being the case.

The dream was surely a message. Now I have to just interpret its meaning. Turn to the spiritual, yes, but how? What kind of spiritual? Would I have to choose between Wiccan and Catholicism? For me, that isn’t a choice. Part of me is each of those, and belief has little to do with it. I believe what I believe, and there isn’t a choice about it. I just have to do it in a more spiritual way.

Whatever that is.

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (31. A Lick in the …)

ear.

I’m sorry it has been several days since my last pants … sex … err, post. Lot’s has happened. I discovered that Janice has been in the hospital for several days. She’d had a car accident – a bad one – and they were worried about her spleen, a collapsed lung, and a few other things. That was the day we were supposed to have dinner. She’d lost her guts … um, cellphone in the accident, and that’s where my phone number was.

The dinner party was tonight. I had a rare evening off from the symphony, and Evangeline had planned accordingly. Elsa, Marcel’s wife, was pleasant to me, if not a little stand-off-ish. She didn’t trust me. (I wouldn’t in her circumstances.) As I expected she wasn’t a woman … err, a Wiccan, but almost everyone else at the party was. Most, except Elsa, were interested in Evangeline’s artwork all over my boy … um, body. It was mostly Christa’s artwork, but Evie was much better with a brush, and enhanced it considerably. Where Christa’s work was functional, Evie’s was art. (Sorry Christa.) Anyway, I found myself stripping down to take … show it off. OK, taking off to show off.

Although most of the “art” is under my clothing, part of it must be visible to be effective, and usually it is what looks like an olive branch on the back of my right hand. Tonight, however, I wore a lower cut than usual – was that to attract Marcel? I don’t know. Maybe that was the reason for Elsa’s mistrust. The stars in my (almost non-existent) cleavage drew the eyes downward – within – and my three-quarter sleeves revealed the leopard spots on the left side and more of the olive branch on the right. They couldn’t help but ask about it.

That just fed my exhibitionist nature.

I now seem to be part of the coterie of about 15 of them. I felt comfortable with them, even Elsa at times, and I agreed to join them for their monthly orgies … err, full moon gatherings, when I wasn’t busy with a late concert. Like Marcel, many were interested in music, and were frequent visitors to the symphony. Most had seen me perform, so I was at a slight disadvantage. Marcel wasn’t really their leader. It was a loose democratic organization, and the High Priest or Priestess was a rotating position. Evie was at the end of her term, and nominated me to take over.

I was elected unanimously – even Elsa voted for me. Why? I don’t know what I’m doing in any formal way, but that was apparently my affliction … um, attraction. Maybe they were just nosy and wanted the next gathering at my house. It was a fairly even split of men and women, but Marcel and Elsa were the only couple.

Was Evie just setting me up? Only she would know.

That explained today’s card:

TWO of WANDS. Dominion. Fire in its highest form, energy initiating a current of force, harmony of rule and justice, influence over another, boldness, courage, fierceness.

As much as I like that, I know that it must only be a temporary state. Yes, I’m fire, but isn’t that only because of what I am, and what has happened to me? Of course, I’m the Princess of Wands, but I am no leader. In fact, I’m the one who prefers to stay on the margins: not quite a Catholic (not a good one, at least), not quite Wiccan. Now I’m thrust in a leadership mode.

How long is my sentence … um term? It is of indefinite length – one year minimum, and then until someone (including me) says it is time for someone else. Evie had been the High Priestess for three years, and had apparently planned the ambush … err, dinner party to elect someone new, namely me. How did she know everyone would agree? Did they agree because they knew that I wouldn’t want to do it?

Or is it to heal the bite-marks in my soul?

Oh, I almost forgot to explain the licking reference. Somebody, licked me in my “knee pit” (not my ear, which is where I might like to have been licked in other circumstances), and it wasn’t Evie’s dog, who was asleep in front of the fire at the time. I wasn’t in a position to react right away, but when I did, the perpetrator was gone. (It was while I was being “invested” in my new position.) Who would stick their head up my skirt and lick me behind the knee? It wasn’t Marcel or Evie.

Elsa? She definitely wasn’t in view. No, it couldn’t have been her. There were others who I also couldn’t see at the time.

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (30. A Kick in the Pants)

PRINCESS of DISKS … again.

Christa sent me an email this morning and had a real go at me. She was upset that I was being so introverted and self-absorbed. She thinks that I should phone Janice, just to catch up. Don’t bring up that she stood me up, maybe hook up for a run – something I’ve done every day since we ran together. I couldn’t bring myself to do it today.

I’ve taken to playing my music very loudly when I’m home: performance volume. Does that mean I’m going dead … deaf? I’m off this week, so I’m just sitting at home practising, except for today. I went to see Evangeline to get felt up … knocked … um, touched up … my henna, that is. She’s very good at what she does, and agrees with Jem that I shouldn’t bother being integrated … initialized … initiated as a witch. She can tell I’m ditzy … different, and she can see the bite-marks in my soup … soap … err, soul.

I think she’s been talking to Marcel about me, too. Suburban St Louis isn’t exactly witch-ville, and he has his own coterie – not exactly a coven, but a group of mindless … um, like-minded friends. I could be one of them – if I could keep my fantasies out of his pants. It’s those bites from my soul that leave me wanting him, and knowing that while I was at the depths of my recession … depression … (Stop it!) … possession, that he had nearly given in to me.

I don’t know what his wife must wink … think about me. I don’t even know if she is a witch. Their house seemed quite ordinary, unlike the houses of most Wiccans I’ve slept with … err, met. Evangeline has planned a dinner party for next week, and most of the coterie, as well as Mrs deBussy. (I don’t even know her name!)

Aside from that, I’ve also been working on my latest story. Eirica is having quite a love-fest. I wonder how much of me is in that. She keeps saying she isn’t a lesbian, but she keeps having encounters with other co-eds. Having the object of her pretension … obsession tell her his fantasies in embarrassed detail is probably too much like me, except of course that they are definitely a man’s fantasies.

I’m going to format the next chapter and post it in the next few days. 

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (29. Peculiar)

I hate the holidays. You play loads of concerts of crappy music. You hear lots of it, too, all joyous and cheerful, and what do you get for it? Yes, I get paid to play it, but I get no job satisfaction, nothing like the high of playing Strauss’ Alpensinfonie or the reconstruction of Bruckner’s 9th (to which I am listening while I write).

Nothing from Janice about missing dinner, nothing from Marcel … nothing from … anybody. I’m still banned from having fun … um, sex, but now I can’t even get anyone interested. All I’m good for at the moment is turning up the volume on my hi-fi. (At the moment it is very odd … err, UP.)

My card for today was fighting … fitting (as usual):

XX. The Aeon. (inverted) It’s a great card, meaning a definitive movement or decision in a peculiar … um, particular direction. It’s the end of a matter.

Yes, it was inverted, so strike all of that. No matter was decided today, no subject closed, nothing finished, except that I’ve gained all my weight back after my episode. I still have no other explanation for it other than obsession … err, possession, and I’m afraid to see a shrink … um, doctor about it. (Maybe a shrink would be better!) I’m healthy enough – I’ve even gained a few extra pounds for good measure – too many post-concert receptions and holiday dinners, none ending in “would you like to come back to mine?”

The urge to change something is there, but what? Maybe I should take a step and become initiated – as a witch. Jem says I already am one and don’t need (and probably don’t want) to formalize it. I’m different from the others anyway. I wouldn’t fit in an oven … a coven. (What do you think, Marcel?) I’d still have to reconcile it with my vacant … err, latent Catholicism.

That’s easy. I’m a sinner and going to hell. That’s what some of you think anyway. I have news for you.

I’m already in hell.

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (25. Me, Myself, I)

Jem phoned me today. She said that she was happy to have me back to my old self.

But am I?

I’ve never been the happy-go-lucky sort, and I’ll probably hit bottom tomorrow, after Christa leaves, but I’m not myself. The are black spots … no, bite-marks on my soul where Ms Ball tried to smite me. Should I go to church and make a confession? I can just hear it now:

Me: Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been 35 years since my last conversation … um confession.

Fr Daniel: I’m glad to see you back. What may I do for you?

Me: I was possessed by an evil spirit and did lewd and lascivious things. I’ve been cured of that by my witch friends, but there is still a mark on my soul. Am I doomed? Oh, and while I was possessed I fornicated with loads of men and ate their souls … I think … I couldn’t remember any of it when it was all over. I would guess that I dreamt it, except for … well … I lost several days, and my friends refuse to tell me what happened. I was naked a lot. I’m sure of that.

At that point, I could imagine the bell … book … candle … err, cloth screen fluttering as he made a big sign-of-the-cross … err, sigh … well maybe both. Why the screen? I’m a little old-fashioned, and couldn’t stomach the pasta … um, prospect of seeing the look on his face. You should be impressed that I knew his game … name. (I didn’t just make it up.)

What would he say next? Would he send me away for consorting with witches? Should I have told him about my use of tarot?

Too many questions. If he didn’t send me away, I’m sure I would still be saying Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers until I dropped. Little good it would do. I’m lost.

Is that my hair … despair? Your faith will save you my dear.

Maybe that’s my problem. What is my faith? I believe in a God (Goddess, actually) that watches over us … well neither a God or Goddess, but a profound presence that may or may not judge us by our works … certainly not by our faith. Would a last second conversion save me? Depends on which passages of the bible you refer to. It isn’t really clear, by my interpretation. Yes, I’ve read it all (not just heard it read at Mass), and studied enough of it to know that it is contradictory. (I was a nun in a past life, too!) Okay, I do believe in reincarnation. (It’s has to do with the preservation of energy.)

Sorry, I didn’t mean to go all escapist … estrogen … err, eschatological on you there. I do that when I’m down and self-absorbed.

Yes, today was all about my “self.” I drew the PRINCESS of WANDS, the card (if you remember) Jem uses to refer to me. She can be superficial, false, shallow, cruel, or faithless, if ill-dignified. (I’m not very dignified.)

The best thing about today was that the Strauss was awesome!