I’m feeling a lot like Ezzie today. A little lonely, and preoccupied by bare feet.
Mine are very ordinary. Well, maybe … okay, they are average size … medium width … just plain average. No distinguishing marks … but no problems that people my age start getting, like bunions and the like. I guess I take care of them better than some. For someone who runs as many miles as I do, I have to.
I once had a lover who was obsessed with my feet, especially, and my hands. There is nothing spectacular about them either. More average. My bum, too. He liked me in cords (and in his jeans! … and in his dress shirts in the morning.)
I think he was just blind, or in love. I wasn’t in love enough then, and it’s too late now. He’s taken. (He still loves my feet, though.)
Poetry! Aack! (Self-indulgence)
Bring him back
Looped time never
finds the right end
Love lost, lost love
Crying, blame, No shame
play the game
Take me home
to the asylum.
Have I really done this? A blog with no fiction, where you get the unadulterated Anne Martin? (I’ve already been adulterated, so I guess that isn’t possible.)
I’ve been writing so much lately that The Cult of Anne is currently devoted to the serialization of a fantasy blog by my alter-ego, Ezzie Dryar. I’ve always wanted to be named Esmerelda. Well, maybe not. Actually, I prefer my real name, which is not Anne, but it is the name I have always written under. My other blog, Eirica Johnstone’s Obsession is really Ezzie’s creation. (I’m just her automatic writer.)
If for some unexplained reason, you’ve landed here first, check those out. I’m looking to increase my hits. (Hit me baby, one more time!)
This space is for me to blow off steam. I’ll get personal here (maybe personnel, too, if I’m lucky.) I like the English language, so you might find me wrapping fingers around it and twisting. I know a little German, too, but not well enough to give it that much of a spin. Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Un peu, s’il vous plait. Oh, wait. That’s not German. Don’t worry, I’ll probably stick to English. It’s my mother tongue. How many Ezzie moments did I have while I typed that phrase? Too many to tell you about. Maybe you can guess, or even come up with a few of your own.
How bad can you butcher “It’s my mother tongue?” Answers on a postcard. OK … as a comment.