it's good to fork things up!
everything here is
beads of time, beads of tine passing through teeth
a configuration of time somewhere,
Welcome to the online
Institute of 4orkological Studies
forkergirl has fun with Mardi Gras beads of multiverse.
Welcome to her forked theory of everything
—limited edition COME ON IN
specializing in Limited Fork Theory
these sites are similar, related, tines of each other; not all information is shared
and information is configured differently —in both Limited Fork neighborhoods:
there's lots to fork around with!
got to love forkology! forkology rocks!
forked home of the institute of forkological studies
Hello to my Toledo Friends! Let us bifurcate together and dine on wonderful ideas; we will bifurcate above and below ground, rather like trees, anchored with roots that cling and spread in soil while our branches spread even between dimensions, temporarily connecting them -–I don’t think that any connection is or can be permanent; that is one reason that we must eat again and again (ideally stopping when we feel full, even though the feeling of fullness is temporary).
We will hunger again. Everyday. Probably several times a day.
Please think, if you don’t mind, for a moment of ceiba trees, or of any tree you have liked –-forgive me, please, for assuming that there is a tree you’ve liked. If you dislike trees, this may not be a post for you, but I leave here a small interest in trees, a small interest that may become something else.
Each tine of a limited fork also functions as a root and/or a branch and may curve, circle, disappear for a while, temporarily connecting things, possibly even snagging something tasty, something possibly nourishing, something that can be ingested –-maybe without harm(ing us), but what is ingested will change during this process, and we may change, so the temporary connections is also a means of exchange: we give something and we receive something; we may not realize immediately that we are different, but we are.
Not much to say, except that I will be talking tomorrow with a new possible agent for my romance novel.
Third time is a charm,
or so I’ve been told. Ever hopeful, that’s me, Thylias Moss, a regular hopeless romantic.
Very pleased to announce publication on Kindle of a small chapbook of work by Thylias Moss and my poet friend Thomas Higginson:
Aneurysm of the Firmament
A very limited edition of collaborative poems.
I hope that you enjoy it; I certainly do.
NEW CREATE SPACE PROJECTS
Good Sunday morning!
For a change, I do not write about the shambles of my love life; will not be fixed today anyway, and I can’t say when, but it will be.
Not much has changed; I am stll in love with a wonderful scoundrel of a man; I like everything about him way too much except for the lying that in retrospect is probaby more extensive than I have permitted myself to believe, and he will have…
What is is for me is the death of trust.
I can accept other things; I can forgive just about anything, But when TRUST itself has been murdered, disregarded, when at some point the lies became too much for him, the mask peeled right off, and revealed what’s underneath.
It’s just that I was completely honest; telling him things he never would have known unless I told him, things I told no one else. He seemed a perfect confidante, and turns out he was no different from any other man,
I wanted him to be different. And in many ways he was. I would need to go back to the beginning to make you understand… And I can’t, because I am loyal and honest, and I promised to never reveal his identity, so I won’t. That would just be wrong.
I made excuses for things I shouldn’t have because I love him purely in a way no other woman will ever love him; I am more sure of that now than ever, and he knows that too. Mr. Delightful, for you are that. I won’t pretnd you’re not. You know what you are giving up… And you also know that all you would have to do is kiss me to get me back, and at this point if you tried to kiss me, you know I would. That’s part of what has infected him with this honesty. Guilty conscience.
I hated when he knocked himself off the pedestral I put him on, when all along he knew he didn’t belong there. But he finally slipped into an abyss of his own making.
I realize that I am always going to love him.
He will continue to invade my heart, and those memories will fill in for him… My new book of poetry is even dedicated to the character him. Even the dedication, and a full half of the new poems in “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code” are about him, are tributes to the love we shared.
So many tributes, so many excellent kisses.
And would I kiss him again? Damn straight I would!
A kiss like his? There are no words. His kiss illuminated me. His kisses in that taxi after 25 years! Guess I should have been warned off by something he finally admitted that when we met in person when I was in his movie about poetry, he told me it was all he could do not to take me in his arms right then, althoughhe was married, so he was willing to think about cheating although he didn’t do it. And what I know about his arms, the way they could hold me, and I am so small, the things he could do so easily, at least a foot taller than me, and about a hundred pounds heavier than my 98 pounds. Imagine the enjoymnt in the bedroom (or anywhere) with a woman almost doll size. I was a little you for him, a brown doll. The way he could lift me, as he did several times, the incomparabale sex. The man loved me; he reallly did, and probably still does in his decitful ways.
To know more about his techniques of love, you wll have to wait for the novel about the Thomas Higginson in my life. The poems also, many if which are n Wannabe. What’s god aboty him is exceptional. Pity that he is also a liar. A real shame. Because f what has happened to trust. But deosnot make that weekend less splendid. Not at all. I told him that I just don’t want to see anything about his getting married, and he laughed (I love his laugh!), and said he isn’t marrying again. I am not ready to see that or even try to process that in my mind.
a photo of me in his hat:
Guess I haven’t learned not to be trusting. I expect honesty because honesty is so natural to me, and I have forgiven him so much. He realizes that now. That I am not like most women. I don’t even look like them. All those dreams of which he was part. I grieve over that future that will not happen as planned, and he was part of that, “all in” he said.
He was afraid that on Facebook, I would write terible thins about him on his wall, and that tells me that he really doesn’t know me at all. To think that I woud stoop to such childishness beyond calling him every pattern of D-Word I could think of. Nice D-Words. And if he thought that, then despite over thirty years of involvement with him, then he doessn’t really know me at all, and probably never can. Which is a shame, for he doesn’t know what he is giving up by being dishonest. What his dishonesty is costing him. What he is willing to lose by being dishonest. At least honesty caught up with him; better late than never, I suppose.
There would be no point in trying to lambaste him when I recall him with that same love I always gave him, ignoring attention I would get from other random men, and I got lots of it, at age 62, with a nearly perfect honest figure, 100 % natural mixed race hair, waist-length, butt-kissing hair,with no weave, never a relaxer and no extensions which I do not need, that was his, all of me was his, and look what he did with this gift that honored him above all men, because that is what he was, who he was… he deserved such honor, and I would honor him again.
Everything about me is natural! No breast augmentation, natural DD cups, as he found out, surprised, and what he discovered when he got to unwrap me for the very first time after waiting 25 years to do this. “I can’t wait for the unwrapping” he said, and meant it;
I think it bothers him to have to admit the truth.
The “why” he never showed up on my doorstep, or filled my mailbox with stuff he could have although he knew where I live and coud have come to Michigan anytime he wanted to, if I really meant anything to him. There are planes, and it is a short flight from NYC to Detroit. We had a whole weekend together in Chicago, (a reunion city for us, where I went to be inhis movie in the nineties) and he even referred to such things as “Our USness” and it was worth every minite of waiting; it was the way he kissed me that made me willing to do everything I did. And all the talk that preceded the actua reunion –details in the novel to come. Insist on it. It is written and just looking for a publisher.
I will not post a photo of him because that would reveal his identity and a while ago, I promised him I wouldn’t do that, and I honor my promises even if he doesn’t deserve such honor. Anymore.
I AM GOOD FOR MY WORD. ALWAYS.
But who am I to say who deserves what? Believe me, I want to post the photo; it is so wonderful, but that photo also is now part of the most wonderful memory ever, almost like a fairy tale, but one that doesn’t quite end happily ever after.
I will post it later, when it is safer to do so. I am not out for revenge or to hurt him? Why? What would that accomplish? I still love that man. I want he best fr him, which he has rejected, me, the next best then. I want that fr him. I really do. That ordinary man. I would never try to hurt him for that would be a betrayal of what I feel, even feeling like a fool… And I defintel ywant the best for myself, which seems that it cant be his. I’ll leave that fr next year when I might see him, and I hoe that he will stil be single. Not that I can accurateyly predict how I will react to him.
The first song he sent me is appropriate here: “Because You Loved Me”
You know, in preparing my new book, I didn’t want the poems that implied my ex-husband, opting instead for poems (and there are many) about this man, and I was asked if I would be okay with these versions even if things did not work out, and I siad yes, because these were newer truths, and that is what happened, but this love with him was so beautiful, some of it in ways I can’t tell you, but if you get a chance to be with this man as I was, take it; there is nothing else like it. His extraordinaty kisses. The ways he touched me. His hands, his tongue, and what he could do withthis. There are no adequate words. He had been waiting just to kiss me for so long, 25 years. Imagine that. I was eager to experience that although at the time I was 60 years old. Every secret of romance is not a secret to him. He may have written them; he certainly could have. He could write handbooks on kissing and how to make a woman feel certain things. Just from his kiss… Justwait till you read my romance novel all about him… All about our weekend and more. I know he loved me for a while, that is clear. He really did, and one day he will be filled with regret that what was mapped out, together; e both mpped out these things as we prepared fror something he wrecked, isn’t going to happen because of how he lied. I just wanted him to be as truthful as I was.
“Well, Love Makes me do Foolish Things” (and How!)
A few more pics of what he is giving up:
At first he told me “distance” was the killer, but it’s not. Love can survive distance. Love can survive ravages of the body. Love can do this. My love for him did this. Yes; I physically wanted a man, but not just any man: Him. I was willing to endure all manner of physical frustration for want of him and had the dildo he gave me and named after himself, telling me that when I used it, it would be him, but the flesh and blood him is much, much better. There is no proxy that compares to him. None.
I hope no other woman will be as deceived as I was by his charm, and it is extensive. Just let him kiss you and it will be all over… That’s how it was for me; I let that man kiss me and the floodgates of desire opened as I didn’t know they could. Then I wanted to kiss him, and I did, holding back nothing; even in th taxi, I was willing to go all the way… I couldn’t wait to actually chek in the hotel and really be alone with him. Showing off the Brzilian wax I got just fr him, my frirt ever, and the “Dream Baby” (his name for me, that I took from his poem) dss as in this photo:
Well a couple of songs for the occasion:
“Love Makes me Do Foolish Things”
“If You Don’t Know Me By Now”
and my healing playlist from YouTube:
I will never give up on Love. Capital “L” that’s how he spelled it in one of his last and most beautiful, like all of them, letters to me.Still Foolish What is is for me is the death of trust. I can accept other things; I can forgive just about anything, But when TRUST itself has been murdered, disregarded, when at some point the lies became too much for him, the mask peeled right off, and revealed what’s underneath.
#lovemakesmedofoolishthings #lightstruck #raysaspartofmyhair #thyliasmoss #loveistheanswertoquestionsworthasking #everythingforlove #loveisworthnothinguntilitisgiven #98pounds #neverdietedinmylife #givingloveanyway #hestilldeserveslove #nomatterwhat #loveistheanswertoeveryguestionworthasking #thyliasmeanslove #heisexceedlyhuman #notafooltoforgivehim #afoolnottoforgivehim #willalwaysholdhimdearinmyheart (at Ypsilanti Township, Michigan)
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#thyliasmoss #62yearsold #single #inlovewithamanwholovesmeasafriend #friendshipwithhimmeansalottome #poet #100%naturalhair #waistlengthhair #multiracial #noweave #noextensions #wannabehoochiemamagalleryofrealitiesreddresscode #mynewbook #chapbookcomingsoontoamazon #willpostagainwhenthechapbookisavailable #feelingpretty #preparingtomovefromYpsilanti #sellingmyhouse #eagertoliveandlovesomewhereelse #hewillalwaysbemyfriend #nofriendlikehim #despiteeverything (at Ypsilanti Township, Michigan)