LOVE SOAKED SMILES EASE UNPROCESSED SORROWS

Whatever has been brewing within a subconscious pocket of
My brain is feeling more sorrowful than I can constrain in
A well contained manner, so while interacting with loved ones
I remind myself that little is expected of me other than
Offering up smiles soaked in love, demanding
Little energy on my part, because my capacity to shower
Loved ones with generous doses of affection feels as natural as
Breathing in and breathing out, so though I continue to feel
More like hibernating than socializing, I chose to fly solo to
The coast in celebration of Tony’s ninth birthday where
Along with my present need for introspection, I’ve tucked
A long-last smile, an abundance of warm nuturing hugs and
The upside of my spirit into my suitcase so that no matter
What’s perculating within the wellspring of my brain (where
Experiential wisdom, passed down through the ages, resides)
My current level of emotional intelligence (which continues to
Concentrate upon gaining access to the insight that’s not yet
Bubbled up to the surface of my conscious awareness), knows
Full well that my faith will not waiver from believing that
A spotlight will highlight an insight driven
Train of thought that’s bound to filter through
My wall of denial in its own good time
And with that positively focused thought in mind
My need to self-soothe a latent sorrow, yet to be consciously
Processed, reminds me to minimize frustration by calling forth
Fresh dollops of patience so as to channel
The introspective nature of my attitude toward
Smiling with sincerity at my good fortune to be
Celebrating my grandson’s birthday amidst a host of
Loved ones, whose busy lives ask litle more at
This stage of my life than the gentle presence of my love ...

Happy Birthday Tony

Kudos to Ray, who earned the Principal's Award for Determination

MY EXISTENTIAL AUTHENTICITY HAS PASSED THE POINT OF FAKING IT

Rather than detailing where my head has spent these past several days
I’ll simply copy and paste the end of my last train of thought—
Fortunately,, my processor’s sensitive connection to intuitive trains of thought
Saves my existential authenticity from feeling need to ‘Fake it' whenever
Common sense suggests placing the transparency of
My personal vulnerabilities in time out so as to offer my loved ones
The host of my heart’s inner strengths until I can venture ever more
Introspectively into the inner sanctum of my subconscious, again ...

And now, having reminded you of my plan to refocus
My mind so as to ‘venture ever more introspectively into
The inner sanctum of my subconscious in hopes of  plucking
Out an insight that will relieve my heart of repressed grief’—
Seeping out in spurts suggesting my holding tank must be
Filled to overflowing and thus in need of circumventing
Bursting. So as to flood my spirit with repressed angst
Hopefully you can understand why my storyteller has been
Standing patiently in the wings, awaiting an intuitive cue to
Lift the curtain and reveal Annie’s and Joseph’s
FIRST KISS Part 6 on center stage

Now that my spirit’s need to vent yesteryear’s undertow of
Sadness has begun to surfaced as though demanding
My conscious awareness to grow ever more attentive to
Emotional turmoil seeping through the cracks of
My brain's innermost sanctum, I feel hopeful that this
Unexpected leakage of latent grief is being naturally spent
Suggesting that by freeing my whole self to relax into
This process that’s long overdue, the cloudy nature of
Repressed angst, which has recently been foggying my mind
Will not take years to fully resolve—I mean, at this late stage of
Life, how many years, unclouded by unprocessed angst, are
Mine to fully enjoy in good health?  And with the complex
Nature of that train of thought in mind, I'll place my faith in
This belief:  My need to consciously ascend to each next
Level of emotional maturation is, once again, underway, and
As heartfelt gain is universally known to follow growing pains
I’ve decided to call forth an intuitive sense of patience so as to
Free my inner mind to focus upon subconscious readiness to
Spotlight an insight that will remain beyond
My conscious awareness until readiness to gain access into
A secret annex behind my wall of denial where anothet
Deeper truth, too complex for a child’s processor to
Fathom, lies dormant awaiting my current level of
Emotional intelligence to embrace the courage necessary to
Absorb an insight-driven intuitive train of thought, which upon
Full disclosure will simplify the emotional complexity of
Yesteryear’s conundrum experienced by a girl and a boy who’d
Cared more deeply for each other than words could express, and
Once this insight-laden train of thought signals readiness to
Slide forth from my processor, fully baked at long last
My storyteller will feel naturally stimulated to lift the curtain and
Release Part six of FIRST KISS, based in this belief:  My brain’s
Intuitive (innate) potential to heal itself of childhood trauma
Continues to coax each next uprising of latent angst to emerge based in
The fact that my adult intelligence grows ever more aware of childhood
Eexperiences that had injured my sense of self worth, based upon
My misinterpretation of defensive reactions imparted in my direction by
Loved ones, who’d loved me as deeply as I’d loved them, and as
I’ve come to believe that our mutually reactive defensiveness has
Remained repressed in an unprocessed state my reconnection to
Clear headedness feels consciously in need of repair, and so
We come to see why the intuitive nature of my intelligence readies
The introspective side of my spirit to dive ever more deeply into
My past until sound reason to surface with insights, sparking bursts of
Positively focused mental energy, injects my self image with
A newly restored sense of wholeness, and once my current sense of
Self feels securely restored, my processor offers my storyteller
A sense of ‘all clear ahead’ as a cue to pen the next insight driven
Portion of the story at hand, thus gifting each of us with
An intuitive account of the purity of prepubescent innocence, which had
So sadly been damaged within my psyche before Joseph’s unexpected
Hormone-driven emotional reaction to my budding femininity served to
Burst through his half-baked connection to self control ...

THE BLOGGER INSIDE MY HEAD FEELS NEED TO SAY ...

Throughout this past week, my processor’s not felt clear enough to
Advance readily toward First Kiss Part 6  Why not?
I believe the culprit responsible for my mental fogginess
Goes by the name of Denial, offering me reason to
Wonder which subconscious file(s) of unfinished business has
Flown open inside my brain, and with that probability in mind
It’s wait-and-see-time for me, because several theories are still in
The process of percolating, and adding to my mental congestion
The teacher in me continues to heed an intuitive need to
Work, daily, toward clarifying complex trains of thought embedded
Within First Kiss Part 5, so—holy smokes!  Wait a sec!—Suddenly
I'm feeling as if my foggy sense of mental fatigue may be in
The process of lifting as the spotlight of insight illuminates
The sad fact that my budding enjoyment of womanhood was
Nipped before an innocent child had ever had
A conscious chance to begin to comprehend (much less enjoy)
The treasure chest of natural pleasures stolen by
A pedophile years before the promise of my femininity could have
Developed the healthy readiness to experience a radiant release of
Physical passion at the appropriate stage in my life when
Along with my peers, my attraction to the opposite sex would have
Bloomed wholesomely (rather than defensively), and now, having spent
The past week laboring, unknowingly, to give birth to
The insight above, which just slipped out of a secret hiding place inside
My mind, I can openly embrace yet another deeper truth concerning
This latent sense of sadness, which has been repressed from
Conscious awareness throughout every stage of my life until today, and
Having gained another slice of knowledge empowering reflection to
Draw forth a more accurate self-portraiture of the truth seeker whom
A confounded little girl was destined to become, ‘tis time to
Clear my head of intuitive wanderings, which guide
My intelligence toward identifying and releasing repressed feelings of
Grief concerning youthful pleasures pirated away at least for
The remainder of today, because the highly personal nature of
This most recent I nsight has awakened a portion of the trauma that
I'd not had a conscious clue of concealing from myself until
Feelings of loss began to seep through my wall of denial mere
Moments ago, and now that this awareness of latent sadness is
Clearly unmasked, I plan to call upon my line of emotional control to
Switch tracks away from feeling downcast toward lifting my spirit as
Gracefully as possible, because family from the Midwest will be ringing
My doorbell within the hour, and as I aim to embrace each one with
The heartfelt warmth of a natural smile,  I’ll need to make sound use of
My noggin, over these next sixty minutes, so as to redirect
My focus away from sorrow toward joyful memories of
Times gone by that clearly arouse wholesome feelings of
Self worth denied to my mental state of foggy fatigue over these past
Few deeply introspective days—Whew!
Fortunately, my processor’s sensitive connection to intuitive trains of thought
Saves my existential authenticity from feeling need to
‘Fake it' whenever common sense suggests placing the transparency of
My personal vulnerabilities in time out so as to offer my loved ones
The host of my heart’s inner strengths until I can venture ever more
Introspectively into the inner sanctum of my subconscious, again ...

CONCERNING THIS WEEK’S ABSENCE FROM WRITING—

From time to time, life interferes with writing—for instance
Last week saw my energy slaying an army of microscopic organisms
Then, several days of brain fog ensued while energy exhausted recouped
Upon recovering, I chose to undergo my second dose of shingles vaccine—
Why?  This immunization is known to gift the recipient with
Flu symptoms, so rather than fully replenishing energy only to
Send my life force into combat, again, I figured the time was ripe to
Extend feeling poorly for just a bit longer so as to
Be so well in a day or two or three as to fully enjoy feeling
Swell for quite a spell—you see, upon receiving the first dose of
Serum in this series of two painful innoculations (OUCH!)
Will and I felt certain that feeling flu-ish would not affect either of
Us—Why not?  Because our minds had been empowered with
The presence of positive attitudes, which denied the probability that
Our bodies were apt to react in similar fashion to that which has
Been true of the general population until we found ourselves
Feeling so fluish as to heed inner need to cancel dinner plans with
Friends, so this time around, we readied ourselves for
Feeling fluish by precautionarily scheduling injections of
This powerful vaccine prior to a quiet weekend in which
We’d planned to remain at home, downing Tylenol and
Doing little more than relaxing with a good read, and now that
Last week’s virus and this week’s second shingle's shot are in the past
I plan to park my passion for writing in time out until
The first spark of my spirit’s eternal flame signals my processor that
Energy, having been fully replenished, feels readied to release
My story teller to seek out my computer, where FIRST KISS part 6
Awaits to pour forth from memory as naturally as was true of parts 1-5
Oh yes—one last thing before my active brain switches tracks toward
Encouraging my processor to fully embrace life as it presents itself so as to
Free my sense of wholeness to heal more quickly by relaxing completely:
In full disclosure of the truth, the teacher in me felt need to sneak out
During down time to tighten up FIRST KISS Part 5 What Just Happened?

BOOK ONE—CHAPTER 3 FIRST KISS Part 5. What Just Happened?

This story concerning two friends is meant to illustrate a highly significant point, so—
Please do not mistake First Kiss for a Jr. Harlequin Romance.  

All too often, loving parents believe the arousal of passion between a boy and a girl carries no more lasting effect upon two lives than is true of a pair of puppies tussling around on a sun kissed lawn.  This makes me ask:  Why does one generation after another dismiss impassioned emotional reactions ignited during adolescence—when hormones are known to rage—as NO BIGGIE?  Does this belittling attitude spotlight denial assuaging adult fears about fumblings going on between boys and girls behind closed doors?

Perhaps this narrow mindset, dismissing the lasting effects of first love, is based in parental denial of the speed with which each stage of their lives is flashing by.  How scary is it to realize that before we blink twice, children reciting ABC’s blossom into teens, who grow up to rule a world gone mad where doting parents are now seen as doddering old fogies, whose smarts can voice little more than: B-I-N-G-O—B-I-N-G-O—AND BINGO WAS HIS NAME—OH!

How many classic fears, layering up deep inside middle aged minds, lock the doggy door on the fact that reality will not stop barking to be let in no matter how stubbornly our defense systems dismiss? deny? ignore the throes of first love and travails of teenaged despair?

Why doth the attitudes of the sandwiched generation disrespectfully disparage the authenticity of juniors and seniors?

If we surmise that what goes around comes around then when will insight turn it’s spotlight on the fact that the absorption of belittling attitudes from one generation to the next is the name of this narrow minded, anger-provoking game.  All one must do is observe angry adults acting as immature as children are wont to do to note that parents often have no more clue as to what’s best for their kids than they know what’s best for themselves—

Upon returning home from a Shakespearean performance, how quickly do we 'forget’ insight-driven words of wisdom flowing brilliantly from the quill of The Bard as being of universal value, today?  How deeply mired in denial’s mental fog must we be to deflect rather than seriously reflect over the fact that Juliette be 13 and Romeo 14 when the lives of this pair of star-crossed lovers end as prematurely as proves true of their smoldering passion's tragic demise?

How many lives may be spared, today, from feeling lost in a negatively focused, emotionally distorted mental fog if conscientious absorption on the part of parents grows ever more aware of need to deepen listening skills so as to heed the fact that their kids' emotional needs hold as much weight as their own?

How might the family structure come undone when parents deny this timeless reality:  From one generation to the next, the human brain's defense system is preprogrammed to repress deeper truths in hopes of clipping the wingspan of youth's naturally impassioned voice from declaring aloud—tis my birthright to love whom I love while carving my path toward developing into my existential adult self.

In truth, at the age of twelve, I'd have given anything to silence Joseph's voice from musing aloud over my friend Viv's shimmering cascade of golden locks or Heather's coltish legs, which went on forever (my choice of words expressing his spoken thoughts)—if only my 'friend' would gaze soulfully into my eyes while wrapping his hand around my raven pony tail so as to pull me in for my first kiss—oh my God—no prepubescent daydream I'd ever conjured up could top the pure bliss of a pipe dream as juicy as the one that just appeared on my screen! (In fact, not once—until my finger tips hovered over the keyboard just now—had it dawned on me that while prepubescent Annie was spinning romantic pipe dreams, Joseph was beginning to awaken from wet dreams.)

In truth, at the age of twelve, I'd not ever consciously entertained such a sensuous pipe dream with myself cast in the role of hot-to-trot heroine.  Why not?  Because any thought verging on the edginess of bodice-ripping sexiness would have felt far too dangerous to conjure up on my own based in the fact that my defense system had felt need to delete yet another deeply traumatized set of secrets from the conscious portion of my memory before Joseph's whistle had ever tapped into my wild side’s budding need to tiptoe as close as possible to his, circa 1956.

As not even one darkly shadowed hint of my having been coerced by a pedophile to participate in mind blowing moments (before my family had moved to the suburbs) will begin to seep out of subconscious storage until 1997 (when intuition compels me to fly to Colorado to seek guidance from a psychologist, whose piercing nature is well trained in a method of therapy designed to inspire the insight-driven portion of my mind to inject my conscious awareness with the courage to engage in painful discussions so as to awaken the anesthetized portion of my processor to identify terrors buried alive thus empowering the injured portion of my brain, suffering from amnesia, to heal itself from PTSD)  Whew!  I had to write this explanation, again and again, until clarity concerning that which I felt need to convey was mine.

By leaping back and forth across the time line, we begin to fathom the human brain's capacity for compartmentalization.  Compartmentalization empowers our defense systems to overwhelm memory during traumatic moments by injecting the conscious portion of our processors with an amnesiac sleeping potion (adrenalin) so potent as to drug a terrified child’s brain into locking the existence of heinous experiences, which prove too confounding to understand, within the dark side of the subconscious until the child's emotional intelligence matures to the point that the emergence of intuitive powers sense the on-going development of inner strengths shaping up into character traits necessary for an adult to set out on an insight-driven quest to reawaken the sleeping portion of the traumatized child still cowering anxiously within so as to inspire our smarts to take one cautious step after another ever more deeply into the repressed portion of our psyches, feeling ever more determined to surface with strings of inter-related insight spotlighting forgotten details based in facts (rather than opinions), which fuel our spirits to encourage our intelligence to continue to master anxiety by mustering the courage to embrace every baby step forward toward empowering the frontal lobe to soothe the arousal of latent anxiety based in yesteryear's fear of undeserved guilt, emotional abandonment or personal failure so as to bolster positive attitudes to take leaps of faith away from any narrow-minded thought that ties our spirits to stakes where unprocessed fears view the world as such a dangerous place as to direct our intelligence to play every next move as safe as we can rather than muscling up our mental potential to fuel our spirits to break free of fear's chokehold so as to instill the imaginative portion of our processors with a hopeful sense of resilience that feels so natural as to inspire our processors to think out of the box in terms of viewing every person's life as a project in different stages of development, knowing that every brain houses a thought processor that is capable of experimenting with flights of fancy into the unknown—some having worked to develop an ever deepening connection to common sense than proves true of those, whose unidentified subconscious fears stimulate the defensive portion of their processors to direct their trains of thought toward negatively focused attitudes, which, having gotten stuck in a dark place during childhood, prove as much in need of emotional maturation as had been true of me—Double Whew!  Clarifying the train of thought above has required a whale of patience, which proves worth the effort for this reason:  Each time I muster the patience to describe the intricacy of those insights with a greater sense of clarity for you suggests that my processor is continuing to work toward deepening its comprehensive understanding of the complex functionality of the human brain.  And as knowledge concerning the complex functionality of the human brain empowers my intelligence to maintain control over my defensive limbic system, I observe myself thinking clearly when everyone else is running around yelling—the sky is falling!

In short, during stormy times, I've come to call upon clarity to place everyone concerned in the same ark knowing that—some are more capable of rowing—some are more capable of quietly sighting the shoreline—some are so patient as to spear for fish, while others are doing their 'best' not to fall overboard or sink the ship, altogether.  The trouble comes when ship sinkers, elected to positions of leadership, have no clue that latent anxieties, flailing about, are engaging in mean-spirited power struggles, which left unidentified and thus unresolved, will drown everyone in unhappiness except for those whose sense of clarity remains positively focused upon keeping the ark as shipshape as possible while seeking a shoreline where every survivor feels warmly welcomed to rest, relax and self nourish so as to thrive.

As portions of today’s intuitive train of thought had only been partially processed until 2019, clarity may still lean toward fuzzy; however once my processor has had time to rest from churning out inter-related insights, I’ll review this train of thought, which flowed out of the depths of my mind in one fell swoop, because the teacher in me will feel compelled to improve whatever needs changing for the better when a relaxed sense of readiness is once again mine.  In the meantime, let’s free our minds to absorb whatever’s about to take place on stage as would happen in a real theater once a 15 minute intermission has passed.)

During sixth grade, I'd invited Scarlett and Rhett to snuggle under the covers where each stage of their torrid love affair informed my preteen psyche of the persistence of unrequited passions, and as Margaret Mitchell's command of the written word flooded each chapter of this page turner with vivid descriptions of emotionality bursting with life, my chest would contract with bated breath as though every detail of this Civil War tale challenged my chastity to maintain its subconscious cap on my libido, which, though deeply repressed, couldn't help but feel utterly rapt each time Scarlett and Rhett's impassioned reactions made my head swirl until finally, the sandman would appear, sprinkling my mind with dreams of love and romance, which were not theirs but mine.  And each time my eyelids grew heavy, my soul, tucked safely into my solitary twin bed, wove fantasies sweet as sugar plums in which Joseph and I danced the hours away until dawn ...

When absorbing pages of love scenes describing relationships that my heart longed to experience no longer satisfied my budding need to engage in a romance all my own, every fiber of my being absorbed Scarlett and Rhett’s impassioned, academy-award winning emotional interactions on the silver screen.  Not once.  Not twice—but at least a handful of times as I chose to purchase a ticket to ride in their roller coaster within this darkened theater or that one whenever their timeless love story rolled back into town.

By the time I was a high school graduate, my head had been buried between the pages of that novel (which never got old) so many times that the unlikely friendship, which drew Scarlett’s fiery nature and Melanie’s soulful gentleness toward blending their opposite natures into one being, had soaked so deeply into my processor as to have been repressed within my subconscious where both sides of my conflicted character traits remained embedded, each vying for dominance though my line of self control kept Scarlett's impassioned nature well hidden in the wings from the conscious portion of my mind, which, for the most part, acknowledged only Melanie's selfless, sweetly generous spirit emanating from within my depths to star on center stage for decades to come.  And just as love scenes on the silver screen faded to dark, during the late fifties and early sixties, anything that hinted at a boy getting further than first base with me saw the darkly traumatized portion of my processor raising red flags of spiking anxiety that spontaneously pushed them away.

On the other hand, during pre-teen years (and beyond) when Saturday matinees dimmed the lights, my psyche felt free to release deeply repressed, impassioned emotions to surge naturally throughout every nerve in my body.  I'd cringed to see Judd Fry grasp Laurie's innocence into his arms in the darkened smoke house on Aunt Eller's Oklahoma farm.  However, when Curly pulled Laurie in for her first kiss, my eyes closed while imagining myself swept up hotly into Joseph's embrace, claiming my first taste of his lips.  When it came time to leap out of the surrey with the fringe on top and ride the carousel, I cried my eyes out to see Billy Bigalow fall on that knife, leaving his newly impregnated bride, Julie, walking alone through a storm with her head held high suffering in silence as this devastated young widow, now a social outcast, births her dead sweetheart's daughter, no loving arm around her waist to quell the depths of her pain, which Julie's sweet nature represses upon being abandoned by friends and neighbors knowing that her precious child's spirit is in need of her mother's smile to shine forth each time her baby is rocked safely to sleep in an unfriended cottage.  OH! Cruel!  Cruel World!

While June was busting out all over, I was growing accustomed to the restraints of my first 'training' bra straps which the boys in my class were seen testily snapping, left and right.  We even had a math teacher, whose surges of unbridled testosterone spewed lewd comments while casting lecherous eyes pointedly at the chests of classmates who'd suffered the embarrassment of having been prematurely stacked until his creepy advances, reported to the principal, saw him sacked.

While the subconscious portion of my processor was busily absorbing all of that folderol—anything that hinted of sexual interest directed at me boomeranged off of my brain's defensive wall of denial, suggesting that not one conscious train of thought concerning my budding sensuality (much less sexuality) made its way through the mental fog surrounding the cocoon that protected the traumatized portion of my processor from anything resembling clarity.  I'm not kidding.

As a matter of fact, I've learned that the traumatized portion of a child's processor will remain stuck in the dark at whatever stage of life a pedophile's touch had stimulated the defensive system of the inexperienced brain to signal the frontal lobe to flick its switch from on to off, freeing the limbic system to usurp control and reign supreme until the terrifying presence (or specter) of Stranger Danger has past—and as not one conscious memory of those mind-blowing experiences had imprinted into the frontal lobe of my brain, everything that had boggled my mental connection to clarity transferred into subconscious memory, and that's no joke.

Upon reflecting over that last scientific fact, concerning scary secrets we keep from ourselves, we can see why, while watching my seventh grade friends swoon over The King of Rock and Roll’s swiveling hips, my defense system, standing at high alert, denies my brain any conscious clue as to what Elvis's body language is conveying to his audience.  As long as my defense system acts like a trampoline deflecting any thought of sex away from my processor's conscious sense of awareness, I am left to perceive of the emotional reactions of teen aged girls as being every bit as nuts as I think is true of The King's singing style, which looks so silly to me as to be comedic.  Then upon arriving home, still feeling confused about my friends' emotionality, I'd encountered my mother and grandma's interchange of frowning remarks concerning this rock star's outrageous gyrations.  However, their huffy rebuffs concerning his improper hip swiveling maneuvers left me as much in the dark as was true of the natural reactions of my friends.  Seriously, throughout puberty, I'd had no more clue as to why Elvis (or the Beatles) made my friends feel weak in the knees than I'd understood parental reactions, directing my friends to switch their TVs to another channel.

Emotional complexity, based in the processor's subconscious absorption of deeply buried trauma, is reason for contrasting character traits to develop.  And so we come to see why I'd longed to experience romance while defensively deleting the very existence of impassioned sexuality from my processor's conscious awareness.

If you still entertain the notion that ‘puppy love’ suggests preteens adoring each other dispassionately then hopefully, you won't take offense at my suggestion that the conscious portion of your processor may not have a clue as to when (or why) your defense system fools with your sense of clarity as is still true of mine, from time to time.  In short, denial comes and goes.  At times, our processors switch tracks from conscious clarity to subconscious anxiety spiking so quickly that we lose all track of what has just been said or what we were about to reply in response.

So anyway, one day at twilight, a pair of tightly knit friends are seen moseying down the alley, side by side, both seemingly relaxed while chatting, back and forth, about this and that when suddenly he stops walking, so she follows suit.  As Joseph turns toward me, I—feeling sparks of tension begin to crackle—stand statue-like while we, both holding leashes, stare into each other's blue eyes until much to my befuddled amazement, Joseph’s free hand rises as though in slo-mo until his open palm hovers momentarily so close to my head that you could have knocked me over with a feather when, while stroking my hair, which is seen flowing freely past my shoulders, I hear him say:  Gosh, it's even softer than I'd thought—and next thing I know he—

Come on!  You know I'm not going to spoil FIRST KISS Part 6 by completing that sentence, right now—I mean think about it—he and I were just kids—right?

So what might this boy's brain feel stimulated to do with a girl like me who (perceiving myself as much too unattractive to draw a popular guy's heart to melt into mine) has taken little note of this reality:  Over the past several months, my body has been in the process of shaping up—for the better ...

BOOK ONE—CHAPTER 3 FIRST KISS Part 4 Wishes ...

Being that Annie is a good friend (whose brain is besotted with emotion), she's willing to hear anything Joseph wants to say in hopes that he’ll continue to seek out her company, every day, and though dogs need to be walked, that doesn’t mean Joseph has to meander down this particular alley where his whistle alerts Annie that pleasure awaits her presence, right?  As weeks become months, this tall, blond boy and small, brunette girl's mutual friendship continues to deepen—meaning that secrets of the heart are freely expressed—secrets, which would never have been divulged to others—he to me and he to me—because in truth, I have a heartfelt secret that cannot be freely shared with anyone beyond myself—so sure am I that if this secret is exposed, my heart’s secret crush will turn away and run as fast as he can anywhere that I am not, leaving me feeling all alone surrounded by echoes of guys laughing so hard as to shatter the shell of self protection layering up around my heart, releasing a riptide of unshed tears to drown my current state of happiness in last semester’s traumatic experience, all over again—so you can see why my preteen need to safeguard Joseph’s ‘friendship’ feels subconsciously determined to keep him in the dark about how deeply his presence delights my heart.  On the other hand, having reflected over puzzling events, long past, I can reveal a secret that I’d kept from myself until insight emerged, spotlighting my inner need to expand the narrow scope of yesteryear’s viewfinder so as to simplify the emotional complexity that had seriously compromised a young girl’s perception of self—

Had repressed trauma not sabotaged my self image to feel deeply conflicted about being worthy of love, every fiber of my being would have openly placed my heart within the hands of this blond, blue-eyed boy’s safe keeping.  Every poetic heart string connected to my processor would have composed lyrics such as these:  The moment I laid eyes on you my heart was yours for the taking.  Your high spirited spark of vibrancy magnetizes my heartfelt attention whenever you are near.  If feelings suppressed felt free to emerge, we’d see the scenery on this stage magically transform well tended suburban flower beds into wildly entangled jungle vines hanging from trees where no propriety inhibits my voice from clearly exclaiming:  Me Jane—you Tarzan, signaling you in your loin-cloth to sweep my leopard skinned torso into your arms where I’ll swoon with pleasure of what’s to come as we swing from tree to tree while right on cue the lighting crew behind the scenes highlights the most magnificent sunset ever seen, and just before the curtain drops on act one, my budding sensuality awakens to the natural thrill of love's first kiss...

Ahhh...the innocent daydreams of youth!  Be careful, Annie.  Wishes granted bear surprises—some nice, some not ... BTW—

Please do not dismiss my passion for Joseph as PUPPY LOVE.

My heart’s secreted desire carried that torch for years after our safe haven of friendship found itself unexpectedly cast into the explosive fires of pre-teen hell where the searing pain of first love’s demise burned straight through my wall of denial, leaving my confounded think tank tied so tightly to the stake of self doubt, as to reignite my conflicted identity crises each time so much as a hint of yesteryear’s smoky ember of tensely repressed self rejection felt reason to flare, searing my self confidence with guys throughout most of my adult life ...

BOOK ONE—CHAPTER 3 FIRST KISS Part 3 Secret Crush

As my acknowledgment of remaining an enigmatic stranger to myself—forever—can arouse twinges of anxiety, you may find FIRST KISS intriguingly relieving in this way: This chapter of my life story offers insight into why a sweet (though confounded) young girl developed into a complicated adult who, to this very day, feels compelled to call forth her sense of depth perception in order to gain access to contrasting personality traits, which ignite inner conflicts to flare until intuitive trains of thought spotlight those times when a defensive wall of denial blinds me from expanding my awareness of choices, which prove existentially strengthening rather than unconsciously patterning my decisions to fit smoothly with those that adhere to the herding instinct as I continue to make my way from one stage of life to the next.

Needless to say, I remained blind to my processor’s potential to tap into depths of mental perception until such time as my many-layered wall of denial, erected during childhood, came crashing down, smashing my persona’s effervescence so soundly that my ever-ready smile fizzled and disappeared into the subterranean fog, which, during the middle decades of my life, had continued to thicken, thus blocking my mind’s eye from seeing how often the limited scope of my decisions had served to sugar-coat repressed sensations of tightly condensed frustrations so as to numb bouts of unhappiness, which, having been blocked from conscious awareness, continued to layer up within secret pockets of my mind as decades, somehow, flew by.

It’s also important to note that at the age of twelve (as is true of children the world over) I’ll not yet have gained any conscious awareness concerning conflicts erupting between friends at times when the herding instinct clashes head on with decisions proving to be courageously existential in nature.  In fact, many a year will pass before my processor’s potential to develop the mental clarity to fathom the depths of classic conundrums identifies peer pressure as the culprit that declares anyone whose heightened level of emotional maturity has taken leaps of faith toward hard won personal growth as an outcast unless this individual returns to the beaten path where herds of sheep are seen huddling together, bleating—blah blab black sheep, away with you and your emotional clarity, which distresses group-think’s narrow minded attitudes 

And now with the curtain poised to rise so as to reveal the first scene of the story at hand, I’d like to invite you to play Watson to my Holmes as we claim seats, front row center, in order to gather clues concerning classic misunderstandings that are bound to erupt when repressed insecurities, balled up within the depths of two minds, ignite simultaneously with such spontaneity as to be likened to a face-off between a pair of loose cannons, shooting love’s magic spell in the heart thus shattering the deeply valued friendship, which has naturally connected a boy and girl, both of whom are so inexperienced as to have no clue how quickly intensely confounding emotional reactions, which tend to feel explosive, are empowered to heighten frustration to such a mind reeling degree as to shatter our thought processors connection to logic resulting in tearing two young innocents apart.  The lead characters in this cast of two are named Annie and Joseph.  The year is 1954.

Act one offers attentive detectives sound reason to note the spontaneity with which unidentified insecurities shoot our processors full of holes, repeatedly.

And now that this budding romance, entitled FIRST KISS, is ready to rock and roll, the lights dim; the curtain rises, and a hush falls over the audience as a spotlight highlights a tall, handsome, twelve year old boy entering stage left. Apparently, he is strolling leisurely down an alley in well-kept suburbia, whistling away at a top forties tune, his dog, a blond, short haired, strong bodied mix strains at its leash, sniffing here and there for a place to ... okay, nuf' said.

As this pair of pals crosses the stage, it’s quite likely that the tall, blond, good looking boy, sporting Elvis-like sideburns and a swagger to match, has no clue that each time he walks along this alley toward the backside of a certain red brick, two-story house, a twelve-year old girl's pounding heart is poised at her bedroom window, listening for his whistle (ala Lauren Bacall?)

While Joseph and King amble past flower beds and lilac bushes, bordering Annie's well manicured yard, the first trill of a whistle stimulates the girl's antennae to rise; however, rather than secretly swooning, as usual, her brain alerts her legs to race from her upstairs window, where peering out, longingly, she's just caught a fleeting glance of this dream boat, whom she’s secretly crushing on—from afar—because—well—her saucy self-confidence with guys has recently been ground to dust in a van where a gang of bullies had sullied a budding slice of her self esteem, some time earlier in the year.

So if you wonder how this star crossed romance, foreshadowed with dark clouds soon to gather, overhead, gets its chance to pick up steam, well, on this sunny day, a twelve year old, blue eyed, brunette feels an old-time surge of courage swell within her budding breast at the exact moment that her tall, handsome heart-throb whistles by the side yard of her new home.  And before yesteryear’s social self-confidence takes a powder, the damsel, fleeing the safe haven of her ivory tower, flies down the stairs, and as she streaks past her mother, who's making dinner, we see Juliette, unlatching the kitchen’s screen door so as to dash outside with trash can encircled within her arms …

Upon reaching the alley, Annie’s natural sparkle ignites a quick, shy twinkling ‘Hi’, catching this strong bodied, dreamy guy off guard while our blushing maiden deposits her load, and once she and he exchange a fleeting spark of recognition, Annie spins her pounding heart around quick as a top so as to sweep across the expanse of her yard straight toward her back door where, dashing inside, she deposits the empty trash can, which had served as a 'prop', on the kitchen floor before flying upstairs, where, within the relative safety of her tower, she throws herself on her bed, feeling every bit as shocked at her chutzpah as she'd felt astounded to have won Joseph’s smile, which had miraculously matched the warmth of her own.

From that day forward at the first waft of a whistle, Annie's dark lashed, bright blue eyes sparkle with delight while the wheels of her mind, spinning with the speed of light, make haste to race toward the leash, which clips onto Pixie's collar—because—miracle of miracles—Joseph has continued to greet her presence and that of her black and white spotted, toy fox terrier with the welcoming smile that thrills her heart, inspiring her spirit to soar!  And just like that, no fuss no bother, a friendship, soon to be deeply valued by both, is won.

With no time like the present to rejoice, the natural spring in this young girl’s high-spirited step excites the swing in her long dark ponytail to bounce like a plume atop her head. And with pup and boldness in tow, our heroine runs outside at the same hour, every day, having stuffed all worries about this boy’s natural reaction to her presence into the can, which contains the trash that remains in the kitchen of her new house.  And under the guise of taking Pixie, whose petite presence frolics happily along side that of big strong, blond shepherd-mix, King—Annie's naturally winsome smile floats on air—day and night—because her heartbeat enjoys a relaxed state of peaceful repose wherever she goes, no thoughts of personal travails suffered on that van darkening her spirit’s lightness of being.

The fact that this scene repeats itself, day in and day out, frees Annie’s long lashed, twelve year old, blue eyes to gaze up adoringly at her master—I mean—King's master, while girl, boy, Lady and Tramp amble forth down this alley, which, connecting with that alley, offers no conscious clue that all four are treading, step by step, along the yellow brick road, suggestive of the fact that OZ lies in wait, directly ahead.  And thus do boy and girl go blithely toward the future, hearts, spirits and minds comfortably intertwined as long as conversation, flowing naturally, back and forth, is clearly understood by both, and as comfort levels mesh, the degree of emotional safety shared by this good natured, young 'couple' grows accustomed to teasing each other, as friends, who are enjoying (while denying) a strong mutual attraction, often do, since the ease of mutually respectful laughter connects one spirit with the other as simply as the alphabet starts with A,B,C (NO MORE BULLIES FOR ME!) until—

We imagine Annie's spirit awakening, each morning, floating light as air as she readies herself to approach the pearly gates of teen-aged heaven, her feet barely touching the ground, knowing that within moments, she'll see Joseph in school though, over time, heaven gets to feeling a little rocky when Joseph begins to toss out questions and comments concerning his growing interest in certain classmates—who just happen to be a variety of really cool, good looking, slim, long-legged girls—while behind Annie’s amiable, warm spirited smile, no one sees the needle of my spirit's metronome fluttering back and forth or hears the humming gears of a young girl’s mind grinding to a stop as subconscious thought patterns throw the throttle of my heart into reverse as if my processor, flooding with fleeting spikes of latent anxiety, offers up the merest hint of a Grrrrrr, which, barely wafting through the breeze, turns your attention and mine toward the natural arousal of animal instincts, which must have been released by—King, because, surely, animal instincts, stimulated to growl silently within, cannot be attributed to a damsel, whose repressed distress hath been numbed, sedated, and buried in the past—right?