Wednesday, December 31, 2008
I'm with the Queen on that.
Thank god the year is over.
Oddly, my spiritual death began this time last year, on this very day.
Although not optimstic, truth be told, one can only hope (lessly or not) that 2009 promise some small improvement ...
Monday, December 29, 2008
My jaw aches, the grinding echo of my anxiety throbbing in the closeness of the room. I reach, knowing, and feel you gone.
I lie quiet in the smothering embrace of an empty room and feel hot acid tears etch their way down the softness of the skin at the outside corner of my eye, and snake, tickling into the curls at the side of my head.
My jaw aches, my teeth throbbing and sore. I realize that I don’t sleep really, that part of me, like a feral animal lies awake ever watchful, cautious, hiding behind the facade of rest, crouching in the shadows pooling at the back of a hidden crevasse, anticipating, waiting, for the next attack.
Instinct is like that.
Rationality can debate and argue certain realities, certain apparently inescapable fact; but instinct is from the reptile part of our brain, the ancient, dark primitive part; in its own way, uncontrollable because instinct removes itself from emotion and rationality and instead just reacts... and ultimately instinct bases its cautiousness on the realty of experience and thus, in the cloying embrace of darkness, I await with a despairing knowledge of the inevitability of your wrath.
At the end of it all, my rest is shallow, any true sleep escapes me. I sense your presence leaving and then the hot breath of your body when it returns.
I wonder where you wander in your midnight excursions. What thoughts and emotions cloud and roil in your mind and heart and where your fingers bring you in your angst and despair.
I think of G. and how we shake our heads in disbelief at what we perceive to be his delusions and yet, here in the lonely expanse of bed, I see that delusions are something each of us embraces. We dance, you and I, around the seething mass of rage and suppressed emotions that ooze like a putrid puddle of silent screams in the corner of the room. We wade through the noxious clinging excretions every single day and like G., smile and pretend the burning, acid tendrils of regret and accusation, of belief and knowledge, do not exist, surreptitiously, frantically, brushing off the sticky, cloying folds of its implacable reality.
I have never managed, despite all my struggles, to free my voice, which flutters beneath the pale column of my throat like a captive spirit. When the small trilling of the possibility of escape has sighed through my want, I have felt your fear batter it into a frightened retreat.
Like the flesh which smothers me in noxious folds of rejection, I feel the swelling blister of unspoken words roiling beneath the prison of your frantic deafness.
I think, like him, you hide behind a facade of normalcy and cling with desperate fingers to the splinter of fantastical fabrication you have created to survive.
My tongue, unbidden, seeks the hollow of the crumbling reality of my anxiety made flesh and I find it in myself to marvel at the complexity of the human spirit and its ability to weave lies into the fabric of reality as if the truths were real.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
How do you define yourself?
Do you perceive and accept your faults and foibles? Do you reject the little quirks that are so essentially a part of your nature that to suppress them would be to change the essence of self?
The older I get the more I realize how intricate a creature is the human species. Rational in many ways, our irrationality (also an intrinsic part of our personalities) drives us into behaviours we abhor, controls us like puppets, binds us about with self-imposed rules and isolates us from what our emotional and spiritual beings crave.
Our sexuality, for instance, is such a compelling part of our basic makeup- probably one of the most fundamental urges is to procreate and engage in pleasure ... yet from time immemorial we have bound this natural urge about with rules and strictures, hung emotional angst on its basic need and created sometimes insurmountable barriers to the simple enjoyment of sex.
The reality is that influences in our lives create a want and need in us – and in the way of the beast, we second-guess, decipher, deconstruct and create issues about our “wants” until we have created in our minds a dysfunctional creature to be suppressed, denied and derided...and in the process, destroying an essential part of our psyche, thrusting it down deep into the innermost recesses of our minds and denying it egress to the daylight world.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Time clicks away the moments of our lives, one second at a time, eating away the fabric of our realities and nibbling into oblivion and chaos the moments that might have been.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Every moment we live disappears forever in the unwinding ribbon of reality which vanishes behind us. It cannot be recaptured nor relived; memories only are the legacy of risks taken and efforts made. Time is fluid yet inevitable. It erodes our possibilities as surely as our failure to seize the moment which lies within our grasp is a monumental mistake that cannot be rectified ever.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
For every inaction there is a reaction. For every reaction, there is a consequence.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Constant naval-gazing and introspection can provide a semblance of movement that in the end, proves misleading and eats time as effectively as the rotation of the sun.
And the other truth is that with the minute erosion of time against the reality of your soul, there are changes- overt and subtle – the flux of dynamics which are inevitable and insidious. “Truths” themselves are not inviolate but subjective – and how your perceptions arise, play out and then flow into oblivion are as real as the ticking away of day into night. And perhaps the very worst thing is not to do anything at all. For as you stand frozen, life flows around you and the flux and eddy of other lives crash up against the stone of your obliviousness and then part and find another path ....for that is the nature of the river of life ...to find a path and flow ...
I grasp the rich tapestry of my sexuality to myself, pulling the crimson swollen want around me like a cloak, enveloping and comforting, but in the aridness of its embrace I sense the echoing of lost opportunities. I gaze ahead and dread the bleakness of a future where erosion of want and being wanted creates arroyos of despair and austerity.
Monday, December 15, 2008
I despise them.
Like a creeping form of cancer, they burrow deep within the soul and heart of a person, attaching themselves to the essential reality of existence, moving furtively beneath the surface, unseen but not unfelt. Insidious, creeping abominations, destroyers of hope and possibilities, berserkers who lurk unseen until the optimum moment when they leap out to destroy hard-won equilibrium, to destroy the façade of contentment and reveal the paucity of truth.
I fucking HATE lies. I’m not talking stupid lies – lies where you tell someone you paid $40 when it was $100 or that you did something you said you would do, but hadn’t (but you really DID mean to and WILL). I’m talking REAL lies – lies that hurt and rend and tear when the reality bites occur … AND reality ALWAYS bites.
Lies and trust are inextricably entwined… one destroys the other.
And there are, in MY view, lies of omission. When you know there is something NOT being told, something not being volunteered or offered for discussion, lies of omission are almost worst. Because it allows the individual to feel they are “not lying” but merely choosing not to tell. When the reality is that actions where omission is practiced, deliberately, with forethought, with full knowledge that one is NOT telling because one is unable to vomit the secret which is choking them … are LIES nonetheless.
Despair envelopes me with a smothering cloak of despondency. The cycle of life… the turn of the wheel, I remember this place so very well. I thought the wheel had turned and this grey miasma of desolation left behind, but here we are, back again in the familiar environs of a bleak room and looking around, I detect the detritus of other days and other nights and scent the clinging, malevolent effluence of rotting promises.
I’m stronger now though.
That’s a good thing isn’t it?
I can see clearly now … of course I always question the veracity of my own conclusions; I second-guess and wonder if indeed the things I see are indeed there, concrete and inescapable or merely figments from an overactive imagination. When your entire belief system has been systematically eroded and destroyed over time, when realities you thought absolute truth are revealed for the flimsy creation of myth and creationism they in reality ARE, then it is increasingly difficult to find any reason at all to believe in anything at all.
As trite as it seems, trust needs a solid foundation of truths on which to build.
When those “truths” have been revealed again and again to be a fabric of supposition and fantasy, then the foundation is inevitably fragile and unstable.
and not something on which to build.
I want to build. I want to believe. But damn its hard when the “truths” you know are there, have never been revealed. When the names have never been named … and the realities never revealed. So how do you build on a foundation as liquid and unstable as bog?
Monday, December 8, 2008
Memories. Random thoughts of time and remembrances of past times of good and bad. Odd how certain tastes, smells, visions trigger them. Many of mine, oddly, are winter memories.
Like a mantra, my mind revisits certain scenes of my youth. I close my eyes and raise my face to the snow which spills down in a glittering rainbow of cold light which shatters against my face and arches into the roiling storm of wind to be whipped up again into the grumbling dark sky.
A quiet moment on a pristine Maritime night when the snow lay deep and untouched and the sound of our boots in the frosted hushed midnight hour created such a painfully poignant sense of our isolation in a world of our own that to this day, I remember his hand in mine, the warmth of his breath against the cold of my cheek, then his tongue, hot and fervid against my mouth. I remember the feel of the cold clapboard of the house against my back as he burrowed beneath the tattered, ratty fur of my ancient, Salvation Army coat, his fingers cool at my waist, making me shiver. Then his cool palm against the aching, swollen tip of my warm breast, cupping and squeezing the soft, firm flesh, pulling the aching need from between my trembling thighs, his body against mine, his breath hot and moist and his teeth against my neck ….
We were young then, he and I, with all the complicated, interwoven threads of our lives still to be lived yet already with a twisted skein of memories and experiences already shared, reaching back into a past unravelling into thought and belief.
Life is not static. It is not silent nor simplistic. The apparent sameness of days which roll one into another and leach away the spontaneity of thought and movement are an illusion for each moment of time which ticks away the reality of existence and nibbles another second from my mortality are unique and in their static brilliance, endless. Each brings with it a drop of possibility and pushes its nanosecond of reality into the weave of what becomes the now.
I find it curious, affirming even, to see that others struggle too with the tumbling stream of time and the vistas which each twist brings to our wondering eyes.
The simple reality is that we cannot put ourselves nor others into motionless moments of existence and expect those moments to be always. The nature of life itself is change, endlessly compromised and created second by second, impacted and shaped into uniqueness by our own experiences and the impact of our lives with others in this odd world in which we exist.
Which is always why I found it so questionable when I saw absolute statements being made. When people created chess pieces out of the throbbing, complicated reality of a human being and thought determination and desire and hope would make that piece move in the direction desired.
So many times over the years have my hard-won belief systems been shattered, leaving me disillusioned and broken among the detritus of broken dreams. Yet somehow, you pick yourself up and painfully piece together the remnants of thought and emotion and as the glue hardens, the essence of the individual sparks new possibilities and hope and in the quintessential nature of the human beast, slowly moves forward yet again.
The reality is that there are no absolutes in this world; there are NO promises that can’t be broken nor dreams that can’t be destroyed. Perfect relationships do not exist and perfect people are an illusion and to my way of thinking, an abomination.
My eyes sting as the arctic wind licks hurt into their green depths. I release the leashes and the dogs bound up the steps to the door, gambolling and prancing and nipping each other’s flanks. I stand in the gloaming dark of the early morning and slowly unzip my coat. My hand goes to my waist and feels the soft flesh of my belly then pushes up and under the wire of my bra until I cup the hot warmth of my breast and staring out into the glittering river of snow, rivulets of snow streaming from a roiling sky. I feel my flesh in the cool of my palm and watch as the pale tip reddens then contracts into a hot aching need and remember other nights and sighing, release my flesh and turn and follow the dogs into the warmth of the house and to him.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
In many instances, it is a supreme example of our naval-gazing, self-obsessed society.
For somehow, the generation that glorified friendship, acceptance and the doctrine of following your heart has created subsequent generations of selfish consumerist grasping “have to have it and have it now” individuals who can find endless excuses as to why they are not “cheating” … that see in their need for an ever-expanding sexual repertoire and in their quest for the ultimate excitement and exploration of those hidden corridors of mind and heart, a necessary and ultimately justifiable reason to betray.
I see the same self-justifications over and over again – “he doesn’t understand me”, “she doesn’t give me what I need”, “I’ve tried, but she doesn’t ‘get” me”…. excuses! And then you see the feint and gamble, the repartee and innuendo and sometimes, the outright almost smug admittance of an affair.
I don’t care if someone wants a damn affair.
If they choose to betray someone to whom they committed.
If they choose the flickering insubstantial flame of an internet affair to the solid reality of flesh and blood, of history and promise.
But don’t pretend it is anything other than a scratch you want itched.
Don’t try to dress it up as something internally so needful that without it you will explode, self-destruct, wither away.
The reality is that it is a CHOICE – one you make rationally or otherwise- one the repercussions of which you must live with – and if “outed” that your family must live with.
and from my perspective it is as inimical and destructive as any flesh on flesh affair.
There is an element of pity in me for those individuals who choose the insubstantial amphorous nature of an online “relationship” over the reality of a solid foundation, because I am very cognizant of the fragile nature of our human psyche and, here in the waning aftermath of endless accusations and a 4 year emotional bloodbath, I find my tolerance both less and more.
More, because I look around and I see the reality of those who have strayed and the terrible emotional toll it takes on them, their families and on their lives. And the bottom line is that I hate seeing people hurt – the ones who caused the hurt and the ones who are hurting because of another’s choices.
I find it particularly inimical because of events occurring in the periphery of my life that have had (are having), nonetheless, a rather massive impact on my own. Events transpiring which have opened wounds not yet healed, dug deep sharp claws into emotions still raw, that have in their tragedy, such an element of familiarity it is frightening.
But the same motivation that made this person cheat were generated in part by the behaviour of someone...which eerily and horrifically reflect the worst behaviour of someone close to me. Detritus of a damaged psyche.... aftermath of abuse and emotional horror. Destroying all these years later the best of who they are – and echoing through the years to destroy any good they have tried to grasp in their own, now mature, lives.
I can even grasp to some extent the perfidy - the constant emotional barrage, the stalking, the lurking intimations of rage and underlying suffocating need are emotionally and supremely difficult to deal with... BUT
I find my tolerance is less, as well because, bottom line, each of us makes choices - I have always felt and believed and continue to, that if one gets to the point where one seeks intimacy, seeks love and friendship and caring OUTSIDE your relationship, then it is time to move on ... but move ON.. not TO - I think it a HUGE mistake to move from one relationship directly into another ..... you are (to my mind) seeking escape, not making a rational choice.
The bottom line is that each of us must find in ourselves the strength and conviction of our own worth, then couple it with the ability to find grace in inner strength and ability, to understand that peace and contentment comes from within and should never be placed entirely in the hands of another individual. That while of course, a committed, caring, loving and deeply passionate relationship can bring great joy, true happiness can only occur when you are comfortable in your own skin.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Manners - USA Rocks
Seriously , not sure WHY Canadians have the rep for being "polite" - my kids and I were constantly giving each other the "look" as yet ANOTHER American held open a door, smiled, chatted in a non-stalkerish but friendly manner, said "go ahead" ... we were like WOW!!
Now, granted in the polyglot of cultures, races, religions and ethnics that make up Toronto, we've become somewhat jaded ...for frankly, a LOT of cultures sure don't' have ANY concept of "politeness" but more a viewpoint that if you don't TAKE, you won't GET .... and manners are wasted .. so it was immensely refreshing to once again revisit what used to be the norm....
But hey, dear Americans - WHAT is up with the PORTION sizes???? I asked for a medium coffee and got the equivalent of an EXTRA LARGE in Canada. Politely, I say in my Canadian way- sorry, I ONLY asked for a Medium - ...well, apparently that IS a medium. Now if those type of portions were limited to black coffee with a sweetener (how I take it) - then it would hardly be a big thing ... but translate that into fries, burgers, POP and all the other mindless, calorie crunching, non-nutritious, deadly crap OUT THERE and you are talking MAJOR health problems ... no wonder so many people I saw were larger than life! The problem with those types of portions is they become the "norm" and they are almost inevitably BAD for you.
and while I'm bitching ... WHERE are all the coffee shops??? As a card-carrying Canadian citizen, I require a coffee infusion roughly, every couple of hours - I went for HOURS and HOURS without access to an easily accessible off-road coffee shop! Wake up and smell the COFFEE - Coffee is a MAJOR food group!!
We came down past Rochester, through Syracuse, and spent a good part of our time in gorgeous New York State - what an incredibly gorgeous place! I felt like I was in Trapped in Paradise! Picture perfect farms and little towns, with storybook homes festooned with Christmas lights, snow on the ground (but roads dry)... it was so utterly lovely! And then into the mountains of Pennsylvania with its winding roads, and gorgeous trees, little hamlets and vistas that took my breath ...
just one bitch ...
HUNTERS ... are they REALLY allowed to shoot so damn close to the road? They were like cockroaches in the woods we passed ... orange vests alight between the starkness of grey trees denuded of leaves and leaf-strewn meandering paths - I swear to GOD we counted at least 150 hunters just through ONE stretch... Kealin was like "mum, isn't a little dangerous if they SHOOT so close??" - umm. YES, one would think so!
DEFINITELY way cheaper BUT... confused the hell out of us. All I can say is there has to be be a lot of Americans who steal gas! I mean, we had to pay upfront! THEN pump... very weird. We kept trying to swipe our debit card, then they told us we had to tell them how much and they would charge our credit card??? I don't KNOW how much - and just to give you an idea- doug initially said better give it $50 as we were under quarter tank ... it took $23!!! Weird - but ominous in a way as it suggests a lot of dishonesty happening ....
Black Friday wasn't
Not something I was interested in but my kids were - dropped them off, crazy insane lineups but truth? Prices were almost identical to Canada - EXCEPT add the 25% exchange rate and things were MORE expensive ... People where we were (Scranton, Penn) were fine according to the kids ... apparently the poor bastard security guard trampled to death as the crowds broke down the doors in Long Island wasn't so lucky - I'm still appalled and disgusted; same for the idiots that pulled out guns and shot each other in Toys r Us .. but thank god - except for what I noticed was MASSIVE security, no issues at all where we brought the kids.
Overall, a very enjoyable trip to the States - even the quizzing going over the border was tolerable although made me feel like a criminal!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
This for sure death that stalks,
right beside holding
my flesh and blood,
maybe a dream or not, hand.
As I live, watching that
wonderful not having, in my
living room, till the
tedium of two minutes sets in
and I with but a gentle,
deliberate or not, lifting finger,
alters the world forever or not
till I flip knowingly back,
with not even getting up.
And every day have this great
wonderful vibrant watch of a life
not lived in colour and so lifelike
or not and between flips, it too passes
with a gentle, deliberate lift of a finger,
altering the maybe world, or not, but
as always Death, in his boredom,
still holding my flesh and blood
maybe a dream, or not, hand,
checks his watch.
There is nothing quite so still …. as death.
His face is serene, composed, the embalmer's art barely noticeable, the skill impressive as his complexion, devoid of the warmth of blood coursing beneath the membrane of skin, looks (almost) natural.
There is nothing quite so agonizing .... as death.
Composed they enter, a church-like hush blanketing the blandness of the room with its neutral tones and colours bleeding soft and flesh coloured on walls festooned with faux knots and an approximation of taste. Quiet murmurings as people converse in hushed voices and stifle the inappropriate nervous laughs. Walking quietly to the front where (brother), (cousin), (nephew), (father), (husband) lies, the casket raised to reveal his clasped hands and still features, reality captures them with a vicious, searing pain as the bleak truth of his forever absence slices into the composed faces and voices bleed out their agony into the quiet of the room, wailing to a universe which watches, unmoved the cycle of life continuing ....
There is nothing quite so perplexing … as death.
His sister screams her agony loudly to sympathetic arms which clasp and ears which listen and voices which murmur their caring. Cita, however, wife, friend, caregiver in the waning twilight of a life ravaged by lung cancer, sits quietly, alone – composed and filled with a palpable grief that isolates her as effectively as steel walls. She watches with neutral eyes the posturing of a sibling who cries out at the unfairness of death stealing from her a younger brother.
There is nothing quite so isolating …as death.
For each of us must, when all is said and done, deal with our own grief, our own pain; the searing agony of loss, the incredulous inability to accept that the voice will never be heard, the tread on the stairs forever silent, that the dawning of morning brings with it the profound realization of absolute change.
People also deal with grief in the manner in which they feel most capable – from the wailing, public display of pain to the stoic, composed retention of agony as too intrinsically private to share. Grief, after all, and how it is processed, embraced, rejected and internalized is so intensely personal.
Watching, from the safety of my poignant regret for a good neighbour gone, I watch and wonder at the isolation of those closest to him. In their anguish, like restless, darting crows they fracture and wheel around the creeping miasma of the gravitational pull of individual grief,
and the morning creeps in with a grey and looming need, clouds weeping a fine mist, coating my upturned face with a slick tongue, soft and breathing time into the humid air of a funeral day.
I sit in my sterile cubicle and find an ironic poignancy in a clichéd day of death and wait for the ticking second hand to start forward to departure and the final goodbye. For time, science aside, is not finite nor quantifiable but elastic and arbitrary … stretching seconds into incalculable agonies of elongated now and encapsulating hours into a fleeting moment of “what if”.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
I find it perplexing (even confusing) why people blog or more to the point (because I am a genius at misdirection) why do I blog?
I blog surf, I do… I find someone I like to read, then almost compulsively go to their spots over and over (hell, that’s it, I’m a stalker!); over time, I begin to check out the blogs which THEY read. In some cases, you get a feel for the person blogging, the original blogger as it were – based on who they choose to read - but even that assumption can be incorrect. For people have personalities as varied as the individual behind the pixels …even the apparently transparent numbers whores – for ultimately WHERE does that need arise to feel vindication and to get some form of odd confirmation that you exist and that you count and that you have status.
For myself, blogging is oftentimes an exercise in masochism. The reality is that I truly am rather pathetic in many respects – I allow myself to be get caught up in the glaring headlight of obscurity and find myself bruised and battered by the shattering silence.
I think to some extent it is human nature to want back a measure of respect and generally, to feel that your presence (cyber or otherwise) has had a measure of impact on the rippling pool of reality – web-based or otherwise. There is a need in most humans to find some form of substantiation that they exist, that their presence is in some manner or form recognized, acknowledged.
Sometimes I think blogging is at its most simplistic, a straightforward form of narcissism. Look at me! Listen to me! Talk to me!
Which makes me uncomfortable in a lot of ways as when I explore the whys and wherefores of my need to write coupled with a commensurate need for people to read said writing.
From a rational perspective, I understand that the written word is almost intrinsically MEANT to be read; from that perspective therefore, it is hardly unreasonable to wish it to attain its ultimate purpose. Emotionally, I find myself mortified by my reaction to the approval and approbation of the few readers who take the time to comment ... a sometimes disproportionate reaction which disconcerts me.
Because ultimately, I think that too much energy, effort and emotional need invested in the internet is indicative of some unresolved issues in real life.
Certainly, writing has always been a passion of mine, oft neglected, relegated to scribbles in a hardcover notebook, stories begun and abandoned mouldering in the archives of a forgotten persona, insights and cries of agony staccato marks on a virtual page, lost, unseen and unmourned by anyone but me. But ... but while I would (and did, long before the advent of the internet) write regardless, I find myself caught up in the pleasure I get from how those words are received.
I recognize that the paucity of my real-time life in terms of opportunities to exercise my artistic expression is largely responsible, I have to struggle not to get too caught up, however, and invested (yes, perfect word, INVESTED) in my emotional need for approval because, in essence, to internalize as truth virtual words can cause confusion and upset real life emotional equilibrium.
Part of the issue, of course, is my damn pride – which cuts me when I find my feelings bruised when a piece of writing passes unremarked, unsought or read.
The truth is that once upon a time I had a form of recognizable status – I had a title and an assistant and an internally driven belief in my own abilities and worth. I had pieces of paper which confirmed to the world that I possessed at least a modicum of intelligence, and commensurate marks that reflected a professional belief that my scribbling had merit.
And that was a very long time ago.
My life for more years than I can recall has been a morass of want and need and tedium, of catering to mundane (if reasonable) desires and performing yawningly boring tasks in a work environment which provides a decent job and absolutely no intellectual stimulation. A direction, incidentally, embraced by me and a path taken freely and without coercion.
But as my youth slips away on the trickling granules of time which erode arroyos of regret along the sagging canvas of my body, I find myself rebelling lately... is that there all there is?
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Oh, we’re really on our way to Ballytore
and on the way we’ll pass through Narramore,
Ballytore, Narramore, Timilin and Crookstown Inn,
we’re really on our way to Ballytore
The tune dances in my head and images spill sparkling streams of memory, splashing jewel tones of reminiscence into a sweeping river of remembrance. I see him now, my uncle Jerry. His bristling hair, thick and deep brown, cut razor sharp straight across the top, his voice raspy and tuneful, making up silly ditties to amuse his nieces. Beside him, my mother’s eldest sister, my beloved Auntie Eileen, laughs, a cigarette grasped between long delicate fingers, blond curls blowing in the breeze from the open window as we wheel down the Dual Carriageway to Kildare.
Ireland spills into my mind, a kaleidoscope of colour and smell, weaving a tapestry of memory and reminisce that leaves me aching. I think of Rowan, now walking the crowded, narrow streets of Dublin and feel an aching, hurting regret at not being there to show my child the city of my youth. I feel the tug from the island of my birth, a hot, aching need to breathe the rich, moisture laden air, to have the green of my eyes fill with the lush verdant richness of its countryside. I want to sip scalding Bewley’s coffee with its steamed milk and trade flirting words with the bold Irish lads.
I feel tears swell as I realize I will never again sit on the overstuffed feather bed at 130 Lr. Kilmucud Road, Stillorgan, Co. Dublin nor toast rough slabs of bread beneath the broiler of my aunt’s gas oven, smothering the charred toast with slashings of butter and homemade lemon curd. My sister Kealin and I would cuddle in that feather bed on cool Irish mornings, then tumble onto the carpeted floor and run laughing into my aunt and uncle’s bedroom where we would give my Uncle Jerry his leg – a task we relished and fought over. My Uncle Jerry had lost his leg when young in a car accident and from the hip had an artificial one which caused him to have a rolling, swinging gait like what we imagined a sailor would have when long at sea.
I have not been Home in so very long.
I was 24 the last time I walked the streets of Dublin. So young, with the future unlived before me, when last I watched the Atlantic crash against the piers in Dun Laoghaire and felt the sting of the ocean breeze whipping colour into my pale cheeks. I remember the sting of salt and spray as I plunged into the grey, frigid Atlantic waters and the rough cotton embrace of thin cotton towels as I rubbed heat back into limbs grown numb from the frigid ocean water.
I wonder what Rowan is doing right now …whether she is walking to Kilmainham Jail where her great grandmother was imprisoned and her grandfather born.. or perhaps strolling through the Garden of Remembrance where Seamus Murphy (her great-grandfather) has a plaque honouring his part in the 1916 Easter Rebellion. Is she at Trinity, marvelling at the Book of Kells or perhaps walking through UCD, her grandfather’s alma mater?
I would have liked to have experienced that with her, my second child, child of the faerie that she is. While my heart is glad she is there, that she is grasping with all the fervour and delight that her beautiful soul engenders the experience of travelling, I mourn the loss of showing her my Dublin, my Ireland … from the painful harsh beauty of the west coast and Galway’s pristine salt-bleached streets to the shimmering glow of the lochs which nestle between the soaring purple hills of Kerry to the ancient cobblestoned meandering paths of Cork.
I love this country, Canada, and would choose no other but a small but vital piece of my soul yearns still for the land of my birth and my youth, a rich, mythic land of faerie and legend, of harsh realities of poverty and the quixotic, complicated Irish people themselves, with their passion and their anger and their enveloping, sincere warmth and humanity.
One by one the ties to my homeland have been severed … death and the implacable march of time and history are erasing the increasingly tenuous links that bind me to that small island and I feel the loss with a yearning regret that leaves me mourning the realities of a life which keeps me bound and tied to tedium and day to day demands.
I sit here at my pristine desk and complete plebeian tasks and with all the passion of my Irish soul, yearn for more.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The flood of American liberals sneaking across the border into Canada has intensified in the past week, sparking calls for increased patrols to stop the illegal immigration. The possibility of a McCain/Palin election victory is prompting the exodus among left-leaning citizens who fear they'll soon be required to hunt, pray, and agree with Bill O'Reilly.
Canadian border farmers say it's not uncommon to see dozens of Sociology professors, animal rights activists, and Unitarians crossing their fields at night.
'I went out to milk the cows the other day, and there was a Hollywood producer huddled in the barn,' said Manitoba farmer Red Greenfield, whose acreage borders North Dakota . The producer was cold, exhausted and hungry. He asked me if I could spare a latte and some free-range chicken. When I said I didn't have any, he left. Didn't even get a chance to show him my screenplay, eh?
In an effort to stop the illegal aliens, Greenfield erected higher fences, but the liberals scaled them. So he tried installing speakers that blare Rush Limbaugh across the fields. 'Not real effective,' he said. 'The liberals still got through, and Rush annoyed the cows so much they wouldn't give milk.'
Officials are particularly concerned about smugglers who meet liberals near the Canadian border, pack them into Volvo station wagons, drive them across the border and leave them to fend for themselves. 'A lot of these people are not prepared for rugged conditions,' an Ontario border patrolman said. 'I found one carload without a drop of drinking water. 'They did have a nice little Napa Valley cabernet, though.'
When liberals are caught, they're sent back across the border, often wailing loudly that they fear retribution from conservatives. Rumors have been circulating about the McCain administration establishing re-education camps in which liberals will be forced to shoot wolves from airplanes, deny evolution, and act out drills preparing them for the Rapture.
In recent days, liberals have turned to sometimes-ingenious ways of crossing the border. Some have taken to posing as senior citizens on bus trips to buy cheap Canadian prescription drugs. After catching a half-dozen young vegans disguised in powdered wigs, Canadian immigration authorities began stopping buses and quizzing the supposed senior-citizen passengers on Perry Como and Rosemary Clooney hits to prove they were alive in the '50s.
'If they can't identify the accordion player on The Lawrence Welk Show, we get suspicious about their age,' an official said.
Canadian citizens have complained that the illegal immigrants are creating an organic-broccoli shortage and renting all the good Susan Sarandon movies.
'I feel sorry for American liberals, but the Canadian economy just can't support them,' an Ottawa resident said. 'How many art-history and English majors does one country need?
THINKING OF MY AMERICAN FRIENDS THIS MOMENTOUS DAY - VOTE RIGHT
Monday, November 3, 2008
Scent.. pungent, aromatic, musky, slippery slidey, slipping into mind and soul, his scent, the hot sweaty masculine pheromones ..wafting, silken, sliding into her mouth and her ears and her eyes, coating the long length of her, the soft hills and valleys of her and her undulating hips increasing their dance of need, strong arms and flexing shoulders glistening and shining in muted light as scent spills one onto the other, slipping to lick between thighs until the smell of him softens and prepares and silkens her skin and her pores open and the scent of her in the tangled sheets, tousled curls, damp droplets of her kissing the silky soft skin of him, mingle and entwine until the room pulsates scent and want.
Sound ... his sighs, her moans trembling beneath pale swollen breasts and the crimson tips of nipples yearn toward him and the throaty sound in his chest resonates deep within and tugs her further into the frantic, tangled limbs and his mouth against her neck, biting until he feels the thrumming rush of life between his teeth and his growls against the sweep of blood erupting deep within those secret places and between the taut thighs she trembles and floods until the sound of their coupling like a great heart beats the rhythm of want and lust.
Sight... eyes glazed, fevered, meeting .. boring deep into her soul, sparking want and need, clinging, talking to her body, urging her, encouraging her, demanding, insisting until trembling, shaking, she sighs her capitulation and his eyes capture her and she dives into the moss-green need of his gaze and he, enraptured at the spring green of eyes gone soft, acquiescing to his want and desire and they sink, one into the other and their bodies jerk and dance the dance of need and find in each other a fleeting taste of nirvana ...
and in the morning, she rises and between her thighs she feels him trickle, sticky and pungent, delicious scent of their coupling wafting in the close muted blue of the room, trailing fingers along her spine, and she puts her fingers between her legs and brings them coated with the essence of their want and need and the detritus of their complicated psyches and closing her eyes, she breathes deep and pulls into her soul the essence of their humanity and in the dusk of a new mourning she feels things tighten deep within her ....
Friday, October 24, 2008
1) I was supposed to come last week with my son - but she was still wandering SOMEWHERE in Europe- yeah, none of us knew WHERE - she was supposed to be home on the 2nd or 3rd October and NO idea where she was ... my sisters and I calling each other from country to country... her and her best friend were LOST - her best friend's kids calling from Ireland, us calling from Canada and the States - our mums RAN AWAY!! I want to run away when I am 83 too! Incidentally, they snuck off to the Canary Islands ...
2) She can (and does) drink me under the table - in fact considers me VERY boring as I really don't drink or smoke (and everything else is damn questionable these days too) - I love the fact she's beaten the odds and belts back G&Ts and Scotch and lights up a cigarette, each time assuring me is "going to quit" for sure.
3) Two days ago she forgot her key to get in the house (see No. 1- wandering Europe) - so she found a box, climbed over the fence into the backyard, then pushed the bike up to her bedroom window and climbed in her window - and she doesn't even have a twinge!
4) She spends half her time seeing her "old" ladies - bringing them groceries, bringing them First Communion etc - ALL of them are at least 5 years younger than her ...
5) She was born and bred Irish Catholic and fights with the priest all the time as she thinks women should be able to be priests and priests should be allowed to marry.
6) She talks to Mary (as in Mother of God) as if she is her best friend - and earnestly assures us that if we want somehting, don't ask God or Jesus but "talk to His mother - He can't resist anything she wants".
7) She bribes St. Francis when she loses stuff and calls him a "fecking thief" when he ups the ante ...
8) She still drives around the neighbourhood like a maniac although she is blind in one eye and is NOT a menace ..
9) She decided to grow her hair long at 75 and now it is down to her waist and BEAUTIFUL - she only has a streak of gray in sideburns and one in her bangs... with her hair down, from the back she looks 16.
10) She has been best friends with my "auntie" Carmel since Carmel was 3 and she was 4 and they were sent away to school and they STILL argue about who has the best figure ....
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
I sorta feel like the girl on the outside LOL, the one people forgot to invite to the party (deliberately).
Which is silly as I joined originally, loved the place for about two weeks, then went into a frenzy at some of the riduculous carryings on that occurred as the membership exploded ....
And left as I tend to get caught up in arguments, get all mixed up and angry at things which then carries over into real life and gets D. pissed at me because I get all all hot and bothered.... so I quit.
So should I join or tehnically, rejoin? I keep getting snippits of stuff from blogs I follow and god, although FAR from a party girl, hate not knowing what is going on...especially as everyone I go people are talking about it.
Does that make me shallow (YES)...
You soar the sharp
crisp Halloween air,
tied and tethered,
gliding with the lightness of the
unfettered breeze in this
Grasping the wind,
you slip, tugging and
pulling in space.
Your bondage is the freedom
that unravels your core,
unfettering you to
stretch and expand,
safe and held by
rope and ownership.
Embracing sky and restraints,
you drift in the curls
and ringlets of air,
threatening to tug
too hard, to snap
the shackles of gravity
and yank the taut line from
the Master’s hand.
terror of wind and
recedes with the length
upon length of string
that holds you
moored beyond the
lure of the world,
knowing that the hand
that guides you is Master
of rope and wind and sky.
So, unburdened, fearless,
you sail the air
and conquer the blue,
in the tug and pull of
this Thanksgiving sky,
in the promise that you
are tied and bound
by a Master’s hand that
will hold you tethered
so you can fly.
Monday, October 20, 2008
One of those is the knowledge that you are vulnerable.
That to many individuals in the world, you are prey.
I do not allow this reality to stop me or prevent me from doing things I wish to do. I do not allow my experience – and I would bet the experience of every woman out there – of past harassments, past unwelcome advances, past assaults, to impede me from doing what I feel, as a human being, I have a right to do and to do in safety and without worry.
However, I am not stupid either and precautions, necessary, regretfully taken but crucial, are simply a part of my existence.
I learned the lesson first when I was attacked at 17 by a businessman in a big fancy car when hitchhiking.
I had that lesson hammered into me on those many nights when walking alone, I was considered fair game – as if my insistence on my right to walk the streets of my city was a challenge to the predators who prowled them.
But I chose to regardless.
I have always refused and continue to refuse to allow the predators to dictate the parameters of my existence.
For many, many years, as a night worker, I would walk from my job at a big law firm down the almost deserted streets of Toronto at night to my parking– anytime between midnight and 3 a.m., keys protruding from between the fingers of a clenched fist, keeping to well-lit streets with the most traffic, keeping a hyper (but NOT paranoid) awareness of my surroundings and who was in my space. And yes, there were many times I was harassed – verbally, with rude comments, sexual innuendos and intimidation – but only a few times where these threats turned physical and those I was able to handle. For I walked – as I had learned, with confidence (no matter how assumed), with intent and with a firm, no nonsense step.
It was with great reluctance that I gave up my 4 a.m. cycling to work, wheels flashing on cool pavement, night air licking awareness into sleepy eyes, the delicious sense of moving through time and space, the glimpses into warm windows and the waking of the world around me, sunrise still an hour or more away but D’s increasing fretfulness at my vulnerability as the disenchanted prowled the still dark streets made it an increasing bone of contention between us, until, reluctantly, I acceded and cycled instead only on those days where daylight shed its light before I mounted my bike.
I remember nights even as a student in a small university town, being flashed… being accosted and propositioned … but I was lucky and with caution and determination, went where and when I chose to go.
But then as now – not without some trepidation. Not without the awareness that I was vulnerable. Not without the underlying- much despised but real – fear that this time, my bluff would be called. This time I would join the ranks of those who gambled on retaining independence and freedom and lost …
For most women, like me, this understanding of our vulnerability, this insidious acceptance of our role as prey, is reluctantly but realistically internalized.
Just last week, as I drove up to a 24 hour grocery store, hoping to pick up a few items before work, the reality of my vulnerability flared to life. At 4:30 a.m. on an October early morn, dark rules still and outside the lighted doors were a group of males, bearded, rough, smoking and without conscious volition, I turned the wheel and drove away ….not because those boys had threatened me, not because they had in any way, form or manner suggested harm to me, but because as female, you learn to hedge your bets, you learn to make careful choices …
But last night the October moon glowed palely in a crisp October sky and from the window, cracked to let the clear autumn air in, I felt the pull of the wild night and deep within the need stirred and flared to life and I needed to be out.
Leashing the dogs, I bundled into my sweater and stepped out onto the porch. The night flared around me, velvet dark and the crisp air seared my lungs into life and I breathed deep while the dogs moaned with anticipated pleasure of a walk.
I strolled down moonlit streets and relished the feel of the autumn air against my cheeks, stinging colour into pale skin, rustling the mane of hair around my face and the dogs gambolled in delight and sniffed and acted silly and made me grin. We came to the park up the street, a small neighbourhood park, ringed by beautiful oaks and towering maples and dark velvet shadows wrapped it in a Halloween delight of gloom and pooled dark rivers of mystery in the periphery of vision and turning, I entered, loosening the leashes, allowing the dogs to run and jump and stretch their canine minds and enter for a moment their ancestors world of night and prey and I realized, as I strolled in the dark of the night, in the middle of a park, I did not feel vulnerable … I did not feel prey … and as I watched my dogs as they ran and played and came back again and again to check on their alpha that what I was NOT feeling was trepidation. What I was NOT feeling was nervous. What I was NOT feeling was cautious …
For the dogs were my pack, they were there protecting me and it was only in the absence of fear that I recognized how fear can insinuate itself into the very fibres of your mind and heart without you even realizing it.
And even as I strolled the dark embrace of a deserted park, I felt both a little sad and a little thrilled … sad because the absence of fear was so intoxicating … I felt as if I could scream out my delight in NOT fearing … and sad because I knew it was only the two powerful creatures beside me now that gave me that absence, whose powerful bodies provided that sense of peace and invulnerability … and in the end, I walked the dark streets and revelled in the momentary absence of emotions which life itself imposed on me and relished the momentary escape from being female and prey …
Sunday, October 19, 2008
At least if you're marching to another beat, another rhythm, another wave of sound and need and desire, at least you’re matching steps with the beat of reality, the wave of balance the universe demands. You’re at least hearing the rhythm, the ebb and flow and the tempo of life washing through the veins of an improbable need.
I always seem to be out of step.
Out of step of with the marching feet of an oblivious mass of humanity.
Out of step with even the stragglers who strain their ears and turn enraptured eyes to the roiling sky of another realm but whose bodies sway and dance to the same melody, creating their own achingly beautiful song.
Out of step even with the cadre of those with whom I’m supposed to be marching.
Disjointed, disaffected, my step is a jerking, dissonant abomination. While I strain desperately to envelop the rhythm of the stars, to reach out and pull into heart and soul the cadence of a universe which demands balance, the tempo and syntax of the dance flee and I stumble and trip and earn impatient fleeting glances of impatience at my St. Vitas flailing.
Though I struggle too hear the drumming, rhythmic demand of the universal song, my ears are shuttered and deaf and pathetic, I scrabble, always out of sync, to follow the intricate steps of a dance I never learned.
The wrong step.
The wrong word.
The wrong sense of timing.
At the end of days, arms jerking and thrashing, legs stiff, uncooperative, the cacophony of self consciousness disrupting innate melody, I stumble to a stop, sensing the pointlessness in even trying to keep up.
On the peripheral vibrating nerve endings I sense the rhythm I cannot embrace and watch as the rest of the world passes me by.
No one notices.
Because I don’t hear the drummers.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
I've been to three blogs in the past 24 hours where the writer basically talks about how she gets along way better with men ... and then proceeds to vomit out every stereotype about females that exist.
They're "catty", they're two-faced, they're too emotional, not emotional enough, they're not supportive, they don't just "get on with it".
Damn, what is WRONG with these women?
First, please spare me the stereotypes - women are as varied and different, as complicated and straightforward, as individual as men - pushing them all into one homogeneous mass of insecurities and emotional angst and perpetuating the myths that they are unstable, unreliable and simply too much effort to befriend drives me into a FRENZY.
to me it is simply a pathetic attempt to ingratiate themselves with the the sex with the penis - that by denigrating their own sex, they will somehow garner brownie points with men.
I see the stereotypes proliferating ... suggestions that women talk only about clothes and shoes and "emotions" - that their opinions vacillate and are based on premises suspect because somehow human being with vaginas are unable to form worthy opinions.
It makes me BOIL.
It's bad enough that women are still struggling for some sense of equality -for god's sake, the presidential race in the States is a prime example - I think Palin is a self-righteous, narrow-minded and dangerous individual - do I think she is that way because she is FEMALE - no - it is her viewpoints and as much as she pisses me off and even frightens me, it drives me crazy to see her reduced merely to big hair and a cunt. She gets called on being a bad mother - but does anyone ask McCain or Obama whether they can govern and be good fathers?
I have spent a good part of my life fighting sexism and stereotyping and it is so discouraging to see the same old crap perpetuated and proliferating despite supposed gains and new understandings.
Saying, carte blanche, that you get along with an entire SEX is patently short-sighted and ridiculous - inasmuch as you are asserting that human beings are so intrinsically limited to the characteristics bestowed by their sexual orientation that their individuality is completely dependent on their sexual organs ...
If the women you know are so limited in their understanding, so constrained by societally-imposed roles that they all can be grouped into one large stereotype ... then perhaps one needs to study WHY these are the individuals you seem to befriend .. and look at yourselves.
I personally have some amazingly wonderful female friends - friends that have provided unstinting support, shoulders to cry on, arms to hold, wonderful people to laugh with, support and create mayhem with ... and they are that way becuase they are good PEOPLE....
If you have issues with women, then you need to look at the women you hang with ... and realize that like men, women are INDIVIDUALS, and as such, not to be shoved into little boxes where one size fits all ...
just like men.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Sometimes when you stand in the vastness of the night sky with the cosmos wheeling about you and the dying light of stars spilling silver into eyes blinded by ritual and monotony, for a moment your soul opens and reaches into the collective gasp of life and drinks deep, quenching the need you had forgotten was there.
I have been living an inner world for some time now, entrenched, hidden, buttressed against the buffeting of want and need and demand. I crouch, pulled tight against the cacophony of life and watch with wary eyes the ebb and flow of damaged psyches.
My musings on spirituality and sexuality have in many ways provided some fodder for thought these past several months as I have retrenched and reassessed a number of rather damaged segments of a psyche which has been buffeted and damaged (and in some cases, destroyed) by the inevitable erosion of trust and its subsequent effect on desire.
To get back to the original question which provoked this drivel, What (if any) is the higher purpose of my specific set of sexual desires at this point in my life?, I would first have to clarify that in some cases, ‘sexual desires’ could mean “lack thereof’ – or to be more accurate, a deliberate withholding and suppression of same. I have only recently come to the conclusion that a deliberate suppression of sexual desire can provide a rich opportunity to concentrate on other aspects of the mind/body experience, as an intense sexual drive can often confuse and complicate the emotional equilibrium, and obfuscate the true nature of other needs and wants.
One of the positive aspects I have surprisingly and unexpectedly discovered is that control can mean strength, it can metamorphose from a negativity (i.e. suppression in reaction to an untenable situation) to positivity (suppression as a conscious choice, a position of inner fortitude).
I cannot discuss sexual desire without some discussion of my relationship – not intimate details because I can only speak from my own perspective and feel passionately that no one has the right to reveal or betray another’s confidences – but so inevitably is the history of my sexual desire entwined with his, I cannot untangle the skeins of need, want, desire and love, without SOME glimpse into the intricacy of a 35 year relationship.
I keep returning to Elizavetta’s http://www.vespertine-erotica.com/2008/02/29/higher-love-part-two/ and find in her erudite words more insight each time. What resonated today as I mused on her words, was her comment “And the whole idea of men and their life-long life-giving sperm actually being valuable and desired in the process of a woman’s re-creation! Wow, this is certainly not a very currently hot topic. And how amazingly validating for men!” … made me think.
As amusing as it sounds, sperm- his in particular – has been a thread of validity in my life – a defining, conscious, physical manifestation of need and want and desire. As I travel into the past, I remember those passionate discussions with girlfriends about swallowing or not swallowing …. amusing now in hindsight but a huge issue for discussion at 16 – and I was in almost every way a virgin – in body, in mind, in experience and in terms of anticipation.
I remember those early days and the feel and taste of him, the throbbing need of him in my mouth, stretched wide, hair tumbling around his groin, the sound of his breath, harsh and fast and the thrilling, frightening skittering of my mind, removed at this point from the wet need of my own body, caught in the knowledge of the now and it was going to happen and wanting it… calming as my inexperienced lips salved and suckled and wanted and needed and then the hot jetting reality of his libation as my throat convulsively swallowed and I remember the hot thrilling rightness of it, the salty tang, not horrible as imagined and anticipated, not terrible as dreaded and agonized over, but sweet, hot, delicious as it overflowed and dribbled down the corners of my lips and the absolute joy I felt as the hot throbbing muscle emptied his want into my grateful throat ….
And until the past several months that worship at his groin has been a defining fulcrum of our lives together – a way that we reaffirmed our spiritual connection, a path to intimacy even when the fractured reality of our complicated relationship seemed tenuous and fragile.
Truly, it was as Elizavetta said Of course, a woman, at any stage in her life is responsible for her own actions and choices to make her life into what she wants it to be, as in every person. But this idea that two people are actually co-creators of each other as they age is just so beautiful to me!
Because truly he and I are “co-creators” of each other. More than that, in some ways it is as if the years of ingestion of the essence of his need has somehow created in my very skin the reality of his want, as if, like Cronus, our union has yielded newborns, yet to avoid the consequences of those newborns’ own will and desires challenging our own, we have swallowed them whole, not to kill but preserved alive in the warmth of our bellies… out of sight and mind but very much there.
And now, our newborns have escaped and over the past several years have conspired to exert their revenge against our refusal to face the reality of their individual freedoms and thoughts.
more to come
Friday, September 26, 2008
The vilification of sexual congress started a very long time ago when the emerging Hebrew tribes (with their male godhead’s versus the female-oriented ancient faiths) jockeyed for power in Ancient Greece, Sumerian, Babylon and other ancient cultures. Scholars were quick to accept that the certain ancient texts referred to “sacred prostitutes” when in fact, a proper reading would perhaps suggest the word was closer to medium or priestess; thus, not prostitution as it might be viewed today but possibly (although not certainly) involving ritual sex – but ritual sex intended to be part of a sacred ceremony NOT sex for money.
The reality was that prior to the influx and increased influence of the Hebrew tribes (and subsequently the advent of Christianity), ritualized sex linked to the fecundity of the land and the health and prosperity of its people was recognized and practiced. The intrinsically spiritual nature of sex was seen as a conduit to a higher state of being – with the “king” or male being the seed and the female representing the goddess.
Oddly, a form of “sacred” prostitution is practiced to this day in India (although in actual fact, I believe that the “sacred” prostitutes are actually fully exploited women of the “untouchable” caste who are being exposed to HIV/AIDS at a horrific level with no recourse due to their caste status under the law).
The point to all this?
For centuries, what was once considered a ritualized, sacred rite which honoured both the woman and her partner as sacred devotees seeking enlightenment and a higher state of being has been brought to a level where the sexual congress which was part of a sacred ritual has been reduced to a purely physical coupling removed from any form of spirituality or emotional meaning.
As a result, sex has become in today’s society (and for a very long period of time) a bargaining tool, a commodity, an intolerable physical need, and/or simply a means to create more souls.
In view of the prevalence and readily available engagement of the sexual senses and opportunities today to engage in sex, it is highly interesting that for many people it has become something to be avoided, derided or ashamed of. This is not entirely surprising as when you view sex as an unfortunate urge, something to be done hurriedly, almost “gotten over with”.
The normal amount of time that intercourse lasts is between 3 (yes 3 MINUTES) and 13 … which is hardly enough time to satisfy either party. While men may orgasm, simply completing a mechanical coupling is hardly emotionally or spiritually fulfilling and most women are barely warmed up at that point.
(And as an aside, if I believed in god, I would rail against the irony of women possessing a clitoris – the ONLY organ in either the male or female physiology whose ONLY function is sexual pleasure – only to place it in a place where a very large percentage of women would never reach a peak of sexual pleasure.)
Having waxed on about the emotional need I have for connecting at more than a physical level with a partner, I want to elucidate.
I truly believe that most people – unless seriously emotionally damaged – seek some form of connection OTHER than physical with potential sexual partners.
Oddly, this can be applicable even to those seeking those one-night stands.
I know that there are those who would argue they WANT that “two ships that pass in the night” experience with no expectations other than quick hot monkey sex on both sides… BUT I challenge ANYONE to really think about those quick, chance met sexual encounters. I would bet that you have some good memories of some and not so good memories of others.
I think that is because regardless of the intention of either party, people connect at more than a purely physical level; even those who are merely interested in chance met encounters. If the feelings on both sides are spiritually balanced, open and receptive, then the encounter can be a positive one; if, on the other hand, there is a dichotomy or the spirits clash as it were, then both parties are usually left vaguely dissatisfied and/or regretful.
I do NOT confuse or expect that every single sexual experience must carry with it a meaning beyond a healthy enjoyment of the purely physical sensation and delight a good sexual encounter can provide.
NO – the point I want to make is that by indulging our PHYSICAL body, we in turn can and with no prior intent but only with an openness and receptiveness, can tap into a more satisfying physical experience with at least a vague awareness and acceptance of the spiritual element to it.
As a society, despite the explosion of apparent communication avenues and the means to communicate so readily and easily available, we are becoming increasingly divorced from the community of our fellow human beings. It is an obvious and sad dichotomy that as we overtly seem to “collect’ friends, we are in fact increasingly becoming insular and removed from actual human contact – and without human contact, we are further cut off from the possibility of access to a rich world beyond the obvious.
In short, the more connected we become, the more DISconnected we are.
Marshall McLuhan predicted a global village and purely in terms of the communication highway, we are indeed, having egress to societies, cultures and countries that for many centuries were simply fantastic possibilities.
But a village by definition is a close-knit connected community.
Instead, because we cling stubbornly to the surface of our “communication” roads and do not look beneath the surface, we have and are losing the ability to reflect ….
It really is not rocket science.
The bottom line is that human beings are complex, complicated and multifaceted. We are not simply a collection of cells nor are we merely organisms programmed to play out a predetermined set of genetic imperatives. For whatever reason and for HOWEVER we ended up as the quixotic, odd individuals we are- we NEED to look beyond the instinctual compulsions and tap into that spiritual universe which our ancestors believed was as real as the earth on which we walk. And being human, we need to utilize what we are given – in short, our physical bodies.
More to come
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Vespertine Erotica in a thought-provoking essay on “higher love” (http://www.vespertine-erotica.com/2008/01/31/higher-love/) challenges the reader to explore:
my specific set of sexual desires at this point in my life?
It as if Elizavetta reached in and somehow pulled out of my mind and soul the questionings I have been exploring over the past year in particular. In particular, I have been having some revelatory moments over the past very painful 5 years, which, in the quixotic way that life has, culminated in a lot of heartache and a reasonably concurrent measurement of insight into self and the nature of the universe as it unfolds around me.
First and foremost, I concluded many years ago that severing the sexuality of a human being from the spiritual and emotional psyches of the person is a philosophical mistake engendered by centuries of effort on the part of a male-dominated, misogynistic theology which (sadly) labelled sexuality as “animalistic” as opposed to thought and faith which were of the “spirit” and thus preferable. Equating the intensity of sexual experience with animals who were considered inferior, religious philosophers speculated that “god” could be understood and accessed only through rationality and a repudiation of the ‘gross’ body.
Centuries have passed and the mindset continues to thrive; every theology espousing a “male” godhead (and thus includes Muslims, Orthodox Jews and Christians) continues to view human sexuality as something to be fought and overcome, something in fact, to be reviled and if possible, rejected. In each of those religions, the highest-status male practitioners are inevitably chaste (or said to be).
One of the ramifications of this philosophy is that sexuality has been marginalized and derided. The spiritual connection which can be achieved (I believe) via the intensity of sexual experience has been eroded and thinned to the point where in our Western world, it has become a commodity rather than a path to greater insight into another facet of existence.
I’m currently re-reading John Barth’s Giles the Goat Boy; which thankfully, unlike other books I’ve revisited in the past several months, continues to delight as much as it did 30 years ago when I first read it. Even better, my older, mature, more jaded eyes and mindset are enjoying parts of it that my younger, more naive comprehension had missed entirely.
But in the context of the discussion here, there is a scene where Giles, having been asked by an older, mature woman (which at this point in the missive, one speculates might be his “human” mother for Giles was raised on a mythical university campus by goats), has asked him to choose – whether he would be a goat or a boy? Trembling on the edge of puberty, assailed by normal, healthy hormonal imperatives, Giles has the mindset of his cloven-hoofed siblings and sex is natural, to be enjoyed, something to seek and have with as much regularity as possible.
He, passionate, avows “he would be a boy” should she allow him to “BE” with her. The reader is instantly aware that “BE” means to have sex but the woman is confused, unaware and when, after a passage of time and repartee, understands his request, is horrified and rushes away.
Giles is left confused, angry and frustrated, unsure as to how he has offended, confused at her horrified comprehension of his lust, stung by her patent disgust. For “being” with someone is, in his world, something so utterly natural and simple – and to be desired … for as he points out “how can it be bad, something so wonderful?”
The point is that Giles (at THAT point) had not stepped out in the world of humanity where there in his mythological university, as in our world, a sharp division is made between the physical and spiritual.
The fact is that as long back as I can remember, I have felt the intensity and potential spirituality of the sexual instinct. I somehow avoided picking up any feelings of guilt or “badness” about enjoyment of my sexuality while at the same time, managing more or less to avoid the many pitfalls in the judgemental, rigidly defined world of the 1970s where (hard to believe) “virginity” was still spoken of in almost reverential tones and girls still “yearned” to be virgins on their wedding night. Even more perversely, boys WANTED their future potential wives to be virgins… while at the same time pulling out all those old chestnuts like “blue balls” and trying to emotionally manipulate a girl into sex through a form of blackmail (you are a “tease”, you “promised”… you can’t stop NOW). Not sure where they expected to find that Shangri-La of virgins once they matured and started thinking marriage …
I negotiated the minefield of teenage dating more or less intact, not without a few battle scars of course – I was dropped more than once because of my failure to “put out”- but felt comfortable in my skin in my refusal to give in to pressure and expectations outside my own. I had a rich and varied fantasy life, having discovered vibrators at a VERY young age and the joys of self-manipulation.
However, I ALSO realized in discovering and exploring the myriad mysteries of my own body, that this wonderful feeling was not something I wanted to lightly share – that the intensity of my sexual responsiveness was somehow beyond a simple physical expression but reached into a realm of which I was only vaguely aware. Although that was a very long time ago, I distinctly remember thinking that sharing this kind of sensuality with another individual could potentially be life-altering – that it truly was not as simplistic as two bodies banging against each other, but sensed, mistily, still uncertain, still unformed and insubstantial, that sharing this wonderful emotive experience, allowing ingress to my body would involve more than a mere physical reality, but in fact, I would be allowing the entrance of someone else as a totality – their thoughts, their emotions, their moods and their conception of self.
I’m not talking about adolescent dreams of the “One”, of marriage and a white picket fence – those were never my dreams. Even at 15, 16 and then 17, I had no desire/urge to “snag” the “One” and at some unsubstantiated time, start the marriage/kids thing. But I sensed even then, that for me, sex with another individual would involve more than the physical but would indeed, engage the emotional and spiritual yearnings (of which I was very aware) which I touched upon, which I sensed, each time I had an intense physical experience.
Ultimately, sex can ground us to our physical world and provide a bridge from gross reality to the spiritual realm which resides within each of us. In short, sex can provide a bridge between the scared and the profane – a division imposed on us by the rigid mandates of a theology which continues today to insist on dividing the “whole” of a person by removing the erotic aspect of their psyche and emphasizing the “importance” of rational thought.
One of the most detrimental impacts of this type of thought process is that sex has become both a commodity and routine – two states of mind which preclude the true merging of what I believe is mean to be a “whole” – our sacred and our profane are simply different faces on the same body …
more to come
Monday, September 22, 2008
A very long time ago I began shaving, so long ago I can’t remember when I began but my recollections are all of smoothness and the glint of silver rings. Rings whose sterling circle of ownership skewered through flesh in a blinding, hot, aching moment of pain each time I had one done. I remember the cluttered basement, with the fine blond hair of the artist spilling over her narrow shoulder, dress hiked to my hips, long bare legs obscenely spread, feet in stirrups, spread wide like a sacrifice to some ancient god, fretting and wondering if the hot sweet smell of sex lingered still or if it were my imagination.
My heart beating, voice tight as I pretended nonchalance but remembered agony tightening the strong muscles of calves and my thighs flexing as I fight to keep them spread. And her voice, calm, kind, explaining each step, the long silver skewer glinting in the strong light which illuminated me unforgiving, picking out the reality of childbirth and scars of time. The sudden coolness as she swabbed the almost delicate labia, the nudge as she marks the spot and then a breath, deep, and a conscious counting of seconds as the tip of the skewer pricks then slides through skin and gristle and the hot white RAGING pain, a sharp vicious pinch of molten fire and then the lesser pinch, almost a relief as she threads the ring through and the circle is complete and the clasp done and the ring is nestled in the most intimate of places.
The hardest part was waiting for the next one… anticipating that awful pain, borne stoically for his pleasure.
How lovely they looked, my rings against the pale translucent flesh, flesh stained the most delicate of pinks when freshly washed and ready. To retain that velvet soft skin was a daily ritual, as straightforward and mundane as washing your face or teeth but in the doing, the scrape of the razor over the intimate folds and swirls, the complicated delicious complexity that is a woman was a reaffirmation of my place, so eagerly embraced.
I had indeed forgotten what nature intends, the look, the feel. How different everything is! From the mound, so vulnerable and appealing in its naked state, now softened and obscured by a soft thicket of golden red curls, whirls and curlicues, soft as a kitten’s fur to my fingers which dance and burrow and learn anew the complexities of my forgotten body.
Like an ancient site of worship, an Aztec shrine, obscured now with the creeping reality of now, I feel myself disappearing, as if the natural order of reality has reasserted the dominance of time and laid claim once more to the circle of life.
I have never really managed nor wanted to separate the reality of the physical me from the spiritual or sexual being and have always found the outward is often a barometer and outward manifestation of
My fingers burrow and explore and I find myself lost in the complexities of the now and the sweet, intimate parts of me slowly disappear, sinking beneath the detritus of a soul gone dead and I wonder, poignantly, whether my time is over.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Read that article and weep.
Female circumcism is alive and thriving ... and in many countries (including the one here, Sierra Leone) - is a reality for 90% of the female population.
Guess what? I don't give a good goddam what your culture is, what your religion is, what you believe or don't believe - female circumcism is WRONG. It is barbaric, misogynistic, horrific and responsible for so many ills that they are almost beyond counting.
What appalled me most in this article was the apparently well educated (primarily in the Western hemisphere) woman who went back and as an adult got circumcised and sings the praises now. BULLSHIT. How SICK is it that to "bond" to your relatives and those of your birth culture, to feel "part" of a community, you have to MUTILATE yourself - put yourself in a situation where you are courting major health risks.
Anyone that needs to destroy her body in order to "fit in" needs some major psychological help as far as I am concerned. We are not talking some minor physical alterations - tattoos, piercings, even branding ... we are talking about cutting away all external female genitalia, SEWING up the vagina and leaving only enough space for urine and minstrel blood to get out (except it usually doesn't work and massive infection is common). There are forms of FMG that requires the woman to be "unsewn" in order to have intercourse!
And they do this to their CHILDREN.
And guess what, I do not BELIEVE that sex lives are "normal" nor that there are no health repercussions or effects - I think people are living in a dream world that assert that. For one thing, how can you KNOW what a normal, healthy sex life IS when you have NO sex organs? And the list of negative health effects from chronic infections to increased incidence of death in childbirth (for mother and child) are documented and incontrovertible.
Which brings me to my second rant.
Orgasm on command.
Guess what, I don't believe it is REAL.
I know, there are a thousand people out there who have experienced it - one touch, his voice (always his, incidentally, why can't female Dominants do the orgasm on command thing?) and boom, the wave hits ... NOT - I don't believe it for a moment.
Show me EMPIRICAL evidence.
One of the positive things which I'm seeing these days is research is being conducted on a whole myriad of issues which affect women - from how drugs affect THEM (it only took what? 50 years for the scientists to figure out that HOW a drug interacts with a 200 lb, 6 foot male is NOT the same as that drug would react in a 125 lb, 5.4" female!!) to increasing research on female sexual response.
I somehow do not think that all the researchers and scientists out there looking for research bucks would ALL somehow overlook the potential goldmine of inciting an orgasm in a woman through simple commands.
I don't believe it and nothing other than hard evidence would convince me!
Its not that I don't believe that the mind is a powerful force, that it can create in each of us some astonishing states of mind. In fact, I've been lucky enough to have several orgasms similar in nature to "wet dreams" (usually associated with males) - in that I would slowly wake from an erotic dream, a powerful one, my body flushed and aroused.... and I'm trembling, on the edge ...and IF I keep still, very very still and keep the thought going, then BOOM the wave will hit and without touching myself I will orgasm ... empirical too - contractions, the whole bit.
BUT, that is because I am (for all intents and purpose) in a suspended, almost meditative state, where in essence I was in an altered state of consciousness.
Now, I've been told that is what happens with "orgasm on command" but as a committed and almost obsessive yoga buff constantly seeking the nirvana of meditation, I KNOW how impossible difficult it is to suspend your thoughts and reach that altered state ...
Creating that kind of state can be done BUT by someone as they say in my litigation department when dealing with a controversial judgment ... done by "someone skilled in the art" ... and picking up a book here and there, reading an article or simply BELIEVING yourself to be such a "powerful" individual that your dulcet tones can themselves induce orgasm is at best, optimistic, at worst, deceptive.
what I DO think is that a LOT of women "say" they can orgasm on command, act convincingly as if they had indeed done so ... and in reality, convinced even themselves that they have orgasmed. But it didn't happen .... I am especialy suspicious of the M/s, D/s ones that say it happens as being a subby myself, I'm well aware of the lengths one can go to in order to please the one you worship....
So, that's my rant for the day - FGM MUST be banned - the world bodies MUST get involved and SCREW the culture and I don't believe in orgasm on command ...so there!
Monday, September 15, 2008
Droplets of moisture gleam in the refracted light of the glowing moon which flickers and palely loiters behind the grumbling roiling clouds that cavort and roll in abandon in a wine-dark sky and seek to drown the silver need which spills from its brooding face.
Rustling and mumbling in urgent, dry papery whispers, the leaves on the trees warn of the coming of winter, their rich verdant pulchritude a façade of broken promise for when I close my eyes and listen, I can hear the constriction of narrowing veins as the sap shrinks away and slinks into hiding deep inside trunks still wearing their summer finery.
I open to the night and try to pull its promise into a heart, which like the leaves, has grown dry and desiccated and feel a terrible yearning regret seep from the very pores of my skin. I throw out thought and hope and hear the echo in the quivering dark air of ravens as they sweep and capture on the wind of swift wings the remnants of want and a desire that used to define in part the essence of self.
Most of us shuffle alone in ruts of our own making, if not content, resigned to the bland realities of days that bleed one into the other. I find in myself a terrible envy for those few souls I see with the ability and the will to find in moments, even seconds, small frissons of real living, of experiencing, internalizing the moment. Most of the time it is as if the majority of us are wrapped round with cotton and duct tape, itchy and confining, muffling and distorting the solid, real experience of living, protecting us to some extent but at the terrible cost of losing the ability to encounter the world in vibrant colour and texture.
I think often of just …quiet. No more caring or wondering or fretting or heartache. Just .. nothing. Like a siren call, over the rhythmic sound of the waves I hear them call me home.
 La Belle Dame Sans Merci, John Keats (1884)
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
If you have had ANY interaction with teenage girls in the past year or so, then the boys of summer above won’t be strangers to you …
You go around
Like you know
Who I am
But you don't
You've got me on my toes”
Music blasted from the stereo, painting colour and noise and youth into the air. My youngest daughter, quivering with energy and teenage angst, leaps from couch to couch, arms wheeling, playing air guitar, lip synching to the trembling boy band lyrics tumbling out of the throats of the boy band of the moment.
Dramatically she pauses, face raised to the heavens, radiant with first-crush love and emotion, and waits, arms stretched wide for the MOMENT.
On one of the couches, daughter no.2 huddles, whimpering pathetically, tied to the living room with gossamer thin, steely strong familial bindings and the memories of years of torment of her baby sister to make up keeping her captive to her sister’s passion.
“Mummy, save me!”
I grin and with motions (as to surmount the noise level is an impossibility) command her stillness, making her “share” this moment.
Basely, I slip from the living room to the kitchen, where their father has already escaped. We grin conspiratorially at each other but with an underlying poignancy we both recognize.
“Its not the first time I’ve had kids leaping all over the furniture” he says prosaically, but then sadly, “but it is the last”.
He’s right and I feel a pang. Our youngest daughter is hurtling towards growing up at an alarming rate. My “baby” is soon to be 16 – vibrant, glowing, capricious, angst-ridden and moody as hell. She is complicated and terribly bright and awfully silly. She agonizes over a barely visible blemish and is now 6 years into being a vegetarian over a strongly held, hard to refute repudiation of meat. She speaks up in a crowd and is a stalwart defender of the weak… when she is not being a “mean girl”.
So many changes are occurring that my head spins. It seems one moment I had four small children demanding every moment of every day, when “quality” time was the three hours sleep (if I was lucky), where D. and I went for 12 years without a real “date” …and now, my eldest daughter has moved out with her boyfriend (something with which we’re completely comfortable), daughter no. 2 is seldom seen between fulltime university, jobs and a VERY active social life, my son, a provincial level wrestler and silver-belt judo maven and self-labelled computer geek barely seen except for meals (which never seen to fill him up) and now my youngest… on her way to maturity and adulthood, escaping me as she should, stretching and growing and making her own mistakes and learning that life is hard and yet so utterly wonderful.
I wander into the living room, the window shaking as the bass spilling from the stereo tears at the frames ...and watch my child explode into a frenzy of graceful movements as the song belts out its message of pubescent reality ...
Burning up, burning up
For you baby
and now the universe is unfolding as it should.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Sighing, I grasp the full, richness of its fulsome bodied emotion and drag it out in the muted light of the room. Rage is red, a rich vibrant ruby colour, pulsating with an anxious need to explode into being, a wanting, needing feel that to my jaded hands feels comfortable and known. For rage and I are old friends, … rage and I have spent so much time together that I know it intimately, in and out… all the twisted, convoluted corridors of its mind from the first small prickling of fury to the exploding passion of wrath.
I pull rage around my shoulders, nestling into the comfort of its crimson embrace. It feels right, rage. It feels like that warm, comfortable coat that you keep reminding yourself to get rid of – that it has outlived any use it might ever have had, it is worn and no longer viable. Rage is like that. But it feels so intrinsically RIGHT, my rage. Although well used and worn, pulled out into the light of day again and again, my rage is still vibrant, rich and useful.
The material of rage is strong and resistant. I hear despair scrabbling at its deceptively soft surface, trying to insinuate its dark, trickling sliminess inside. But rage holds despair easily at bay- refusing ingress. Sadness manages to slip by now and again, little hamster feet scrabbling frantically and burrowing into rage’s deep pockets, but sadness can’t get past that final barrier and lick wretchedness into the pale, vulnerable skin of my stomach.
It has been a while since I’ve worn rage and I shift my shoulders slightly; it feels just slightly off, not quite the same. A sudden breeze raises the fine hairs on my arms, and I shiver within rage’s close embrace. I realize that rage isn’t as warm as it used to be. When I donned rage before it would feel as if my blood pressure was up, as if the very blood in my veins were boiling and threatening to erupt through the pores of my skin. Its… well, cooler now. This rage which envelops me in its smothering want has a frigid, cold feel to its embrace that I have never experienced.
I shrug, and close my eyes and drink in the feel of rage and realize that there is a burning element to it .. but a burn like that of pure, pristine, relentless cold. The prickling, clear knife-like kiss of frost, licking pain along the edge of need, nuzzling agony into the crevasses of want and stinging hurt into the abyss of a soul destroyed.
I sigh and lean back prosaically into its cruel embrace, finding in the pain a certain vindication of the life which flickers so uncertainly within the grossness of a betrayed body. Calmness permeates this new rage, so much so that I almost don’t recognize my old friend. I reflect too on the inevitability of change and how even my rage, tried and true, can metamorphosize into something I barely recognize.
Musing, I realize that the record I hear, droning in the background of my consciousness, is scratched and battered, the needle sticking in the groove of remembered accusations. Time and repetition, however, do not make things any more valid or truthful nor do they turn fiction into belief or truth.
I reflect (and sadness manages to nuzzle its damp nose into my heart, just for a second, before I allow rage to do what it does best and chase sadness away), that one false step (and not even the one of which I am accused) and I am condemned… again. I question my own penchant for choosing those who demand perfection, who cannot tolerate even the smallest misstep, the slightest variation from a path set, whose use words to obfuscate and confuse the issues at the core of the matter.
I question again my own dysfunctional need to cling to those who purport responsibility for their own actions yet in truth settle the blame snugly around my shoulders. I remember a father like that … a mother, siblings, a lover …
I feel a flicker deep within the tattered remnants of my soul as rage sends a tendril of flame along the intricate passageways of my id. For I know, that I am many things … some of them not so nice – but what I am NOT is what I am accused of being. And I breathe out and breathe in, deep lung-filling breaths which fan the flames and I feel rage flicker, then strengthen until sighing, the flames explode in a conflagration of wrath and the cool, molten flames of rage are pinpoints of hell within the green of eyes gone dead.