The tortoise king

Brace yourself for here

Presides the tortoise king

Depraved, supremely decadent

He reigns out of troubled spheres

A tattered tragedy that speaks

Of sordid silence and sunken tears

He favors excess

No matter the stakes

He fans the flickers of fate

Donned legacy in his early years

Out of the corner of

A stealthy gaze, his

Words appear few

Testing views of the hardly fazed

His sly bearing passing the scepter

Cuban cigar, Russian Cossack 

This regal pimp is stuff of legend

Peevishly sorting itself out on canvas 

 

I Cried So Hard

I cried so hard

I thought I would cough up my heart

My eyes were horror movie bait

In the wake of the flood

They were all but sewn shut from

The mounting heat and failing creed

I must have missed my way to Eden

For this is surely a hell of a feeling

That isn't in for the healing

 

I cried so hard

I wanted to cast out all the tears

Make me dune like, desiccate me

Take it all this time

Come on, annihilate it if I promise

To partake in it

I cannot un-know you

You are inside me now, churning

The forge is burning hot

And I am screaming

Into silence towing

A reel of unspoken feelings

 

I cried so hard I couldn't face my friend

It is the lies I can't deny

I can't stomach that my name has been erased

I may have never been

From the very beginning

I may have missed the markings

 

I cried so hard my nostrils closed shut

A car seat hermetic and concealed

Makes this pain pitiful and surreal

How I wish for spelled out words

To reach a well meaning ear

It hurts as bad as if time had played

A meaningful hand

 

It is not about the length, the days and weeks

It is the depth that opened up

 

I cried so hard I hoped you'd appear

A siren song beckoning, luring still

I am facing midday sun

Turning space into skin and I fathom

I'll eventually dig my way to freedom

Send me balm from the Lizard King

Who madly lit fires on a whim

 

I cried so hard

I cried with all my heart

If only you knew

How hard I cried

 

Maybe you did

Maybe you do

 

I cried so hard

I felt parts inside wilt

Parts of mine deciding to die

Death Offering a Flower

It’s the glimmer of hope when all seems lost. Just when nothing feels real and life is coming to a halt death offers up a token for the lonely road. It’s the small offerings that carry larger meaning. It makes the hard-to-come by tears easier to access and the puffy eyes post Mortem seem less pointless. This small gesture carries through every next day when the distance and the yearning for voice, face, and touch in moments appear close to unbearable. There is a hint of something in the air that maybe with time this won’t end up being a final goodbye. Heart is open. And the pain, it keeps coming in waves. The dreaded next day. What more distractions on the plate when loss stares you in the face. If only you cared, if only you knew how much a flower can do for smiles. There is death but it comes with a flower, a flower full of seeds. In the dead of night those seeds are set free to whisper into the night that I would do so much for you to run free by my side. I hate being apart and no word combination can spell out the numbness and the agony felt throughout the day and particularly upon getting up. How I wish I could bargain with death. How I wish I still had some say in your heart, a presence in your head. How can it be that I miss you so damn much and you are sailing away as if this was nothing more than an afternoon spent gallivanting at the beach. Oh how silly I feel....

 

There is to death, offering. It is closure along the way. So much propped up in bony parts. It is all we can muster these days. It’s as much as we wish to come up. All returns, becomes reduced and encapsulated in a gesture, in offering up a flower. A daisy for the taking. A parting token for the road ahead where death never leaves but also never says a peep. A bony hand is hard to grab. Not much meat to work with. Not much warmth to cuddle up to. There is to granola, nuts, and nutritional yeast in a cup. Soul is part of the offering but it is severed and tied to a past which by its own definition bares demise. There is kindness to be found in every callous, cruel gesture. Death has a soft side and she’s holding out on it, maybe because we refuse to witness it. There was never a seat at the table, never more than enjoyment and temporary benefits along the way. Paris-Texas is a lonely road through thorny desiccated fields. Carry the flower in your pocket. Life has detours that death may have to accommodate. He is the unrewarded flower king waiting by the many trenches as we hurl our selves off cliffs hoping to feel alive and renewed by our own intention. The flower is contrarian and it is complement. It can represent repair or be seen as an act of last despair. I am wilted and deflated but here is a piece of what’s left of my feeling.

A Word of Caution on Safety

There is no safety in this world

There is no...safety...in this world

We are all flailing out here

We are all failing out here

On one occasion, in another situation

We are trying for the bay or the pier

But we slip and fall and bruise 

Ourselves on the way down

 

Forget safety, it isn't what life's about

Start flying while you leap

It all lies in your ability to believe

Forget what's all around

It is your time to shine and find inspired ground

 

I asked for safety and you denied us ours

Don't taunt me with words of the everyday

I think you knew what safety means to me

I had spelled it out, clearly laid it all out

In front of your finicky finesse

It is the trust I'm talking about

The deep knowing that you will keep me in the know

It's not about fabricating a reality

It's not about trying to shutter openings

To lock out sudden musing

It's about relating what is happening in the moment

It's about the play by play, the messy unfolding

It's about dispelling murkiness and not allowing

Assumption to settle in for when it starts its unspooling

It's ugly and it's incessant and it will cause suffering

 

There is no safety in this world

By all the O's I know

It is not the safety of the everyday I am speaking about

It's about the safety created by sharing the inner process

It's about being willing to offer what is going on in one's head

It's about letting the other person in on the mystery

Clarity is the safety net I was going for

I had offered you a few outs, an alternate account

You didn't wish to take it

You insisted no, and I got stuck on a shady doubt

 

You refused to provide the safety I said I needed

Right at the beginning, when we had all of life 

In our court to try on and ride with

You spit on my words with unkind remarks

You thereby dismissed what I am essentially about 

You looked at the poet with disdain and derision

You weren't going to bring me the rope for our saving

Let us drown, this is what the depths wish for

I enthralled you and you trapped yourself there

It ain't pretty, but I am not your boy safety

See to it yourself - we are all broken anyhow

All insecure in our many putrid ways

I want fun, beauty, and lightheartedness

None of this heavy shit

 

Get your safety elsewhere

While I am grabbing my brush

Go type on the page, go and make sense of it

I told you to document me

Well, here is your opportunity!

 

Accountability is a Dirty Word

I pull you in deep and then I leave you at the curb

That's how it goes in this cutthroat world

I pull you in, and then you show yourself the door

No one's gonna coddle you, the floor is just as fair

You know the deal, you get the spiel

And the rest will work itself out

It always does...one way or somehow

 

I ain't got no time to spell it all out

It's not in my nature, I got no more time to reel you in

I've already done that - been there, got that?

See yourself out if that's what you declare

I won't stop you, I got shit to let out - tons of it

 I won't ponder the consequence and

I refuse to mind your feelings

 

Fuck that!

 

We are all adults out here,  so by all means, do your thing

Just don't take it all too seriously

Just words, just life, just what it is

I've got no explaining to do

Thanks for sharing, sure

But I won't reveal what I'm about

Transparency is for pantsies

I won't let that shit back in

 

Don't ask me to be truthful

Don't you dare tell me to say sorry

What you currently see is what you get

Deal with it or get out

I'm fine with that

I won't bend to anyone's will

And I will do what instinct indicates

Whether vengeance punishment

Or simply indifference

I am going to do my thing - my thing

And no one, least of all you,

Is going to censor my musing

euh 

amusement!

Too Many Syllables

What do I care

If you asked me to be clear

One more sentence to feel safe?

 

It's too many words, girl

Too many syllables, period

 

I want things light and fun

This conversation's come undone

Watch me sprint for the hills

I do my art the way I see fit

I don't give a shit what you may

Ask or think

 

*Pause

*Silence

*A kind word not forthcoming

 

It bugs you, doesn't it?

You think too much, shut up

Keep things light or better yet, lighten up

I am chasing distraction

Hand me kava, wine, and Robitussin

 

Catharsis is the purge that's needed

At least a dozen more

Many portraits to be primed and dated

45 so far and springtime to explore

 

If you wish to leave, go

Too many syllables, man

I am no longer who I was

Two months ago

What I wrote and said counts no more

 

Move on with the script

If fun with you stops, I'm out

I never meant, I mean, really meant

The many things I penned

 

Stop with this heavy shit

It makes me lose my wit

I totally stand to lose you and

It's all good

It's all good

 

Cause - let's face it

What you're asking of me 

What you wish me to be

Requires way too many syllables

Two Different Worlds

We speak a different language you and I

We are hardwired in a different way

And yet, I wish to communicate

To bridge the distance and the dissonance

I wish to see you, truly see you

But for this to happen, there needs to be transparency

If nothing else

There needs to be transparency

 

And you won't have any of it

So the book of secrets will remain closed for now

At least for the two of us, the opening seems

To have receded into fog and mist

 

We are build differently you and I

You came from one world, not so far away from mine

Privileged but still different enough

You were taught to practice one upmanship

With all due respect, you can Go Fuck Yourself

And I was bred on being couth and restraining myself

 

Not much happened between us and yet it seems

That this is it and I can't wrap my head around it

It must be the missing piece that is lodged in between

For merely two of what you called 'heavy' conversations did us

Apparently in and I am at a loss

 

For you, truth lies in the brush, for me it lies inside ellipses

That doesn't seem too much of a stretch, does it?

It's the art of life we are aiming for, it’s where we feel at peace

So how is it that this feels like a colossal fail on both our ends

It's timing of course that plays a part

And isn't it that there is no wrong timing in life

If timing is the matter, then our union couldn't have mattered much

 

Ah, the sting to suspect and realize that all the beautiful things

I saw spring into being could have been lovely projections 

Of the missing piece I carry in a sack

Self-nurture, and self-love - they are here to pick up the slack

But I still wish to know what motivated you, what is going on

Inside your head - what is it that keeps you from relating to me

I offered friendship - what more assurance could you want

That I am not trying to trap or bait you

That I am not out for your surface stats

I wish to see you - that seems daunting to you somehow

Or simply something entirely to be dismissed

Nothing of value or significance

 

How do I get past the asshole?

How do I neutralize your cocky glance?

Where do you hide?

Where do You hide?

I am seeing the lesser parts of you

The mundane, the controling parts

I see you becoming manic

Producing with feverish success

I am nowhere here and guess what

All you had to do was "souffler mot"

Whisper the Word

That's all - communicate your cave

Say you ain't there so I can adjust

to what works for me and what I can offer

In this and other circumstance

 

Is this too much to ask?

Is this request unreasonable?

It seems that any word not functional these days

Is one too many words that litters your parade

I don't have the gift of the brush, nor can I intone

A bluesy tune that will bring You here

The O's must be laughing at us

Or maybe they are shaking their heads

Or as Ani sang: maybe they are looking up instead

 

How can I bridge our worlds?

I am facing an impasse and the pain is only 

Properly rendered in poetic stance

But for now, let it suffice to say that despite

Your rejections and your absences

You reside inside me and my missing the mark

Is messing up my internal radar

 

I wish to see you, this hasn't changed

Have I seen all of you? 

I doubt it.

You are in the throes of love's despair

You have your past to purge so newness and beauty

Can reign once more - with or without your muse -

I get that

I wish I had a place in your life - now or ever

I hate the idea of never hearing from you again

I abhor the very thought

But I simply can't reach out

It is you who must let me know

It has to be this way

 

It has to be you who lets me know...

 

Mother - The Vagaries of Art and the Artist

Would I have wished for a different outcome? Yes, of course, I would have. The promise of something for the ages is tough not to heed; it feels impossible to reject, in fact. Chosen by the gods, seen as the epitome of natural beauty, compared to the magnificence of celestial bodies, to be named the most beautiful person ever met, who in their egoic mind would not swoon at the thought?  

The fear of idealization was there of course, the idealized vision of the artist was there from the beginning. How could any puny human being compare and rise to such lofty heights? There was no chance on this dualistic plane of existence that anyone could live up to the promise of eternity and the mirage of a union shattering the constraints of time and space. It was an impossible endeavor.

The fear of becoming a fallen angel was strong. It was searing and stifling, at times. One view into the mortal mirror, and there was temporariness and physical decline In progress. When would the lively colored glasses come off? What would the painter ultimately find? Would he still discover worthiness, would the subject still manage to beguile and shine? And what’s more, would interest in the real person exist and rise?

In other words, what would await when the excited dust finally settled? What would remain and persist in its stead? Would he care to see? And would he be drawn to what the mundane senses would let in? There is something to be said about the artist and the muse being a detonated set of curves. It’s about taking what is needed to continue creating. It’s about relenting to the heartless tools with which art enters our realm. There is a price to pay to become the apple of an artist’s eye, for it is a forever wandering eye of curiosity. It’s the Elfin quality that’s looked for, the unicorn identity. Museums can and have been filled with unconventional beauty, beauty that defies the standards of each artistic period and age.

Creation is a whirlwind. It rips away reliability, integrity and accountability and demands to be fed instantly.

Can’t you come back at a more auspicious time? You come barreling across fields tunneling through me, and I am your servant; that is the deal for your service. Humanity and intimate connections are both elevated and diminished by the art of an artist. Everything else recedes in the name of what wishes to come out. Hell is the other and art is the great redeemer. There is no up without down, there is no muse who does not face an excavation of suffering and pain.

The art takes precedence. Can’t you understand? It is bigger than this relationship between imperfect, eternally flawed and continuously searching human beings. Through art, I may know myself. Numbness to the world around me fuels my drive. To flirt is to appreciate, to appreciate is to crave and to crave is to live ignited. The hormone monster spurns me on. There is no halting the tide. Subjects tumble into my lap and canvases wait to be caressed. So much beauty in the world, Picasso did not limit himself, Diego didn’t constrain his hunger. The muse is not singular, it is found in every being, the uniqueness of each feminine feature; I am slave to its countless manifestations. 

You are asking too much of me, I am not ready. Too much still to taste. The world is opening up. I cannot limit myself, and I don’t want to hurt people in the process. You were an explosion in a shingle factory. I came out of the darkness - and I saw. And now all is beautifully illuminated. It is calling me. It is my time. My time, I am sorry, I couldn’t have known. I meant what was said at the time, but things change, things become clear, things are fluctuating. I thought about it, you asked me to be real. Truth is, I want to be free. My interest is waning, inconsistent, I don’t take you into consideration all the time. The intensity has lessened. What you need is something I am incapable of providing at this time…call it bad timing, call it what you will. You are sweet, and I do like you but I would hate to continue hurting you. It would not be fair. I understand you need more. It was a pleasure listening to your needs. It is a time for “Ire”. Be well. I am off to the next incarnation of sultry disguise.

What I See

What I see is beauty

Merit and moxy that deftly declares

Document me

 

What I see is strength

A challenger, a protector

Courting a quest for intense

 

What I see is an artist

A painter, a guitarist

Thriving on encouragement

 

What I see is aplomb and certainty 

That tells us to take note

Of the foibles of humanity

 

What I see are well kept treasures

Framing what's on the surface

- sincere smiles and gestures 

 

What I see is determination

Tenacity that puts you on notice

I won't be taken advantage of

 

What I don't see

Remains amorphous clay

Delightful divinity at play

 

What I don't see

Is my own ability

To behold your eternity

 

What I don't see

Translates into a guessing game

Searching for the base

 

What I don't see is

beckoning me to

Document the possibilities

 

What I know is

The wish to behold the core of

Your dreams and longings

 

What I know is

There is truth lying in waiting

While I tailor my daring

 

What I know is

I keep flailing and know little more

Than you tunneling into my being

Wings on the Decline

I wish for truth to hold sway and wash the murkiness away

For it to reveal all that I fear I couldn't say

I wish for water to submerge all manner of cravenness

I wish to reemerge cleansed, a siren of redress

Why do we insist on hiding fragments of our frailty? 

Why is humanity worshiping the destitute pillars of society?

This damn bitterness, it nags and insists on cradling

Wounds of the past, pride of today

 

I wish I could see you, I wish you would see me

Words, sounds, and maybe songs are not going to reveal me

It's the forever unexpressed that raises its ugly head

And we are stuck at the head

We are...stuck at the head

 

I sit at crossroads, helplessly witnessing sketchy slips

Our loyal ghosts are coalescing, passing each other a snide quip

We are evading the depths, yet we wish to jump in 

Life is simple, no?

*Cause I love you*

Yet the descending gavel insists on passing sentence

Life should be simpler, yes?

*Cause I love you*

Yet I keep missing my cues at a soulful existence 

 

I wish I could see you, I wish you would see me

Words, sounds, and maybe songs are not going to reveal me

It's the forever unexpressed that raises its ugly head

And we are stuck at the head

We are...stuck at the head

 

Why is it exceedingly hard to reach out from our core?

I long to commune, I long to give more, but I fear I can't manage alone

I cry out at fissures and walls clamoring for more

It is cold out here without your voice, in this eerie emptiness

Too many worries and an echo of none of your business

Our goodwill is a tilting galleon heeding the call of obscure demons

 

I wish I could see you, I wish you would see me

Words, sounds and maybe songs are not going to reveal me

It's the forever unexpressed that raises its ugly head

While we are stuck at the head

We are...stuck at the head

 

 

 

I wish to see you

Will you let me in

I wish to see you

I wish to see you

Will you let me in

 

I wish to see you

 

Will you let me in

Almost Palo

Ich wuensche Dir von ganzem Herzen, mein Loewe, dass dieses Jahr Dein Jahr ist - dass sich das Vorgestellte verwirklicht und Du Dich voll und ganz deinen Talenten widmen kannst. Du hast sehr viel zu geben und Du verdienst Waerme und Unterstuetzung von den Menschen, die Dir wichtig sind.

 

Mon fauve, je te souhaite de tout mon coeur une nouvelle annee sans pareille. Que tout se passe selon tes plans et tes reves. Tu es un etre envoutant qui sait donner de soi-meme.

 

Tu es dans mes pensees beau gosse. J'adore ton feu et ta sensibilite et j'ai beaucoup d'amour et d'admiration pour toi.

 

Toujours,

Moi

The Devil Resides in What's Lived

As I am sitting cross legged wrapped in my big blue and white bath towel (I love walking around in that thing), our Christmas tree tastefully illuminated opposite my sofa-bed (I call this period in my life my couching days, or couched-in days - whichever fits in the moment), I am willing away the lackluster assessment of my writing endeavors (Unimpressed you are). I am afraid you'll just have to cut this European with her funny accent some slack and indulge what her meandering mind wishes to communicate tonight. 

There is the shadow of a tale that has been coursing through my mind these past few days, and I started jotting down some coordinates and reference points. It's about this girl, who wishes, yearns for, craves, better yet, demands connection with the world around her. She is confined to living inside one of these cliche fairy tale-like castles that are confining and restrictive, stifling, entirely anti free expression, a realm where showing one's true colors is treated like a dirty word. The girl often finds refuge looking out the castle's most tucked away window and one day a dove finds its way to the windowsill. There is beauty to the dove, innocence, naivete, a sense of opportunity and gentle beginnings but the girl isn't pulled to what she beholds. The qualities the dove exudes almost feel too pristine, too untouched, too remote even. The girl is looking for the visceral side of life, for the undertones, for the scars and the charred remains. The sheen of the immaculate permeates the very fissures crisscrossing the walls of her confinement. The dove sensing the girl's longing for something akin to the byproduct and aftermath of experience obliges and transforms into a raven holding a blood splattered organ in its beak. It appears rose-like at first but soon, the illusion fades and in its place the girl finds deposited in her lap a still-palpitating heart of a dove, cleanly extracted. The raven, redness continuing to drip around its beak, watches the girl's reaction. Is that what she wants? Is she sure that this is what she wants, what she is seeking? Does she have the slightest idea what she is asking. She is obviously demanding darkness, but darkness is nothing she's ever faced, nothing she's ever had to deal with, nothing remotely familiar in her life. Sure, deceit is the law of the castle grounds, there is intrigue, there are devious plots and a host of shenanigans but true darkness, the existential angst and despair, this, the girl knows nothing of. That sunken, defenseless feeling when life is ripping you to shreds. The raven has seen the wastelands, flown past them, merged with the putrid landscape. That is his domain. He feels at home in the existential void, in the miasma where nothing of beauty and abundance grows any longer. The girl listens, senses, begins to understand that she may have asked for something she isn't ready to face...yet. The raven clad in darkness intrigues her but she can already feel the singe. She is aware that following the raven's call would become her undoing. She watches him make for the sky...

This little allegory continues with the girl encountering a squirrel who teaches her about the precariousness, the fragile construct that is human communication. She is shown how easily goodwill between two people disintegrates into mud flinging and alley fights. All the love in the world cannot keep the squirrel from flying off the handle. Connection becomes marred in learned silence and increasing distance. After the squirrel comes the mouse, which teaches her the nature of hording, of keeping people and things close to the chest, all calculated, all well planned, all in its place. Connection is made but within strict guidelines, and adherent to rules that are logical, simple and devoid of any messiness. Drama is inherently bad and free wheeling expression is considered tedious. The mouse is straight laced in his vision and the girl mourns the whimsical. What's so wrong with high flights of passion? The mouse will have none of it. Next is the donkey. The donkey is all about cuddles and being carefree. He is willing to dive but only where waters remain friendly. The shadowy place is not a place to visit much less dwell. It's all about the lighter side of life. There is no balance, no reveling and certainly no reckoning. The girl fails to connect because there is no meaningful dissection. Repression is the dictum of the day. Oh ruehret, ruehret nicht daran, as the German would say (oh, do not, do not touch it). The tale ends with the girl encountering a lion, king of the animals, regal in his demeanor, poised, wise and wild at the same time, both commanding and caring. There is fire in his eyes, determination in his stride, there is vision, dark and light pass each other the loaded stick. Duality splitting the precarious edge. He is feral, feline, nowhere near a neat package. He roams freely and dangerously but he approaches of his own free will. He fans the fires of adventure, of discovery, of exploration. The girl is sensing a connection for the ages, the sensation she's been dreaming of, imagining, wishing into being. The lion cannot be tamed but he invites her to freedom. Freedom from the milling mind, freedom from the lesser sides of life. The castle walls, in his presence, dissolve. There is a clearing, an opening. The girl wishes to jump in.

Anyway, that is a little something that has been peeking from underneath somewhere. I know that trying to come to an understanding of love is something that defies a lot of conventional thinking, linear thinking, that is often devoid of logic entirely. I remember this line from a movie I love "Playing by Heart". A young and extremely beguiling Angelina Jolie delivers this zinger: "Talking about love is like dancing about architecture." She continues saying that despite it feeling impossible (talking about it) it ain't going to stop her from trying, and I feel that that this is what I've been doing most of my adult life. Trying to bring words to the most salient topic of all, to this monster of a beast out there that lassos us in and leaves us often estranged to ourselves, bombed out shells of our more level headed selves (a professor of mine once said: Love is a form of self-betrayal - ouch) if we haven't found a way to fuel our own fire, if we failed to tend our own garden. Ideally, and in Osho's words, there should be no should - first of all - and no suffering for life is a dance and a celebration as a waft of the lilies' scent in the field graces our nostrils only to depart on the next upswing of a passing wind. Such is life - constant impermanence, nothing remains static; everything is in constant flux. There is no upside to holding on. One immediately becomes a pathetic, drowning woman trying to say no to existence. And yet, we seek lasting, enduring, deepening connections on this plane; we seek validation and safety and we wish to be desired, and to be desired in a way that makes us feel special and unique in the eyes of the beloved. Who doesn't wish to be called an Immortal Beloved? Who doesn't wish to be eulogized on canvas or on paper, on screen or on a sheet of music? Who would say no to a serenade, to an ode, to an homage for the ages? We are human after all, imperfect in our perfect guise, honing our facades, pretending plenty a time to be impervious, to be rolling with the times. If it ain't working, I am outta here. Sure, there will be a pang or two but nothing a well chosen (or better put, ill chosen) vice can't momentarily restore to mint in condition and store bought status. Eh, we'll deal with the consequences later, better...never. No one likes to show face. Dude, that shit ain't right. Pull yourself together and at least pretend like this didn't hurt.

Thing is when it matters, it hurts. And we can all get pulled into the narrative. There is always the promised land ahead of passion and adventure and nights full of fun and laughter and days playing in the sand and chasing each other down colorful streets. So many movies attest to this possibility, so why not seek it? Art imitates life, am I right? I think it's fair to say that we all seek something akin to a great love, in whichever form we dream it into being. 

I wish I could say I am evolved enough to look the shifting tides of life in the eye without tearing up and harping on 'why'. It would be so much easier to just remain stoic and let it all pass by, but when it is the depths one is hellbent on finding, then being nonchalant doesn't quite neatly fit in. I know I feel mortified for what could easily (in the eyes of society) be perceived as weakness tonight. I showed you in no uncertain terms that I care, and that I probably care too much at this junction. Does it make me pathetic? Maybe to some, but it is not about the other, it is about the fact that when momentum is cut and the carpet is being suddenly and unexpectedly ripped from under my feet, visceral pain sets in. Literal, actual pain that centers in the stomach region and leaves me unable to understand rhyme nor reason in the moment and therefore leaves me ravenous for truth. The merits of truth? Well, they are a bit dicey. Truth possesses an uneasy quality. Truth is usually not what we wish to hear once a suspicion has formed. It waits in the wings waiting to flash its vampire teeth. Ah, the pain. Tonight, I beheld eyes that only a few days prior took me in without restraint, without compromise, without fear, instead showing unbridled, beckoning enthusiasm, yes, and abandon, and certainty, and connection, bearing a destiny. To be thus deprived and find myself looking into eyes that were playful, yes, mischievous, yes, but also, quite unconcerned, and which had become in a short amount of time, non committal, felt like a dagger had been unleashed on the lining inside my stomach.

Why does it hurt so much in this moment? I admit, it is a dream that began being spun. All the written words, all the attention, the affection, and the caring, days and nights accumulating in your presence, led to a feeling that grew, and grew, and grew, and continues to grow. I felt scared from the beginning despite your assertions that my reticence was misplaced. And yet, tonight, my hesitation may have proved to be an inkling, for duality has a way to even itself out. Do you have a right to have a change of heart? Absolutely. Does it constitute malice if one day there is love and the next there is numbness? Of course not. Is it better to be up front instead of constructing lies and live the life of a hypocrite? It is better even if some (or many among us) claim that living a lie is maybe the only way this thing will work. I am reminded of a movie quote from "XX/XY": There cannot be any honesty in a healthy relationship....At the time I thought, Wow, what a statement to make. It felt wrong from every angle, and yet, after a few more years of living, I realize that many a seemingly steady relationship is built on omission, and quiet compromise, and a certain level of settling. Simple does it, easy does it. On the ship, my girlfriends and I used to say that we weren't the easy choice. We were differently demanding. We were high maintenance because we wished for an honest connection, for someone to be willing to go emotionally scuba diving. But no....ship life is about bed warming, mostly: Be a carefree girl and I'll have you. I'll shower you with hallmark approved gifts and show you a good time, but don't expect real effusion or vulnerability. No, not while we are on here. Carlos told me yesterday that I needed to make myself more vulnerable. In my past relations, I had not made myself available enough, always adhering to the societal etiquette of not extending my welcome for too long a stretch of time. I therefore made my presence rare, stayed away at crucial times, and thought the less I am imposing the more I will be seen as sensible and caring - bullshit. So, when I met you and you so enthusiastically swept me up, I allowed myself to be swept along. I felt from the very first moment that I wanted to explore you, that we have beauty to offer the other. We are both wounded beings (I, on the other hand, believe that our souls remain intact, waiting to be liberated from the skeletal prison that is our body) no doubt about it. We wear darkness on our sleeves. We each have our burden to unload, to look at, honestly look at and do with as we see fit spiritually, holistically. We are similar in ways that bring us close and also make this closeness an arena where we either confuse and refuse each other or allow ourselves to be seen. I wish I could love you with no hang ups, with no dark night of the soul moments, without a welling up of tears because in the moment, the thought of being deprived of your touch and your effusions is utterly unacceptable and it fucking hurts - it simply hurts. Does that make me weak, dependent, needy, clingy, as I said on the phone earlier? In a societal sense, yes, it probably does. It feels like I am losing my composure, my confidence. It ain't a pretty sight, but then connection is what I've been saving myself for all my adult life. Finding someone willing to jump in best Titanic fashion. When I was reading your letters and later your sonnets, my being became illuminated. I could feel the light come on. I felt thrown into a space so rarely accessed, where two people meet on equal footing and on equal terms, where Magic happens, plain and simple. Sex is not a physical act for me, it is a sacred union to be cherished. When I enter this dimension, I am seeking oneness not just for the moment of orgasm, I am communing on an existential level. Yes, I have intimacy issues, Yes, I want to work on them, and especially now because I met you. There is no urgency to the matter when one is alone. There is a numbness, sometimes comforting but mostly unsettling. When you told me that you were feeling numb tonight I thought of a line my friend Shiva regurgitated for me: The opposite of love isn't hate. It is indifference. Tonight, I saw a glimmer of indifference in your eyes, and all I was thinking was, no, no, no, please no. How can I convey that this is no throw away matter, no matter the situation at hand. No matter the demons, and the necessary clearing away, the going through the motions, all the change and the tying up of odds and ends, this, us, is universe given, and it's to be held and cherished. I felt distraught at your change of words and tone; I felt betrayed at first, manipulated, yes, taken for a fool....foolish little girl (The play "The Shape of Things" has been playing in my head - the agony..,). There were no words in my vocabulary that would have changed anything. That's what it felt like, and I was at a loss. I felt that if I left right then and there then this tale would have seen its conclusion. I couldn't rip myself away for as imperfect as I am and as budding as my feelings are - there are feelings at stake, uncommon, strange feelings (exhilarating and strange) and they tear at our sturdiest fabric, they make us naked, so utterly naked and we wonder if we've become ugly for feeling in such fashion - Eskimos have many words for the term love, we have only one, and I knew from the very beginning of our encounter that like is not what I can ascribe and attribute to what I feel for you. No, that wouldn't be accurate; it wouldn't represent the truth. 

I love you - though - feels like such a throw away word/ phrase these days (or maybe it's felt that way on many days of our industrialized, so called civilized past). It's almost become on par with How are you? Rarely ever properly tended to. It's like we have guns with which we shoot out these proclamations, Shakespearean as they may be, penetrating as they intend to be, and yet, to shoot a gun creates distance. What if - I love you - were a sword, a knife with which to plunge oneself into the other's marrow and sinew. Would we dare as much, express and proclaim as assuredly and as trigger happy as we do? Wouldn't we hold back, take stock first, make sure we found the correct move, the right spot to seek permission to incise? I love you - is sacred and so is sex. These two ideals - concepts, living entities - I treat them like silver in its purest form (I prefer it to gold). When these two combine, create a unity, a dyad, I bow. I wish to surrender. I am in awe. I take my time with it. In my head, I create some space to ponder and honor it. It may not show on the outside quite the same way. It may seem that I cower and duck and am reluctant to relent. But on the inside - I am swooning. Lying in your nook has left me blissed out when waking up to the morning light or in the dead of night. I have been intensely aware of this felt moment, this shared moment, and its intensity is something I wish to engrave and relive again and again and again, on paper, in my head, and most ardently in deepening succession with you. Am I greedy? Yes, I am. Greedy for more of you. I am sorry my Love, but I am. Is it misguided, precipitated? Well, logically spoken, timing is a bitch and upon it rest in unrest many a potentially sacred union gone astray or abandoned on the wayside. It is not how I feel at 41 with my silver strands glowing on the sides of my head. I have always felt this way. I never dealt with love and its outcrops in a laissez faire attempt at filling the unfulfilling minute with tentative meaning. I have always wanted all. And so I have come to travel light. At 41, my net weight of things accumulated in life, is less than it was at 25 and I like it this way. You mentioned travel and here I am two suitcases to my name. In theory and pretty much in practice I am ready. Now, do I need to see the globe? Is this what has me tied to you? No, if you were to lose recent good fortune and found yourself without means to physically move about, it wouldn't matter and it wouldn't deter me because you matter. I am ravished by your being. You are Shane made manifest in so many ways. You exhibit what I have been dreaming of and about and been either too lazy, too distracted or too shy and temporarily forgetful to do and execute. I have so much I wish to explore with you and learn within myself.

Is my feeling of us being meant for a stretch of time that amounts to more than a whirlwind month and finding out the exact measurements of a pad Thai recipe deluded? See, there are many questions in my mind that I answer in ways you read on here. Shane truly asks. She is full of questions. The human condition fascinates her endlessly. There is no endpoint to her wonderment. Does she think too much...analyze too much...where is the line? At what point does it become detrimental to living life and living the moment? I am sure I have a few chapters in the rule book of breathing - you are exactly where you need to be - to go over and maybe assimilate. Letting go is hard to do for someone like me. You are emotion. I am information. You emote, I evoke. Does it mean we are ill matched. Again, what I said in the car, I stand by. I don't believe for one second that we are chemistry gone wild, pheromones on high. I see more than that. I see Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. I see Dali and Gala (although I don't know that much about their actual union). I see companionship past the ravenous and rabid desire to devour every ounce of what you offer up for the taking. Denis keeps mentioning how we met on such a sweet note. He is a burly Russian not prone to tender words and especially not about lovey dovey stuff, and yet he has repeated this statement. It gives me pause and also validation in what I feel to be true.

I know tonight wasn't my best performance, but that is good. I must not perform. I must be real. The ugliness of what it means to have a man stand in front of you who has tunneled into you, bore his fangs into your re-virginized skin, who has physically and metaphorically demanded entrance and insistently asked to be claimed - vacillate - it creates a whole body, whole system spin. Is that what Picasso's lovers and muses must have felt? Eternalized on canvas but quickly discarded on this earthly plane? I never wanted to be one of the many, the flavor of the month, the fancy that rises high only to deflate quickly and mercilessly like a sorry ass flan. Hells to the no - to hone my pitiful Ebonics - I felt your gaze linger on me while visiting the Pichardo's. I felt your touch claiming me in their presence. I felt a warmth that lingered beyond the moment. Am I outrageous to think that I could want something more than passion that skyrockets only to fizzle out in a sudden tailspin? I hold my share of poetry and drawings and bold statements that have rendered me timeless and universal and no man until now has lived up to the words and actions so boldly envisioned. No one stood the test - of depth that comes with time. You, my Beloved, took out the Book of Secrets, a book I bought in 2010 in Mexico City because I wanted to unhook its wisdom, cloak myself in it, bathe and bask in it, but not alone - in sacred union with a soul of my caliber. People see intensity in me. Intensity of the kind that attracts and blinds and makes for tearful exits and departures. I want more, I want it all. It's been a month so yes, I am coy at having my picture taken naked, at being spun around in public to Latin beats. I am still shy in many things, but it's only the beginning. Allow me to gain my strength, to find my stride, to create the leap that always comes anyway. With time, with patience, yes, with patience. Can I give you patience? If it means there is a way out of this sudden numbness then yes. And the numbness only scares me shitless because I've felt numbness, and it's soul trashing. It is laced with too many Lara bars and entire evenings spent lying horizontally, haphazardly watching and not quite caring about Gilmore Girls, and that's the tepid end of it. Numbness has been my almost constant companion for months and probably for the better part of two and a half years. I hated it. I hated it, hated it, hated it. To be creative one must have a muse. Yes, there is nature, always. I will not dis her - ever. She bestows her equalizing beauty onto us mere mortals. She is here - always, but sometimes we fail to receive the nurture because we also need real lips, real hands, real touch that make us plummet to the core of desire and its unfolding, its transmutation into mysticism.

I wish to merge with you. We began the journey and we haven't seen nothing yet - I agree with you in that. I cannot picture getting bored at all because of how you read and see me. You see through the excuse and the sabotage - the self-sabotage. I think our darkness, our individual journeys through the valley, allows us to see the other and to not simply run. I may be wrong. Maybe all that I've penned throughout this night, half asleep at 6:04am is the rant of a mind made reality. But isn't all this a mind made thing? I see you and all else around me freezes, becomes inconsequential, nonexistent. You throw me into orbit - our orbit. Am I senseless to wish this union to be of you and me - for now at least? Allow it to be anointed in trust and openness, in exploring what our bodies, minds, and hearts have to offer each other? Again, I can only speak for myself and from experience that when the mind is given too much room to assume and speculate, nothing truly vulnerable and naked and real will be able to flourish. I can't undo myself, restitch myself differently by tomorrow or tonight. In that I may be deplorably traditional. I am sorry...I wish to see you smile. I adore the mischievous grin. Your touch galvanizes every cell in my body and arrests my mind for one tender/torrential time scape. How can I not 'fight' for it? How can I not suffer through it if it means I can keep hearing from you and seeing you? Friendship would be sweet torture at this junction but I'd take it. With a bit of readjustment and release I would try it. But take me any further than this, and I would have to ruefully decline for a time. I can't see you and not gravitate toward you. I can't be La-dida when you enter the room. I saw you tonight and I felt the illumination. I felt the light spreading on the inside. Corny analogy, tired old metaphor? Tried on too many times in the form of art? Yes, light is the go to image. But that is what I felt. I can't put it any other way. I am transfixed by your presence, and maybe my age makes this statement slightly pathetic. Maybe I am the tragic heroine of "Sweet Bird of Youth" or "The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone". Maybe I shouldn't issue such words to a budding 30 year old. Thing is, I don't look toward age to guide me. Age does not maturity forge. Age is tied to one's experiences and what we took away from them til now.

My father looked at me with a sad tenderness in his eyes, when he told me on my last day in Europe this summer that I have a youthfulness about me that could make it difficult for me to find a 'suitable' partner. The young ones are attracted but if they want kids, I am on my way out. The older ones seem almost like fathers and the picture feels off. That is of course an overly simplified rendition of what my father expressed. But he seemed sad. His daughter straddling the fence on one more thing in life. Not quite belonging to either and therefore dangling, stuck on the metro platform of the third Matrix. Limbo is a sorry state. It's neither here nor anywhere or as Morgan Freeman's character declares with gravitas in "Million Dollar Baby" somewhere between nowhere and goodbye. 

I am so tired and soon the house will be stirring and with it the dog (he's been restless and barking intermittently all night - Dogzheimers), Bev returning from Jeanine's and the sun peeking in. I have maybe another hour before the day greets me and I have to find footing once more. I love when all is oh, so quiet, when most everyone is asleep and even the birds have halted their chirping. It's darkest before the dawn.

You know what I find most tragic in matters of feelings and love? When two people are attracted to each other and love each other and yet, it won't work. I have lived through it, and it's searing, blistering, scathing. It's one thing when someone tells you that they failed to develop the same or similar emotions and thus must let you go to find a more Tetris-like match. It hurts but you feel deep down that they are right. It wasn't quite clicking into fruitful gear. I have had instances like that on both ends and I licked my wounds all the same but regret didn't linger. It is an entirely different ballgame when you feel someone's flame intermingling with yours, rising on a joint watch only to disband for reasons unrelated to love - I love you but I can't be with you. I love but it would hurt too much. I love you but I have shit to do and I can't be tied down. I love you but I would lose myself in you and that wouldn't be healthy - whatever the reasoning, the knowledge that the passion is intact, that the tenderness is intact, that the attraction is intact and yet, and yet...that is the killer. I wonder if this is the scenario and the premise that yields masterpieces of star- crossed lovers and love dying on the pyre. Am I painting a dramatic picture? Well, yeah, it is dramatic because I believed that where there is love and passion, depths are waiting to offer up their treasures. You introduced me to Olokun and now I want to know. You pried me open and I am finding myself in my bra and underwear in an arena of light flooding in, ready for the viewing.

I am here. I am, like you, changing, undoing, regrouping. In my own small ways, I am seeing color where I saw grey before, where I felt dead before. I may not have contemplated suicide but I felt as if I had lived my life and was only looking back, sort of like Celine and her 93 (was it?) year old woman, in whose memory she imagines living. There is so so so so much I wish to show you and share with you. Yes, many of those things are movies. This has been my go-to art and I want to see what you feel and think of pieces that have come to mean so much. There are places on this earth that you have gotten me excited about showing you or discovering with you. In front of me lies the book of Sacred Places. Stonehenge is where we are supposed to head first if destiny was the one guiding my hand while showering in your mother's house. The imprint of the word remains on the shower door, since then cleaned by Marci, but still whispering, ethereal. 

 

 

You...

Truth Without Rhyme but with a Modicum of Reason

Find me on the godhead for that's where I've been residing since I've met you

I am looking at the starry night and count six shooting stars my own

I've beamed my prayer into the sky knowing that there is no guessing left to ponder

All the words I could possibly point in your direction have been declared and are affixed

To a firmament twinkling with a multi splendor past 

I have wished to say so many things in this past 24 hour period but I have mostly remained Silent out of fear

Ah, how silence can both be blissful and baleful 

I would have said so many things to you but I feared that they would dislodge all manners of unease

That these confessions would make you run for the hills and take unequivocal flight

I was afraid, yes, I was afraid, but then, what is fear but false emotion appearing real

But the mind killer that is the little death that brings total annihilation

What good does it serve me? What good? Fuck the fear that holds it all in

Fuck the fear that I have that your feelings, your assertions, and affections, and attentions

Will but disintegrate and disappear into the ether, as if they had never existed

You are not a figment of my imagination, you are not a diaphanous spirit

You are real and firm to the touch, and I can't get enough of your energy and essence and effervescence

Linear time is of no consequence, there is no measure to this feeling that continually ascends 

That rises on your watch and leaves me yearning for more of you, of all that you represent

Don't be reluctant to share all of you, the ugliest of truth is better than an omission

It's when we are left to assume that all turns to shit, wouldn't you agree?

this is the third time that I compose words in your name so late at night

I wanted to scream when all that wanted to come out, all that I had held in because of mental trepidation

fell away into the digital backbone, suddenly irretrievable, forever gone

I wanted to scream at the potential omen, at the seemingly heavy portent but then

What matters in life carries weight and it requires effort and some amount of dedication

So, I am not deterred by having lost words; they are out there floating in a void of love and fullness

And these words carry your imprint

It's been written, we are inscribed, my love, we are, in your words, marionettes of the Orisha

And the imagery couldn't ring more true - there is Olokun holding the treasure

Awaiting to be tapped and taken, hidden in the deep, there are blue immaculate Yemaya and deep purple Babalu Aye

Chrysocolla weaving magic with cowry shells - I feel your verdant eyes lingering on mine

We are no accident, no inconsequential dyad soon to vanish into remnant dust

We are blazing potential of the creative force of this cosmos, of the shiny tapestry of this universe

We are meant to burn and to burn in all our madness and all our wildness and our entire 

duality and bi-polarity - there is nothing that need be left untouched

Don't hide yourself from me, my Love, - that is the only thing I ask and humbly beg of you

I am here to take you in, entirely, to accept you entirely, to be the forge and the torch, to toast to

Life, love, virility, intoxication, color, wind, sails a-blazing. senses forever firing - embers but an after image 

You are lion and lyre, rebirth in all its fascinating facets

I am making myself entirely available, entirely yours - if I have to lyrically announce it - so I must

If I have to scream it to be heard - I will stand on the sidelines no longer

There are tangos to be danced, cords to be learned, strokes to be explored

There is inertia and there is whirlwind, there is you and there is us

The book of secrets is the budding butterfly ready for pleasure tantrums and reckless frivolity

If the depths is what we've both been seeking, what we wish to go for

Then there simply cannot be any other way but in - in, in, in, goddamnit all in

I can't deny that your disappearance has been weighing down my mood

I can't deny that it has offered me two sleepless nights, but with it an avalanche of 

words that have been wishing to come out and shooting stars to seal my love

I can't deny that I want to know what's been going through your mind

I admit I am scared that I may have said something in my eagerness to share

That could have left you with a sense of retreat and regret

How I wish I could erase some of those words I ushered in without proper vetting

I sometimes let fear based expression rule a conversation and what it leaves me with

Is having to sort through what had no business coming out

If I ruled the world, then you wouldn't know of those thoughts that don't serve

But alas, I am but human and error prone at that

I do love you, don't doubt it one bit !

I also cherish and adore and care for you - but could these words be too worn out to truly

Reflect the immense well of goodwill I have unearthed since meeting you?

How I wish I had a symphony up my sleeve or a lion's portrait itching at my finger tips

All creative endeavor would find expression in a suite of renditions that 

revere and honor you and maybe tell you how time is but love stacked vertically

I already knew I loved you because you are right, Lovely You, we've searched for eons

And now the time is ripe and it is there for the taking, if we will it and accept it

I do very much miss your warmth, your arms, your energy, your breath, your roar, your moan, your voice, your lips - oh, those lips

I miss the effusions and the affections, the assertions and the flurry of attraction

I will not let fear rule the day - I will not, I shall not, this cannot - no, it cannot

I looked at the stars tonight and they whispered to me to make a repeated wish

Your number is 6 and this is the number that tumbled from the velvet night sky

I love you - how else can I put it 

I wish to be all for you and to you and I wish the same be true for you

We are not incidental, we are not made for a singular plane of existence

We are water made air whipped up and made vast

Come with me, allow me to be yours, let me see you

It is late and yet you have my every thought -

it's our choice

I say fuck fear, fuck inertia, fuck depression, fuck the darkness

We are fucking light - you and me - we are light, baby

Let us make unbridled, fiery, fierce and fiendish art

 

I dare us

As Words Grasp for your Being

An attempt at describing what cannot ever be truly captured by artistically imperfect means... 

This unfinished, still slightly unpolished piece hails from last week (last Friday to be exact)

I thought it was time it made its way to you.

 

 

 

By All Means

Your presence is blinding, beautifully blinding
And in parallel fashion endlessly revealing
Full of anticipation and hints of trepidation
I look up and what I behold is what I’ve dreamt of
All those instants, all those moments when I dared
The eternal search breaching center stage
I happen upon a clearing where I wish to meander and muse a while
I have been looking for substance, for a submerged siren rich in offerings
I have been yearning to sit in the presence of gods and their minions
It’s the sounds of the delta  - they’ve been beckoning
The fauvist colors - I’ve been pursuing
Seductive dance and a sultry glance
A celestial suite of yin and yang 

fanning high flights of passion

 

~

All I’ve ever sought has been 

to happen upon one made for me, 

the one whom I would get and who would get me. 

this life round I have spent months and then years 

reading and watching and listening to renditions of a tested love 

wondering whence my turn would come. 

lately, it came to feel like I had seen the last of it. 

I felt like I had outlived the possibility. 

I felt saddened and sobered contemplating a reality

that could merely dream up and reminisce on tantric ecstasy

a union ready to take me, understand me, forgive me, 

ready to entertain pitfalls and blind sides, willing to blend love and lust in

the forging of an ‘us’. 


It's when we least expect it, is it not? 

 

raising my eyes from under my obnoxious hat

and meeting yours at my friends’ vegan spot

What utterly unexpected delight -

The law of impermanence says 

that no-thing remains static

waves appear and they wash away past pain 

and all those cleansing tears-

It’s an eternal coming and going. 

and you, caring, attentive, affectionate, tender, 

with that sexy roar, part flower, part rock

came with that something that has left me 

breathless at times, at others, ravenous and desirous of more, more, more ways

to please every inch you fill and be pleased by every bewitching talent you display

satiation is a foreign concept these days 

I am filled, and still, I ask for more of you

more of your insisting eyes, your alluring voice, your decisive touch, 

your flaming visions of the world, your expanding presence mooring itself to my side, 

tethering itself to my inner sky. 

what remains to be done is to reverently (and ravenously)

enfold you and beckon you to completely envelop me. 

cover me and cradle me with every inch of your endless potentiality. 

I am scraping away at the borders of the terrestrial, the physical, the solid

I wish to dive and disappear into a territory 

where I no longer need words for algorithm or soliloquy 

where skyward breath and joined sound will activate the interior space. 

I stop thinking. I stop questioning. I stop avoiding the soundless. 

I behold you without blinking, without diverting the timid eye. 

I feel your virility parting me, penetrating me with ever more cadenced insistence ,

taking time to flirt with merging our bodies, with blending our energies. 

I want us to dance with each other at all times. 

I cannot picture our first fight, and yet, it is the way of things

the quotidian will have a say 

How will we fare? 

will we find a way to navigate our lesser selves, 

find that niche where more delicate subjects can be aired out and put to the test?

I see you and I know you are no accident

I know you are not some random light in the night

You are a lion whose roar I didn't wish, 

I didn't know how to ignore

What I am laying at your feet, 

placing as my gift to you and the Orishas is kindly meant

appreciation, admiration, respect, kindness and tenderness

How can I not when beholding you?

It is impossible

You are simply beautiful to me

Strange - Pondering Words

I was pondering words tonight, especially those that are not verbalized, not formulated, those kept under wraps, those not allowed to be voiced in the moment of genesis because, well, words can change things, dramatically at times...but then so can words not spoken. 

 

I forgot to mention an incident that happened to me yesterday. I believe I had told you about this performance artist, Atlas, living in New Orleans, a friend of Karen's (my friend who had cried during the sacred painting session at Integral Life Center), who contacted me a few weeks ago. We spoke once on the phone and from that one-time conversation it was obvious that casual is something this guy doesn't do. It felt as if he was seeking, even yearning, for some mental connection and that in all his genial outpourings and prolific creative endeavors, a loneliness was lurking, that a forced solitude permeated and hid behind every of his words. I was honest early on that I didn't have the time to be conducting meandering and musing conversations about the nature of our minds, the purpose of our souls, the crux of creativity, life overall, and the all that is cramped in between. Atlas didn't seem to get the message, however, and kept sending me quotes, talks, pictures, questions via whatsapp, until I left him a voice message that at the moment I wasn't able to follow up on all his links, videos, etc because my free time was tied up with someone I had recently met and started dating - I thought I'd be entirely honest -  He, unperturbed, continued sending me impressions, artwork, etc and relentlessly asking for my input. Last night, I received a voice message that turned out to be a recording about the weight a "how are you" carries. It was a talk Atlas had given about the throw away phrase 'how are you' and how deplorable and dangerous our neglecting to listen and holding space for the answer had become. He equated it to the existence and reason for substance abuse and other destructive means to numb one's existential fear that no one cares and no one listens and no one is truly interested in how someone's doing. I was in agreement with what Atlas posited and left a voice message to that effect. I shortly thereafter received a reply, in which he accused me of engaging in exactly what he warned against and wrote that I had not called him in weeks. I admit, I was baffled by it, and wondered whether I had become callous in my wiser years, because in my eyes, there was no correlation. I kept thinking: I don't know you. We spoke once and I didn't call and ask how you are and then proceeded to ignore the answer. We are not friends and I specifically stated in a previous message that I had no time to entertain this conversation because my attention was elsewhere...in other words, I was focusing on you. As I listened to the voice in my head, it sounded too whiny and too self justifying, and so I let the message go unanswered. Then, tonight, I saw a line from Atlas: "No response?" Again, I felt uneasy and slightly guilty but couldn't bring myself to press the finger down on the voice message button to record my rebuttal and my explanation for why I don't feel that his talk and this one sided conversation intersect at all. 

 

Perception -  it seems to all be a matter of perception. I don't know if you believe in celestial retrograde and the supposed effect (mostly negative) it has on communication and striking deals, but Mercury retrograding is potentially lethal to effective communication. And it's been going on since Saturday, and according to Luz and Denis and others in the spiritual community, it mostly affects Geminis and Virgos. I told you how Elle never replied to my explaining the situation, and it leads me to believe that I grossly underestimated the resolution and potentially her feelings throughout. I knew that she would retreat, but to not say a single word and to delete her picture on whatsapp, that I didn't expect. Which leads me to you...

 

In the spirit of this email being about unspoken words, I am going to attempt to speak (write) the ones that so often get swallowed up (or down) or reformulated, rearranged and tamed, out of fear that their impact will be too strong, alienating, frightening.

 

I feel the need tonight to affirm that you, my dear Danny, have touched me and that the way I feel about you, I haven't felt in the presence of many. You have touched me forcefully and profoundly in the short amount of time I've known you. I feel so much when around you - intimated, illuminated, cradled and challenged, held and ravaged, loved and standing corrected. I see such Immense beauty in you, in how you view the world, how you interpret it, draw it, draw it in, how you reflect it, ponder it, dissect it, how you render it musically and pictorially. 

I stand in absolute awe. 

Know that you have a Fan in me. The more I am around you, the more you come to matter, the more I relish you in my daily life, the more I have to hold back from a growing greediness I feel in your presence. More is the dictum of the day. I sense the ravenous and the unbridled desire to experience all facets of you, of wanting you to myself, which you know I find dangerous and see the need to avoid, but in your case, I know that deep down, the "I'm Yours" remains poised on the tip of the tongue, temporarily relegated to the hinterland of the throat, waiting to be released, wanting to proclaim. It is fascinating to observe in oneself how beholding beauty so easily invites fear in. Fear of being too much, of revealing too much, of being too intense too soon, of showing face too soon. 

When things are simply the way they are. 

You could leave tomorrow and yet, all that I've just written would still stand and stand true. It doesn't change how I see and feel you and how eternally (from an eon's standpoint) grateful I am that our paths have crossed. No amount of pain and loss could ever match the privilege I feel of knowing the parts of you that you have offered to share. As you wish for me to bleed into the keys of the typewriter you gifted me, so I wish to bleed into the space where you and I first met. I have so much to learn from you. Age is so flimsy a teacher. A number does not bear the amount of wisdom and knowledge acquired. You have a gift that needs to see the light of the world, and I foresee that the world will indeed behold your vision and be drawn and respond to it. Your output is simply staggering. It bears such depth, such variety, such honesty, those eyes, they reveal so much. No wonder, family and friends are flocking to your renditions. Your canvases speak. I looked at your sketches yesterday and I was picturing captions and stories accompanying them - an artistic feuilleton of one's interiorscape. Know that I find you exquisite, mon Fauve, and that this is a fact, no matter what may come next. You have enlivened my days and my nights, my dreams, my reveries, my thoughts, my hopes, even my lovely demons as they are now facing all the light they couldn't see (a partially borrowed book title). I already love so many things about you and I am convinced that what I love is not based on infatuation. Yes, I am infatuated with your energy, with the way this energy is making you look so damn sexy and irresistible in my eyes and heart, but there is more to the facade, more than the naked, untrained, easily intrigued and misled eye perceives. I feel the need and the want and the urge to serenade and celebrate you in every manner I can possibly employ to make you feel and believe how uniquely and gloriously your being shines. If my role begins and ends with you seeing life in color again, then I must tell myself that this was not in vain. Even if my egoistic self wishes with all her heart to be yours and to claim you and to see the world with you, my best and real self knows that all is good the way it is unfolding, for I'm learning so much, and I am bathed in so much beauty. Your light is blinding, as I wrote the other day at Zen Mystery, beautifully blinding. I am humbled by it and I can feel its empowerment. Thank you so much for what you in turn have sensed and seen in me...for I often wonder. My mother used to repeat and accuse me of having a heart of stone, and I have carried this statement with me, always afraid that a mother's words can only bear truth. And so when I write of Atlas' response and Elle's silence, I am aware and afraid I may be saying or doing, or not saying or not doing enough to show you just how wonderful and important you are to me. As you spoke of your fear and the disgust of a past action of yours, so am I speaking my admiration and my sincerity even if the spoken word turns out to be too much too soon. I can't hold back the tide, nor would it be wise and fair to do so. 

 

I shall take my leave on this page as it is 3:00 am. I miss your arms around my body, my being.

 

Yours, 

Me

Everything is...Illuminated

As I think of you…

I am listening to my friend Ramesh speaking a voice message via Whatsapp. I snicker because no matter our level of exterior accomplishment, no matter our array of experiences, no matter our age and our overall disposition, anything to do with emotions and liking someone sends us humans into a tailspin. Ramesh is a highly successful musical, cabaret performer and MC living in Vienna, Austria, who happens to be one of my closest childhood friends. In his message he mentioned meeting someone in a café last week, feeling the jitters and not knowing how to best approach the person. Needless to say, he receives fan mail by the load full and has admirers all over Europe and the US and yet…and yet…

I read recently that when we like someone we speak only one language…moronic. Either our cultural environment and influences hinder us in our free expression of the most celebrated, serenaded, precious experience we could ever call our own while on this plane, or it is something hard wired in us, which seems counter-indicative and counterintuitive, for if the evolutionary imperative is to mate and preserve and prolong the human race, we better start making some sense and develop our seductive/assertive arsenal.

If people like Luz can feel the way I feel – well, where does that leave humanity’s ability to cut through the bullshit, I am asking myself. 50-year old friends of mine tell of the same tale that seems to get more complicated and daunting as we age. It’s not that we are seemingly getting better at this entire relationship game, it appears the barriers made up of fear buttressed by protection, apprehension, suspicion etc. etc. are raised and fortified and are now made of steel. How is someone compatible to penetrate - and how can authenticity find a foothold? But I am digressing J

You mentioned the other day how my writing had changed in one of my emails (I promise the typewriter letter is in its conception stage – all I need is some uninterrupted time without looking at the clock calculating how many more minutes I have before getting ready for work – typewriter time demands going back in time and channeling Hemingway and Anais Nin and Henry Miller sitting before their typewriters and bleeding into them one word at a time, during leisurely afternoon hours) and yes, your letters that so easily could be included in a compendium of timeless love proclamations, move me to anchor myself with more resolve and even more courage inside the heart regions that leave little defense, if any, from the onslaught of emotional expression and sensation permeating the body when such relocation of the self occurs. I know I keep using the word, terrifying, and it absolutely and entirely is, but what is life without it? How can love be present without it? Love knows no opposite. Where there is love, there is no question, and it is always unconditional. Nothing is required other than being, allowing, surrendering, offering, and as I am with you, I feel the urge to do all of that, to shove aside the ego structures of my being who may have served me to some degree in the past but have no place in this moment in time – or rather outside of time. This is the vertical dimension I resonated with while reading Conversations with God, where all happens simultaneously, a heavenly overlapping of all of our possible actions in our human made time-space continuum. There is no separation of experience. It’s the all experienced now and so, when I dare allow myself to look at you, to take you in bathed in moonlight and surrounded by this beckoning silence past the witching hour, I find my eyes, my heart, and my spirit in simple awe…of you, of us, of this happening.

Only weeks ago, I thought myself dead. I wrote about this disconcerting numbness, this horrible feeling of being a Mother Goose, 93 years old, surrounded by metaphorical/imagined grandchildren and reflecting on a life lived several decades in the past. It was an extreme mental image but that is how this ‘sequedad’ made itself known to me. I had instances where I told myself that maybe my last passionate and romantic days (Amy Shumer has a funny skit on her show called The Last Fuckable Day) were over and that I was now moving on to a quiet, internalized stage in life. Thing is, there are always people around whom we could open ourselves to, but depending on the person, the reason for opening differs. For me, nothing short of an immense pull toward the person will do to take me out of my very own cozy little universe I created around me. It takes fucking fireworks; it takes something akin to ripping, tearing, forcefully extracting me out of all the small comforts I hold so dear and bait me with an alternative to such attractive, sought after solitude. It better be a juggernaut, a brunt force to which I have no choice but to submit. I knew I was faced with such force when you casually invited me to the Ibeyi concert. Despite external forces that day (long work week, exponential rain, driving down to Miami to a location I had never been to), despite internal trepidation (fear of not knowing what to talk about, fear of not being relaxed and behaving, yes, like a moron), I went home, took a shower, and drove down. There was in the end no doubt that I would meet you come what may. It was bigger than me and it felt like divine intuition and divine intervention. I let it be. I freaked out but I went.

There is this scene from the movie Pride and Prejudice, which I have looped over the years (between Carlos, my friends Lucy and Robyn, and me, this is probably our favorite romantic film) where Mr. Darcy and Lizzy Bennett meet inside a field at day break. The mist is rising and the surrounding countryside is bathed in a bluish glow. They approach each other and he dares to reiterate his wishes of being with her. One sentence always stuck out (probably to all who have come to love this movie): “You have bewitched me body and soul, and I love…I love…I love you. I don’t wish to be parted from you from this day on…” After hearing these words, I knew I wanted nothing short of that, even if it meant I may remain single for a long time, even if it meant that maybe this lifetime around it wasn’t going to be in the cards for me. In my persuasion, there cannot be something approximating such effusion. There cannot be a stand in, a distant or even near second. There is no trying things on even though one can tell that the sleeve isn’t  sitting quite right and the color isn’t really my cup of tea and the style, well, maybe if worn enough, it can grow on me…no, to me, that is not appealing and not what I am going for. Mr. Darcy, after seeing the film in the early 2000s, became the quintessential Prince Charming, the One, the singularity of all things passion, ecstasy and Love. I have often been termed a hopeless (although I declare it being a “hopeful”) romantic. I have been told that I am expecting too much and that I need to allow more people in. It may be so. I am not saying that I am right and others are viewing and assessing intimate interludes from the wrong vantage point. To each their own. It’s about what we are willing to wait or settle for. I’d rather have less but feel more of it when it does happen, rare as it is. Maybe, possibly, most certainly that is also where the terror comes from. To some, disbanding from a person intimately and romantically is painful, yes, but hey, there are so many more fish in the sea, a smorgasbord of choice and interesting unions waiting to be explored…and that is beautiful, wonderful, if such is where you align. I have often marveled at how people rebound so quickly and move on and are moved by such a myriad of human offerings. Alas, I don’t operate that way. I can’t force myself or all becomes diluted, becomes blah, and blah simply sucks (well, again, to me). My friend Neil told me once that to him, energy exchange is a sacred act and that therefore he keeps himself from engaging in too much promiscuous action. He compares this energy we receive from people we are with to “horcruxes” that remain with us, latch onto us and linger after the person departs. In this vein, we better take heed whom we let in…the analogy resonated with me and I as well try to be careful whom I am allowing to see me; however, when it happens, it is an attraction that is so powerful and potent that it overrides reason and rhyme, caution and care. I tumble into it, fall head first, imagination first, heart first into this possible Wonderland where I am God and behold God. The mirror, mirror on the wall - is enticing and alluring and practically irresistible in that moment. This is intensity. It’s a force that moves us, instead of us doing the moving. It seems inscribed in our genes. We could very likely have decided upon this encounter in the in between when we prepare ourselves for our next spin on this delightfully confusing planet.

I like to believe that I placed you in my path my dearest Sicilian. I see so many of my wishes come manifest in you, so many of my innermost desires appear before my eyes. You seem the culmination, the ascending step, the One atop the rest. You are the Cantus Firmus that includes those who came before and affix what was formerly ephemeral and in hindsight deemed unreal and maybe unrealistic. You bring all back into focus, all the possibility that had been relegated to the wayside, that had been carried to some off-world location only to be thought of in nostalgic hues. Suddenly, it is right here, smack! in front of my face, and I cannot avert my eyes, I cannot avert my heart, I simply cannot hide behind all of my excuses. I have lived passionate lives inside my head while walking endless miles around Rock Creek (my favorite suburban neighborhood). I have pictured myself emboldened, and strong, and decisive, and determined in whom I wished to commune with. It its time that I experience a different reality, one where I am not the director of all the gestures, all the reactions, all the melting into each other. In fact, in all of my reveries I stop short of going to where it will invariably become uncomfortable for a short while, because it means that I need to show face. Fantasy can never replace the variations that imbue reality.

Seeing you last night with your torso towering over my frame, your shaggy hair falling around your face, Ariel came to mind, powerful image of the Lion, Sire of the animal kingdom and I felt ensorcelled by his presence. I wished to mount and surrender to him; I wished to be made one with him; I wished to tear out the linear modality of the mind and jump into a space where up and down have no say, do not have incremental sense. You inspire in me that which I dared not imagine only weeks ago. I am afraid I will fail and remain tethered to a puny mind that is hell bent on creating limitations. But this fear no longer serves me. I do not want to sabotage something so beautiful and glorious and divine, divinely inspired and brought into being. I wish to commune with you in Every Possible Way. I am standing in the clearing and the mists are lifting. I am looking out, and all I see…is You.

Of Course

He came in, sat down, spoke up, and that is all it took

Words strung together in ways that they wove a path of curiosity and nascent wonderment

An engaging story or two revealing facts of life and lessons from the past, and the hook began unfurling, began descending looking for earth, for nurture, for an anchoring

Details started shaping up, started climbing up mind's ladder to bait sensations that had lain latent

Suddenly, or so it felt, attention peaked as attraction peeked from under nostalgia’s firm seating

It takes the proverbial one person to reverse the most profoundly felt state of numbness, to find out the leap is still just a conversation ahead, the ledge there waiting to be toyed and flirted with

The man left and dusty wings stretched reborn. Would he come back?

Galvanized and titillated, the mind's fantasy land rushed in, laid out the imaginary carpet, and scenarios of future encounters and possible connection began rising in rank. It was time for a walk and a reverie

There is nothing more inviting in life than the hope that one's interest approximates another, that thoughts about the other are forged and honed in joined space - this is the stuff of magic

There is such beauty when two beings notice something passing behind composed eyes, an intrigue spinning about who this other person may reveal himself to be beyond first glances and perfunctory assessments.

Wanting to find out what lies below the spoken line, finding one's thoughts veering back around to him, olive toned, two parts axis of evil, on a path to soak up life and with a steady acquiesecence on his lips to live the entire bucket list

To look up a week later and see him walk back in. To observe him sit at the counter with sketchbook in hand, it could hardly have felt more cinematic or prophetic. 

Could I have intended this? Could our thoughts have come to an accord inside the ether? Most delicious questions with as of yet outstanding answers. 

There remains the wish to pry inside the brain, to figure out where the I may reside if somewhere at all. There is the urge to reach out, to ask for more, to obtain a status report. 

Fact is, thoughts continue meandering in his direction. Wonderment keeps growing and the wish for an acknowledgment, for signs of a renewed meeting, abound. 

This Awakening spells untethered daydreaming and a slight unhinging. No matter. That's the stuff that colors the everyday and makes the mundane recede. This is the junction where breaking open is set in scene.

 

Broken Down Communication: A Trajectory from Of Course to Not Quite

How could we be strangers again? How could you have gone from all in one Tuesday morning to simply not caring that very evening? You did everything to woo me, to attract me, for me to care, for me to like you, for me to love you.

You knew you had a poet on your hands. You knew from the beginning. You wooed me anyway. You wrote me in superlatives - words that no earth-bound human could properly live up to. But you penned them anyway. You invited me to all the vegan places I had heard about but never been. You made yourself available in every manner of the word. You invited me to many musical and cultural outings, you drove me up and down and to anywhere I wanted. You wrote me that you were making space in your life, turning your life entirely around. You wrote me that you saw life in color once more, that you felt like an artist and that you wished to travel with me. You repeated these words until they became a beautiful tapestry and a wonderful year ahead for us. You asked me to trust, to be open. You told me that I didn't frighten you - that what would separate us would be merely death or me leaving you. You would drive all the way from South Miami around midnight to bring me back my cell phone - and you added a sonnet to the care package. You told me you were going to write me more sonnets than Shakespeare had written and that there were many canvases to be filled with your view and interpretation of my body and soul from here on. You would spend all night writing me a most profound, heartfelt letter - little to no effusion left unturned, no wish left unexpressed, no wonder left unaddressed.  You drove to see me after having seven staples placed on a wound on your head. You invited me to your mother's home and introduced me to Marci (told me that you had felt like saying I love you while showing me her Babylonian garden). You invited me to stay with you at the hotel, you invited me into your home. You extended a standing invitation for me to sleep there any night. You repeated this invitation. You bought a lavender soap for me to shower with; you bought another pine scented essential oil to place by the bed. You asked me to be yours, to claim you as mine during our most intimate togetherness. You cooked tasty vegan meals for me and you listened to my musings.

And maybe, most importantly, you gave me the most perfect gift someone could have given me - the ever so elusive typewriter.

You gave me my favorite scent with a vaporizing kit. You remembered my favorite tea flavor - Ginger Lemongrass - on board the Eclipse and gifted me a 48- pack. You would drive late at night just so we could sleep entwined in each other. You would call late in the evening asking what I was doing, wanting to see me. You would drive up at a moment's notice, partaking in any event I was interested in. You would ask me if I'd still like you if you revealed your most heinous act. You would say that you were willing to try anything with me. The flag I was asked to make to mark my queendom, you mentioned we could tattoo on our skin. You said you liked waking up next to me and you said you liked my energy. You introduced me to the people, who are dear in your life, who have a current say in your well being. You paid an Uber to drive me all the way to Homestead so I could meet two of the most essential people in your current life to lead your passion forward. You were kind, so kind. You were gentle and you were understanding. You were here with me, right here. You hugged me so closely and kissed me so ferociously and declared your affections so openly. You sent me your first letter written on crafted paper via priority mail.  The first sentence: I think of you incessantly. You told me that we met under a good omen, that the Orishas had a hand in this, that we were their marionettes. You told me that the cryssacolla stone I gave you was the one your spiritual mentor needed for a divine object. You met my friends and spent time getting to know them. You didn't skirt any effort to be in the same space with me. You were available, entirely available. You listened to my music and watched the movie I couldn't stop talking about. You spent time thinking about it, communicating your thoughts. You listened to my favorite song, played it on your guitar, sent me varying renditions of it. You wanted to teach me Tango and take me to open mic night.  You wished me to be dangerously empowered. You wanted to play music with me and establish a creative space for me. In that vein, you asked me to bring my Underwood to your home. You asked where I wished to do yoga inside your home. You sent me pictures of bedroom sets and bed sheet covers asking my opinion...and I later found out you had ordered my favorite. You told me that our first kiss happened under the auspices of Yemaya and a grinning Cheshire cat. It all felt destined, certainly not a fleeting dalliance without consequence. You were building momentum. You were painting a most beguiling picture. This was not laid out initially as a day-to-day and a let us see. This was full throttle motion, full ahead. There was a plan, there were visions, they were in the makes of being fulfilled. 

So, with this all aired out, is it out of line to ask, to scream my question

What happened from then to now?

Why, from one day to the next was I literally shown the metaphorical, the proverbial door?

Why the sudden, drastic shift? Why am I now thinking of you and feeling estranged, utterly and completely estranged

Where did the kindness go? Where did the care go?

Where did all this good will, all these affections and effusions suddenly migrate to?
 

Where did your kindness vanish to? Suddenly there is only cold unconcerned rhetoric and plenty of ruthless silence

Invitations revoked, items returned, tone ranging from cool to controlling to demanding

What could have happened inside your mind? What caused this major turn about? If it's numbness, is there not a better, kinder way to communicate it? Where did the assertion flee that you wouldn't want anything bad to happen to me? Where did this consideration disappear to? Now, I don't even know how to approach you. I don't know at all where I stand. I don't know what we are *wait, better put* what we were all this time. How can things shift so dramatically in one day's time? How can communication break down so uncompromisingly? Where did the sweet thoughts of us, the desire to engage in an us, the talks about tantra, about making lavish art, about diving into the world around us, where did you stash them?

All seems as if it never were. All of what I wrote above feels like a fever dream, like some elaborate mental scheme to will away the mundane every day. Now it feels as if I had been the one driving this on, all on my own, all along. Suddenly, it feels like I have been alone in this, because, I, on my end, cannot simply turn off the care, the attraction, the affection, the feeling. You have left me standing out in the cold knowing it hurts me. You have let silence enter when questions have been nagging and answers are needed. You disappeared without announcing it. You went from the kindest, nicest, most affectionate human being to someone - I don't know - someone I cannot gauge or feel out at all. It feels as if I don't and I never was meant to know you - and it's a damn ugly feeling.

This- is someone who couldn't care less about my emotions. This is - someone who could not care less about what I think, what I write and wonder about. This is a person who is not thinking anymore of sonnets or of creative collaborations. This is a person who is only thinking of unfucking himself of this situation that has become a burden to him, seemingly. This is no longer an Endoki in love. This is someone who can't wait to untie our currently related destinies. This is a person who is not at all missing my presence, who isn't missing anything, apparently, that relates to us. 

In one day's time, it seemingly all evaporated. All the beautiful potentiality, all the cradling, heartwarming reality, - all gone. There seems nothing left of it.

And I am left to thinking - what - in the world - went wrong? What could I have said or done or failed to say or do that led to all this coldness, this vibe of "I don't care anymore". "I want you out." "You annoy me."  "I'll do my thing and be over here - away from you". And maybe, possibly, this has nothing to do with me, and if such is the case, then why would kindness not continue to dictate the day? Why would there be such carelessness? Why would our communication break down in such a craven manner?

What led to this 180 degree cluster flip? It feels cruel. It feels rash. It feels - so - unnecessary. Even if feelings slip away, can't the kindness stay??????

This and the Fact that You Are not Free

I wrote last night and what I wrote is something I have been dying to say but it still doesn’t feel like this is it. So let me try again.

 

~~~~

i wish you and i were on the same page

...

but we are not

i tried to make it work

i tried to pretend i was ok with how

things have changed between us

 

but I am no longer

...

ok with it

 

your affections and attentions have diminished 

you - are not free

you have a lot to purge from what I can see

from where i stand - removed

but I do not dare ask

it is an untenable place to be in

i am infatuated and wish to express freely

but I cannot because my love feels like an imposition

it stands to hurt you and cause a burden

 

so I remain mostly quiet and I swallow

and what ends up happening is pain

pain in my stomach knowing that

i am not standing in my truth

i have been trying to erase my needs 

I want to be there for you,

be light, not stand in the way of

your catharsis, your purge, your process

thing is we can’t bury things for long

those repressed thoughts and feelings 

they come up, they have a way of coming up 

//

for me it’s been a loss of focus and a loss 

of internal well being

i no longer know what you think 

what you truly feel - about Relating, about you and Brittany

about me or us

all I see are huge canvases of her, and a refusal to share

i get it - it’s intimate - one could say it s none of my business

but weren’t we supposed to be a dyad

werent we supposed to be together in this?

didnt you tell me to ask you anything?

you used to be available and kind all the time

-

i knew

i knew you weren’t nearly done

going through the motions 

i wasn’t kidding myself

what i didn’t anticipate was the sudden numbness

the hot and cold, the sudden lack of kindness and care

that came with it

and it keeps coming, and it will keep coming

...

and as much as i wish i were ok with it

unfazed, unconcerned, i am not

i feel a churning on the inside, i get sad 

i feel a pit in my stomach that seems to grow

with each passing day

i cannot pretend any longer that it is not there

i am starting to lose my equanimity

and i don’t feel proud of my silence and my swallowing 

thing is -  the emotional unease stems from

feeling left out in the cold

i swear there have been times lately when it feels like

you can barely stand being around me

it feels like you don’t like me very much

and this feeling does not go away

it keeps pressing its way up

 

 

so i can no longer turn a blind eye

i must heed what I am feeling

i must honor my process alongside yours 

i really tried to take myself and my needs

out of the equation but i am afraid

i am failing

i desire more than what a promising beginning

has been demoted to

i want an evolution of what we first had:

unbridled attraction and passion

a joint interest to explore the depth

a desire to discover each other 

-

but you are not free

-

and i am losing my freedom to be authentic

and carefree as a result of it

neither one is served by this

hell, i don’t even feel you care enough

to read these lines

that is not a good sign

and it makes me so sad

and i have been going back and forth

for a while and what to do and how to 

handle This

...

what this is - a situation i never wanted to be in

a rebound, a friend with benefits

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i am not equipped for it

i am the wrong “partner” for this

i have tried to look at my position from the spiritual side

but what i keep forgetting is that I am human

and that i have feelings for you

growing feelings for you that i cannot whitewash

that i cannot tame try as i may

i feel like a prisoner in my own skin

i am yearning to express what i feel for you 

but that would be selfish and yet, if i don’t

then who am I? 

Someone you don’t get to know because i

moderate and i omit

and the silence surrounding us is becoming white noise

inside my head

 

its killing me to have to write this

i don’t want to lose you 

but if i lose myself - then purpose

and Beauty is lost 

and it cannot be what the Orishas want

you seem voracious for experience and i am

starting to feel like dead weight

()

no one likes to be seen like a conquest,

like a notch on the belt

especially since i feel we have a few things in common

because i feel we aren’t  so ill matched

and that we both have beauty and breaking open to give to each other

i don’t feel it’s s just the hormone monster on both our ends

thats why it hurts

when potential remains unrealized because timing is off

or because one person is ready and free and the other is not 

 

i erroneously thought we could be friends

but i stand corrected in my statement

i feel too much at the moment to be in your presence 

and not want your touch and affection

i guess there is always an exception to what we see 

possible in ourselves 

 

had we met in different circumstances I know 

i would have wanted nothing more than to be your muse 

i look at Brittany’s canvases and they are gorgeous

there is true adoration - ode - and yearning there

and it reminds me that this is what i’ve been dreaming of

~ for years~

someone looking at me with enduring tenderness

i cannot settle for less

i am sorry

I cannot as much as I tried

I am human and I love you 

But I cannot start loving myself less