Sweet Desire

sweetdesire

ELO starts singing “Living Thing” and they get to the part about, “… yoooOOO-OO-OOu, and your sweet desiii-III-iiire …” and it made me think of him. I sent a quick love note:

“yooOOOooOOu and your sweet desiiiiIIIIiiire” always makes me think of you thinking of me

you make me feel like my desire is something beautiful

******

I can’t count how many times I have been shamed for my desire. Worse crime–I have a body that society doesn’t deem worthy of desire (from either side of the equation).

I was what my parents called a “willful child” and I tend to eventually question the stones I carry, and sometimes throw them right back. Other times I just carry that shit around without even understanding why. Why does it matter if somebody else thinks my desire is too much of a tsunami of want and emotion? I think it all boils down to that thing I always say: we all want to feel like we matter. Or at least not want to feel like what we’re doing is bad or wrong somehow.

It feels really good to hear a fun little pop song and find meaning in it. Though we shouldn’t let others determine our worth, it sure is validating to remember my desire is worth something to somebody. To know that somebody thinks it’s beautiful and I am worthy of it.

 

 

A River Runs Through Her

riverrunsthroughher

I once wrote a poem about myself as a river. It was convincing, I think. And I felt it. Powerfully.

But.

Maybe it’s smaller, like a brook. A small meandering gentle flowing place to dip my toes and wash my blues away.

Smooth river stones. Winking diamond reflections as the water moseys by.

I feel small. I feel herded, funneled, mined by corporations who only know me by what I buy, watch, listen to.

I just want to float. I want to feel free enough to catch the rays as I float on by all of the glut and greed. I only need enough. Enough love. Enough money. Enough creativity. Just … enough to sustain my spirit and body. Enough to help the people who need it.

I need rest. I haven’t had rest in months. I haven’t had a vacation of any kind in years. I need rest before my spirit gives up. Before my body gives out.

I also need to find out where I dropped my faith and hope. They are stones in the brook, somewhere. I’ll keep looking, before it’s too late.

 

 

She Wanders a Little

wildhair

I told my therapist about my inward energy. “I’m in a downward cycle,” I said. “That’s what I call it.” She already knew. I’m normally big and outwards. I was more pensive, and my responses measured.

“Not like when I was younger. Not downward like that.” Or something like that. And what I mean is, I don’t rock in a dark bathroom hurting myself anymore, like I did when I was in my twenties and didn’t understand what all of these …. feelings? … were.

I dragged my partner along because I felt overwhelmed by how much had happened since I’d last seen her. It had maybe been two months. I didn’t want to waste my 50 minutes rattling on, thoughts flitting like butterflies, and zagging like drunken fruit flies. I wanted purpose.

I updated in sputters, looking to him to organize the thoughts in straight lines. We told her I’ve been grumpy. Mostly at Will, who called me out on it.

We told her about my latest adventure.

“She wanders a little bit. Never too far, though. But yeah, she does.”

“What do you think of that,” the therapist asks.

“I don’t worry,” he says.

Then we went and saw the fireflies in the treetops afterwards. It was hard to tell where the bioluminescence ended and the stars began. We stood there, craning our necks, arms looped around each other. Then kisses. Deep, loving, with that edge of desire creeping in.

We went to the car the other day. It was sunny and the clouds were the big puffy variety, but moving faster than that sort usually does. “It’s so beautiful out. Wow, just so beautiful.” And it was – balmy and bright. The kind of day you might draw with crayons. I said that it was the sort of day you lay on the grass together and look up and shout out cloud creatures. He agreed. He opened the car door for me and before I got in I said, “We’re going to die some day. And everybody we know, too.” And he just said, “Yup,” or something like that, and maybe kissed my forehead and I got in.

These sorts of things creep into my stories. The highs and lows of being inside of myself. The fears of an anxious brain and the darkness of a depressed one. Instead of letting it hurt me the way it used to, I use it. I use it to write. I use it to make art. Anybody who has ever been through these things, these painful beauties of feeling so much, and these lows that make your bed hold you in its maw, prisoner–they will recognize it. Anybody in a long-term relationship, they’ll recognize some of it.

I had some petty shit happen to me yesterday. And actually, some other petty shit happen to me last week. And I look at these petty things and think of all of the petty things I could have done, but never did, and wonder why some people can’t resist the urge. So, instead of trying to understand them, I just flip that shit. For every petty thing somebody does to me, I turn around and do something nice for somebody–usually something subtle, or even anonymous–so the yin and the yang are all in balance.

Right now I am drinking some sake warmed by my husband on the stove, in a cup my friend Gina made. I’m thinking of what graphic I am going to put with this blog entry. A photo of the cup? A doodle? I guess I’ll find out just before you do.

sake

How about that. The sake and a doodle. ❤