Sweet Desire

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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.

 

 

Love is Complicated

I think we all owe a debt of gratitude to Beyonce and Jay-Z for opening up their personal marital struggles to the world. So often we look at celebrities and we only see the money and the beauty without the struggles the rest of us seem to face. They are breaking down those barriers by talking about stuff that is, well frankly, freaking embarrassing as hell. Being cheated on. Breaking vows. Giving in to baser desires and hurting your loved ones. This is deep stuff we are all looking at here with the release of Jay-Z’s 4:44.

If this successful couple can come out and be vulnerable when they have so many reasons they don’t have to, you have to respect that, and try to learn from it.

I’m not big into celebrity talk and all of that. I don’t think I’ve posted more than a few celebrity centered blogs in the 15 years I’ve been blogging. But this particular situation brings up something that I am always blogging about and forever fascinated with: the psychology of love, desire, and promises.

From my perspective – based on my own life experiences, and writing about love for a while, I feel like a few things are happening here when it comes to the psychology of love:

1 – When Beyonce used her art to talk about Jay-Z cheating she took back some of her power she probably felt she lost when she found out he cheated. And it was something to behold.

2 – Women are going to lash out at Jay-Z, not only because he hurt their beloved Beyonce, but it’s also scary, personally. It’s unnerving because here we are, just your average citizens, and there is this paragon of Goddessy art and beauty – and she got cheated on.  It makes it feel like it’s not possible to avoid being cheated on if there are any cracks at all in the trust of a relationship.

3 – Women who cheated with Jay-Z are possibly the sort who get a power surge from it. Imagine if the man who belongs to, sleeps with, and has children with, a woman who is considered one of the most beautiful, talented, and powerful women in popular culture–chooses to risk his vows and his family because he’s so attracted to you–that’s heady stuff! Aside from Jay-Z being a powerful and rich man himself, but to feel like you out-did Beyonce in some way–that could be part of rush of doing that.

4 – In offering up his confessions and apologies in such a public way, it’s giving a little power back to Beyonce in the form of support and validation. But it’s also setting an example for men who might be in a place where they are trying to decide what’s right and wrong in relationships where things are promised. If this is the nudge they need to stay on the side of the line that honors their relationship and their partner, then I think Jay-Z has done a great service to many couples out there by laying his sins bare.

And as is stated in “Red Archer” – promises don’t really mean anything when they’re easy to keep. Promises only mean something when they are hard to keep.

 

 

Quiet a Spectacle

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I will hold you, quietly. I can be still long enough to listen to your pain. I’m not good at being still. You know this. You know. I think that’s why my embracing still moments mean so much to you … because you know.

I had an epiphany about myself yesterday. A realization. And it was such a simple answer, I was certain I must have realized it some time in the past. I thought about the times I’d been embraced by somebody, only for them to get close long enough to see my utter humaneness, and then walk away. I thought this meant I was bad at love. Now I realize it’s more about the ideal of me not matching up with the reality of me. And you never did that to me. You always understood. It’s amazing to be truly seen that way.

The essence of it all? You understand why the things that matter to me–matter to me. You also understand that I am an embodiment of celebration. Even my quietness can be a spectacle. I think that comes off like obsession, or possessiveness, to some people. And in all truth, I was possessive in my first marriage. I was jealous in that life I once led. I was a teenager when we met. And that was a difficult twenty years. I grew in that time, particularly starting around my early thirties. I know the difference between excitement and jealousy, between celebration and possession. I know it for myself, even if others don’t. And you know, maybe that’s why I can appreciate the abundant trust I am now the recipient of, because I know how rare it is.

I’m trying to get over that fear of being misunderstood. You really help with that, did you know? Because even though I’ve read that Anaïs Nin quote a million times, it really sunk in yesterday. It isn’t that my love is wrong, it’s that my love is viewed through the filter of others. It’s about the way they experience my love that makes it work, or not work. Its about their past relationships and what they learned.

Maybe at some point I can stop writing and vlogging about being afraid to be misunderstood, and that will be the measure of when I am cured of that concern.

 

Whatever Part of Me

TigerLily

You pluck an ancient string in me. The chord vibrates. Resonates. You think it’s maybe bad. Sometimes I wonder about that, too. So I hold it up to the light, to look at where to cleave it–a master lapidary of emotion.

“I don’t want to cause you pain…”

Oh, sweet torture … here she goes, listening to Amy Winehouse again. Calling herself a whore. But that’s an ancient curse. An irrelevant self-flagellation. I step out of that gown and leave it on the floor as I walk away, more naked than any whore.

I like the waters a little turbulent. Smooth seas make for poor sailors. Navigating complex emotional waters has made me a captain of the HMS Cosmic Goddess. I know how to cut through the waves now. But some storms are enough to leave me listing … for a while. And it’s been awhile.

I want an inch of black eyeliner ringing my eyes. My lips painted dark and glossed, to invite a kiss. Or a bite. The cosmic goth queen in me gets restless sometimes. Where does she come from? Her white spidersilk hair, finally relevant. Older. Wiser. Wanton. Wild.

Wet.

I hope whatever part of me you can have will be worth something to you. I gave her to you freely because you asked. If she doesn’t fit, send her off on the waves and let her float away … I don’t need her anymore.

 

 

 

 

Whisper to the Wind

Sometimes I say it here, whatever it is. It’s a whisper into the wind that maybe catches an ear or two. It’s of no real consequence. Ok, maybe it’s of little consequence, but only to me. But I need to…well, at least I find it helpful to, write things down. Helps me work it all out, ya know?

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I wonder about words like “whore” and “wrong.” About what the measure of success is. Where the concepts of grief and jealousy came from. Is grief learned? Or is it born into the ancient parts of our brains? Jealousy feels so primal, like it’s hardwired into our DNA, unless you’re one of those miraculous people who does not suffer at the gaping maw of jealousy. People who don’t watch themselves aging and wondering if it matters enough to try and recapture youth, or just let things happen naturally. If you do fight it, what exactly are you fighting? Being seen as old? Losing your sex appeal? Sex and love is for everybody – not just for the young and thin among us.

It was an up-down sort of night. Emotions were observed, like cards in  a deck. Choir singing, lost friends, found adventures. Smiles and stories from the young and old alike.  Laughing friends. Storytellers. Moments my heart listened to – either for the better, or the funny little hurts that inform it.

I’m so sleepy. Going to try and go to bed now. Off you go, whispers–see if you can find an ear.

 

We’re Gonna Be Ok

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I’m a little surprised at my last two blog entries. It seems as though I’m still working through some of that old stuff. Maybe I am to some extent, but mostly it’s all background noise now. I care so much less about most of it than I ever did before. Maybe this is a way of filing it into the boxes it all belongs in.

I’ve gone back to regular journaling and I’m seeing an awesome therapist, so maybe that has contributed to busting a log jam?

I wonder what it is about writing about things that helps me so much? I suppose organizing thoughts is a big plus. I love lists, too. Makes you feel like you have some semblance of control in your life. Also, when I write something down that’s been swimming around in my head for a bit, it kind of lets it have a place to live when I don’t want it hanging out rent-free in my brain anymore. Sort of a detox.

I think that there can be the danger of meditating on the negative in journaling (and blogging). Every time we send something out there, there’s a good chance something is coming back – and I prefer the stuff coming back to be happy. It’s hard to be Miss. Positvity all the time, though.

Is it for validation? Am I writing this so somebody will validate me? Hmmm. Lots to consider. Maybe some validation would be nice. But more than that, I believe I speak out to the people who these topics will resonate with, so they don’t feel alone. Because no matter how good of a person you want to be, stuff bubbles up sometimes. You can’t be sweet and rise above it ALL THE TIME.

When people sleep with your man, or lie to you, or lie to you so they can sleep with your man (I’m beginning to see a theme here) – it can really be difficult to rise above it. To just say, “HEY, whatevs, you go and have fun, catcha on the flip side.” Then go on like it’s no big deal. At the VERY LEAST it’s nice to get an apology, or even some kind of explanation. A little bit of salve for the wounds. I don’t want to go around being pissed all the time, bleeding from my hurts. Who has the energy for that shit? So…what do you do? You decide whether you’re taking the high road, or the low road. Sometimes you actually climb down that stupid little berm FROM the high road TO the low road because you can’t help but run on that low road a bit, then you try hiking back up (don’t slip!) to the high road (don’t get snooty!) and be your better self.

And it isn’t just stuff that people have done to me that gets me to twisting inside and writing stuff down.  I need to work out the wrong stuff I’ve done that has hurt others. Sometimes I don’t even feel like I’m ALLOWED to talk about the bad stuff that I have endured, because I know I’ve fucked up a bunch of times, and there’s nothing I dislike more than a hypocrite (except maybe an MRA or a Westboro Baptist). I wish I could go back and fix all of the things I did that were wrong, but I can’t. (If you feel I owe you an apology – please write to me and we can talk about it!) And it doesn’t take the sting away from what’s been done to me. Maybe it makes me sit in the corner a bit longer with it, and when I come back out to talk about it, I’d better be ready to work on my own bad habits and trespasses. Right side up. Upside down.

Then there’s the bad stuff that happened to me that isn’t as bad as the bad stuff that’s happened to other people, so do I have the right to be hurt or upset? The answer is YES we do – we get to feel our hurts however small they may seem by comparison to others. Your hurts count. You count. But never forget to be grateful. That is so important!

So, now I’ve dusted some stuff up, and when I sit down to write journals and blogs this is the stuff that’s coming out. And I guess that’s fine – I must have needed it. Working it out. Process.

I used to use that old saying with my kids all the time, the one about life giving you lemons. Well, one day I said to my youngest (who was 20 by then), “Well, if life gives you lemons…” and she replied, “Well, life better give you some goddam sugar too, or your lemonade is going to taste like shit!” And so the child is correct. Fortunately I have lots of sugar. Good friends, good health, a generous lover, and great daughters. I’m fond of my sister, too. HI SISSY!

Anyway, if you need to work some stuff out, I definitely recommend journaling. Make your lists. Take stock. Redraw lines. Feel your hurts. Put some Windex. It will be ok. We’re going to be ok, you and me.

The Corner of Fifteen

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It’s hard to imagine now just how small the world was to me then. He lived next door and worked for his dad’s contractor business. He fixed stuff. At least that’s what I thought. He broke stuff, too. My illusions of love, for example. My innocence of how lovers worked, and what power imbalance was. The belief that if you became pregnant, he would stay, because that’s what men are supposed to do. The reality that in the end, I might not want him to stay. And that people don’t always do what they are “supposed” to do.

I lost a lot of things that year, but I gained some things I would never trade. To say I am happy to have had a beautiful child come from that union may sound cliche, but I wouldn’t change it if I could. It set me on a path to self-improvement and an unfortunate spate of cynicism about men, I’m glad I’ve left behind (for the most part), but made me see feminism in a different light. Those bad experiences with a bad person set the cornerstone of the person I am today.

That house–my family’s, and his next door, are so foreign to me now. It’s like looking at a photo album from some movie I watched. I can conjure up the memories like they were last month, but I feel as though I am viewing them through a sheet of plastic.

I can’t remember the taste of him, or how he kissed. I can remember some of his cheesy lines and hurtful comments. I can remember him throwing pennies at me from his bedroom window. I can remember he smoked Marlboro reds and wore Stetson cologne. I would smell that combination into the mid-1990s sometimes, but thankfully Stetson has lost its appeal. Whichever men who might have stockpiled it, stuck in the 1980s, have probably run out by now.

My heart was broken. It was two years before I would date again. I wasn’t done making mistakes I wouldn’t fix, though. But that’s a story for another time.

 

Summer 1981

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I miss waiting for “The Wizard of Oz” to come on once or twice a year. I miss the lead up to the end of the school year and the phenomenon of the summer blockbuster. I miss not understanding about bills and politics. I miss jump-rope and jacks and creeks with smooth stones. I miss that first kiss feeling, when you weren’t even sure how kissing worked. I miss grape soda and skinned knees, tire swings and climbing trees. I miss swimming all day for weeks in a row. I miss the coolness of a desert night, sitting in a concrete pipe with a friend talking about everything, after the rest of the neighborhood had gone to sleep.