Vulnerable

thinking of us
all the long way
from then to there
and here we are

thinking of us
lying in bed, spread
imagining you there
and here, I am

listening for You—
  for the rallying  cry, 
  for seeking and finding
  for frenzy and  wisdom
  for love struck
  for chiming in 
  for harmony, even from two crowns

striving for me—

  When every thing feels like failing and falling
  When hope is fleeting and my lover fickle
  When fact and fiction are equally strong
  When  force and fury beg forgiveness
  When fucking is fantastic and
   things are fanfuckingtastic


pressing, pulling, coming
  to the aching conclusion
  the swelling sense of  sweet
    lovejoyfancyneedlosshopedesire

The Womb in "Giovanni's Room"

Not having it right in front of me, but for starters:

  The title is "Giovanni's Room," but, it isn't Giovanni's at all..it's some woman's, a maid, whom we never meet. This may explain, partially, the presence of the romantic painting—a man and woman dancing or walking together, roses all around, I think. Eventually, Giovanni begins to "renovate" the room, but he only manages to bring in dirt, detritus, and disarray. But what if the room, belonging to a woman, is representative of the womb belonging to a woman? It's not just that the painting taunts Giovanni because of its own symbolic horror, and so he wants to erase it, but also that he is literally destroying, scraping out, the womb signifying the "abortive relationship" he has with David, and the dead infant in his past. 

  For David, the threat of the inescapable, disfigured womb— the all-seeing dead mother, whose influence dominated his childhood home even through absence—doubled with the image of the life he pretends, sometimes wants, but ultimately cannot have, becomes too terrible, and he must run to a living woman, any woman, to prove himself capable of rejuvenating life, in his loins, in her, in his future. 

Excerpt from the Sacred Prostitute

  "Differentiation is not a limiting factor; on the contrary, it is necessary for full psychological development. In the second half of life, the psychic process is predisposed toward reuniting the opposites, only now on a conscious level where the feminine principle of Eros and the masculine principle of Logos function congruently. Alchemists from the time of the Dark Ages describe this process in the poetic image of Sol and Luna, as gold ans silver, being melted into a unity purified of all opposition, and therefore incorruptible. But the sacred marriage can only occur after there has been a differentiation of the masculine and the feminine principles. As Ulanov writes:

          'Without wrestling with this task of differentiation, we fall into formlessness and a cheap         imitation of current persona roles. We miss our chance to become unique persons. Furthermore, we miss the spiritual significance of physical sexuality. If we deny sexual differences then we deny the fact of otherness that is so strikingly conveyed to all of us through sexual experience.'"

 

This could be the end...

I see you in the evening
Sitting on your throne
You're playing with a fireball
And post it up against wall

(so say the Kings)

and everywhere you go 
there is darkness 
and there is light

A well timed joke, 

a well earned smoke, 

as I muse and meander through what is

and was

and may be...
where, on earth, am I?
a blue hall with faint blue doors?
a roiling saturation of blood-fresh red?
a cut down tree, glowing violet at the heart?
     

All for one

Pitting one against the other
never turns out right—
the surest way to kill joy is through comparison—

"I've loved Him longer...been there, been through..."

"Yes, but I love him newly, with new perspective..."

"Oh, but I love Him, unfulfilled, afar..."

"But I am His home."

"I am his desire."

"I am His frivolity."

"I am his fantasy."

"This I know..."

"But this, I know."

"Me...look here...see how I know?"

"I will spend..."

"I will make..."

"I will send..."


All of us trying to know more, show more, be more...
  for You, to You. To prove that we are capable of what no other could do for You, or with You, or through You...all to be chosen...all for One, one memory, one moment, one man.

Fool

  So, here I am again...reaching and reaching, knowing everything is pulling away, slowly, but with ever more efficiency. And so I try not to reach too much, or too fast, or for too long, trying to grab the snippets of affection you still show, hoping, hoping, hoping that they will stir in you renewed desire for me, however small, believing that small things grow. I do not expect the immediate return of your desire, as I know there are still old hurts and ideas that must be purged from the system, and so I try to keep my own system clear... I try to appreciate that you ask after me, taking it as a small sign of care, concern. comfort, but my response earns no response, and I cannot say whether it is a matter of business, or avoidance. I am not asking for much, just encouraging words, and an encouraging heart. I am seeking my courage, my personal power, but I need a boost to help me feel empowered—you ask me still, to admire you, look here, smell there, and again, I take it as reason for hope, that for you to ask me to come closer and observe, and feel for myself the pleasure of knowing you, means that for that moment you want me near, are inviting me in to the sensual...but, then, when my responses to your questions are met with silence, I am drawn back into a position of doubt. And some times I think that because I am having trouble keeping myself entirely lifted through these ins and outs and ups and downs and overs and unders and backs and forths that we are experiencing, that because I do still get depressed, in spite of my best efforts, that because you're mood and receptivity do, in fact, impact me greatly, that somehow you see me as not doing what needs to be done. I do not believe that I deserve "full credit", because I know that in many ways I am still ignorant about myself, about how to find the me that's me, the me that's best for me, and best for us, even best for the world; but I know also that my position has shifted, and I know that, even though, on some days, I fail at doing more, I am doing more. I don't know how long it takes to learn discipline, to be disciplined...I think discipline is what I need, mostly from myself (but, yes, I do want discipline from others, as well, because, let's face it, spankings are fun—as your bumper sticker may soon attest!) but I don't think I could ever be severe about it... I think you know what I mean. But then, maybe that in itself is a problem...like, I'm asking for it, but not too rough, not too hard...just enough to get me there, but not enough to sap the pleasure out of it... I have been trying to infuse my will with the will, not just the desire, to change into what I always wanted to be: a woman with subtle secrets, a woman who is desired and has desires, a woman who is and has accomplished, a woman who feels the universe moving, a woman who sees the best in people and brings it out, a woman who is respected, a woman who is intelligent, a woman who is sexually satisfied, liberated, and free, a woman who is witty and charming, a woman who is fulfilled...and sometimes I worry that is too much to ask for, when it has not been given me as birthright, because I, who wished so desperately to change her station and position in this world, still secretly believe that I don't deserve to be all those things, because those who deserve have already received their blessings, and that whatever it would take to sculpt me into such a woman would be far too costly, well beyond my reach. Is it worth the dying to try..? Is it worth the living to not? There are so many examples of people, men and women from all lands, that have risen beyond their circumstances, and I hope to discover the skill to do so too. And so, while I understand that there is no way, no logical, practical, way, for us to be everything and all to each other, even as Romance still appeals to a naive little girl in me, I also truly need from you acceptance, moral support, and the same understanding you always asked from me (especially as it pertains to the argument that you are not my father, so too, I am not your mother)as I seek out what else will satisfy. (I look out the window, and see that googly eyes and branches that signify your presence, and remember that this time it is not so) Whatever I will be, I will be different, and I want, most of all, to come through all of this, all of the things that hold me away from myself, all of the things I am afraid of, all of the things I held for so long that did not serve me, with an ego sufficiently stroked, a mind enlivened, a heart empowered, and a body that moves with it all, no longer, uncertain, no longer afraid, no longer waiting to be, no longer a fool too afraid to take herself seriously.  

The First Day of Spring

I nearly gave up on myself, 
  I wanted only to sink into that 
  Dark, Torturous room—slick grinding, and muffled, warbled, garbled screams—
  and lie on the floor weeping, weeping, 
  weeping... Heart sick

(She Dove
    Came back)

But then, with a measure of hope in magic
  I went instead into the 
  gloaming Present Peace room—water singing lightly, stones set, and a guiding voice—
  and lay on the floor breathing, breathing, 
  breathing... Heart lift.

She drove
    Came home

And when I came home, 
  I walked across worn wood in that
  humble house that is a room—wind whisping, chimes swinging, and your keyed thoughts— 
  and we lay on the bed talking, sharing, 
  touching... Heart felt.

The Melancholy of Resistance

Think of them as Spirit voices. Emotions find attachments. I could feel her anxiety. She is me.
  

  At first, her practiced detachment was slightly offending—she clearly wouldn't stand to brush shoulders with any strange persons, and eye contact was to be strictly avoided except in the most extreme cases—then it all became very amusing. Not as boisterous and blundering as Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Bouquet, if you please), but rather, she is a woman, as she recognizes herself, a lady, who, when travelling alone amongst coarse crowds, keeps a discreetly dignified exterior, while internally she  staves off her anxiety by keeping moral tabs on the senseless humanity around her. Her attempt to reserve a circle of defensive space around herself fails to keep away the broad back belonging to the broadcloth coat or the harried face and voice of the peasant woman. Her distress at the leering man, the noisy rabble, the lurching of the train, motivates an inner dialogue eventually driving her to high anxiety—the "attempted rape," the brutal beating in the darkened street, the failing electricity, no help forthcoming, and all she can do is run, run, run from her rumpled dignity, from strangers who assault with scent and sound, from her own gigantic fears.

I Love Thursday Mornings

...waking up 
Your furred face, 
smelling wild, 
upturned and glowing,
I roll and burrow
into deep sleep smells,
and take the tendrils of dreams,
curling into my core, 
and gather the menagerie of watchers
  who witness

  I love Thursday mornings. Thursday mornings are my preview of the weekend, my reward for half a week's worth of work, a special delight that comes for no special reason, other than it's Thursday. Waking up, feeling you wake up next to me, slower than other mornings, knowing there will be coffee brewed and shared, still hot, spiced and creamed, held in matching mugs; there might be eggy-cheese sandwiches on toast...it sounds like the weekend, but it's Thursday and it's delicious. 

  Thursday mornings are good for me, and today was especially good. 

Happy Anniversary

...just a day like any other, You said. 

  Slice, cut , burn, scrape, pierce, poke, choke, slap—hurt people hurt people. You asked why I cared, I asked what kind of a question is that? You said, a sincere one—but it couldn't have been, because You know better. You know that just because You are angry with me, even when I am angry with You, there is never, never, a moment when I don't care. Ever. It is You who stop caring, here and there, is that not so? 

  I was, I am, proud of myself. For last night—for allowing myself the pleasure of being in the moment; for not allowing hurtful thoughts to taint the experience I was there for—truly, not even having hurtful thoughts—a breakthrough!—; for not crying; for interacting even through an uncomfortable meeting, without envy, or fear, or judgment. I was, I am, proud of myself for this morning—again, for not becoming hysterical, for not yelling, or throwing, or hitting anything, even though today is important to me. But, my self-control in these moments is nothing to You. You see no progress there, and are too hardened against me, in a moment, to give me credit. But, I am not giving up. 

  You have been, for many months, on a wonderful journey to a better self. I, am right behind You, soon to be abreast. You hit a very rocky bottom last summer, and it was the catalyst for great change. And yet, there is much that has not changed—I thought it was a goal of Yours, to expand Your patience, especially with me. Why did we get married, if not to support each other, and lift each other up, to be the kind voice when the the inner voice is cruel, to model patience for each other, and to practice on each other love and warmth to spread to the world. But, in times like these, I feel that You attach residual resentments to the situation at hand—and how can I move forward when You treat me just the same? I am taking more responsibility for myself, for my body and my mind, but I don't think that means You have no responsibility to me. I think that whatever relationships we are in, we have responsibilities to our partners. You asked me how much of myself I want to change—I don't think You believe I can, and feel like You have given up on me. I have not hit the same rock-bottom; I am trying to heal myself before it gets that far. Do You see that? Can You believe it? Can You help me, by allowing the past top be the past, and the present the present?

  I didn't think I would be able to sleep, last night, after much ado about nothing. But I took a lesson I had learned, only earlier that day, and imagined soothing light, blue and white and violet, passing through my head, moving up and down my spine, blanketing me. It worked! And I prayed that in the morning, You too would have let it all go. You said You weren't holding a grudge, but what else can I call it, when You are holding on to whatever happened yesterday, the day before, last week, last year... if You are always regarding me as what I was, it keeps Your mind confined, and You confine me to Your contempt, hostility, disappointment—just as, if I were to see You as the same man You were last year, or the one before, I would be doing You a disservice, and an injustice. Please, cast off the past, and know, see, witness that I am stretching, expanding, and growing stronger. It's true.

  I love You. I love so deeply, so fiercely, yes it sometimes hurts, but I would never choose to love You less, for the sake of less pain. I am, we are, still learning ourselves, and each other. Do You want me to fully comprehend who You are? I wonder if that's possible. If You continue to grow and expand and learn, then there will always be more for me, or anyone else, to understand, examine, and know. I think that is exciting! How wonderful, to always be getting better, more interesting! I sometimes feel I know You very well, but I also know that You are mysterious—Through learning myself, loving myself, I will also know more of You. 

  I write this now, hopeful. It is true, that we have, and will, struggle at times. This is true for any relationship that moves through time. But, instead of struggling against each other, we could struggle with each other, for a shared goal. My goal—to see You be the best man You can be, to see me be the best woman I can be, and to share our love and happiness with each other and with others. I believe in us, in our marriage. I believe we both will be fulfilled, and I believe that as we grow together, and for ourselves,though it be painful, at times, we will be grateful for the experience, wiser for the lessons, stronger for the work, and loving for the pleasure...successful for the commitment. 

  Happy Anniversary. 

I walked in the moonlight, 
I had not done so in awhile,
 and listened to the small singing night beings
 whose lives are so much simpler than ours. 
I breathed in the spiced smoke,
I do when I have much on my mind,
 and welcomed the heady rush burn in
 exhaling deeply to clear spaces between.

And now

Lingering hurts, 
thoughts combined into pulpy mash
Believing, disbelieving, Disbelieving believing
a strangely isolated place,
having forgotten much in fighting the pain, 
and searching for how, how, how to make my magic,
cultivate, yes,
grow, yes, 
scratch and itch and burn and yearn, 
Disbelieving, believing, Believing disbelieving
a loss of Trust, 
a lack of Faith,
a stumble and fall, 
hard thoughts make hard feelings make 
conversations hard, but
You will tell the whole world,
soft thoughts make soft spots make
me want You near, 
but You don't want to hear that from me, 
...so fragile a kiss,
so fragile, a heart—
Believing
disbelieving
disbelieving
believing

Punishment, or TLDR: I should have shut the fuck up.

  You say You don't do it to punish me, but You know damn well that's how it feels, what it looks like, how it functions. When I walked in the door, I could tell something was off. You maintained a distance from me, and I had been gone all day, our last communication giving no evidence of any tension. There was, from what I could tell, nothing I had done to warrant the distance. But, not wanting to be invasive, not wanting to repeat the previous hug fiasco, I didn't draw in to You. I tried to tell You about the moon, the yoga, the night...when You said we should go lay in bed, I thought that perhaps now would be the time; but, no. You crawled into bed as I made us tea—tea You would not drink—, and covered Yourself, chin to toes, as if I were not even allowed to look at You. You were very clearly avoiding me, contact, touch...and perhaps it was not enough that I did not reach out to touch You. I tried to give You a space to talk, and instead of telling me that You did not want to, were too tired, You give me vague answers about speaker and audience, then seemingly fall asleep. I was frustrated, because I felt like You weren't acknowledging me, that You were edging around the subject, and then acting as if I have no reason to suspect that there is an issue. You asked me about normality, as if, from Your perspective, everything was as usual. It felt like You were being callous—knowing that every day I look forward most to coming home to You, eager, every day, every hour, for closeness. Something about, after being alone for a while You don't know how to be around people...

  I told You what my perception was, specifically, that You were upset about having to change the plans You had made, You were decided not to be close to me and to make me suffer as You were suffering. I admitted that I could be wrong, but that I couldn't see another reason for Your distance. I asked, nicely, for You to either confirm or deny what You call my "accusation." Because You didn't like what I said, or how I said it, or why I said it, You chose not to address it, and to let it fester in me. This is what I meant when I told you You had the power to alleviate my concern. You say that I make mistakes, when after years of observation I should know better. But, after years of observation, has it ever helped me to "see more clearly" or to "calm down" when You don't answer the questions I ask, when you walk away, when You get out of answering by condescending to me? That is the surest way to elevate my frustration and anger. I know that sometimes I walk away to smoke when we are arguing, to give myself a space to breathe and redirect, and I try to make that clear, and I think You know that when I get a clove, I'm calling time-out; but, when You walk away, it makes me feel like You are doing it to—I've already deleted this and started over because I can't get it right, and everything I write inspires images of Your disgust. What I'm trying to say, is that I feel like You can hurt me, so much more than I can hurt You. I know that I have, and it tears me up, because I love You more than anything. And, it feels like You know, as well as I do, that You have a power over me that I do not hold over You. You know, it hurts me when You leave the bed in anger. You know, it hurts me when You withdraw, physically or emotionally. You know, it hurts me when You don't speak to me. You know,starting or ending the day with stress, without affirmation, is painful to me. All of these little hurts that hurt so much—I don't have this effect on You, You don't feel the need for me that way. So, believing that You know these things, I can only believe that these wounds are intentional. 

  Maybe it's true, I am an abuser—I won't deny that in the past I have acted out against You—maybe, I abuse myself. mostly. I've told You, and it's true, that I have never gotten so riled by anyone as I am by You; I never hit anything or anyone until we started having really awful fights. I don't blame You, but I think, a long time ago, when I saw You handling Your anger by being destructive, I learned how to do it too—and now, we both have to break the habit. But simply voicing my observations, accusatory or not, isn't abuse. Bringing attention to the fact that we haven't had physical contact in 24 hours isn't abuse. Getting angry, feeling hurt and lonely, these are not abuse. I was trying to have an honest conversation last night, because something was obviously on Your mind. We could have avoided this whole fight, all of it, if You had just been honest with me. We are both guilty.

  You were still in avoidance mode this morning...else , why did You not kiss or caress me, as is the usual morning greeting? So, I waited as long as I could, lying awake, aching for touch, for connection, until finally, I had to get up. Usually, if You are not upset with me, You will say "Good Morning" as I come down the ladder; since You said nothing, I assumed, taken with the lack of physical touch, that You were still upset. You come to me, while I am at a disadvantage, and ask if I am still mad at You, I say I thought You were mad at me...shouldn't that have been the end of it? If neither of us was mad anymore, what happened? You thought I was being short-sighted, I wanted You to acknowledge my observations, concerns, as legitimate. I wanted a hug. A kiss. A pat on the head.

  You asked me if I ever look in a mirror. Of course I do. Every day. What do I see? A crooked face, a weakened and warped body, a twisted soul. What is the "double?" I'm not up on my Lacan. The self, and the other self, okay, fine...but I haven't figured out how to remove myself from myself to find something better. I fail every day. I was a little proud of myself yesterday, making it through the day even after a rough morning, doing three separate yoga sets, trying really hard not dwell on negativity, to connect with breath—but now it feels like a useless effort. Nothing changed, nothing got better—I didn't get better. I came home, was rejected anyway(regardless of malice), lost control of myself for a moment, slept unsatisfyingly, and managed to anger You while wanting not to. So now, I just feel like shit. Punished. By You, by It, and even by me. And now that I think about it, it really is my fault. 

  There I am, desperately wanting to be hugged, and I guess if I couldn't get that then I was going to get some kind of engagement. I mean, it makes sense, right? I am angry because Your body language, and even verbal language, indicated You didn't want to talk with me at all. I should have just shut the fuck up. I'm sorry. 



  

   

I am a seed

I am a seed
and I am still growing
through mud and rock.
I was almost too dry, 
closed too tightly, 
but I can feel the shell giving,
just a little,
and cracking. 
I sat in a pocket of tears, 
and now there is moisture 
seeping in. Someday, 
maybe tomorrow,
my tiny shoot will 
open hands, to push 
through the mud and rock
and make a space to move into.
And the next day, I will stretch a little more, until
I break the surface, and then
I will feel my roots grow strong, from the seed I am, 
and my leaves unfold, from the Sun that is,
and I will grow and grow and grow.
There will be cold days, and snowy nights, and dry, hot summers;
there will be times when nourishment is scarce,
and months when I cannot help but shoot up farther
and faster;
From seed to shoot to sproutling...
and if I'm lucky, and tend my self with care, 
I'll bloom—

Yes, bloom, and be grateful for the grace of maturity.
Bloom, and know the life-struggle, 
the dance with the elements, 
the drawing up and in of air and water, 
of heat, and food, of care, 
that all was meant and made for the moment at hand,
the fulfillment of purpose, the joy of knowing, at last 
at last, the fruit buried within, 
attracting all the stars to look, inviting all the bees to taste,
honeyed and sticky with sweet-life-song-sex.