New York. It wants me. It longs for me, has for some time now. It has been seducing me with its intensity, its charm, its poetic fervor. Apocalyptic buildings and menstruum of narcissism. Oh New York. You are such a cad. How did you know I would come back? I thought I was finished with your icy stares, your warm surprises. I thought we were through. And yet, this affair presents itself once again. I am going to be with you. Risking poverty and comfort, because I have always loved you. I did in high school and was afraid. Again in college. Too scared to break up with Colorado. Easy Colorado, so sunny and bright. But I don't get wet in that mountainous state. I need an island city for that.
Dublin almost did it. There was a man there - Ireland man. He held my heart for a while, so that the green country, wrapped in mist would be my object of pining. A year passed and New York, your stable chaos waited. You are a patient and tenacious place. Extreme cool, extreme autonomy, extreme diversity. You are the hero of my story right now. Will you break my heart? We'll find out.
You, New York, incubator of ideas and edges, you keep calling. What will you do with me? Have I become strong enough for you these past few years. Am I resilient enough to bear the force of crashing dreams? Dreams that, like the ocean wrapped around you, swell and crash with reassuring predictability. I find comfort in your brutal honesty. I exist alongside your furious temper, your open arms. What was it about the land where you have grown that called such a clever city? What demanded I return for a hearty period?
So I will confess my current position. I will speak it to my camera and pull it together in time for you to really know what you're getting in to. Because New York, I am a force to be reckoned with. I am a powerful woman, wrought with inspiration, tormented by addiction, excited about life. I am not a faithful lover in the tradition sense. I cannot promise monogamy. I will have affairs with other cities. I can't help but fall in love with the warm romance of Latin countries, the dusty magic of an unsanitary meat market, the Spanish idiom, or Portuguese. But you call me nonetheless. I have until this point resisted your flirtations. Now I am giving in, surrendering my body to your dirty streets and perfect sunsets. New York, for now, I'm yours.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
What To Do When All You Think About Is Food
I keep thinking about food. What might I have for breakfast? Images of poached eggs and thick-sliced sprouted grain bread. A smoothie with fresh yoghurt, ripe bananas, cacao and oat milk. An apple and a spoonfull of almond butter. Macadamia nuts with sultanas and dried figs. The perfect cappuccino or a pot of chai - the floral spices muddled together in the stone bowl of my mortar and pestle and brewed delicately with honey and milk. As my brain ever rapidly produces possible menu items, my mouth fills itself with impatient juices. How am I supposed to be present when my mind can't stop flirting with the future kitchen? I am frustrated.
Such is the humble practice of my meditation. Every morning, after a kind stretch, I sit quietly for at least 15 minutes. The routine is beautiful and nearly always takes some detour like that described above. Food is my mental escape. It is the maddening digression from work, play, connection and even silence. I use it to distract myself from everything.
This morning, however, I tried something different. Rather than being the witness to my thoughts or coming back to my breath or exercising any number of techniques designed to empty the mind, I felt my belly and moved lower. I recognized the impetus behind the habitual food dreaming as a desire to consume, to eat life. I moved beyond the hunger for food. As it turns out, I'm not starving. I want to fuck.
I began imagining myself making love with everyone. Touching, licking, waves of delightful fire. My whole being engaged in a sexual feast. Legs spread arms wide - body cracked open for this experience of life. No shame, just real human connection rooted in the physical body. A celebration of humanness!
There seems to be a tendency to confuse sex with uncouth intentions. Not a real revelation, but actually consider the opposite. That more than being "not a bad thing" sex can be the beautiful entry point into a practice of integrity, honesty and (of course) love.
Public education, if we're lucky, may touch on the sexual experience, though it is typically to warn teens about STIs. Our parents may have shared some bits in a serious and awkward conversation that always included "protecting yourself." Rarely is sex talked about as a creative, exciting opportunity for embodiment, a playground for the art of connection.
I am not brushing aside the risks of sexual play, but they are harped on. On a public soapbox, the announcer for sex over-emphasizes potential dangers without giving enough credence to the healing aspects. Nor does he mention that sex is intense (in part) because the risks are great. But this does not mean sex is bad or only dangerous.
Sexual interaction provides an opportunity to share with another person or connect with oneself through the focus of paying attention to the body. Sex does not have to adhere to rules, it does not have to include penetration or even nudity. The kind of sex I am talking about does, however, require the flesh. It is not intellectual. It is experience. It is the twin desire to the food impulse - to taste life sensually, erotically. There is an aliveness in the quality of sexual presence - a delightful and deep magic that pulls us beyond mediocrity.
When the meditation ended I reentered the house. As the day progressed, everything was colored differently. Suddenly everyone became a sexual being. It did not matter age, education, relationship, I simply viewed every person as a sexual creature. It leveled all social expectation. Everybody begins at the bottom. All it took was relaxing my vagina and anus with every human interaction. Simply paying attention to these sexual parts - to my nipples and my tongue, the fleshy hoc, and my hands. It made my awareness of other people more whole and sexier. I blushed often and thought less about food. My dining thoughts did not disappear entirely, but I gained another choice about what to do with the energy.
Such is the humble practice of my meditation. Every morning, after a kind stretch, I sit quietly for at least 15 minutes. The routine is beautiful and nearly always takes some detour like that described above. Food is my mental escape. It is the maddening digression from work, play, connection and even silence. I use it to distract myself from everything.
This morning, however, I tried something different. Rather than being the witness to my thoughts or coming back to my breath or exercising any number of techniques designed to empty the mind, I felt my belly and moved lower. I recognized the impetus behind the habitual food dreaming as a desire to consume, to eat life. I moved beyond the hunger for food. As it turns out, I'm not starving. I want to fuck.
I began imagining myself making love with everyone. Touching, licking, waves of delightful fire. My whole being engaged in a sexual feast. Legs spread arms wide - body cracked open for this experience of life. No shame, just real human connection rooted in the physical body. A celebration of humanness!
There seems to be a tendency to confuse sex with uncouth intentions. Not a real revelation, but actually consider the opposite. That more than being "not a bad thing" sex can be the beautiful entry point into a practice of integrity, honesty and (of course) love.
Public education, if we're lucky, may touch on the sexual experience, though it is typically to warn teens about STIs. Our parents may have shared some bits in a serious and awkward conversation that always included "protecting yourself." Rarely is sex talked about as a creative, exciting opportunity for embodiment, a playground for the art of connection.
I am not brushing aside the risks of sexual play, but they are harped on. On a public soapbox, the announcer for sex over-emphasizes potential dangers without giving enough credence to the healing aspects. Nor does he mention that sex is intense (in part) because the risks are great. But this does not mean sex is bad or only dangerous.
Sexual interaction provides an opportunity to share with another person or connect with oneself through the focus of paying attention to the body. Sex does not have to adhere to rules, it does not have to include penetration or even nudity. The kind of sex I am talking about does, however, require the flesh. It is not intellectual. It is experience. It is the twin desire to the food impulse - to taste life sensually, erotically. There is an aliveness in the quality of sexual presence - a delightful and deep magic that pulls us beyond mediocrity.
When the meditation ended I reentered the house. As the day progressed, everything was colored differently. Suddenly everyone became a sexual being. It did not matter age, education, relationship, I simply viewed every person as a sexual creature. It leveled all social expectation. Everybody begins at the bottom. All it took was relaxing my vagina and anus with every human interaction. Simply paying attention to these sexual parts - to my nipples and my tongue, the fleshy hoc, and my hands. It made my awareness of other people more whole and sexier. I blushed often and thought less about food. My dining thoughts did not disappear entirely, but I gained another choice about what to do with the energy.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
An Ode to Physiognomy
The human face is a work of art. There is a multitude of fantastic arrangements. Those perfect lines, rich with stories and suffering. A woman a few rows from me looks up at the screen. The skin below her chin rests on her manubrium, wobbles in rhythm with the movement of her worried eyes. The small, bespectacled man beside her whispers something and a dimple appears in his right cheek. Her generous neck lifts momentarily and her eyes brighten. Her expression comes alive with the secret.
I sit in the Boston airport right now, waiting to board. I fly into Amsterdam and then on to Vilnius. I admire the expressions around me, wondering about the lines that will someday speak of my experiences before I have a chance to articulate them. We fear wrinkles, the betrayl of our inner world and histories. We fail to celebrate their honesty. Wrinkles are tools for truthsayers, artists of vulnerability.
I especially love the weary face. It shines in airports, sewn into the traveler's composition. Sometimes excitement is there, often it communicates the long day. Here, at gate A14 the European face is showcased. It is an older crowd, so the story lines are abundant. This particular countenance is rich with history. It seems to me the depth of ancient culture can be read in the weathered facial features of Europe's elders.
I sit in the Boston airport right now, waiting to board. I fly into Amsterdam and then on to Vilnius. I admire the expressions around me, wondering about the lines that will someday speak of my experiences before I have a chance to articulate them. We fear wrinkles, the betrayl of our inner world and histories. We fail to celebrate their honesty. Wrinkles are tools for truthsayers, artists of vulnerability.
I especially love the weary face. It shines in airports, sewn into the traveler's composition. Sometimes excitement is there, often it communicates the long day. Here, at gate A14 the European face is showcased. It is an older crowd, so the story lines are abundant. This particular countenance is rich with history. It seems to me the depth of ancient culture can be read in the weathered facial features of Europe's elders.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
A Note on Car Masturbating:
Yes, of course it can be dangerous. It can also be employed as a stimulating activity during long, late night drives when a person may otherwise be at risk of falling asleep at the wheel. You don't need to come to orgasm. The energy can be raised and celebrated without the inebriation of climax. I like to blast my favorite music, reach my hand down and yell and sing and scream and laugh. I ride with the wind blowing in my face and the divine wisdom of my ipod shuffle wrapping me in song. This is a wonderful venue for auto-erotic exploration, especially for a homeless vagabond such as myself.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Let's Have More Sex! (A Semi-Political Manifesto)
I sit here and listen to Obama address the United Nations. "Peace is more than just the absence of war."
For a decade I have been obsessing about my body. I have been creating meaning outside myself to such a degree, that I limit the broad possibilities of experience available to me. The world is my oyster and, yet I create conditions for my own enjoyment of it. I want to feel the sweetness of human connection and I tell myself I am undeserving of that pleasure unless I look a certain way, unless I have some level of fame proving my value, unless…
I arrived in North Carolina yesterday, here to visit wonderful friends. They live near the beach and one of the first things I did upon arriving was to swim in the ocean. I skipped down to the warm water at sunset. Despite my insecurities, I let my arms reach for the sky and flipped along the smooth sand. What a delight, this physical form. As much as I resist self love and acceptance, it is moments like this that remind me how lucky I am to exist in a body.
The North Carolina shoreline is speckled with people who clearly disapprove of my blatant display of physical sovereignty. They mirror my own self judgement and looking into their puckered faces, I am grateful for their reflection of the crotchety bigots in me. By extending a hand, a wave and a loving smile, I choose to accept them rather than let them dictate my actions. I glimpse freedom.
This is all very good and philosophical, but it is in the application of this experience that really intrigues me. Last night I shared a brilliant conversation with my hosts. We talked mostly about sex. The both of them, roughly 30 years my senior, expressed regrets at having not explored the cornucopia of sexual experience available to them when they were young (like me).
Now, I do not think that their own sexual exploits need be finished because of the limitations of age, but I did hear the sage advice. Those voices inside me forever nagging me about my perceived faults, prevent me from creating the experiences I want.
I have had some amazing sexual experiences. And I want more. The transcendence of these derogatory voices removes the barricade from the extensive buffet of sexual enjoyment. Sex is just one example of experiences we limit, but it is an important one because it is such a potential celebration of our bodies. But moving beyond judgment requires one more step. Now that we have access to the feast, we have to start somewhere. We must have the courage to try new things, discover what we like and what we don't (without judging the latter).
Driving along highway 20, I unbuckle my belt and jeans, reach a hand down my pants and turn up Tom Waits. Caressing my pussy, moving in circular motions along the sensitive jewel, I shudder and giggle. I am merry playing with myself, laying my fingers along the soft edges of my lower lips and reaching a happy finger inside. I want more of this. Pure pleasure.
Obama says again, "Peace is not more than just the absence of war. True peace depends on creating the opportunites that make life worth living."
For a decade I have been obsessing about my body. I have been creating meaning outside myself to such a degree, that I limit the broad possibilities of experience available to me. The world is my oyster and, yet I create conditions for my own enjoyment of it. I want to feel the sweetness of human connection and I tell myself I am undeserving of that pleasure unless I look a certain way, unless I have some level of fame proving my value, unless…
I arrived in North Carolina yesterday, here to visit wonderful friends. They live near the beach and one of the first things I did upon arriving was to swim in the ocean. I skipped down to the warm water at sunset. Despite my insecurities, I let my arms reach for the sky and flipped along the smooth sand. What a delight, this physical form. As much as I resist self love and acceptance, it is moments like this that remind me how lucky I am to exist in a body.
The North Carolina shoreline is speckled with people who clearly disapprove of my blatant display of physical sovereignty. They mirror my own self judgement and looking into their puckered faces, I am grateful for their reflection of the crotchety bigots in me. By extending a hand, a wave and a loving smile, I choose to accept them rather than let them dictate my actions. I glimpse freedom.
This is all very good and philosophical, but it is in the application of this experience that really intrigues me. Last night I shared a brilliant conversation with my hosts. We talked mostly about sex. The both of them, roughly 30 years my senior, expressed regrets at having not explored the cornucopia of sexual experience available to them when they were young (like me).
Now, I do not think that their own sexual exploits need be finished because of the limitations of age, but I did hear the sage advice. Those voices inside me forever nagging me about my perceived faults, prevent me from creating the experiences I want.
I have had some amazing sexual experiences. And I want more. The transcendence of these derogatory voices removes the barricade from the extensive buffet of sexual enjoyment. Sex is just one example of experiences we limit, but it is an important one because it is such a potential celebration of our bodies. But moving beyond judgment requires one more step. Now that we have access to the feast, we have to start somewhere. We must have the courage to try new things, discover what we like and what we don't (without judging the latter).
Driving along highway 20, I unbuckle my belt and jeans, reach a hand down my pants and turn up Tom Waits. Caressing my pussy, moving in circular motions along the sensitive jewel, I shudder and giggle. I am merry playing with myself, laying my fingers along the soft edges of my lower lips and reaching a happy finger inside. I want more of this. Pure pleasure.
Obama says again, "Peace is not more than just the absence of war. True peace depends on creating the opportunites that make life worth living."
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Thoughts On Attention
Losing myself in a musical composition, admiring the intricacies of a flower or the insect's wings as it crawls around the petals, surrendering to the wash of an orgasm or walking into a room rich with the decadent scent of garlic sauteed in butter and olive oil - these magical experiences demand attention - and, until recently, I always found myself too distracted to remain present with them for longer than a moment.
Perhaps it is the part of me aware of the transitory nature of such moments, worried that whatever intense beauty has called my attention is temporary and may transform into something less…
There is a greate Hafíz poem called "Why Aren't We All Screaming Drunks?"
The same is true for experience. There is no hierarchy of experience - just varying levels of comfort, pain, boredome, ecstasy, etc. and subsequent attention. Curiosity is the medicine for judgement. By practing the art of attention, I become aware of the richness too often buried beneath designations of positive and negative. Feeling my body, noticing my experience, is like hugging a lonely child, like falling in love with everything I judge to be wrong with me. By paying attention, I give myself the gift of acceptance. Whatever is there (and often it is the painful sensations that wait at the surface), becomes a welcome guest in the home of my experience. I kiss it and serve it tea (or wine).
It has been my fortune to discover that this attention to the uncomfortable makes it easier to remain longer with those easier, pleasure-filled experiences as well. In my novice understanding of quantum physics, the universe responds when it is observed. As walking beacons of universal energy, why would it be any different for us? Suddenly that red sign I have been avoiding with the help of my clever addictions, changes color when I look at it directly and without criticism. And the glowing orb of pleasure, until recently too bright to address head on, is sustainably visible without the weight of judgement.
What does that mean? Scott mentioned in his last email my having realized that the group sessions are an act of giving as well as getting. Giving attention to ourselves, doing it together, we dissolve the boundaries separating "good" from "bad" and make a party of our suffering. We get to celebrate in the spirit of a Symposium - we get to be screaming drunks.
(inspired by Scott MacInnis' brilliant work and healing practice)
Perhaps it is the part of me aware of the transitory nature of such moments, worried that whatever intense beauty has called my attention is temporary and may transform into something less…
There is a greate Hafíz poem called "Why Aren't We All Screaming Drunks?"
Why Aren’t We All Screaming Drunks?
The sun once glimpsed God’s true nature
And has never been the same.
Thus that radiant sphere
Constantly pours its energy
Upon this earth
As does He from behind
The veil.
With a wonderful God like that
With a wonderful God like that
Why isn’t everyone a screaming drunk?
Hafiz’s guess is this:
Any thought that you are better or less
Hafiz’s guess is this:
Any thought that you are better or less
Than another man
Quickly Breaks the wine
Quickly Breaks the wine
Glass.
The same is true for experience. There is no hierarchy of experience - just varying levels of comfort, pain, boredome, ecstasy, etc. and subsequent attention. Curiosity is the medicine for judgement. By practing the art of attention, I become aware of the richness too often buried beneath designations of positive and negative. Feeling my body, noticing my experience, is like hugging a lonely child, like falling in love with everything I judge to be wrong with me. By paying attention, I give myself the gift of acceptance. Whatever is there (and often it is the painful sensations that wait at the surface), becomes a welcome guest in the home of my experience. I kiss it and serve it tea (or wine).
It has been my fortune to discover that this attention to the uncomfortable makes it easier to remain longer with those easier, pleasure-filled experiences as well. In my novice understanding of quantum physics, the universe responds when it is observed. As walking beacons of universal energy, why would it be any different for us? Suddenly that red sign I have been avoiding with the help of my clever addictions, changes color when I look at it directly and without criticism. And the glowing orb of pleasure, until recently too bright to address head on, is sustainably visible without the weight of judgement.
What does that mean? Scott mentioned in his last email my having realized that the group sessions are an act of giving as well as getting. Giving attention to ourselves, doing it together, we dissolve the boundaries separating "good" from "bad" and make a party of our suffering. We get to celebrate in the spirit of a Symposium - we get to be screaming drunks.
(inspired by Scott MacInnis' brilliant work and healing practice)
Friday, September 16, 2011
Things to do in Austin when it's hot:
1. Rent a kayak and adventure in Lady Bird Lake:
A homeless man nearby has been repeating a sinister incantation with the confidence of one unburdened by social etiquette. I admire his freedom as I begin to paddle back toward the kayak rental station. The peaceful departure is tickled with the appearance of a giant turtle. Just as I'm about to announce the happy reptile, my chanting friend starts screaming great obscenities at the calm river. "Look, a turtle!" I say to my kayak buddy.
I'm pointing behind me now as I have passed the swimming creature, and it happens to be in the same direction as the perturbed man. I'm excited about the wildlife, ignoring the man's lewd yells, now accompanied with awesome physical thrusts. "Look! A turtle. It's huge!" A group of cheerful tramps across the river mistake my gestures.
"Don't pay attention to him Missy. Just keep paddling. He'll quiet down."
"No, but the turtle! It's so big." I indicate the size.
"That's just what he wants you to do. Don't give him any money and don't feed him. He's crazy."
Yes, I know that.
There is also an awesome rope swing, but I hesitate to point it out.
2. Look at hipsters and other folks in an air-conditioned coffeehouse:
The girl with a gold headband has created a mushroom cap of hair cutely bunched from the back. It is just messy enough so that I know she isn't overly attentive to her appearance - sloppy with intention. She asks for a knife like this: "Can I grab a knife?" I try to disguise my irritation by feining objective observation, but it is too much fun to judge her and so here I am doing it… there are so many people to make fun of in my mind. And I realize all the time that I am the only one I really judge. All of these people walking around outside me, mirroring my own insecurities and arrogance. The woman directly in front of me has mayonnaise on her face and I like her for it. What does that say about me? Am I cool? Do I fit in? As long as I don't fit in too much - stand out just enough to be noticed and yet appear put together without seeming like I care so much. Like the headband girl. Maybe I should get a tatoo…
3. Give your friend a blowjob:
We snuggle in bed and I feel his physical question: May I touch you? Kiss you? My body likes being held like that, but I won't turn to him. We part. I don't know why I reject the advance, so I reach down into my underpants and ask my pussy. She is wet. I decide to listen to her and turn to my companion, "I want to be intimate with you, but I am afraid." The vulnerable admission creates instant connection. He smiles at me and reminds me we have known each other for a long time. It will be okay.
I kiss him and he me - mouth and arms and chest. He asks to look at me and I remove my (moonlight) nightgown. He tells me I am beautiful. I notice the strength of his body. Mine responds with the heated rise and fall of my breath. We smell and taste one another. After the hot exploration I ask him if it is okay just to lie there together for the rest of the evening. The assurance in his voice is so attractive I almost take back the request. I recognize that this man is safe. He does not want anything from me, nor does he seek to possess me...he is not a hunter, but a joyful celebrant of my character. He is my friend.
The morning blowjob is as much a gift for me as (I hope) it is for him. It feels so good to give pleasure. The energy of his enjoyment, the subtle tensions that arise as I go down on him, excite me. I say his name in my head and pour love into the action. I don't feel attached nor do I feel an expectation from him, just the pleasure of our lovely bodies. It is playful and easy. His orgasm sends a surge of delight down my spine.
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