Dangling Carrots for Hungry Saints in Training

The carrot is designed to be unattainable.  No, not just my carrot, your carrot, Madonna’s carrot and Obama’s carrot… just about every carrot that the ego dangles before its self (note the diminutive S in the word “self”) in order seduce our blind asses into the promise of future fulfillment.  There is good news and bad news about this revelatory disclosure.  Which do you want first?  No matter because the good news and the bad news are the same news=  Our peace and fulfillment can only be found in ONE place and that’s the notorious N.O.W.  (Distant cousin to the Notorious B.I.G.!!!)

This is what A Course in Miracles reminded me today.  And trust me, I was prime for this reminder, since I have been living most recently in this psycho-emotional prison of missing my ex and perpetually suffering about whether or not I should be in my current relationship, and knowing somewhere in the back of my mind that I am missing the mark all together in terms of how I am investing my energy.  So as the cliché goes, I was knocked on my ass by a ton of bricks last night when I realized that every single carrot is created equal in its elusivity.  Do you get that?  Every. Single.  Carrot.  (Every single carrot is a poem, written on the back of God’s hand…)

So today I am thrown into an existential riptide.  The rug has been ripped out from beneath my delusional, smarmy feet (God love ‘em).  Now I wonder why I am even bothering to write… Why do anything?  I guess I just do my best to recognize my true and natural state of peace, contentment and divine love and bring that to each word.  To each letter of this crafty-assed alphabet.  But the trouble is that I don’t feel particularly fluent in the language of peace… So now what?  I must have plenty to forgive.  In A Course in Miracles they say that forgiveness is the way to clear internal space so that One can find the wicky-wicky wicked light inside.

I feel tired.  Can I forgive myself for feeling tired?  I feel so often tired… It doesn’t feel okay.  And here’s the real beef of the matter~ if I surrender to the moment and the light and this benevolent creature named Peace… Will I still want to be a writer?  I’m afraid nothing of this world will matter anymore and I won’t give a rat’s monkey about worldly success, pursuits of the small s self.  I am afraid to let go of my ambitions, or what will be left?  Who will I be?

Hopefully a Saint.  That’s something I wanted to tell you.  I wanted to tell you that when I retire as a writer, probably in my sixties or seventies, I plan to become a saint.  The quintessential career for the “golden years”, if you ask ME.  Mykael called me a saint in training last night.  I didn’t want to admit how good that felt.  Do you ever do that?  You know, when somebody says something that stabs the vein of one of your most potent hopes or dreams and inside you want to shriek with joy or ejaculate in some form or another… but for some reason, you hold it in… Well, I do that.  So there I was, exploding inside as I considered that I truly WAS a saint in training.  And on the outside I only smirked.  Silly girl.  Then I realized that it is hella likely we are ALL saints in training, here on planet Earth.  That turns me on.  When push comes to shove, it’s true~ we get to choose how we perceive this world of illusion.  And besides, I sure can’t find any evidence to the contrary of our collective [dormant] aspirations of sainthood…

Oh, now… Aren’t you tired of fighting against this beast we call “Religion”?  Really.  That gratuitous fight is so five minutes ago.  We know better than to need to compartmentalize Love, Source, Peace, Oneness.  For God’s sake, people, get over it.  I say this to those of you who are getting hung up on a saint being a title affiliated with busted-assed churches… You know who you are~ those of you who make a modest career out of being sure to assert that you are “Spiritual”, NOT “Religious”.  (And if you ask me, those busted-assed churches are totally awesome, as long as a seeker enters with the pure intention of communing with the One, opening their heart.  Who bloody cares what name we give It?!?!)  According to dictionary dot com, one definition of saint, the one that I am referring to, is:

“A person of great holiness, virtue, or benevolence”.

So it’s not a very far fetched idea to consider that we are all here co-participating in this dream with a shared core intention of realizing our intrinsic holiness, right?  Maybe it doesn’t always SEEM that way, but honestly!  Where has seeming ever gotten us in the first place?  Pretty far from Home.  And most of us *seem* to want to imagine that we are far from home… so power to us.  Power to this multiplicity of saints in training!  Rumor has it that time is just a figment of this same fractured imagination who has invented the wacky myriad of fantastical carrots, so take as much time as you please, Your Holiness.

Psychadelic Retrospect

I slept with my window open last night, so that full moon beams could splash my vulnerable, dreaming face while I slept.  The moon looked like a flower more than a glowing marble last night.  It had a halo.  This brings me to a crucially important point.  The other day, Mykael regurgitated a scientific finding, as he tends to do every once in a so often… He said that if a memory surfaces in a human mind for the first time, years after its occurrence, it’s details are much more likely to be accurate than if it is a memory that has been revisited often since it’s original occurrence.  That totally makes sense to me, since I experience my mind’s eye as a much more psychedelic land than stiff old moment to moment reality.  When I have a memory, I see it as a projection of light, blurring at the edges and becoming surrounded, enshrouded by vast black.  Always.  And the surrounding blackness offsets the colors and the images, which makes the images more dramatic, sharp, creative.

Last night’s burgeoning full moon is a stellar example.  I went outside to put in a load of laundry shortly before bed… And the vision of the moon was stellar enough to knock me on my ass.  It seemed more colorful than usual.  You know?  Sometimes the moon looks icy, blue… Even gazing upon it can make me feel chilled.  In a good way, like chilled champagne.  There is never an unpleasant moon if you ask ME.  (And probably ninety seven percent of the population or above would agree with me.)  But this moon… in my mind’s eye, now, it glows like a mother of pearl disco ball, slowly turning to reveal its seductive spectrum of brilliance.  No, that’s not quite it… it’s more like an Easter egg hunt moon.  Feel into childhood Easter, when the verdant garden was strewn with freshly died eggs and sugary treats all winking like broken rainbows, exiled to Eden, waiting mischievously patient to be resurrected and devoured.

The moon as it lives in my mind’s eye is reminiscent of an animated flower, speaking to me on a refreshingly benevolent acid trip.  I see greens and oranges, and in the halo, live soft spoken petals.  The moon had a loose tongue last night, and she told unabashed secrets.  What kind of secrets?  I didn’t stick around in the cool spring darkness long enough to listen, because I have inexplicably become grown up and act too important to bother listening to the moon.  What good would Her secrets do me anyway???  Would they earn me worldly success?  (Probably… but at this point you must know that I am playfully stabbing at the mindset of our modern day America… and even my blood-stained hands’ participation in this wretched machine…)  If I had it all to do over again… I would have sat with a watering mouth, eagerly lapping up every single secret this enchanted moon had to offer to the ears of the universe.

Actually, she probably has a lot more interesting secrets to tell as she exists in the exalted throne of my memory.

Is it like this for most people?  Does life become poetry only when spun on the loom of retrospective nostalgia?  Or is this just the cursed blessing (blessed curse) of the poet’s heart?  I guess I can think of a few counter examples… like when I was in the pool at eight am this morning… as I made my way slowly across the length of the pool, I penetrated the curious sky with my awe.  The purple-grey clouds reverberated with an exaggerated aliveness.  Tremulous might sum it up.  As I studied them, I felt more vital and electric than normal.  Usually, grey clouds just look grey to me… unlike Mykael, who always sees rainbows in granite, ostentatious parades of color in common dirt.  So when I tell you that these clouds were PURPLE, trust me.  They were purple.  Not quite in the literal sense… more in an energetic sense.  But they trembled the way only violet can tremble.  When the world speaks this way, telling of changes in the weather and pointing coyly at hidden layers of the psyche, I usually only feel it subconsciously.  But today it touched the surface of me as if I were an innocently gaping wound.  I let myself be mystified, tickled and teased by the strange, vibrating expression of the purple morning.  As if this was not poetic enough, add to that that moving through the crystalline aqua water felt like gliding through buoyant silk and that toward the end of my swim a light mist began to sprinkle from the sky just like powdered sugar would fall from a sifter… only slightly cooler than sugar.  No, I am NOT making this up.  It REALLY happened.

But I suppose wrapping words around these already poetic moments does change their very nature…  Language versus experience.  Being versus describing being.  Not a very fair or honest comparison.

I guess it’s the same with relationships.  Like me, drenching myself with all these recent torrents of nostalgic grief about E*.  When we were together, I was just as nitpicky and perpetually unfulfilled as I am now… but in this glamorous hind sight vision, all I see is the way we used to laugh.  I would laugh until my abs were washboards and my face hurt.  He would remark between peels that my eyes had disappeared into my face, swallowed completely in the hilarity.  I remember clinging to him for dear life as we sped down large hills in golden gate park on our rollerblades.  I remember being out in the world with him and seeing a particularly quirky, facinating person and knowing that he saw what I saw, or vice versa.  I miss that shared seeing of people.  That is a rare and priceless bite of experience to share with another, if you ask me.  God, I could go on and on, spouting the nostalgic facets of memory that I shared with this long departed partner in the crime called living life… but why???  What treasures of this present moment do I miss by gluttinously digging my heals into the embellished perfection of the past?

Besides, is it EVER anyone but God who is by my side, sharing the joys and the pain of this human mess?

Relationship, the Inner Critic’s Reign of Terror and a Visit From Jim Morrison

God is really trying to test me today.  I got to café 504 and they are playing disco music pumped up to exorbitantly high volumes. Is it the Bee Gees?  Maybe.  All I know is that the base is bouncing me like I’m a fussy infant, which ironically is making me feel like I’m a fussy infant.  I feel a lot of pressure to say cool stuff today, because yesterday I came to the café and wrote, but was not nearly brilliant enough.  My thoughts just never coalesced into much beyond dirty pond water.  So today I have to prove myself, or else I am not a writer.  Do you believe I think like this?  Cruel and almost unusual… Except that it is usual.  This is the kind of unconscious pressure I live under in every waking moment.  Do you think that’s why I’m so tired all the time?  I bet.

God, I have a bone to pick with you… Lately you have been sending your muses to fill my mind with excruciatingly brilliant ideas for writing topics at the most heinous moments.  Little gemish sentences flutter through my mind when I am trying to sleep and my linguistic butterfly net is more than hidden in the thick folds of nocturnality.  Why do you do this to me?  And then I come to the café, hoping that all these dazzling, winged strings of English will reappear the instant I call upon them, but instead you fill my head with whiny disco, a superficially bassy beat that could only be a result of black market “roids”…and I am left to fend for myself.  Well, God, I just want you to know, that this scenario is NOT ideal for me… but God?  I also want you to know that I’m gonna roll up my sleeves and muscle through it.  I don’t need your tattered, greasy “magic feathers”… No way, dude.  I can do this by myself.

Okay, that was my inner teenager, rearing her pimply, confused head.  Thank you Dear One.  Now, the truth is that I may be able to live life all by myself, write cool shit in a state of divine renunciation, but yuck!!!  Who wants to do that?  I want every single word that sprays across this virgin page to be graced by some kind of Love that would knock the socks off of socks themselves.  If it is not from love, for love, by love then why bother?  I wish they had taught me that in school.  No, not bible study class.  Don’t try to label me a god fearing Christian, just because I have a proclivity for holy names.  Jesus Christ.  School.   You know, garden variety, limping and broken, public assed, free education…

My foot tickles. (Strictly for the record…) I have been feeling the seven year itch with M.  We haven’t even made it to two years yet.  And I’ve been making ready to quit him.  But then I keep coming back to the unrelenting question which auspiciously haunts my mind.  Am I just meeting my own edge and choosing to collapse out of habit?  M has been helping me illuminate this vicious critic in me.  Yes, that would be the very same one who tries to prevent me from writing by leading me to believe that if I don’t do it perfect, than I oughtn’t even bother doing it at all.  So who am I to think that I’ll EVER be in a relationship with a man who is exempt from this merciless, fault finding beast who lives in my wounded mind?  There IS no such a man.  (I would probably even scrutinize the large pores on Jesus Christ’s nose, or become repulsed by Krishna’s luminous, blue skin over time…)

I sure have created M to be hella faulty though… Why?  Why is it so much easier for me to exist in the problems, when perfection sings out unabashedly glorious from beneath every footstep?  No, I’m not just being poetic.  Life is so generous with me.  Love blooms inside me, regardless of the season.  Not Hollywood love.  Maybe that’s the problem.  No, Athena, the “problem” is your addiction to problems.  A Course In Miracles teaches that the O-N-L-Y problem there IS, is the problem of “separation”, which is already solved, because it was an illusion in the first place.  Wow.  I know we all “know” this… It is beyond IN to preach about how separation is an illusion, right?  But have you ever just been sitting at the café, or parading your cart about the grocery store, and dared to actually look around you, feel around you and do your darnedest to just surrender into oneness?  Hmmm, doing your darnedest and surrendering seem kinda antithetical… On your marks, set, SURRENDER!!!  I said SURRENDER, damn it!!!  Then her face twisted into a soft, modest grin.  A grin that actually smoldered like a dying fire, but still it gave off plenty of heat to thaw the hearts of cynics.

Well I am sitting here imagining oneness as I scan the scene, abounding with a colorful bouquet of “others” and “things”.  It feels awkward, given all my habitual ways of perceiving “others” and “things” outside me.  But yet there is something that tingles with shy unity.  It sorta tickles like they’re all in me… Is this far fetched or overtly obvious?  Flip a coin, if you ask me…

Back to my edges in relationship.  I am waking up from this dream of co-dependence.  But then it feels so familiar and comfy that I don’t really WANT to wake up.  But then I do.  But then I don’t.  But then I DO… confusing, eh?  Totally.  All of these voices inside me, vying for the driver’s seat.  The warrioress rises to command at the surface of my mind.   She is intolerant of my stuckness, (and has a proclivity for blaming external circumstances and people I portend to love) intolerant of my habits of closure, hiding, playing small.  Her less than gracious response it to knock over tables and pillage the ancient villages built with bricks of dense repetition and plastered with calcified thought forms.  She is a revolutionary at all cost… unfortunately, though, her head is still stuck up her egoic ass hole more often than she cares to admit, which doesn’t always  make her the most trustable leader.  Then there’s the father, who is constantly scrutinizing all my actions and thoughts and telling me that I could be doing better and more and better and more and better and more.  And the child who is always just a little too empty and needs a bit more… more of anything, you name it, but at the end of the day, if you’re keeping score, it all simmers down to Love, doesn’t it?

What’s the point of all of this nattering?  The point is very clear.  There is only ONE solution to all of theses neurotic problems!!!  I MUST THROW MYSELF AT ERIC*’S FEET AND BEG HIM TO TAKE ME BACK!!!!!  Just kidding!  Did I trick you?  Even for a second?!  Sometimes that’s all I have is the ability to poke fun at my severely limping humanness.  Honestly, I do think that from time to time…to time.  That if I was back with Eric*, I would be happier.  More at peace and there would be hope that one day, I might be blessed with a single, tantalizing taste of fulfillment.  But no.  It’s find the light inside me or BUST.  And not just one, single bust, like bust and be done with it… no, it’d be like bust and bust and bust some MO’.  Maybe they call that “combustion”.  Bust until the day I die.  Bust until this illusory body is beyond exhausted from racing manically about on the hamsterish wheel of samsara.  I know it’s playing the odds, to hope for liberation anytime soon… but what is the alternative?  An unfulfilling, abuse ridden marriage to insanity.

My old landlord once told me that Jim Morrison often wore the same outfit for weeks at a time.  That was very healing for me to hear, because I only have one hoodie and I wear it every day…  Is it because I’m too poor to buy another?  Or is it because I hate shopping?  Laziness?  Unworthiness?  Could be all of those… or it could just be because I am a careless rock star at heart.  Sometimes (often) I wake up and put on the very same clothes that I peeled off and threw on my floor the night before.  Now, once upon a time that was a wholly unattractive behavior… but thanks to Jim Morrison, now it is rebel-hip and careless-creative.  You wouldn’t understand unless you were a *real* artist.  Grin.  Maybe… Maybe not.  But like I said, it’s healing for me to consider this.

Now for a quick update on the orgasm front~ It is strange… I have met so many edges and instead of spilling over them, I just hang out, like a leisurely Parisian, strolling thru the Jardin Luxumbourg on a Sunday.  Have you seen the Parisian contingency in the jardins on Sunday?  They might just sit, dressed in Sunday best, quietly drinking in the spring sunlight as it pours with passive passion on their native French faces all morning.  MAYBE they’ll read the paper.  So that’s how I have been meandering through sexual ecstasy these days.  It’s not half bad… though I do miss cumming.  Another trick I use to keep from spilling over the edge of the pounding waterfall is when I feel that “ohmigodd shoot here it cums” feeling… I totally relax.  Then I put my attention on the physical location of my heart, and naturally, the energy rises.  Jeepers, who knew it was that simple?!

All I Really Have Is My Truth

I dunno if I’m gonna publish this one… although I want to… but I really need the freedom to say whatever I want to say about my relationship with M without feeling [too] guilty.  Guilt. GUILT!!!  I can see why people get cancer.  Carrying around all this guilt is toxic.  Most of my thoughts lately are about letting go of him.  Last week or the week before I expressed them and all it did was create this big, emotionally volatile mess… The pain I felt seemed like too much to bear, so I decided to try holding all my feelings in.  Honestly, it’s a little more bearable, but far from sustainable.  He keeps telling me how much he loves me… and talking about our future together.  Like for example, this morning he said that when the weather gets warmer, we should try drinking Chardonnay, because it tasted surprisingly good to him last night at dinner with his parents (I stayed home)… And I thought, yeah right… when the weather gets warmer, Mythena (the name of our relationship) will be dead and buried.  But hmmmm… Chardonnay, Athena!  Might be worth sticking it out until summer time…

I don’t know what else to say about it.  Why don’t I want to be with him?  One day I just woke up and the inspiration was gone.  All of these little things, chipping away at my commitment and devotion.  Honestly, comparing him to E was a huge catalyst.  Aside from the sex, life with E was way better.  Ladies, I recommend the tall, skinny scientistic outdoorsman!  He is loyal, fun loving, fucking funny, generous, easy going, sharp as fuck, and his heart is peaceful and sweet through and through.(oh and great oral skills if you ask me…)  Snap him up!!!  Ahem.  So for a while I was pretty sure that I just wanted to get back together with E and that’s what this was about.  But then I woke the fuck up and realized that I am a crazy bitch for sure, and this is not about finding the “perfect relationship”… This is about healing myself.  Which I suppose IS finding the perfect relationship.  INSIDE.  I know, I know, I can almost hear you~ “Can’t you find that while you’re IN relationship?”… and the answer is of course… probably.  But the other answer is I don’t want to.  I can hear judgment voices screaming away in my head… telling me that I quit everything and that I will NEVER be enough until I commit myself to something.  And I am so tempted to believe them.  That’s right fuckers~ you are getting to me… are you happy now?  Are you satisfied??? You are getting the best of me.  NOW WHAT???

Well, the most auspicious and beautiful news is that in addition to that worn thin self critical voice, I am hearing another, more gentle voice.  It is telling me that my path is perfect, and my learning is right on schedule.  It tells me that my compass isn’t broken after all (!!!), and that God is the quintessential relationship, the ONE to invest in a lifetime subscription to…  Now you might want to argue that one cannot possibly separate the Divine Relationship from human relationships.  You might have a very intimidating and convincing soap box that is demanding that human relationships are potent access points to that way more esoteric divine relationship.  Hmmm…  Yes… I can’t deny that.  I won’t deny that.  But I’ll also say that for a thirty year old woman who has been in one very clingy, co-dependant relationship or another (two, back to back, to be precise) since she was twenty three, that it’s beyond fuckin’ healthy for her to find HER edges, independent of another…

Oh dear, this writing is getting so blasted heavy.  It’s freesia season!  They are bursting from the thawing ground (just being poetic, the ground in Oakland does not thaw…) EVERYWHERE!!!  I thought of it because there is a copious, ostentatious bouquet of them here at 504.  Are they yellow?  Orange?  Gold?  They seem to defy all labels, save VIBRANT.  They are as vibrant as Christ himself.  Christ.  That’s a welcome subject change.  Jesus Christ.  Have you ever heard of this thing called “Christ consciousness”?  Well, supposedly there is this light that lives inside us, and we can reach it within our own minds.  Every single one of us.  Zero exceptions.  It is here, now and the only reason we haven’t noticed is because we’re way too interested in all the hoopla that our egos generate in our minds.  But omnipresent, it rests, eternally.  IN ME.  IN YOU.  And chances are that “you” and “me” don’t even exist in this psychedelic sphere of luminous realization.  And this frustrates the FUCK out of me, because I am so close, yet so far away.  I sit down to meditate every day… and my mind won’t shut the fuck up about what I want to eat for stupid breakfast.  As if stupid breakfast is more important than bathing in love’s eternal light.  Fuck and a half.  But I keep trying.  And one day, the miracle will accost my tired olde ego out of nowhere.  And I will remember what I have always known.  And this will happen to you too.  Even if you think meditation is stupid, or boring or for only for “those” types of people.  The miracle, the light, might swoop down upon you even if you’ve never meditated a lick in your whole life.  Even if you think meditation is only for people who subscribe to trendy “isms”, or have nothing better to do with themselves.  You never fucking know.  But what I do know is that the reality of oneness and light is way more true than all this illusion of division and multiplicity and never ending stream of problems…  Believe me…

Or don’t.  It doesn’t really matter WHAT you believe.  The light is indiscriminant and all pervasive… and IT wants YOU.  (Now imagine Uncle Sam pointing his dirty bone of a finger at your transient, illusory physical form…)

I’m so excited about lunch. Everybody in this café is indulging in sensory delights.  Cappuccinos and lattes made with rich, creamy and hella humane Strauss milk… and as if that’s not exciting enough… the dude sharing the table with me got two poached eggs (shaped like spring leaves!) with toasted baguette, jam and thick, darling orange slices… As I type this, he slathers his second half of bread with butter and strawberry jam and then the symphonic, sonic revelation as he crunches down into it’s tough crustiness!  Mastication.  As fulfilling and necessary as masturbation.  Honestly.  But both of those fulfilling necessities reinforce the deep seated and false belief that this existence is the be-all, end-all.  Which it’s not.  I realize that this might rub some of you the wrong way.  Tough.  Can you imagine if I made it my business to rub ALL OF YOU the right way, all the time?  I can… because I’ve spent a good deal of life trying to do that.  And trust me, it is exhausting and not nearly as rewarding as it’s cracked up to be.

So, in conclusion~ I am having a hard time letting go, I want to know myself as an independent single woman and most of all, I want GOD to be my BFF, but one of us has been too shy… Not sure if it’s me or God… But either way, there comes a time in a woman’s life when she has no choice to storm the… oh shoot, I forget the rest of the expression.  Storm the… Well, I guess punch lines and clichés are not my forte.  Win some, lose some.  Hey, that’s a cliché, isn’t it?!

The Purpose of Committed Relationships (a very soapy box)

The problem with not cumming is that in my world, there’s no such thing as a “quickie”… I never want to stop.  Once I get going, and every stroke is the universe blooming in its full glory, it’s mighty tempting to want to feel that just “one more time”… Which for a woman who needs to get to bed my ten pm… can be problematic.  I’ll get the hang of it.

This is phenomenal.  This is exciting.  What is, Athena?  Well, I got a comment from “cheeseaddict” (!!!!) requesting that I follow up on my inquiry about the “point” of long term, committed relationship.  First of all, how exciting to be in dialogue with a real-live cheese addict!!!!  This might be a first!!!  (I just cracked myself up!  I love laughing out loud…)  Cheese Addict, whoever you are, please don’t reveal yourself to me.  I’d hate to find out that you are just a “plain old” friend of mine.  I like to imagine that you are a mysterious fan of my blog, who lives way across the sea in a land where life is kind to those who have no restraint in their cheese consumption.

Ahem, but the main point of all this, is that I like readers to engage.  Mrs. Moon asked what happened to the happily ever after affair… And I stepped back in and finished what I started.  Mrs. Joy asked what’s the deal with the relationship that I’m in currently (which I have tons of trepidation in discussing… ask me again tomorrow… or at least a few paragraphs from now…) And the anonymous Cheese Addict also poses a thoughtful, pertinent question!!  This is good.  Thrilling, in fact.  Please, if you find yourself left wanting or wondering, bring it back to me.  Let’s be in a dialogue, Humanity.  We have much to consider as we grow into our Divinest selves!

Ladies and Gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to my reply to Cheese Addict’s inquiry about the point of committed relationships.  (Oh, pardon me, I just checked the comment and it’s Cheezaddict… please forgive me.)  Well, the point of committed relationship is to find someone to share your fervent passion for cheese with.  Because we all know that cheese consumed alone is a life without meaning.  But the REAL question is, do you shop for an Other who prefers the harder cheeses, while you prefer the soft, gooey ones… so that when you order a cheese plate, you don’t have to compete for the prime slabs… or do you solicit more of a neutral partner in aged dairy crimes???  This I am not sure of…

Okay, enough frivolity.  Get serious, Athena.  The reason that I was frittering away word after word in a state of frivolous play is that I don’t have the answer to the point of committed relationship.  I have been contemplating it for years and years… But you see, the contemplations change as I do.  And when I was just a baby, (up until about twelve days ago), I really wanted to believe in all that mister right, happily ever after, fairy tale bullshit.  So of course I overlaid all my innocent, princess-ish hopes on top of the question, which nearly suffocated it.  I wanted to believe that choosing one partner and sticking it out through thick and thin was the way and the light… and sure, it IS the way and the light for SOME… (every way we choose to engage in the dance of life is the way and the light… even if it seems to BLOW sometimes)  I wanted to believe that commitment is a spiritual path.  Actually, I DO believe that commitment is a spiritual path… but… Not an inspiring one for me right now.  The only commitment that compels my soul right now is WRITING.  Oh, and begging God to Reveal its Self in my mind.  (but I feel pretty slow on the uptake of that one…)

I am witnessing so many paradigms shifting these days.  We are alive at such an interesting time, eh?  Besides all the boring stuff like education and health care and political systems…(wink, wink, I know that stuff’s not really boring… but for me it sorta is…) Relationships are morphing.  I don’t know any couple who survives much past the ten year mark these days.  Old couples, sure… but that’s a different conversation, because they are more comfortable living in the old paradigms.  But us on the frontlines… Some’m cray-zay is goin’ on.  I think we are all feeling a deep soul-call to step up!  To roll up our high fashioned sleeves and give “dirty work” a whole new meaning!  It’s shit or get off the pot time here on this modest little planet we call Earth.  Time to pick up your weapons and sprint toward the light!

Relationships… I think they are for procreation.  So ask yourself if the one you be lovin’ on is someone that you want to share the responsibility of raising young muffins with.  Cuz that’s some serious commitment, right there, eh?  And if you already have a litter, raise your bloody glass!

I just had a thought… although I have not yet set out to prove it in the Petri dish yet… But I think the point of a committed relationship is no different from the point you self impose on life.  If life is a forum for your evolution, purification, exploration of Self… than naturally, your relationships will be allies in that process.  But then… why is it that a relationship can suddenly jump out of the bushes and strangle?  I have seen me use relationships as a crutch.  As a place to hide out.  And let me say first, that I believe that sometimes hiding places and crutches are entirely necessary on the journey of soul.  They have been for me.  I remember when Eric* loved me, at the tender, naïve, nebulous age of twenty three, I was shocked and amazed that this splendid man loved me just as I was.  Not for my obvious potential.  Not when I got my life figured out once and for all (HA!), no, just as I was~ very lost, not even burgeoning on ripe, and with a lot of healing and learning still ahead (that’s probably a constant, eh?)… Receiving Eric’s unconditional love was a huge healing for me.  Thank you, Eric*!!!!

I am not a subscriber to the world of black and white… Yes I am.  But not black OR white.  My black seduces my white.  My white teases my black, whips him and giggles.  In a world of duality, we shoot ourselves in the foot when we work too hard at winning the either or game.  I believe the very same relationship can be stifling and a source of liberation.  And Jesus-God-Almighty, my current relationship sure feels that way right now.

I’ll tell you more about that next time.

But the last thing I need to tell you right now is that in this strange dream of duality that we all conspire in, I believe in one absolute~ God.  Source.  Love.  Peace.  And at the end of the day, this indescribable Source is who I am in a long term, committed relationship with, and whose heart I long to merge with.

I wrote this yesterday and then got chicken to share it…

It’s a crystalline day.  Literally.  I must be looking out at the world from inside a crystal.  The colors are three times as vivid as normal, and the world is approximately sixty seven percent more alive than usual.  (As I wrote that, I realized that my new favorite thing is to pull stats out of my ass and write them down like I am a bloody expert.  With just a pinch of reflection, I realize why I do this!  I do it to poke merciless fun at the “experts”.  We live in this model of reality where science is the be-all end-all.  If someone declares themselves an “expert” and has done respectable “research”, then we will eat out of their dirty palm.  Mostly without question.  Just because we have unconsciously, collectively accepted this particular mythology called “science” as our lord and savior.  Honestly, I believe that we can use research to prove any friggin thing we want.  And if we have letters after our name, such as PhD, all the more likely we can string the masses along with our slanted influence.)  All I can possibly say after that long winded rant is “I digress”, right?

Well, I do digress.  Because it is nine fifty am and the weather is hella warm… And on days like these I am compelled to break my multitude of chains, bust loose (as my mom has enjoyed saying often lately), and change up habits and routines.  So I am at a different café than normal.  I am at Café Trieste on Piedmont avenue.  I love 504’s drinks… but… I was starting to feel a slave to the grooves in my traversal of daily existence.  Frown on that.  But it’s always a gamble to try something new.  Since my daddy’s a craps dealer, not to mention my mom has heavily dabbled in the dealing of twenty one, I am modestly repulsed by gambling.  I mean what if I landed here at Trieste and it blew?  Then I’d have to lye in the bed that I made and suffer my morning away.  But when the day’s high is seventy one degrees, it’s hard to make a foul choice.

Sah-ight (slang, pronounce it just like it sounds) here at Trieste.  They use clover milk and the Hispanic barista did a great job of foaming it.  But the espresso shots were pretty bitter.  Better shots for men with very hairy chests (or those who aspire to have very hairy chests)  But the best thing is that as an artist, it is crucial to “fill the well”, as Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, puts it.  So here I am, filling my well with new images~ a little girl with blond, tangly hair, decimating a chocolate croissant, the way I once would have, but never will again.  Because she does it with no consciousness of fat or calories or the fact that it is all refined crap.  She does it in perfect love and holy desire.  She is in complete oneness as she passionately puts it in her face without regard to the mess she makes of her face, hands and sleeve.  This is something that I will never do again.  If I ever eat a chocolate croissant, it will be with ultimate restraint.  Every bite I will chew and savor, and consider it being my last, but then, most likely, going back for ONE more guilty bite.  If only I had have known back then, that my days of indulging this way were numbered… Then what?  Then I would have savored them harder?  No, then I would have had the consciousness that destroyed the innocence.  That’s the double edged sword of consciousness, I suppose.  There are probably other areas of my life where I still exist in a state of innocence and I don’t even know it, because that is the nature of innocence, isn’t it?

Woops, I said that I would tell you about my new sexual adventure today, and now I don’t feel like it.  This is an interesting edge for me… keeping my literary promises… I like it, it feels challenging.  I am building new muscles.  But this is an edgy subject… Sex.  Why is sex such an edgy subject?  Sex is so much more beautiful and worthwhile than violence and yet I’d feel much less confronted discussing drive-by shootings and gratuitous bloodshed.  ???  Don’t ask me… I’m just gonna brave the subject.  I have started a month-long commitment to not cumming.  For me that is beyond rocket science.  Any time that I approach that glimmering, frivolous holy land of climax, my will disappears and it swallows me whole.  But I want to know what it’s like to keep that energy in.  I want to explore moving through the world bursting with desire and tremulous longing.(think of a ripe cherry that keeps getting juicer and juicer, redder and redder, without falling from the tree or turning mushy and over ripe)  Wow, this is really difficult to talk about.  I am afraid of being judged and misunderstood I think.  I mean that is always the risk an artist takes when they share their creations with others… but sex… it’s so WRONG.  It’s so dirty.  It’s so secret.  Most people have sex… but rarely disclose this truth.  ????

Well, this is day three.  Big whoop, you’re thinking… But the idea is not just to abstain from masturbation or sex, but to fully engage in it and explore the edges, but then back off and live life as previously programmed.  Already, I have claimed new levels of self respect and trust.  To take myself to those  beyond tantalizing realms of sensation, and then stop… I strengthen my muscles of restraint.  Plus, making love totally changes.  Even if I have pretended in the past that I am not being goal oriented, the goal always lurks in the shadows and pounces on me in a heightened, ecstatic moment.  But now, if I cum, I betray myself.  I lose the Olympic competition built for one.  (the man next to me has almost finished his breakfast, but a lone piece of greasy, glistening ham remains on his plate… along with a modest toast crust)  I keep feeling compelled to look at it… how artistically satisfying it would be to fill my mouth with greasy, salty meat… Athena, FOCUS) (Now a man is outside, cradling an unlit American spirit cigarette tenderly between his eager lips.  OH, to smoke!  Gross but sensual for sure.  He lit it.  I liked the virgin promise more than the toxic actuality)

So now that I truly have no goals during intercourse, every stroke has taken on new meaning.  It’s the perfect illustration of living in the moment.  Because truly there is nothing else.  Now, when I’m doin’ the nasty, I find myself opening and feeling a thousand fold more.  I find myself yearning the way I was divinely designed to yearn.

That’s the report thus far.

The End of the Story

RosyMoon asked to hear the end of the Eric* story… And who wouldn’t want to do right by the woman in the moon, right?  I mean REALLY.  But that’s the tricky thing about being a writer like me… I move with feeling.  On the day that I wrote that, I was feeling so much need to grieve.  I think… I can’t honestly even remember exactly WHY I felt compelled to tell about the once upon a day there was a man, driving a child molester van full of high school students.  Behind the wheel, he snacked on a most random assortment of driving foods.  Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, lived a swooning fiancé.  And not just ANY fiancé, but the very fiancé of the snacking driver.  She sat in her worrisome tangle at the edge of a sandbox and though I don’t remember for sure, I will portray her prodding the large, uniform grains of sand with a fallen stick from the oak tree that spread its ancient, benevolent branches across the sky above her.  She watched vivacious twin boys romp about the sand as her fearful though love struck mind strangled the very moment she nested in.

Then came the phone call.  Ri-i-i-i-ing, said her mid-priced metro pcs phone.  It was Eric*’s special ring tone.  SURPRISE!  Because as it turns out, Eric* is the driver of the white van.  Athena is the tortured maiden at the edge of the sand box.  While her soon to be ex-fiance was away for the week, she fell in love with another man.  And this is the first time she has talked to her recently cast off beloved since the great fall.  He speaks to her as if all is well.  He speaks to her with devotion, sincerity and enthusiasm, which exacerbates the stinging pain in her heart.  (the kind of sting burns the eyes just before the tears pour forth).  The day is sunny. It is the tail end of April, nearly two years ago.  Even the afternoon sun can not break through this darkened woman’s internal cloudscape.  Eric* confesses that he has truly missed her and feels ripe with gratitude and devotion to his beloved One.  Salty wound!  But not nearly as salty as his will soon feel…  They make arrangements for her to pick him up from the BART station early that evening.  Then she ends the call with a heart that feels more like a dirty bag of sand.

Now I remember why I want to tell this story.  I feel some strange strain of love as I linger in the shadowy past, where Eric* was solid and fleshy and “mine”.  I know living in the past is supposed to be bad for your heath… I looked up from my computer just in time to see a woman standing at the curb outside.  The spring wind whips at her above the knee skirt.  She is an ample woman, and I can see the folds of her large, dimpled ass and her panty lines slicing right through the middle of each cheek.  The fluidity of wind and the solidity of female back-side.  Poetry.  And all unfolding in lucid afternoon sunlight!  I guess this subject matter was getting heavy.  I needed a momentary respite and I sure got one.  Nothing like a ripe ass tickled by breezy, march sunlight.

I promise, I will not live in the past forever.  I just feel compelled to relive the sting it was to pick up this mile high man (he’s 6’4”) and his giant backpack full of a week’s worth of outdoor life from BART.  I miss seeing his face.  Oh the irony of life.  We traveled together in Cuba in the very beginning of our relationship, and I remember feeling so sick of his face after a couple of weeks of seeing it nonstop.  Just looking at it became a mild form of torture… and now… I would pay all the MSG in China to take a long, glutinous look at it.

The drive home from BART was strained.  I avoided the moment as long as I could.  We parked.  Eric* sensed Athena’s preoccupation, and Athena spit it out.  “I fell in love with another man while you were away… and you know him…”  And now for the requisite moral~ Life can be really stupid.  And/or~ Human love is a joke.

I remember Eric*’s vulnerability.  Hey, remember that sting I mentioned at the beginning of this entry?!  I just felt it.  I felt the sting of tears.  Eric*’s vulnerability in that moment of freshly cracked, broken news ranks right up there with the other seven wonders of the world.  It was the kind of vulnerability common in children, angels and new born flowers.  The moral of the story is that living life with your heart so exposed is equal parts blessing and curse and certainly the main ingredient in the recipe for sainthood.  So Eric* broke apart in the car.  And in the face of his flailing, hopeless devastation, Athena’s heart turned to stone.  It remained stone for the next few months… maybe six?  She took up smoking, too.  For nearly a year… Gross.

Yeah, I swear, I lost my ability to cry for quite a while.  It was terrifying.  I thought I might never be able to feel sad ever again.  But then one day I did and I think I might have cried more this past year than ever before in my life.  I dunno why… Maybe growing pains.  Is that the end of the story?  Eric was vulnerability’s poster child and Athena turned to stone and they all lived happily ever after?  No… Eric (I am tired of putting the asterisk after his name, sorry…) moved to New Zealand, a couple of months later, as they had planned to do together, and Athena dove right back into another relationship and proceeded to enter the thick of her Saturn return, growing a mile a minute and drowning in the world of responsibility and smooth drudgery.  She explored her sexuality and became self sufficient.  She has recently been lamenting her ass off in regards to missing her ex.  She realizes that there was so much good in her life with Eric, who was the best of best friends, and she feels like a dumb ass for wanting more.  MORE.  MORE.  She smiles, because she knows that she will always want more and that is right and good and so is letting go…

Now she wonders who she is without a man?  Will she ever know?  What she does know is that every single day she lives somewhat tragically, happily ever after.

Stay tuned.  Next time on Athena’s blog~ learn of her new sexual adventure!… if you dare…

Things I’m Embarrassed to Say

I hate keeping secrets.  But today I feel so aware of all the things that I dare not say.  Where does that leave us?  Where does that leave the page and the moment and the words that gratuitously sprinkle upon it?  Dunno, but I’ll find myself as the sprinkling sprinkles, eh?  Sprinkle sprinkle little star named Athena, how I wonder what you ARE not saying…
One thing that I’m afraid to say is that I have started wearing rings again.  It had been like two years.  Basically since I gave Eric back his engagement ring, made from his mama’s own pear shaped engagement diamond.  No, none of that is too risky to say… the risky thing is that I have been missing Eric so much for the past month or two.  I feel like I am holding a burning yoga pose.  Life feels like that in general.  Life burns my insides.  But so does the missing of my Beloved.  My best friend.  I miss the way we played.  I still laugh, sure.  But laughing with Eric was ecstasy.  Anyway, I came upon this silver ring in my jewelry box (a birthday gift from his mom) and I put it on the middle finger of my right hand.  This silver ring was the ring Eric originally bought to propose to me… though he didn’t end up using it.  He gave it to me days after.  He told me he had bought it from a Tibetan shop on University Avenue, which was owned by a man he did some wilderness training with.  A man from Bhutan.

At the time, I couldn’t believe that he even entertained the idea of proposing to me with a measly silver band.  Blasphemy!  But I kept it.  And now it means more to me than diamonds.  I wear it on my middle finger and I think of him.  I study its smoothness, its simplicity and its invisible sentimental value.  I look at it on my long, slender hand and I feel… What do I feel?  This is one of those laughable moments where I realize that there indeed has not been a word invented for every feeling scape.  But it’s refreshing to remember that.  It makes me feel so much larger than I have remembered myself to be.  And that is a good thing.  But let me stab at telling you how I feel as I gaze at my hand clad with this cheap-assed engagement token of the past.

I want to say I feel more complete.  But not because I was incomplete before.  Oh!  I got it!  I feel content.  Similar to one of those moments in bed in the morning.  You know, when you are awake, but still slumber-strewn, dream-tangled.  You are in no hurry to get up and bed feels somehow better than usual.  Snugglier, warmer, softer and so safe.  I suppose like heaven might feel.  (I’ll confirm it if and when I ever make it to that privileged village above the clouds) (If you don’t know me well enough, I must tell you that I am making fun of the silly ideas we as a collective consciousness uphold.  And, at the same time, I believe in that heaven.  My mind is big enough for so many paradoxes to take up residency, it can be maddening.)

Speaking of all of that, I found a new trick!  If you are at all contemplative like myself, and you find yourself mulling over truths and meanings, wondering, is it like this, or like that?… And the potential perspectives grate upon one another in your mind, metal upon metal, or more likely, mental upon mental (hahaha), the way that I have found to make peace of my vantage points is to ask myself, “which of these perspectives has me feel most inwardly expansive?  Which has me feel peace, oneness, inclusion?  Those are the qualities and values that inspire me.  But I suppose you could choose the ones that inspire you, and then lean into the perspective that generates those qualities.

Is that all I wanted to say about my ring?  No.  Why was I afraid to say that?  Because now Mykael is my partner and it feels confusing for me to be missing Eric so much and wanting to be connected to him.  I feel wrong.  Ashamed.  Should I exercise more mental discipline?  Should I just hide inside my experience and keep smiling and blushing my way down the path of long term, committed partnership?  Maybe… But I’m way more interested in airing out my closets than keeping them locked for the pseudo benefit of others.  How ‘bout you?

Grief.  Maybe I should check out a book on it from the library or something.  I feel like a novice when it comes to allowing and inviting the grieving process.  But I’m not gonna do that, so for now, I’ll just imagine that I am doing everything just right.  I’ll keep skipping along my path dedicated to truth and trust that someday the dust and the smoke and the clouds of ambivalent glitter will all settle of their own accord.  Quite likely they will.

One more thing that I don’t want to say.  (God, I could write volumes on this general topic!)  I don’t want to say that I went out to dinner with Dan last night.  No, silly, that’s not the part I don’t want to say.  It’s that when I arrived at Caesar, he was already seated and somewhat blissfully sipping wine.  Cool.  So far so good… But then I sat down and gazed at the menu, which titillated me, because last time I checked, Caesar was a Spanish tapas restaurant… and last night, everything on the menu was more Mexican-esque, which I generally dig a lot harder on than dumb olde paella and jamon Serrano and scrambled eggs.  Come on, CRUNCHY chips!!!  Vibrant green avocado mush!  Black beans…  TACOS.  So what am I afraid to say?  Come on, Athena, just blurt it out, already!  Okay, okay… So Dan had ordered for both of us, before I had even arrived!  I was DENIED the privilege of scouring the menu, feeling into the culinary rainbow of possibilities.  Flavors, textures, shapes, scents.

Granted, he knows me pretty well and his selections, chips and guacamole, black beans and jicama (!!!!) with chili and sesame seeds was damn good.  But come ON.  Reading menus and making the perfect choices is what life is all about at the end of the day.  I suppose that’s all we are ever really doing, anyway… reading the menu of life, of the moments we find ourselves in, the thoughts we think, the feelings and the dreams that wash through us, riverish.  And given all the options that we can conceive of, we must choose.  And choose.  And choose again.

Anyway, it was a stretch for me to surrender his choices and just enjoy.  Not that enjoying was that much of a challenge, between the top notch company he is, and the warm spring evening~ twilight giving my skin cool, coy kisses.  Not to mention that he mostly ordered what I would have chosen anyway… BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT.  The point is that Dan is probably my number one fan and I’ll send him this as soon as I deem it complete.  And then I’ll be left to blush it the shameful truths of my ever imperfect humanness.  I would be such a better person if I surrendered better and appreciated more and was at least as enlightened as the new age-soap box-brigade who rape the masses by ever selling us self help books despite our hopelessly broken state.  But I’m just me.  And I wish that he didn’t order without me.  And now I will bathe in frivolous shame for that truth.  But not for too long.

Mating Sparrows and the Happily Ever After Syndrome

What will I write about today?  All of the freaky people out on this warm spring morning?  My obsessive, tortured heart?  The incessant battle in the name of good posture?  My unconventional dream of becoming a saint (after I retire as a writer, of course)?  The bitterness of my cappuccino today as a metaphor for the way “It” has been?  Everything is interesting.  Everything teeters on the edge of insanity.  Or maybe that’s just me.  What do you think?  Are we all precariously balanced, wobbling on the brink of madness, or is that just me?  Do you ever have those moments when you’re just going about your business and suddenly you are washed with this wave of… what is it?  Fear.  Maybe that’s how Alice felt as she free fell down the rabbit hole.  It’s an out of control feeling like whoa, I’m so small and so big and so alone and so connected all at once and this moment is everything and it’s too much for me to open to and accept.

I started to feel it again just describing it… and then this guy walked by outside with his dog.  Dang it, I forget what the breed is called.  One of those long, slender, tri-colored hunting dogs.  The ones that run about the Shires of England, pointing out the water fowl to their oh so civilized, shot gun clad masters on horseback.  Now you can dig it, cantcha?  Well, it was soothing.  Something so captivating, present and finite.  A resting place for my roving attention.

Aloneness.  That’s been one of my most unwieldy and essential pills demanding to be swallowed.  Why?  I’m alone right now and it rocks.  So what’s the big deal?  I don’t know.  Oh, wait, yes I do.  It’s the illusion of being separate from God.  For me, it kinda blows after a while.  Okay, okay, lemme back up.  I realize that I treaded on landmine strewn terrain by using the G word.  God seems so obvious to me.  No, I don’t have a shred of evidence, so don’t bother asking.  I just imagine that I know.  Fill in what ever word you please~ Creator, Spirit, Universe (I think Universe would win the popularity contest by a landslide right now, since it isn’t affiliated with any pukey institution of organized religion… unless you count science as organized religion for the devotionally parched…)

I’m feeling like bringing up a “higher power” was a bad idea.  But too bad.  Because I’m borderline obsessed with the topic and at the end of the day, what else is there to talk about, besides sex.  But come on, even sex is really just a covert attempt to return to our natural state of Orgasmic Oneness.  (Orgasmic Oneness… for all you hard nuts to crack, can you consider using that word to describe something wildly desirable, natural and so much greater than just your piddly egoic self?)

Ahhhhh, my words feel so bound up today.  My mind has been mummified while I slept and dreamed of Suzette and the ever titillating subject of destiny.  Muses?  Where have you fled to today?  You are probably out at the beach, bikini clad, drinking deep of these rare and precious days of summerish sunshine.  That’s what I would be doing if I wasn’t so stinkin’ ambitious and dependant on the comfort of routine and the necessity of self expression.  Well, please forgive me, my muses are away for the day, playing nude, beach volleyball, invisible breasts flouncing as they feverishly lunge for the neon pink ball that plummets over the etheric net.  The etheric net which accidentally traps baby angels, just learning how to fly.  And a few token fairies with startlingly ornate wings, teeming with colors that you never even conceived of.  But I can do it without you guys.  It’ll build character.  It’ll put hair on my chest.

Here’s something that might actually be relevant to you~ Relationships seem to be very strained these days.  I just found out that three married couples I know are divorcing.  That’s not to mention all the relationships I have been watching crumble over the last few months.  Including my own.  Seems like the last year or two, I have been reviewing a lot of the formative experiences that have contributed to shaping the hopelessly human and perfectly flawed creature that I am.  I am.  That is a dangerous thing to declare unconsciously.  I am.  How many times have you said, “I am afraid”, or “I am angry”?  Language.  Be forewarned, it shapes reality.  The only thing that should REALLY follow the words, “I am” is “the magnificent, raw energy of creation”.  The rest is all a lie.  A necessary lie, if you want to get along in this rhythmically twisted fantasy land called life as we know it… but a lie nonetheless.

“I feel afraid/angry/sad/horny”… way more accurate.  But I did not step up to the plate expecting it to be a soap box… it just morphed into one.  Pardon me, I just wanted to get a modest base hit, like the rest of you.

Relationships.  I have been seeing my programs and conditioning way to clearly for any semblance of comfort.  Seeing that I have been relating to Love in a very young way.  I learned that “love” was a survival skill.  A transaction.  You take care of helpless little me and I’ll “love” you.  I have had that subtle filter blindfolding my sacred sight.  What can this person do for me?  Will this man take care of me?  And now that I am taking care of myself (and my man), I feel a deep and recurring disappointment in my relationship.  I find myself often feeling resentful, and wondering what the point of holding on to him is… What is the point of being in a long term, committed relationship?

Saved by the bell.  I just looked out the window and saw two horny house sparrows gettin’ it on right on the telephone wire.  The female, significantly smaller than her mate, bowing her body in a submissive posture, eager to be mounted and pounded by a microscopic sparrow penis. (what an adorable thought)  Then the male leaping into the air and fluttering above her, landing almost gracefully on her back, beating his wings gently as he gives it to her.  She doesn’t put up any sort of fight.  I remember watching the sparrows mate in the breezeways at my elementary school.  I would feel turned on and captivated.  Curious and ashamed.  I tried to be casual, terrified that anybody would catch me in the act of watching nature’s pornography.  Is that weird?  Well… c’est la vie… I am as the Universe created me.

What is the POINT of committed partnership?  Marriage?  Once upon a time, I believed it was to live happily ever after, of course… But at thirty years old, I am finally able to admit that life is NOT a Disney movie, and I am not a wistful princess waiting patiently to be saved and royally fucked by my flawless, hunky soulmate from the Kingdom next door.  I still often act like it, though.  (stay tuned to my blog for inevitable more on this topic… but trust me small bites are the new black)

The last pressing confession is that I often do a little dance in the bathroom, here at café 504.  Dancing.  I feel self conscious about doing it in public, mostly.  Because I think too much when there are other people around.  I judge myself too harshly and the fun is devoured by all the blood thirsty critics who take up residency inside me.  But still, I am a dancer at heart.  And especially when I am hoppppped up on cappuccino and listening to upbeat music… it’s the most natural thing to do when I lock myself in the bathroom, wouldn’t you say?  I look in the mirror and seduce my eager, sassy reflection.  I feel so ALIVE!  And I usually think to myself, “I am a good dancer, I should get over myself and go out dancing once in a while.”

Try it.  I dare you.  On one of those inevitably mundane days.  A little dance behind the benevolently locked bathroom door.  It’ll change your life.

The First Day Of The Rest Of My Blogging Life

Blog.  There’s been talk that it’s the way and the light.  This is my new get rich quick scheme!  You don’t know me yet, so you don’t even know if I am joking or serious.  I know me as good as anyone, and I am still not quite sure… But I’ve heard tell that the hard ball playin’ bloggers make more than nurses and fire fighters… Or some two minorly serious careers like that.  I feel like that might be a less than tasteful foot to start out on with you, the fashionably anonymous reader~ “Hey, read these words, freshly milked from my tangled, messy head, so I can get rich!”  I could see that that might be a turn-off.

Or it could be a turn-on.  Because something you should know about me, Athena, is that I write (besides because it is a soul compulsion, a calling to whose bitch I am destined to be) I write because I get off on telling the unflattering truths inflicted upon me by my “condition”…  My HUMAN CONDITION.  And the beauty of it, is that YOU are afflicted too, so I know that there is at least a chance that you will understand.  I love reading a writer who is willing to tell the truth, as unattractive as it may be… and feeling something in me breathe a sigh of relief when I remember that I’m not so totally alone, and not the only would be circus freak among us.  So… read on, and know that you’re doing okay, whoever you are, wherever you are, how ever you are.

It’s six oh nine am.  Not so ungodly.  (Though honestly, I don’t believe there is a time in all of creation and beyond that is “ungodly”, so maybe that was the wrong adjective…)(Yeah, I’m pretty into God… You’ll see.)  Anyway, now it’s six eleven and my tea tastes really delicious, which is weird, because it doesn’t always.  The same tea, more or less and it always hits me different.  It’s Irish breakfast from Trader Joes.  (I recommend it to tea drinkers who are hallowedly plagued by this recession business.  You get like eighty bags for like three dollars and fifty cents or some’m like that!  And it is a tea with balls!)  I heat up some coconut milk. (which is another recession special~ one can of coconut milk plus two and three quarters cans of water, plus a dainty teaspoon of stevia, half as much salt and a few mindless sprinkles of cinnamon all swirled around in the hand blender that Eric* won at a raffle once upon a distant, nostalgic time.)  Anyway, I like my tea MILKY, and this coconut brew is wimpier than milk, so I use at least twice as much, heated up in a sauce pan and then added to the small amount of hot water and tea bag.  And a modest plop of honey.  I would go into great detail on all of this, but it seems boring.

I just thought I’d be like Like Water For Chocolate, and give you a sexy recipe strewn with a heart wrenching story.  But it didn’t really work out that way.  I just took a deep breath.  Wow, those things are really useful sometimes.

Six twenty now, and what I was driving at when I announced the time, was that I normally would not be awake now.  Well, yes, at six twenty, maybe, but not at five twenty, when I originally woke up.  Especially not since yesterday was “spring forward”.  So if you do the MATH! (I am starting a new fad~ putting an exclamation point after the word MATH!.  It’s really healing.  Especially if you suffered through math! in school.  It makes it more jazzy and promising.  Try it.)

Anyway, I usually crawl into my sweetie’s bed in the wee hours of the morning and drift in and out of thoughts and dreams and prayers for another hour or three.  But this morning I was anticipating an e-mail from Eric* and so when I stirred at just after five, I couldn’t resist checking my IPHONE for his message.  HARK! MATH! It was there!  And it was so stirring and made my mind crawl with insect swarmish thoughts and there I was, in Mykael’s bed, spooning him as the muses screamed at me.  I swear, sometimes I feel abandoned by them.  But in his oh so squishy bed in the dark, the most brilliant things were racing through my wide awake mind, maybe not as fast as lightening, but at least as fast as… cheetahs or thoroughbreds or fireflies.

So it was either receive this gift of inspiration by hurling it on the page, or just lay there with a mind on fire, trying to push the thoughts down and “meditate”.  As if this is not “meditation”.

Woops.  I think that was it.  No more inspired words.  I fell into a quiet lull.  Oops, here they come again.  I want to exclaim that writing is my savior!  My messiah!  Whereas before I landed on the page, all my tangle of chaotic thoughts and feelings was a source of out of control-ness, lonliness, insanity… here on the page, I feel SO WHOLE.  How is it, that the simple act of organizing my mind into a linear succession of fleeting ideas is so soothing?  Really… It must be some kind of holy alchemy.  But honestly, I am NOT exaggerating.  Recently I have thought that I might just drown in my very own life, and now, here in my dimly lit bedroom, with the darkness whispering distant freeway songs outside my white curtain drawn window and the cat licking her crotch at my feet, I am suddenly more than okay.  I am here.  Is this what Jim Morrison meant when he said “stoned immaculate”?  …probably not…

I thought I was going to write about Eric*.  That’s why I put the little asterisk by his name.  But just like MATH!, Eric* shall hence forth be followed by a holy asterisk.

Once Upon A Time.  I like using that phrase to start up a story.  And too, I like Happily Ever After, as much.  Because it speaks to the sugar coated, princess fairy tale mind fuck that has all too subtly sculpted my mind as a woman in this culture.  Or more appropriately said, this cultureless society.  Ahem, Once upon a time, me n Eric were engaged to be wed.  Five years of life together that made and broke us.  (That last sentence was only in there for dramatic flair, but come on, it totally worked.)  Then one day, one spring day, that is, things seemed common enough, Eric drove a large, white van full of privileged waldorf high school students home from their vision quest… The kind of large white van that somehow always gets associated with child molesters… Eric ate random snacks such as chips and bananas with nut butter and a host of (shoot, I suddenly really have to go pee, but my cat is laying on me and I’m on a roll.  Dang.)

Okay, I just went, I had very little choice in the matter.  And then, while I was in mid stream I just remembered this really important thing I had to tell you.  This is requisite, like a disaster drill.  In fact, it IS a disaster drill of sorts!  Last night I accidentally ate chicken liver pate!  I swear I didn’t mean to.  I was at this potluck and it was getting hella late, but dinner was not served… until like nine o’clock, which in my rigid little world is HARDLY okay… thankfully I had eaten a piece of celery with almond butter on the way… Ahem.  Then at nine, like four random foods were informally presented.  Yay! One of them was a large bowl of grayish brown… “mash”… surrounded by an inviting spray of little cute toasts.  I wondered.  I might have secretly known it was danger.  The question did slither-whisper through my mind… Is this liver-slop?  Nah… Plus, there were lumps in it, one of which I bravely investigated.  WALNUTS!   (not the same as MATH!~ it is not requisite to be a perpetual exclamation)  Granted, the slime around the WALNUT! Tasted reminiscent of dog food, which should have been my first clue, but I justified it like this~ Pate is too fancy and comes in small, round molds.  This was a big bowl full, which is atypical of all things “delicacy”, right?  WRONG.  I was hungry, so I tastefully scarfed both toasts, only to be regretfully informed by my man that it I had fed us chicken liver pate.  REMORSE!  That’s the best way to express it.

Now it’s six fifty nine am.  The sky is blushing with the promise of a brand new day.  Not blushing like pink though, just blushing with light.  Get it?  And the bird’s song has changed from morose to promising.  That happens when they feel the light flood in once again.  Like a nocturnal tourniquet.

Anyway, I am about to turn into a pumpkin in this daylight, and I realize that I have already written fifteen hundred and twenty something words, which is a mouthful, or an eyeful at least.  A somethingful.  And I want to leave you wanting, so I’m just gonna spew out this last moral, because in the book of how to write a successful, lucrative blog, THEY say that you must inflict the world at large with copious amounts of unwieldy morals!!!  Just kidding.  Did I fool you even for a second?!

The moral of this story, is that if you are twisted enough to bring a wash basin sized bowl of liver pate to a pot luck, the LEAST you can do is LABEL it.  Please.  Take that to heart.  Otherwise, people might mistake it for babaganoush that has been sitting out way too long and incidentally tastes like cat food.

And as for the Once Upon A Time, Eric* thread, stay tuned.  And until then, Champagne Dreams and Liver Pate nightmares.