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…

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