A Modern Day Parable (plus bonus pussy report)

Oh dear.  I’m having my first bout of sibling rivalry.  Last week, a new writing project floated down my river in an intricately woven basket made of reeds and rushes, pussy willows and tantalizing promises of liberation.  And being the mushy, feisty, word stringing creatress that I am, I couldn’t resist.  The buoyant, embryonic concept cried out as it floated along, and I plunged through the dense cattails and considerations, trounced through the succulent squish of muddy river bottom and grabbed the mysterious basket with the sloshing passion of my chalice shaped heart!

I was about to spill my guts; gush the dirty details of this project… but…

First I have to announce that I am sitting in the world’s most imperfect moment.  I decided to be radical, because it’s Sunday.  So I hitchhiked to Hanalei and nestled onto the veranda of the local café, Java Kai with a fresh cup of sweet, creamed-up yerba mate.  I was inspired because yesterday I was sitting at one of the adjacent picnic tables on the lawn between the sidewalk and the cafe offering poems and Brad, Catherine and Shane were hanging out here rappin’ and writing and it was a lively Saturday afternoon.  The scene unfolded with such released perfection, like the cool, crystaline moments just following a great orgasm.  All serenity and fulfillment.  I was well rested, focused and clear.  The sky was full of thick, heavy clouds that transcendently vivified both purpleness and grey!  I marveled at how this deep shade of storm tickled and sucked the vibrancy forth from all the lush plant life.  I swear to God, the colors exploded at me and climbed all over my insides, staining me with their acute expression.  I sat at the picnic table feeling so divinely useful, wearing a muffled, ecstatic smirk on my face… and life unleashed one blessing after another on me!  New friends washed by in a steady stream of connection and sharing, woven between poem customers who revealed their beautiful hearts to me.  Jay, the beautiful, stoned rasta man unzipped his fanny pack, produced a soft, sweet smelling peach and offered it to me (never mind that it was mealier than wet cement).  It was as if All Pervading Santa Clause dumped out his sack of gifts right above my precious head!

But today… my hair is greasy and I’m tired.  And I guess I am becoming more and more sensitive, because being in such a close proximity with all these people is not agreeing with me.  I feel like they are inside me, which makes it a true workout to find MYSELF in here.  I wore the total wrong outfit… though I just ripped my bra off and that made life 61% better.  Seriously.  Getting ready to leave the house, I wanted to look all pretty and I put on dramatic, black eye make-up but now I just feel like a gooped up dork.  Sigh…

But bear with me, because I am driving at something very important here.  This is nothing short of a honkin’ holy parable, Friends!  And I hope you are ready for the slobbery, over-affectionate, crotch-sniffing moral… (The barista just came and made off with the chair that I was resting my leg on.  Bitch.  See how flawed this moment is?!?!?!?)  So.  The moral of this modern day parable is…

We can make love to the jagged, bitter, pasty, arthritic, rightwing, argumentative, podunk, dried-out, vomitous, ingenuous bummers in life with just as much gusto and gratitude as the pristine moments where Ben Franklins pour down from glorious, epic cloud covers and we can suddenly, out of the blue, sing opera that would give Pavaroti a run for his mooing LA.

Gasp!  It might pay to have morals afterall… because just as I was typing this saccharine sweet, cold, sweating glass of Sunny Delight of a moral, Shane, my freshly adopted writing partner texted me and invited me to his house in Haiena for “breakfast” (Sorry, Shane, breakfast happened like three hours ago…) and writing!  Incase you are not familiar with Haiena, it is the last town at the end of the road before the highway dead ends and the raw jungle opens her verdant, slobbering mouth and swallows civilization whole.  Much more my style in my current, fragile, sleep deprived state.

Now I am sitting in his spacious, open air, one room dwelling, on the other side of a down home meal of eggs, bacon (yes, I said BACON) and buttery, jam-stained toast, typing my beautiful brains out to the stiff, substantial chorus of banana leaves being tossed about by erratic, muscular breezes.  We are listening to Shimshai at low volume.  But even amidst the soft sounds, I feel a great silence inside.  This is much more my style than janky-assed Java Kai.

So now what?  Now that I’m in blissfully drowning alive in peace, what do I tell you?  My pussy keeps begging me to tell you that she exists.  She has been relentlessly calling up to me from the bottom of the well for the last few days.  Honestly, she’s great company.  She makes life so much richer.  I know that it’s kind of unconventional to speak so openly and bluntly about my pussy.  And I suppose some people might even consider “pussy” a vulgar word, favoring more pc terms like “vagina” or even more discreet and conservative, “privates” or “nether regions”… or of course the more new age, tantric term, “yoni”… but pussy works charmishly for me.  And she is definitely purring right now.  (Shane just delivered a freshly boiled ear of corn on a beautiful, coral colored square plate.  I bit into it and it exploded, violent and sweet, all over my face.  YUM!)

Ahem.  Pussy.  Beyond just reporting live from my pussy for her own sake, I tell you this because it’s a whole new realm for me to be so continuously turned on and have no one to have sex with.  Back in my old life, having a built in sex partner, I believed that being turned on meant that I needed to knock myself some swanky boots.  (For more of a thorough recount of my sexual history, see my recent-ish post, a brief history of my sexual… I forget the exact title… but I think it was mid September.)  But from the here and now, live from the couch in Shane’s gusty, tropical living room, I must say, that being turned on without getting off is actually a very pleasant (though mildly frustrating) experience.  It’s another facet of my yearning for God.  A sacred, sucking, vibrant ache.  Climax is overrated.  You spill over the falls, pound into the brisk, dancing waters below… and then what?  Get on with your life… But this way, my sacred, feminine vessel continues to chant holy songs, quietly, ecstatically, beautifully awake.  Yes, surrendering and making a home in the purity of my desire is good learning for me right now.

Amen.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: