a rant:
"I feel there is something unexplored about women that only a woman can explore." -georgia o'keeffe
as i write, it is interesting the feedback i get. because of the sexual nature of my writing, i get a lot of men writing very juvenile comments. i also get marginalized by the mainstream of spirituality. as if i can be put in a box as "sexual".
my friends, are we not all sexual creatures? have we not come from sex? is the fabric of our existence not made of sex?
but we put it in a box. most religions and philosophies speak of all kinds of imaginary cosmologies, but the thing hanging between your legs is barely touched on. it goes in a box in storage. in a closet. and festers. if i am airing out that closet, i am experimenting with saying the unsaid. speaking about the most personal and universal experience we all have with out own sensuality and sexuality. but which we make every effort to hide from the rest of humanity. and when sex is spoken of, it is in the most garish way, which shows the explosive nature of repressed energy. if we looked at it more often, there might be more subtlety in our understanding, experience and communication.
i do not expect everyone to understand what i am doing, because even i do not always understand what i am doing...everything swirls around me...and then sets itself into place perfectly...chaos as part of the creative process...it is being done through me...this whole thing, this whole LIFE thing is birthing itself through me and is a mystery to me...
sometimes i feel judged...but that is mine to carry and make sense of. still i feel driven to create, or to allow what is pushing through me to be birthed.
people say i am fearless but it is because i am afraid of everything that i have put myself against the blade of my fears to experience more, i do not let the fears keep me from tasting my desires. i am terribly sensitive in my moments alone. but i do not let the sensitivity keep me from speaking my truth. this is not a statement of valor, it is simply how i observe myself to be built.
to the men with the sexual comments:
why are there so many idiots in this world? seriously, if the fb chat comments i get from men are any indication of the state of collective human consciousness...i am disappointed in our evolution. it would be nice if there could be more subtlety in the PLAY.
tame your penis for goddess sake! can i speak of the universal experience of sexuality, of being spirit animals without a bunch of high school come ons? i mean, seriously...i am exploring saying what is usually unsaid...but which is the common fabric of our consciousness...
to the spiritual community:
i am also disappointed with the spiritual communities lack of a sense of humor. everything is taken so seriously. can i have a fucking emotion without having a bunch of yogis clucking under their breath that they are praying for my peace? it is so condescending.
what about art and exploring differentiation instead of trying to be a bunch of sheep repeating OM OM OM... it is tiresome...where is the tolerance for individual expression and differing points of view? difference makes the world VIBRANT
there is an expression going around, "life is a comedy, not a drama"...really? i thought it was made of both? must i always put on a smiling bliss face for you? can you cherish your suffering as well as your joy?
i had my cup of coffee. please enjoy my mornings verbal droppings. that is all.
love
psalm
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
LA GITANA...#2 excerpt from new book...
ST MARIE, sunday, may 29
i think of my mother and feel very sad. i become a little girl, i curl on the bed in a little ball. i cover my naked body with my wool shawl, like the favorite blanket i had as a baby. i want my lover to hold me. i want someone to hold this terrible ache and emptiness. i weep alone, unashamedly with no one to witness me. so much of the hero i called forth has to be found in myself. at some point the crying stops and i feel the heat of the sun from the window on the bare skin of my thigh. i run my fingers across the warm skin, it makes me think of my lovers fingers touching me. i become aroused and i take out my laptop. i photograph myself masturbating, it turns me on. after i come, i fall back asleep. i am so tired. i wake from my nap a few times fitfully, but i cannot move, my limbs are too heavy. finally i wake and stretch, i have been asleep for maybe hours, time has disappeared.
i shower and dress. i am ready to go inside the church, i have circled it for a week. i am ready to go to the temple in my heart where i hold my longing for my own mother, i have been circling it for years. i feel a great moment is approaching, a moment of the angels, a moment of my healing will come when i enter the church.
i go out to the square and they tell me the church closed at 4pm, it is now 6pm. they say it is closed on mondays and i leave tomorrow, i already bought my ticket to seville to fly early tuesday morning. what a cosmic joke! i write shiva that i made the pilgrimage and danced in the courtyard and slept on the beach, but never made it to the church. he says that is my way anyhow, fuck the buildings i will find god in the streets.
the difference between external worship and internal worship is that external worship is what can be seen from outside, in the form. people put on their best clothes and file into church trying to get points from god or at least the priests and their neighbors. internal worship has no piety and cannot be seen from the outside but is a constant state of offering all life to the sacred flame. everything is sacred, even the profane. i met a monk in india who said i should not wear my prayer beads while taking a shit. he said it would offend god. i said, how can i offend god by taking a shit? god made me and god made the shit. the other teachers all say be good, but i say be bad. you have been so programmed you do not even know good from bad.
i do not know what will save me but i know it is nameless and formless. i may not be good but i am burning, and that burning is a purifying flame. what will i become from all this burning? the moth is attracted to the flame until it is eaten by the flame and becomes the flame. that flame sets others to burning. do not ask if your path and teacher give you peace, only ask if they set you to burning.
it is shaping up to be a long, lonely night. by body is on fire with the memory of my lover inside and nowhere to release the energy. most of the people have left from the festivals and all the corners that had been full of musicians and dancers are empty now. i haunt the streets like a ghost that night, following the sounds of guitars. outside the church close to midnight, a group of young men are playing guitars. a woman in black approaches the group. she has black hair, a black cowboy hat, eyes rimmed in black and her blouse, skirt and shoes are all black. her face is lined with a life that looks hard, but full of good stories.
she waits for the boys to finish their song and then removes her guitar from it’s case. she begins to play and sing, the voice of a woman who is used to singing alone. her songs are in languages i do not understand, but the brave longing i can understand. her songs make me see wide open prairies and horses. they make me think of freedom and loneliness. one of the young men begins to accompany her on his guitar, but she waves for him to stop, she is playing alone. her fingers strum the guitar strings and sometimes she beats out a sound with the tips of her nails that sounds different then the way i am used to hearing the men tap the soft pads of their fingers. when she is finished a young man who looks like a traveller, dark and unwashed, kneels to give her praise. we have all witnessed a miracle here in the church courtyard. then she waves to accept our gratitude and walks away.
i think of my mother and feel very sad. i become a little girl, i curl on the bed in a little ball. i cover my naked body with my wool shawl, like the favorite blanket i had as a baby. i want my lover to hold me. i want someone to hold this terrible ache and emptiness. i weep alone, unashamedly with no one to witness me. so much of the hero i called forth has to be found in myself. at some point the crying stops and i feel the heat of the sun from the window on the bare skin of my thigh. i run my fingers across the warm skin, it makes me think of my lovers fingers touching me. i become aroused and i take out my laptop. i photograph myself masturbating, it turns me on. after i come, i fall back asleep. i am so tired. i wake from my nap a few times fitfully, but i cannot move, my limbs are too heavy. finally i wake and stretch, i have been asleep for maybe hours, time has disappeared.
i shower and dress. i am ready to go inside the church, i have circled it for a week. i am ready to go to the temple in my heart where i hold my longing for my own mother, i have been circling it for years. i feel a great moment is approaching, a moment of the angels, a moment of my healing will come when i enter the church.
i go out to the square and they tell me the church closed at 4pm, it is now 6pm. they say it is closed on mondays and i leave tomorrow, i already bought my ticket to seville to fly early tuesday morning. what a cosmic joke! i write shiva that i made the pilgrimage and danced in the courtyard and slept on the beach, but never made it to the church. he says that is my way anyhow, fuck the buildings i will find god in the streets.
the difference between external worship and internal worship is that external worship is what can be seen from outside, in the form. people put on their best clothes and file into church trying to get points from god or at least the priests and their neighbors. internal worship has no piety and cannot be seen from the outside but is a constant state of offering all life to the sacred flame. everything is sacred, even the profane. i met a monk in india who said i should not wear my prayer beads while taking a shit. he said it would offend god. i said, how can i offend god by taking a shit? god made me and god made the shit. the other teachers all say be good, but i say be bad. you have been so programmed you do not even know good from bad.
i do not know what will save me but i know it is nameless and formless. i may not be good but i am burning, and that burning is a purifying flame. what will i become from all this burning? the moth is attracted to the flame until it is eaten by the flame and becomes the flame. that flame sets others to burning. do not ask if your path and teacher give you peace, only ask if they set you to burning.
it is shaping up to be a long, lonely night. by body is on fire with the memory of my lover inside and nowhere to release the energy. most of the people have left from the festivals and all the corners that had been full of musicians and dancers are empty now. i haunt the streets like a ghost that night, following the sounds of guitars. outside the church close to midnight, a group of young men are playing guitars. a woman in black approaches the group. she has black hair, a black cowboy hat, eyes rimmed in black and her blouse, skirt and shoes are all black. her face is lined with a life that looks hard, but full of good stories.
she waits for the boys to finish their song and then removes her guitar from it’s case. she begins to play and sing, the voice of a woman who is used to singing alone. her songs are in languages i do not understand, but the brave longing i can understand. her songs make me see wide open prairies and horses. they make me think of freedom and loneliness. one of the young men begins to accompany her on his guitar, but she waves for him to stop, she is playing alone. her fingers strum the guitar strings and sometimes she beats out a sound with the tips of her nails that sounds different then the way i am used to hearing the men tap the soft pads of their fingers. when she is finished a young man who looks like a traveller, dark and unwashed, kneels to give her praise. we have all witnessed a miracle here in the church courtyard. then she waves to accept our gratitude and walks away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
