Friday, March 09, 2018

Giving Time

No fantasies
Just touch

No defenses
Just trust

"What do you want to do?"
"Let's make out."

I thought I'd embarrass myself again
But you showed me my strength.

I thought I knew the root of it
But you showed me how tall

I stood for you
As you sat down

so we danced,
and danced,
and sighed.

No expectations
Just ease

No anxieties
Just peace

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

The End

February 13, 2018

You told me I am ill. I need drugs and therapy.

You told me that I have hurt you, my parents, my friends, my students, and many others.

You told me that you care about me.

You told me that I am an addict to my mania, riding the waves of the highs and the lows.

You told me these things as we shared one last bowl together.

You told me these things as you hit it three more times, and I decided there to give it up.

That's the end of it.

Here's what I hadn't told you.

I felt guilty about the abortion. I felt it was my fault. I felt, for years, that staying with you might somehow, somehow, make up for it.

But there is no making up for losing someone you hardly knew. There is no making up for decisions like that. It was just one long painful regret.

I tried to kill myself because I couldn't stand living with you, with your judgments, with my judgments, with my bitterness, with my regret, with my aspirations, with my boredom, with my frustration. Remember when I jumped out of the car after a meetup? I still do remember it. I remember that feeling that lead me to pull the handle and run, run to wherever. It didn't matter we were somewhere lost in Decatur. Being lost and running away and without anything but my own body felt much safer in that moment than listening to you and your complaints drag me down from the joy I had been feeling.

That's me now. I am jumping out. I don't need any good reasons anymore. I don't even need selfish reasons.

You offer me nothing else but your love and care.

It is not enough.

It hasn't been enough.

You know it and kept doing this marriage because, as you told me, you didn't want to fail yet again. You didn't want to have yet another man you loved leave you alone and broken.

Yet you also make it clear I am not at all a man. I am insecure, childish, impulsive, reckless, impatient, frustrating, critical, demanding. You told me, as I watched your aura blaze in silver and yellow and red pulsing clouds, that I am dedicated to chaos.

There you go. That's probably the truth.

So there you go, that's how it ends.

Sunday, February 04, 2018

Human Contact

Yesterday evening we attended a cuddle event. This time it was the Cuddle Party.

I saw a variety of people, really wide and diverse, and we shared a very comfortable safe space.

The intimacy and conversation I shared with the people I cuddled was great for me. It felt genuine, open, and gifting.

There are things some people understandably resist. There will be people whom you feel are creepy, gross, damaged, isolating. You work through the screens to see the genuine soul. Connecting to the soul on the other side is so much easier in the cuddle setting.

But just because it is easier does not mean you can change the patterns overnight. The shame, the insecurities, the envies, the doubts, the uncertainties, the questions, the braveries, the repressions, the suppressions, the intensities and exhilations, the friendship of expression and opportunities to face the ugliness inside we project onto others, addressing the shadow by its name and owning its freedom: moving all this is hard work.

But easier to work upon in a place of respect and admiration.

Tuesday, January 30, 2018

Every day, every day, every day

The hard part is going to be finding the time.

She said, "I don't know how you have time for girlfriends."
Me either. I don't know.

Tell me what you want to say, and I'll start saying it. Help me put out what's inside you, and we'll do it together.

It doesn't matter how often I think about the same topics. Each time I come to the moment of explaining the ideas, it's a different moment altogether. Writing down all the things I want to say is not possible. Not all the things are word-related or replaceable. They are just there as inexplicable as sun beams gliding across the floor.

I am enjoying teaching ethics this semester. I see already how several of my students are lost. I see how several are eager to get serious. I see how some want to get my attention. I see how some want to fade into obscurity. I see how some have no idea why they got up that morning. I see how a few are well made and put together.

I joke with them that some of them are soulless and robots. It's not often, actually, that such people stay in my classes. I think there's something about my teaching style that can't really appeal to the anthropobots. But there is definitely something about what I do and how I do it that appeals to the mimicons. There are probably too many of them.

You were in my class today, but you're likely not going to read this. I enjoyed our back and forth and learning from how quickly you had answers to my questions that you think fast. But then there was this moment that passed, and I became quite aware of your tears. Your eyes started to glisten and I saw the redness, the stifling, the awkwardness. It looked like you were going to cry, but I don't know why. Was it because you felt withered by how quickly we moved through the conversation? Was it just the intensity of the experience of talking in front of so many people? Did I embarrass you? Or was this a separate reaction altogether? It was later, when I was walking towards you and you sidestepped, like you needed space between us and wanted to not be seen, that I felt I wanted to let you know, whatever it was, that it was okay. Honestly, you are great to be so open with your viewpoints, and there's no shame in realizing how much of what we say is just things we think we're supposed to say. The formal reality of social contact is real and helpful and allows people to bypass some of the dangerous ground of getting to know another human.

I don't know why you teared up. I really don't, but you did, didn't you? Let it go, I tell myself. Let the peace be.

In another moment, I will see you and offer up some time to talk about your life. I haven't seen you in a long time, but every time I do, I believe in you. When I sit down and talk with you, I enjoy the conversation. I enjoy your deflections and lack of judgment. You want me to talk, but somehow the conversation always comes back to you. Do I plan it that way? Do I avoid talking about me all the time? I feel like I am always revealing too much, showing too much, saying even with my silent eyes how much I want to tell you, how repetitive those thoughts can be, how sincere they break upon me, how they tug at me when they rush back into the deep and pull away at all this sand between us. The roar of the ocean is constant.

I am trying to ignore you, but you know I can't. I am trying to hear you, but you know I won't. I want to have that space, but I keep falling back into it. I know you must have your freedom. But the cord that ties us is still too strong.

What about you? What do you want from me today?

"Oh, the usual. Touch me again. Hold me closer. Try and think something positive about the people you dislike. Try and adore all the beauty. Try and act like none can take you. But fail. Fail so horribly well."

I feel like I touch you every day. Sometimes we touch so much that I don't know where you give in and I surrender.

"I like it when you touch me. I like it when we talk. Usually you're just telling me about your day and what you want to do and how things look, but sometimes we start to talk about things that interest me and I don't want you to stop. That's also when you start talking to all of them."

And you don't like that?

"It's not that. I like you talking to all of them. I mean, you spend all that time putting them inside your head that you forget you are also putting me inside your head, too."

How can I forget that when it's you telling me this?

"You know what I mean."

I can't really say I do know. I mean, I think I know what you mean, but then my thoughts are not my own.

"Well, at least you get to use your own words. I, on the other hand, only exist inside these quotes. Who am I when I'm saying my own thoughts? Who am I when I get to write what I've been working on?"

I guess, in the end, I'll find that out when I'm ready.

"You? You've never been ready and you're not going to be."

Hey, hey, now. Who are you?

"Oops, sorry. Wrong voice."

Monday, January 29, 2018

This is a Window.

Let me start by saying that I am here deciding to do this, and yet I have no idea what I mean when I said to myself I'd write this down. Here, at this point, I already see how terrible this whole idea is.

The keyboard is not what I'm used to.So there'soften a space missing. The key requires a definite intention to hit the space. So now I have to write slowly to make sure I hear the words right, hear the sound right. Here inside all these sounds is an inner space within me, where there isn't any sound or image but my thoughts and their imagery. That inner space is silent. But on the inner surface, like windows inside the monad looking outward, all I hear upon that surface are the echoes from the other side. They are like reflections of something looking outward, like that one scene in Labyrinth when Sarah throws a chair into the bubble Jareth had placed her in, destroying the illusion of the ballroom dream sequence, the classic erotic nightmare. I guess I am trying to say that I see myself reflected in the silences constantly filling in all the gaps, the returning signal I sent out, those constant questions I feel entitled to just ask, they all bear my shadows that I must calibrate for.

I am trying to tell you something about my love.
It may give me insight between black and white.
And perhaps ...

...there is more than one answer to these questions pointing me in a crooked line.

Do you know what it is like to feel God?

I do.

People all have these experiences where they tell me he made them feel something in their heart. At a rare moment, they tipped over and began to hold onto the dream longer than they were supposed to. So it stuck, and the dreams become stones and monuments and cultures and spaceships and nightmares. I felt, for me, it wasn't that I blamed God for losing Rachel, or for when I became evil and chose the easy path, or for world hunger. God was never real for me. I am not sure what I prayed to. I felt the Spirit push against me and alienate me, but that isn't something that strikes me as a reason to love God. They are not the same PERSON, so something in how he and I related had nothing to do with how it and I related. Jesus wasn't really someone I identified with. It was the Spirit and I.

Besides, I'm missing the point here.

The real important point is that I hav—have experienced God, felt the very being of God.

Both of those times I spent with Colleen, my wife.

One of those times, I was up in a squirrel's nest, enjoying her worship me and being overtaken with the awareness of trees silhouetted against but beneath the overcast grey. I felt so many trembling, awakening tendrils all throughout my body, flowing inward into me through her mouth upon my body. I saw so many trembling, hungry branches reaching skyward away from us, falling in love with the sun and struggling for time with its light. Then, in some moment when the universe collapsed upon me, I became overwhelmingly convinced and shaken with the conviction that here is God.

She wasn't my wife at that time. But it was one of those really beautiful times, the kind you hold on to, for later.

The other time was something more recent.

But, it looks as though that's all the time for now. But, hey, I remembered some things!

Sunday, January 28, 2018

Snuggle Sanctuary

A week ago, on Saturday, Colleen and I attended a Snuggle Sanctuary. I had heard of cuddle parties and wondered about them. I am very glad, very fortunate, that my first experience with this kind of open and especially pbulic sharing of touch and intimacy occurred with Colleen, within the matrix of the SNUGGLE SANCTUARY rather than the CUDDLE PARTY. It was definitely for me a spiritual event, and I noticed how other participants found themselves feeling as though they had a therapeutic release of negative energy and a positive insurgence of genuine love. It was better than going to a therapist or using SSRIs.

The biggest thing I learned was consent. Genuinely asking for and soliciting consent was significantly empowering. It allowed for more negotiation, authentic discussion, and benevolence for all. I saw people sharing very light and playful touch and others more restful and lethargic touch. It was not sexual, and there was freedom to respectfully dissolve sexual tension or allow it to dissipate. That enabled me to begin understanding why I enjoy the energy of human beings authentically engaging with one another when it allows immediate and immanent touch. Spiritual rejuvenation and material reward.

We're going to a cuddle party next time. I am curious how the dynamic will change.

Saturday, January 27, 2018

Random thoughts

Snatching this moment from the mountain of available time....

I guess I started talking to you in my head the moment I heard the other you talk. With her I have had long talks into the nights, conversation bits when I walk down a hallway, sitting at peace in the privacy of a public stall, sitting back from the line watching cooks fry meat on wide stainless grills, so many conversations I'm having all with you. Sometimes you look like her and you move just like her, but inside the moves inside my head are silent words and open pauses, mindful gestures miming prepositions and adverbs. I have had sex with you and felt alive in all your verbs, color terms, prepositions and value-valent vectors, such bubbling tickle along my spine all this lifeforce within me you give me. Gave me.

We talk within dances and silences, and I don't know if I should have just told you the truth that I don't actually ever have a thought. It's certainly true I've acted thoughtlessly. But what happens in me isn't thinking with words. Mine are motions and spirits of the air inside my head. Trying to get them to become words is asking a cat to try shopping for groceries. The words are not where I met you; you became these movements of your projection into me, my injection of your viewpoint and my reception of your guile. All your ways of trying to reach me, there's where I felt your sense.

Somewhere along the way, the version of you inside me met the person who inspired it.

Out of time. To be continued...
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