I took an Excedrin for the morning’s headache, got back in bed and did some Wim Hof Migraine Breathing. Three cheers for our pal, Mr. Hof!!! The pain vanished, and the caffeine took me back to the words of my dear mother, God rest her soul. “We live in a sex cult.” Yeah, right out […]The sex sense – an alien perspective on love and reductionism
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I’ll do my best to get on the reader and see what’s up with everyone.
It’s so much easier to melt into your warm flesh because I know how you smell and your voice.
It’s just the nurturing comfort I need right now but you won’t kiss me as you did before.
Something is distinctly unfamiliar…
You feel different in my bed, humidity on a dry. cold, windy day when the sun is loitering in the sky rather than actually warming things up.
You’re a woke soul, a man not a boy with your dreams doing cartwheels.
It’s not love, it’s familiarity which so many humans mistakenly wrap their arms around in tribal joy.
No doubt, what is familiar today will change tomorrow and that intrepid fact is forever familiar all around us.
The desire for privacy is vastly different than wanting to keep secrets. Intelligent people can feel whether you’re authentic or not. If you keep secrets, it’s a lie and manipulative. Spinning an image is politics and greed.
Privacy is for mystics and artists who need silence to hear their muses and manifest truth that comes out of their feelings and body. Privacy is needed to channel the intuition and bring forth Love.
I loved that, as soon as I walked in the time-honored door, profusely late, you were concerned that I’d gotten lost, in trouble, or something else.
Mmmmm. That’s the good stuff. I’m going there and staying in that sterling feeling. It’s a crack memory in my brain. No one can take it away. I keep a pile of those in a festive drawer for a rainy day.
The shell of a turtle, a carapace, guards your continuance of electric water, straight to your brain, pulls your vibration down in by degrees.
Your skin like a husk full of ridges on corn smells sweet,
hard to pull off at the bottom, tassles so soft on my face, the smell of earth.
Your arm was warm and pleasant as the first tomato of summer in my hungry hand.
Let me bite into that luscious fruit, so sweet and tangy
or a mango stream of juice down my chin.
I’m distracted, clement smells from your back
Why are so sweet yet so smart and severe?
No end to touch makes my breathing peaceful.
I feel happy…oh god I’m doomed.
Indeed, it only lasted one day and you ripped your skin from me again.
At least you can’t take the memory from me.
Words can never erase actions like skin can never cover feelings.
Does the life inside my head, when I’m not writing, count as my Life?
Or do I have to go outside and be around people to observe and participate in that stuff in between writing for that to count as my Life?
Or does the time I’m just being empty-headed, doing and thinking nothing and not writing count as my Life?
I think it all counts. Thoughtforms tend to be phantasms but they’re really not ya know. The preponderance is on the action in our society but it’s not that way for writers. Thought forms are picked up by the mind and manifested into the cells of the body.
When the sky is gray, like today, or it’s snowing, all of nature brings a variation that causes lip licking and nose blowing with a temperamental euphoria that distinctly tastes like the air. I love the smell of the crisp air in Michigan winter. This is my life in between writing.
I just want to drink my Earl Grey tea and sit in my chair writing my latest musing. When my mind is swirling, my body won’t.
For now, watching the rhythmic drips from my roof out my window will do.
Who should take good care of your heart? The only one taking care of your heart should be you. Only share it with everyone else. Your heart condition is your business! Anything else has a disaster at the end of it or chaos. We all know this! Why do people keep doing it? Because it feels good…for a while! It doesn’t last peeps. Lust feels good. Love lasts forever and that comes from loving yourself and being your own best friend.
Do you remember this song? It’s originally a 1984 Jermaine Jackson, Whitney Houston tune. This a new arrangement. Once again, I like the music but completely disagree with the lyrics. LOL! Nevertheless, these two seem like good friends and are flirting galore. That’s very cool. I’m a musician. Musicians have quite a bit of creative eros between them so usually, things flow.
There are two paths leading up to the summit on the mountain.
The mountain is the universe of Mind, Heart, and Knowledge.
The scales of justice, held by blindfolded Athena have innocuously, with no offense, decided that fiction is just a fact told yesterday or… planning to be told in the future.
The only fact is right now, no, right now, no wait. Ok…NOW!
It’s an eternal chase with each in-breath and out-breath, but the final breath happens where both paths meet at the top.
Breathing ends with the fact of death and time claims fiction.
I’m behind a screen.
It’s a beautiful, sapphire screen for some reason with geometric shapes all over it gleaming like a wet, rolling, tumultuous ocean.
The wind is so brisk it’s almost cold and my hair won’t stay off my face.
Why am I still alone standing on this beach?
Why do you want me to stay behind this screen?
I’ve never heard of a friend being afraid to meet a friend. Or is there a fertile seed germinating in you that I’m watering? I’m just guessing, not assuming.
You didn’t know it was there.
Keep the seed in the dark behind that screen so it won’t sprout.
All I can hear is the roar of the gleaming, wet, ocean.