sexloveandgrace, Author at Our Lady of Lust and Grace - Page 51 of 70Our Lady of Lust and Grace

Boys

The Most Cake

March 27, 2016

My virtual fortune cookie this morning said “Savor your freedom – it is precious.”

I smiled.

Been clicking on that thing for 8 years now, this is a new one. The exact right thing at the exact right time.

Hot Neighbor has been around quite a bit lately. Bless him. Holding me together when I felt like flying apart. Imparting his ancient Scorpio alien wisdom. He is a really spectacular big spoon and he brings me pie.

He disappeared for a month or three. I asked him about it and he said he had been experiencing his own melancholia. He described it as catlike. Sleeping a lot. Hiding out, wanting to be petted, but not too much.

Sounds way more dignified than mine. I lean towards the canine side of things. Slobbering on myself and everyone around me, chewing bones down to nothing. Prone to getting excited at the littlest bit of attention and then cringing at the mess I made because I didn’t go out when I should have.

Postcard from 1952 came on as I was writing this. I have a 9 hour playlist I write to for about half as long every day and somehow it always appears in the shuffle. And I cry.

I didn’t cry today. This is huge.

A few days ago I let out a righteous bellow at the universe, calling my power back. I felt it flowing into me, like one of those paper lanterns, holding it still forever then in one little moment, the air is hot enough and it just floats.

Up, up and away went my final fuck.

I left the Land of Melancholy and was immediately transported back to that delightful space of zero gravity/zero fucks. Nothing holding me down. God how I missed this weightless/lightness.

I was grieving the loss of my Frankenmonsterlover aka the Giant. For like a month. Put myself on lockdown. Got catlike myself, “Don’t fucking touch me, leave me alone, let me cry and sleep in no discernible pattern.” Hot Neighbor was the only one allowed to pet me, and even then, one too many touches and I hissed at him.

He came back anyways.

We talked some more. I explained that my 3 years single I had been treating as an experiment. Throwing myself into everything with vigor, quite often blowing shit up then retreating making notes and exploring what went right or wrong. Then go back into the field, do more research and try something else. It’s science.

Not a bad way to be really, except when I get too heavy into the theory and forget to go out and live.

Feel free to laugh at me, I am laughing right now. But after the Giant told me he was seeing someone else I continued being monogamous. I know right?

Let me explain.

I get hurt and I immediately crawl into bed with someone safe and fixate/fix myself that way.

Also, he left an open fun thing with me for a normal relationship with her.

Except he hasn’t left…we still talk and see each other.

I somehow decided I had to let everyone go.

Wolfling was easy, the rest, not so much.
Young Un had been holding my hand for a while and he is just sex walking.
Drogo did one of his magic telepathically linked check-ins, and I missed him.
Home was maintaining safe distance, but I could feel him watching out for me.
Poet resurfaced, how do you abandon someone whose greatest fear is abandonment? I can’t really, so I let him in, but he is physically far away so that seemed safe enough, until it wasn’t.
Even Gelfling reappeared, but I didn’t take the bait…yet. I am waiting for it to get warm again.

Oh wait, I am lying, I had a date with 88. It was a really good date and I really should have fucked him.

Might still, I left that door ajar. Who am I kidding, my door is never locked to those that have the password.

Home called me out on my lunacy. He said “It amazes me how fast you are willing to give up what you are for one guy.”
I mewled a weak retort about how I do want to find everything in one person, I do. But I also don’t want to lose myself.

Giant seemed ideal, the things he wants and the life he has are compatible with mine.

But he wants a normal relationship with a normal girl.

But…he still wants me too, he never left me, I left him.

Epiphany in 3-2-1

What he really wants his cake whilst eating me too, whilst I have my own cake, and him.

Um, I’ve always been the girl with the most cake. I know exactly how good that feels.

Why would I deny him that, or me?

We still talk, he reads my words as fast as I can type them, listens to the music I gifted him to the point of wearing out the discs.

He says he doesn’t want me waiting around for him.

Neither do I.
I have unfinished business elsewhere.

He says he doesn’t want me to go.

Neither do I.
I have unfinished business with him.

He says he doesn’t want me feeling second.

I really don’t.

I realized mid-write. He wants her that way.

He wants me too, exactly as he found me. Which is exactly what I wanted. As is.

He might actually be the Frankenmonsterlover I thought he was, with sprinkles, icing and a cherry on top.

the poet

Open

March 26, 2016

my actual bed

“We must be willing to give up the life we planned for the one that is waiting for us.”
(Joseph Campbell)

I had plans. Big Bad Wolf plans.

Poet popped by again after yet another agonizing absence.

He said repeatedly during this latest apology “Don’t say anything.”

I is getting mighty tired of this irony.

I bit my tongue until it bled.

I sat quietly and listened as he said I made him feel like I was always in a rush to get off the phone, I wasn’t attentive enough. Jesus wept boy, I sat on my porch in -20 February weather because that is where I get the best phone reception, we talked for 40 minutes until my hands were frozen arthritic claws and my battery died.

I’d sent a story and a message … nothing. Not even dancing dots.

For 6 weeks this time.

Came back and asked me why I disappear? (Eyeroll)

He stayed a whole week almost. Filled in the absence of the Giant quite nicely. Had me thinking ‘alright, things make sense again’.

I wanted to go to California. I wanted to be with him. I had nothing holding me here. I was waiting for him to call me home.

Instead he called me a conundrum, “Sarah you are Everything I have ever wanted and everything I have ever run from.”

These are all the things I wasn’t allowed to say during his apology/mansplaining.

He doesn’t like me dancing, I don’t either and I can provide written testimonial from dozens of dancers that prove I am not a typical stripper. But what is the point? He wouldn’t believe them anyways.

Good god I look bad on paper.

Chain smoking, whiskey drinking, single mom, stripper. With a bad habit of sitting in the same sweats for days on end writing feverishly, forgetting to eat and shower and function beyond getting the words out. Then stilettos and thigh highs, painted up like a geisha. Crippling self-doubt monthly and sometimes I am the queen of the world, usually on Wednesdays. Consistently inconsistent. Yuck.

He says I say ‘fuck’ too much, and that I am not used to anyone listening to me so I’m too loud. He isn’t wrong.

I love loud too. I have a handful of people I would take a bullet for. If I ever loved you I still do but I spent a few decades not knowing what love was. I am getting there, still clumsy and learning to walk.

When I was 5 months pregnant I got into a relationship thinking that is what I should be doing. Monkey-barred through 18 years and 5 more failed relationships. So many years being someone’s mom, daughter, sister, wife I never had time to figure out who I was.

Been working on myself for the last 3 years and I know I look a mess. Pulling everything apart, trying to find the ‘why’. Under constant renovations but my foundation stands.

I have lavished love on the wrong people, those who take without giving, expect acceptance but only give attention conditionally.
Ownership is not love, it is belonging with someone and giving yourself freely.

I am more terrified of forgetting than I am of being forgotten. Social media is a touchstone for me, all these markers saying ‘you were here’. Good or bad, yes, there I was. On the bad days I can scroll back and remind myself, this too shall pass, in a while you will not feel like an unlovable monster. My phone is full of videos chronicling belly laughs with my girls. Selfies that trigger the feelings I was feeling that day. A virtual diary full of words and 3×5’s.

Again, I look a mess.

Because I am a mess, and I know it. I try to tidy up the edges, tuck my crazy and my heart back in, but they escape.

Poet said he didn’t know who I was. I was allowed an explanation for that…neither do I.

He took it upon himself to read parts of the blog and scrolled through my Facebook looking for clues.
I let him in, I let everyone in.

I am left wondering if he managed to find all the posts that were about him, and there are many.

Shame is a Prison
Condolences and Gratitude
His
The Little Known Plague of Male Poets
Minefield
Temple
Necromancy
Precious
Building an Empire
Whores, Housewives and Paper Handcuffs
Because of You
The Other Kind of Apocalypse
Five Guys
Honorable mention in Bridges and Tightropes, not to mention volumes of explicit porn written just for him and sent directly to his inbox.

I think I have written more for and about him than anyone else.

And it’s still not enough or too much.

Left a post on my wall saying ‘remember darling, it’s a status update, not a diary’. It’s both honey.

He called me and rambled on about how freaked out he was. How he didn’t understand how I could be so open. When I write for him I have structure and discipline. He didn’t understand my mess. Easy enough to explain, I am both of those things.

He said he would call me after he had more coffee and could articulate. Then bolted in the night, again.

There is the irony folks, he ran from my open, which was the quality that he claimed to love the most about me.

I do.

He thinks I do these things for attention.

I don’t.

I AM happy when someone comes forward and says I helped them in some way. But numbers mean nothing to me.

I am doing this for me. As far as I know I have this one life and I want to experience it and remember it in all of its messed up glory. Whether it be the continuing saga of Young Un, or how I loved the Hulk or that time I was laughing so hard on the change room floor I couldn’t stand up much less dress myself.

Poet says he hates bloggers for how they have to document every time they stub a toe.
Broke my toe two weeks ago, been dancing with my toes taped together, like lotus foot-binding, agony in every step, didn’t mention it until now.
But every time he has broken my heart open, I have to put myself back together, I archive it here.

Ex-hubby told me, after he read the blog and realized I wasn’t the thing he had built me up to be in his mind, that I would die alone with nothing but memories.

Aye, I have those. In written words and photographs.

I have asked repeatedly ‘who is going to love me with my guts splattered all over the internet.’
Not the Poet apparently.

I had a little tantrum upon the Facebook. Answered by the usual rousing chorus of “fuck that guy, you are amazing and we all love you as is” with a ‘nice ass’ thrown in for good measure and comic relief.

This has happened so many times, I have become comfortably numb. (Pink Floyd)

What hurts me now is watching him sabotage his own happiness.
But I think it’s his way, creating pain out of nothing.

I was as wide open with him as I ever have been. I wouldn’t change a fucking thing.

when i was married

Princess Bride vs. Sisterwife

March 24, 2016

Mawage is what bwings us togever today. Mawage, that bwessed awangement, that dweam wivin a dweam.

Mine was a nightmare.

Once upon a time I thought I loved my husband. I really did believe that. And there might have been times that I did.

It wasn’t his fault. I was painfully unaware of who I was as a person. I hated myself most of the time, felt unworthy of even being alive, much less loved. So I didn’t know how to love, I thought it was all claws and teeth. Hanging on for dear life. Jealousy, pirates, murder, revenge.

Wait, that was Princess Bride, wasn’t like that. Not at all. That was true love.

Someone brought up sisterwives last night.

I do not think that word means what you think it means.

Yes, I had a sisterwife. Inconceivable right?

Like I said, I thought I loved my husband.

That wasn’t love, it was a war of wills and egos. His, hers and mine.

Some part of me felt like I had to do penance for the years I spent as someone else’s mistress. In retrospect, even karma is not that creative of a bitch and the things I put myself through made baby Jesus cry on my behalf.

To the pain.

I was never like her. I cared about the man I was sleeping with, I was never vicious or malicious. We made each other happy and he came back to me eventually. Then I left him for this mess.

We’ll never survive.
Nonsense. You’re only saying that because no one ever has.

I survived, barely. Hubby was cheating on me with a rodent of unusual size. I regularly fell into lightning sand, drowned, left to fight my way out on my own. I really should regret that decision to move into the Fireswamp, trying to build a summer home there and the ensuing 7 year chaos. But I can’t. I was born of that hellfire, heated, hammered steel, I am unbreakable.

At the time I thought I had what I wanted, mostly. Hubby had some semblance of a hobby farm.
I loved the farming, sometimes. Most times it was a struggle. A battle of dirt and wills, massive effort versus minimal reward and struggling to keep the myriad of animals hubby brought home and dropped in my lap from dying.

I wanted two baby goats, (as you wish) I ended up with 2 dozen, way too much. I wanted one horse to ride we ended up rehoming 6 and I rode two of them twice. We had 6 dogs, 3 liked ripping the pigs and sheep apart. I had geese and ducks and chickens that were constantly getting killed by this or that because the fences were shit.

He brought home critters to keep me locked in while he cheated. I kept their suffering to a minimum, mine was immense.
But in between I got a whole bunch of good pictures to slap up on Facebook. My little virtual internet existence looked pretty fucking amazing. It wasn’t. I edited out the bloodstains, death, dirt and the tears. The nights he would disappear and I knew he was out with her, she was in charge of posting those photos. The epic fights wherein I would drive away, further and further each time until I landed in the city and stayed. He put an ad in the paper and sabotaged the new relationship I had landed in to get me to come home.

I went back and things were good for a few months. My old paranoia crept back. It was inevitable him sneaking off to see her again. So I made a proposition, move her in. Lightening my work load, easing his financial burden and just eating the pink elephant in the room once and for all.

We could just kill each other as god intended, sportsmanlike.

It was the best/worst idea I have ever had.

I truly believed that after him cheating on me with her for 6+ years there must be some redeeming qualities about her. Nope. She was a burden and a drain. A true parasite, with borderline personality disorder and a love of opiates. She was high most of the time and the sneakiness continued, I just had front row seats and got stuck making her lunches for work.

He told me if I let her move in he would give me a baby. I died that day.

I’m not a witch I’m your wife. But after what you just said I’m not even sure I want to be that anymore.

I am a witch. I should have gotten in my truck and driven to a land far, far away, but I didn’t.

I was mostly dead.

We tried the threesome thing once. I was so grossed out by how she looked, tasted, smelled and behaved…I walked out in the middle of it. What is that thing? Haven’t touched a woman since and I cannot begin to imagine a scenario where I would again.

It was the best idea I ever had because it finally pried me out of there. We slipped back together in hotel rooms for 4 months until I gave him an ultimatum. The last ultimatum I ever gave anyone. He countered with one of his own, said I needed therapy, and boy did I ever.

Seriously, how did he think that was going to go?

I learned a lot about myself in the process. I am tenacious as fuck. Loyal to the point of insanity. I survived something that would have killed a lot of people, and there were moments where I wanted to die.

It took me three years on my own turning my entire life over in my head, learning fighting and fencing anything anyone would teach me and spilling my guts out here to figure out what love is. I filled my drama quota for the next three lifetimes.

As I sit here now, in my clean, tiny house, writing away, I am warm and happy. The only souls I have to look after are mine, my son’s, a tiny dog and two kittens. The gardening I do consists of watering my houseplants and orchids once a week. My bed is my own and I can chose who comes and goes. This is infinitely better.

I almost fell back into the pit of despair, but I’m out now.

Not sure how to proceed, maybe if I had months to plan or a holocaust cloak.

Someone is trying to kidnap what I have rightfully stolen.
And I am trying not to rush a miracle (you get rotten miracles.)

*All italics are from the Princess Bride by S. Morgenstern.

wanderlust

Voodoo

March 22, 2016

Who do that voodoo that you do so well?

The answer is…Me.

I do.
I just forgot myself for a while there.

I am heading to New Orleans mid-April. Booked my flight last week. It’s starting to feel real.

3 days, 2 nights with my blonde, bubbly, charismatic partner in crime.

The suggestion came out of nowhere one night sipping Bobby’s amazing Caesars. She said “I am going, you should come with me.” Sounded incredibly right, so I said yes.

Bartender said, “do me a favor, look after her and try not to get arrested.” I promise.
He has my 6 every damned night, after 7, bless him. We watch Jeopardy, I bring dinner and he keeps me sane. I am going to miss that curmudgeonly old fucker.

He wants hot pepper seeds. I will find them and bring them home. Among other things.

My PIC wants to see a psychic, and so we shall. I’ll find the right one for her while we are wandering down the street in the sunshine, in pretty dresses, eating beignets and sipping coffee. There will be a door and a tiny sign and my body will just tell me to turn left. I already know what she is going to say.

PIC and I are splitting off on Friday night, I will be the girl in New Orleans who doesn’t get drunk. Find a piano/jazz bar somewhere and another bartender to chat with. I am going to eat all the foods. Absorb the energy of the city. The good stuff, the old wisdoms, commune with some ghosts, listen to what they have to say.

Between Poppy Z Brite writing about it, National Geographic articles about Mardi Gras and Mr. Carver’s American history class, I have wanted to go since I was young. I regret not making it down before Katrina. I remember watching the news and having my heart broken, mostly for them but a little bit for me too.

It wasn’t time then, it is now. That has been happening a lot lately.

This is one of those odd, spontaneous trips I denied myself for years. Out of fear and motherhood.

I wish I knew then what I know now. Taking kidlet on adventures would have been so much better than staying on lockdown with men who didn’t deserve my love, body, time or financial contributions. I could have done it on my own so much better.

I didn’t get out of jail free, but I am free now and I am not looking back. I am not that girl anymore. I don’t even hate my jailors. Ain’t worth my time or energy. They hold no power over me. I am the witch they failed to burn. Or maybe I was made out the ash. Either way, I am still here.

3 years ago I walked out of the land of Should and I haven’t looked back. I took kidlet with me, we have never been happier.

I saw this yesterday

I chuckled to myself, I had a similar idea when I booked my trip.

New Orleans is the oldest city I have ever been too. Ancient magicks still clinging to the ghosts wandering around. I will negotiate with the dead. There is power there and I aim to bring some back with me.

It’s time to level up, I was treading in mediocre waters, not getting anywhere.

Neighbor came by Sunday, yes, the hot one. He played guitar and sang for me. We watched a movie in bed and laughed. Managing to cut through my melancholia. He just held onto me because he knew I needed it. He willingly gave me the energy I was lacking. I rubbed the knots out of his back and he worked through the tangle in my brain, perfect trade. He asked about what was happening and when I told him how I was behaving, he sat up straight and said “That isn’t like you at all, you are so much stronger than that, what happened to you? Smarten up, be you and take what is yours.”

He is a good man and a good friend, and he isn’t wrong.

He pried out the answer as to why I was so distrustful, and second guessing myself over every damned thing.

You see dear readers, I went to Florida for Christmas break, had every intention of a deep soul cleansing in the ocean. The last time I went I changed my entire life for the ‘oh so much better’. That was 3 years ago.
I fucked up. Almost tripped back into my old life. I didn’t realize I had picked up a parasite. I was trying to date someone/something. He drained me in a way I haven’t felt since the farm and sisterwife shenanigans. Same mental illness and ensuing drama. I got rid of him the second I realized what it was, but it hit me this morning, I am still not back at full strength.
Fuck that, fuck him, he ceases to exist right fucking now. So mote it be.

I call all my power back to me, it’s mine.

I feel better already.

Full moon is coming soon. I have a few things to throw away, sever any remaining ties that bind.
I get a cosmic do-over. I’ll come home with all new juju.

I am buying a voodoo doll.

Not for the reasons most people do. I am not a rube or a tourist. I am not a vengeful girl. The only pins I would put in him would be acupuncture needles to ease his pain and even then I would rather use my hands to untie knots. I am made out of love, passion and compassion. I take bullets, I don’t fire back.

I will buy a doll, give it a face and name and I will love it.

Lavish all the kindness and nurturing I have for the one I love on a poppet until I can do these things in the flesh. Manifest destiny.

I feel my strength returning. I am unbound, untainted and focused.

I put a spell on you, because you’re mine. Nina Simone

Uncategorized

Twisted Limbs

March 20, 2016

“More than anything God loves admiration.”
“Are you saying God is vain?”
“Nah, no not vain, just wanting to share a good thing. I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field and don’t notice it.”
“You sayin’ it just want to be loved like it say in the Bible?”
“Ya Celie. Everything want to be loved. Us sing and dance and holler just trying to be loved.”
“Look at them trees. Ever notice how trees do everything to get attention that we do ‘cept walk?”
~ Alice Walker, The Color Purple

I notice. I notice everything whether I want to or not. And I feel compelled to write it down, take pictures with my mind’s eye and sometimes my camera. This moment is never going to be the same again. Someone has to see it, feel it, experience it. I take it further and I archive. It’s what I do. Part of me wants to share everything with the world, but it is more selfish than that. I am so afraid of forgetting.

I love the pure tenacity of dandelions growing in the cracks of sidewalks. Cosmos pushing through the gravel and trash in empty lots. Ivy climbing up old bricks trying to find the sky. The tree that grows out of the concrete in my alleyway seemingly fed on nothing but rainwater and refuse and yet still provides shelter and shade.

By all rights I am damaged like that tree.

Not a fan of that word nor idea.

Damage implies that I am somehow worse off than before I was broken.

But I am not.

I am everything that shaped me. Every bit of hurt, every piece of praise.

If I was a tree I would be one of those crooked gnarled monsters that makes no sense. That grows through fences and forms burls around bullets. Remnants of old chains that tried to bind grown into my skin. Just rusted and part of who I am now.

If you could read the rings they would speak of a little girl tossed around by the wind, who loved the sun so much she kept reaching up even when it was dark and cold, still reaching, more tentatively then.

There are parts of my foundation that branch sideways. Too much pressure trying to grow up, so I grew out instead.

There are scars from axes and storms. Old lovers carved their initials in, some deep. Some just spray painted on by vandals. I am waiting for the rain and sun to finish the fade away. And once, I got hit by lightning, changed me forever.

I’ve lost branches. Their weight was worth less than the effort it took to hold them up. They were bare and provided no nourishment anymore. I held on as long as I could. Longer than I should have considering the life they were sucking out of me. They have fallen away, decomposed and fed me again.

I am fascinated by the trees at Niagara Falls. They are intricately twisted from spending 4 months a year coated in thick glistening ice. Stuck in stasis, coming back to life every spring and growing as much as they can in the summer warmth and constant mist before the cold takes them again.

The lone tree at Big Sur that just leans into the wind and implies, ‘fuck it, I am here because I made a decision to be here and I am staying.’ I haven’t seen that one with my own eyes yet, but I will and I will look on it with smiling reverence.

The twisted little cedars, palsied bonsais coming out of the rocks in the Muskoka’s. Taking root in a tablespoon of dirt and growing because they can. Some ancient biological imperative to grow and keep growing. I know how they feel. I wonder if they know how ridiculous?beautiful they look, claiming space that isn’t theirs on rocks that have been there since before time. I doubt they would care. I am trying to be like them, trying so hard not to care and just claim the space I have been given.

I have people in my life encouraging my growth. Telling me “write”. Feeding my muses, sometimes getting them drunk on overwhelm. Videotaping me laying on the floor belly laughing so I can keep that with me forever. Leah and I walking to the corner store, I saw a tree, splayed out, growing sideways, so many limbs hacked off trying to keep it from being there, but there it grew. I squealed and ran to climb it. She just smiled and took a picture for me.

regular lust

Lightning Sex, a Retrospective.

March 18, 2016

She opened the door and her breath caught in her throat.

The Giant in all his towering glory. Leaning back on the railing looking as close to perfect as anything she had ever seen.

Every time she saw him it was like the first time all over again, and she was awestruck.

Her tiny apartment suddenly seeming miniscule as he took his shoes off at the door and navigated the narrow hallway.

“I am almost ready” she said.

“Take your time” he smiled. That brilliant smile, the one that made her melt. She finished gathering her things, watching him out of the corner of her eye as he politely petted a hello to her dog and then the kittens. He really did exude kindness.

She passed by him, he reached out and put his hand on her waist gently pulled her in. Held her close and kissed her, her knees buckled a little but he held fast. She sighed, audibly.

Down the rickety stairs and out to the truck. She felt so shy and nervous she was shaking, pretending it was the cold. For a minute she hoped she was having an empathic moment and picking it up from him, seemed plausible, she decided it could be coming from both of them and relaxed just a little. He opened the door for her and she climbed up into the truck with a little more grace than the last time. Conversation and music flowed easier on the drive over to his house. “I came back for you, so you wouldn’t be alone.”

She had offered to cab over and he had refused.

He opened her door again, told her to be careful on the ice up the walkway beside the house. Slowed down so she could keep up. Let her hold the back of his hoodie just in case.

She surveyed her surroundings for the second time. Marveled at how one young man could be so focused on what he wanted, noticing all of the detail of the half renovated main floor. Her mind piecing together what it would look like in a month or a year. Secretly hoping that she would be around to both help him and to see.

She followed him into the kitchen, chair already waiting for her to sit. She asked if there was anything she could do to help, he said “tell me stories and look beautiful.”

They talked about kitchen parties and farming. Elora and the origins of the steak he brought home. She was overwhelmed that he had put so much thought and effort into everything, especially considering he had already worked a full day. She had to sit on her hands and bite her tongue to keep from ‘helping’. She was not used to letting anyone be nice to her. Kept having to remind herself how good it felt when she did things like this for others and hoped he felt that way too. Seemed so and she relaxed a little more.

She made a horrendous statement about how she had told her bartender that she considered him to be so perfect that there had to be a catch, like dead hookers in the basement. She was horrified the second it came out of her mouth, but he chuckled and took it in stride, ran with the joke just enough. Told her a few days later that the hookers in the basement were replaceable, but she wasn’t. All she really had wanted to say is that she really liked him, it just came out funny.

He had put on an Incubus album, said he remembered she had said she liked them. She wondered if it was possible that he noticed and remembered all the nuances and subtle things about her like she did with him. Couldn’t be.

She watched him move around the kitchen with grace, turning this or that up or down, cutting mushrooms, slicing garlic with a paring knife. For someone as huge as he, he was surprisingly lithe. Or maybe it wasn’t a surprise, she was starting to see what he was.

There were moments of silence and they were warm and comfortable. There were moments where he suddenly stopped what he was doing to gather her up in his arms and kiss her. Those were unadulterated bliss.

When the barbeque was hot enough, they both went outside, he to start the steaks and her to smoke. They talked about the neighbors stealing cans, scarlet runners and morning glories.

Dinner was spectacular. There is something about sitting down to a meal that was made specifically for you. There really is nothing on earth that tastes better. She told him so, said Kraft Dinner would have tasted like ambrosia, and he told her to be careful what she wished for. She smiled and let herself think forward to a day when they were eating macaroni out of a pot in the kitchen.

She tried to think back to the last time someone had cooked anything for her and decided against it. This was infinitely better, the here and now with him.

She realized she couldn’t look him in the eye when he spoke, that it felt like falling into the ocean at night, drowning in the same expansive blue reflected by a full moon. She focused instead on his ear or his forehead, sometimes allowing herself to watch his mouth, wanting to fall into it too.

When dinner was over, more scotch was poured. She carried the plates from the table and he playfully forbid her from doing dishes. She acquiesced, relieved really. Not because she didn’t like doing dishes, just afraid she would be clumsy and drop something.

Back at the table she asked about his work. Reverently listening, asking for clarification when needed. She watched discontentment furrow his brow when he spoke of how other people interpreted what he did. Imaginations taking them to nasty places. She said what he did is sacred, because it is. Explained psychopomps, those who escort the dead, it was easy to picture him with wings. He told her he had felt strange once upon a time, when he realized he was the last human being to ever look into someone’s eyes. Sacred. Yes.

He finished his drink before her. She got caught up in talking, he made it easy to forget her shyness. When she was finished he said, “Can we go upstairs or do you want me to keep playing with my empty glass.” She blushed a little. Yes, upstairs, please.

Her shyness came back full force as he opened the door to his bedroom. It was amazing, exposed brick, perfect balance of masculine and comfort. She yammered something about the new rug. She sent him downstairs to fetch the iPod, buying herself a minute to compose herself and seizing the opportunity to wiggle out of the impossible to get out of jeans she had worn. She was almost naked and under the covers when he got back. Kept on her bra and panties, she had to redeem herself for the last time. He seemed to agonize a little about finding the right music to put on, settled on the Neighborhood. Said it was good for most situations, she agreed.

She propped her head up on her elbow and watched him undress. Even in the dark she could see, fascinated by his silhouette, her eyes eagerly devouring every inch of him and enjoying the reflection in the mirror behind him. Overwhelmed at the enormity of him. Huge, beautiful Nephilim, his aura changing from oceanic indigo to vibrant ultraviolet as he crawled in beside her. That is what happens when you mix roses and blues. Perfect purples.

He put his hands on her and the storm started. Electrical impulses racing through her body reaching up through her to follow his fingers as he traced patterns on her skin. Kissing going slowly from zero to sixty, tentative tasting to all consuming and back to teasing again. Hands matching rhythm from caressing to grasping the perfect push and pull, like the tides.

He rolled her over onto her back, his mouth tracing the line through the center of her. He became a paradox, simultaneously pulling her apart and holding her together. Attaining a seemingly impossible balance between chivalry and savagery. She had to fight to keep her hips on the bed as he playfully nibbled the insides of her thighs, she could feel him smiling and she smiled back. Anticipating. He had been here before, and even then she had had the oddest of thoughts, it was as if had studied her before they ever came near his bed. He just knew somehow.

She let go of trying to control herself, moans escaped her lips, he smiled again and suddenly everything intensified. Teasing turned to tasting, tasting turned to consuming. All her inhibitions fell away and were replaced by exploding stars and pulsing nebulas behind her eyes running all the way through her. She lost her words, forgot her own name, forgot anything at all existed outside of his bed and his mouth and his hands on her.

She laughed a little, earth shattering orgasms sometimes did that to her. He climbed up and hovered over her, she arched her back up to meet him and tasted herself on his lips. He said she was the best thing he had eaten and promptly went back for seconds. More explosions in the sky. The ceiling flew away and there were only fireworks.

He climbed up beside her and she eagerly reciprocated. Wanting to taste him again, tease him with her tongue, learn him and read him like he had somehow magically done with her. She kissed and bit his chest and neck, suspending her body over his. Leaning in and writing all the words she couldn’t say out loud on his skin with her fingers and tongue. His cock was magnificent. Velvet skin and unyielding flesh. He tasted divine. The sensation of rolling him over her tongue was enough to shot sparks through her yet again. She marked every moan and movement no matter how subtle, cataloguing them and her corresponding actions for next time, she wanted to be as good to him as he was to her.

She fleetingly found her brave and said ‘come here’, again overwhelmed by the sheer colossalness of him. She got shy again for a minute as rationality escaped her. She managed one clear thought as he was fully inside of her, ‘this is what sated feels like’. Then she was lost again in the galaxies radiating out from her core as she came again and again, waves of warm overlapping each other, she felt like she was floating in outer space, experiencing a star exploding from the inside. She held onto him, matching his movements with hers, wave after wave of warmth and orgasms. She felt him come and couldn’t help but come as well.

He rested his body weight on her, still inside and another clear thought came through the ether, whispering in her ear “perfect isn’t a myth after all.” She smiled.

She told him she hoped he felt half as good as he made her feel, that would be more than most could handle.

He told her to roll over, with this sensual authority in his voice. She did. He rubbed the last remaining knots from her muscles, she felt like liquid.

He climbed up beside her again and she found the perfect spot to rest her head on his chest. She wrote love notes on his arm with her fingernails, hoping again he could read what she was trying to say. His arms went on forever and she felt safe enough to say that the last time they had been together she had one clear thought, that she wanted to keep him. He said yes and punctuated his answer with a kiss on her forehead. She melted a little more. He said she had the gift of touch.

After a while of holding her, he asked her if it was alright if he put on a song.

“Of course” she said. He could’ve asked her to go jump off the roof with him and she would have agreed.

The first few notes played, she thought it was Jeff Buckley singing Hallelujah and was again reminded of the word perfect. But what reverberated through the speakers transcended perfect. Postcard from 1952, Explosions in the Sky.

She stayed silent for the entirety of it. Tears rolling down her cheeks. Dumbstruck by how he could first elicit all of those feelings from her body and then play her the exact score of how she felt. She lost her words, she didn’t need them, it was all right there in tones and matching cadence.

She still sees him in her mind’s eye like this. The graceful dance around the kitchen. The first bite of steak in her mouth. Watching his eyes shine while he spoke and listened. That maddening grin when he stole a kiss or said ‘upstairs’. His silhouette glowing in the streetlights as he was on top of her, moving inside of her. The warmth of his body pressed up against hers, purple lightning fusing them together. She fell asleep, beyond happy and dreamt of him and carousel horses.

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So Say I

March 17, 2016

A girl at work asked me to borrow $20 so she could go home.
I said “no, clear my chakras instead, I feel fucked up, I’ll just pay you for it.”

She did her thing. Got to my throat and said “Mami, what aren’t you saying? Say it.”

I said it to her then and I am saying it to you now.

Have no fear for giving in
Have no fear for giving over
You’d better know that in the end
It’s better to say too much
Than never to say what you need to say again

Even if your hands are shaking
And your faith is broken
Even as the eyes are closing
Do it with a heart wide open (a wide heart)

Say what you need to say [24x]

I told Liza I would know when it was time. Asked her to count anyways. Black 19.

Rainbow portal open 14-20. Eclipse ellipses. I don’t know anymore, just things are speeding up and becoming clearer. March 23rd is the first day of the new.

She messaged this morning, “time keeper is getting anxious”. Funny mama, how do you think I feel? Waiting.

Woke up beautifully this morning to the dulcet tones/earth shattering ka-booms of thunder and lightning, first time this year.
Explosions in the sky, and no rain.
It’s time.

Facebook reminded me that this happened a year ago today… (as if I could forget)

Two things
I know my raptors.
I can read bird portents like, well, like a witch.
Twice today I have had what the ever loving actual fuck moments.
401, I look up and think ‘cool, spring is coming, there is a vulture’, upturned finger feathers at the wingtips, huge wingspan 6 feet maybe more, as it flies over the car it dips down so I can get a better look apparently. He/she is Irish setter red/brown head to tail (belly included) with a raptor face, yellow beak, never seen one like it. It was a migrating golden eagle.
And then can anyone tell me what it means when someone is driving home and an owl tries to fly INTO your open car window, like just to hang out and sing Mumford and Sons with you…and then escorts/guides your car halfway home?
I was thinking on the same thing twice, second time…let’s just say I was thinking rash thoughts.

A year ago, the following day, I told the Hulk how I felt about him. Knowing it was too late and we were destined to be friends, but I had to say it just in case. Another karma marker, yesterday a mutual friend that I had never met before wandered into my bar and knew who I was because the Hulk had spoken so highly of me. Almost broke my no crying rule yet again. Crying now, but I am home, so it’s okay.

This is what I need to say…

I see you at work from time to time, I am on stage and the lights are in my eyes, I have to bend at the waist and peer out, squint a little. It’s never you, but for a split second it could be. This town also has the lion’s share of black Ford pickups, extend-cab short-bed. I count those instead of blue cars.

Sunday brunch one of my girls ordered duck and we were serenaded by a nice man with a guitar playing a different John Mayer song, one of my favorites that had never been released as a single. No earthly reason he should be singing it.

I’m writing you to
catch you up on places I’ve been
You held this letter
probably got excited, but there’s nothing else inside it
didn’t have a camera by my side this time
hoping I would see the world with both my eyes
maybe I will tell you all about it when I’m
in the mood to lose my way with words.
3×5

Oh look, I’m in the mood. Always am. Not to be lost, but to be found.

A boy asked me out a few weeks ago and I really thought I should go.
(A plague of ‘shoulds’ upon our houses.)
He cancelled and I was relieved. Messaged me today to tell me that he was seeing someone else at the same time, didn’t think it was fair to either of us blah blah (seriously?) blah.
It’s all just a little bit of history repeating. I said thanks for the clarification and deleted his number. He wanted me to stay.

I didn’t want him, just needed a distraction.

I opened a fortune cookie today that said ‘your love of music will be an important part of your life’.

You are music to me. And thunder and lightning, without the rain. You are important.

I had searched for a song for your instrumental disc. I found it this week. It’s Kronos Quartet, Ekitundu Ekisooka (“First Movement”)

This is my first movement.

I hear songs all the time that remind me of you, Amber Run ‘I Found’ thunderpunched me in the chest today, just a random YouTube find, first/only person I wanted to share it with was you. (And I’ll use you as a focal point. So I don’t lose sight of what I want)

My horoscope said “…everyone goes through periods of doubt, but now it is time to claim your inheritance and put your natural talents to good use…”

So here we are, or here I am. Writing, the only thing I ever wanted to do and apparently I have a knack for it. Someone told me that it’s my superpower.
Speaking my mind? I stumble, fumble and trip over my own tongue. But I can write it down for you. Writing is words that stay. (Dark Crystal)

My inheritance? My mother and grandmother met the man they loved and just knew it, no question.
There was a separation period for both, two wars decades apart and they waited. It’s bred in my bones to wait.

Please know that your face hasn’t left my memory. I blink and you are there, more often than not. I dream about you with alarming regularity. I have a second reason to love sleep, beyond getting me closer to coffee, it takes me to you. Your arms around me, talking to me, I can’t always hear what you say but you are smiling and kind. A week or so ago words came through, you said “not yet” and I grasped that yet like the Hope diamond, haven’t let go. Don’t want to.

You told me once that I was the kind of girl who wouldn’t be bothered if you wandered off. That remains true, for everyone but you.

I fucking miss you.

995346_807414766068892_6604943710086106481_n

https://www.facebook.com/Love.is.Answer.Life/photos/a.359200904223616.1073741828.359159310894442/807414766068892/?type=3&theater

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Opiates versus Orgasms

March 15, 2016

Captain’s log. Day 2. This sucks.

I have got to start talking about something else. Anything really.
I am sick of my own broken record shit.
So…
On the list are

Gelfling
my anorexia and
my vagina.

Survey says…vagina.

I have a magic vagina. I do. Does tricks, makes me and my lovers happy. I have been known to ejaculate rivers. She and I have a fairly loving, long-term relationship.
I spent my late teens having sex without orgasm. Still felt good, don’t get me wrong, but I knew something was missing. Spent my 20’s figuring out how to gently nudge my lovers in the right direction using what I had learned about my body. Spent my 30’s undersexed and pretty miserable. My 40’s have become next level amazing. I have learned the joys of empath sex, found wonderment here.

I mentioned in Tantric Tantrums there was a girl at work who proclaimed “Here comes Billie to talk about her vagina again.” Billie is my work name, and she is rather catty, just rude really. Little did she know before she uttered that little dig, me and my Sunshine had walked away from a table full of free drinks and $100 each because the men sitting there had said something nasty about her.

Earlier in the evening she had run off at the mouth about girls talking behind each other’s backs.

Ergo…

Next time she is on her own, aaaaaaaaaand in the words of Louis CK, she can suck a bag of dicks.

I don’t actually have a bag of dicks, I have a toy box.

I came off a rather shitty shark week, full of the sads.

Wasn’t feeling sexy, sexual, just kinda numb.

Messaging with the one I call Home. He is worried about me. Fuck I was worried about me.

He asked if I had eaten, I knew what he meant.
I replied that I hadn’t even had a snack, he knew what I meant.

He told me to play with myself to see if it would make me feel better.

I acquiesced.
9 times.
NINE, in one day.

I went off like a rocket after having 9 days off. And these ones were different…way more intense.

I DID feel better.

I seem to have found my happy place.

Or rediscovered it and a whole other side of the rainbow, now in Technicolor.

This whole thing started off innocently enough. Bought a new toy a while back. I would stop writing 20 minutes early, jump in the shower to get ready for work and use my extra little window to play with myself, have a nice little orgasm, glow for a minute or 5, call a cab and go to work smiling.

Then these ones came, pun intended. This is no ‘nice little orgasm’. This is full body waves and undulations, opening my crown chakra and getting kissed on the forehead by god. This is radiating electrical impulses of amazing. This is forgetting everything, even my own name for a minute that goes on forever. This is bliss and joy and magic.

I have an addictive personality. I know I do. I find something or someone I like and I am all in.

This is why I never shot heroin. I knew at age 24, staring at the off-white powder in the packet my girlfriend was holding, that I was looking at my own death.

I have had opiates before and I loved them. The thrumming under my skin, the lightest touches feeling like warm embraces, the tumbling gently down the rabbithole thoughts all in slow motion, everything slowing down. Feeling like being submerged in warm water, weightless like a womb state.

Orgasm brings me there.

And lately my bedroom has become my own private opium den.

Stealing small chunks of time, being late for things, because I am chasing the dragon and finding him.

After the 9 times day, the next day was 4 or 5, I think I had to work and I was actually irritated that I had to be there. The body glow I feel for an hour or so after was waning and my patience with it.

Did I mention the after effects were lasting for an hour or more? Just thinking about it and writing this I can get myself back to that last ebbing state of full-body hum.

The day after was 3 or 4 again. The next another 3 for sure, maybe more.

By the end of the week I was decidedly sore.

The reason I was talking about my vagina at work is
a) because I fucking can
and
b) the Monday night DJ hugged me and bumped my poor darling clit with his thigh. I had to hang on to him to keep my knees from buckling. It was a good hurt, but we were both kinda thrown off. Had a good chuckle over it.

Day 7 or 8, 3 times under my belt. Home alone so I was going for a 4^th and I couldn’t get there. Vagina finally said ‘nope’.

I messaged my girl in a mild/severe panic saying I was afraid I’d broken myself.

She said “No baby. Just give it a few days.” She is a nurse, and I trust her judgement implicitly.

A few days felt like forever. And what if I couldn’t get back there?

We are in this time bending vortex portal thing between eclipses and the ‘when’ is lost. I think I will come out the other side and it will be 4 years from before. So a day feels like forever. I got through it. Barely. My girl magically messaged and forced me out of the house, I thanked her for it. I have my own cheering squad. Next day is when I started writing this…

Captain’s Log, day two. Equally as rough, if not worse than the first. I am addicted to my own dopamine, endorphins and serotonin. I have to find other things to be happy about.

Day 3, went for bunch with my girls. The longest brunch ever. We ended up waiting out the kitchen shut down and having second breakfast and Elevenses.

We sequestered ourselves in the mezzanine (smart move) and there was much talk about vaginas, orgasms, boys and men over mimosas and benny. This is why these women are my people. Nothing is taboo and no one is judged. We all listen and work through each other’s shit with love and grace. There was pompom waving and a rousing chorus of ‘you can get through this’.

Of course I came home and heard my vibrator calling my name from its wooden prison.

Third run into outer space… over the moon that I wasn’t broken and said a thank you prayer to the Universe.

Now, if you will excuse me…

www.passionprops.com

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Tantric Tantrums

March 13, 2016

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

Also something about butterfly wings and tsunamis, not sure if it fits. Sometimes when I write I know where I am going, sometimes I write to figure out where I need to be. It’s a process.

Sitting on the porch this morning. Shivering a bit in the morning chill, the sun doesn’t hit my balcony until 2. Smoking, drinking coffee, letting my mind wander. A wee bit of breeze raised gooseflesh and for a second I waxed nostalgic about the 2 weeks I had allowed myself to smoke inside, in my room to be precise.

Wait, gross, no.

I don’t want to go back to that or there.

It started on the polar vortex and lasted through until March.

The apex of the mess/smoky room of sadness occurred when my Sunrise had a lapse in judgement and went running back to her ex, came out 3 days later and landed in my bed, bawling. Kidlet was a mess and I was still talking to the Giant post-split. The trifecta of sads.

Binge watching Netflix, chain smoking, ran through 2 rolls of toilet paper soaking up tears and blowing noses. Cuddle puddle of emotion, complete with puppies and kittehs.

I was having this discussion
In a taxi heading downtown
Rearranging my position
On this friend of mine who had
A little bit of a breakdown
I said breakdowns come
And breakdowns go
So what are you going to do about it
That’s what I’d like to know.
Paul Simon

Ya, what are we going to do about it?

More million dollar questions. I’d like to be rich now please.

Her ex is abusive. He called her at work the other night, she put him on speaker and I was drunk enough to hang up on him as he was getting nasty with her. I said to her, do NOT reward that behavior by going to see him. He called back and said he didn’t want her anyways to cover his hurt little feeling, bullshit male posturing, I roared into the phone “Lucky fucking me because I WANT HER SO FUCK YOU.” click.

It probably isn’t that simple, god let it be that simple.

I know what she should do. She would benefit GREATLY from having a man who loves her without chaos. She already is chaos, the good kind. I looked her in the teary eyes as she sat on my couch and told her that one day a man would see in her the things I do. She is beautiful, kind, loving, nurturing, and sexy as fuck. I need that for her.

Kidlet is at least trying to date. His ex keeps coming back like herpes, making demands and changing the rules, she doesn’t know about geese and ganders. One set of rules for her and another for him. He is starting to see and I see him making effort to disengage. God let it be that simple.

I too should find someone to get under so I can get over my own shit too. It is really that simple.

I am a little more complicated, of course I am because it’s my forest I am crying at the trees.

“You’re in it right now aren’t you? My mom used to say that to me when she saw I was thinking hard on something, you are IN it right now.”
Sam, Garden State

I’m fucking in it. On my way out though.

To the girl at work who said “Brace yourself, here comes Billie to talk about her vagina again.” I say both, fuck you and it’s better than what I have been talking/crying about. At least I am laughing again.

The other things filling my time? I bought another new vibrator and I’ve managed to achieve tantric orgasms, they last for about an hour after the first mind numbing body tingling 2-3 minutes of ‘oh my god I have left this planet and am orbiting Jupiter right now.’

It’s nice. “Gonna leave this world for a while” and “A moment of forgetting, a moment of bliss.”
Tom Petty and Peter Gabriel respectively.

But then there is this…

But I will hold on hope
And I won’t let you choke
On the noose around your neck
And I’ll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I’ll know my name as it’s called again
‘Cause I have other things to fill my time
You take what is yours and I’ll take mine
Now let me at the truth
Which will refresh my broken mind.
Mumford and Sons, The Cave

I’m coming outta my cave and I’ve been doing just fine…
The Killers

I’m not fine, but I will be.

It would be really easy to go running back to my old lovers.
Drogo came out of nowhere for a check-in, a full month ahead of schedule, he really does know when I need him, bless him. But I didn’t claim sanctuary.
Hot neighbor has been around, the weather is better, but aside from some hugs, I haven’t cashed in my fuck ticket.
Car is back on the road, I could easily drive to Toronto to see my others, or down the road to Wolfling. But it feels wrong.

“Don’t look back, you’re not going that way.”

I left them all when the Giant showed up. I didn’t want them anymore. Tells me something was inherently missing, also the fact that I had so many makes me think something was missing in them, before he showed up and showed me.
I do just want one, the ever elusive fifthelementfrankenmonsterlover I keep dreaming about. The one who loves me regardless.

Gelfling said “come find me”. I just might. We have unfinished business.

At some point, soon, I am going to realize that however tantric and magical these orgasms are, they aren’t enough either. I’m going to need touch and talking to from someone other than myself. I didn’t leave a trail of breadcrumbs this time, just follow the smell of coconut oil and sex and listen for the humming and thrumming.

Hide and seek.

www.passionprops.com

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Be Water, Move Mountains.

March 10, 2016

I am not for everyone.

I know this.

But if one more of my friends says “fuck that guy, he’s not good enough for you.” without conjuring me a God or drawing down at least an Angel of the Lord for me to play with ima have a righteous tantrum.

I try to keep these to a minimum, I get mad and windows break 500 miles away.

Mythical mamas need love too.

I make mountains out of molehills. I truly do. But I move them with my hips and hey, pretty amazing I made a mountain out of anything.

YOU HAVE BEEN ASSIGNED THIS MOUNTAIN TO SHOW OTHERS IT CAN BE MOVED. (Love that quote)

What I think and speak I become.

These words I write change the world, the way I see it and for others.

They call it spelling for a reason. Words are literal magic.

When sleeping women wake. Mountains move. (Chinese Proverb)

This is the truth.

My house if full of rocks, all picked up for varying reasons, pretty, shiny, blue, quartz, or just round.

Sometimes because they just feel good.

Every one of these rocks I have was once a mountain. And I hold them in my palms? Magic.

Nothing really moves mountains, proverbial ones are easy. Giant rock formations from cataclysmic seismic events before time and man are a little harder to budge.

Unless you are water.

I get stuck in these arid places. No water, no flow and a palpable lack of magic.

I feel trapped in a chrysalis state, wrapped in veils that won’t let me see or breathe. And suddenly, with very little warning, I have wings.

There are different ways of waking up. One interpretation is just opening your eyes. That will have to be a start. Willing myself to see, ceasing my willful blindness. Stop shutting the world out.

I gotta wake up. I need a coffee and a soul shower.

Water cleanses, refreshes, sates, quenches. Gets rid of cobwebs and the dusty remnants of cocoons.

I need water.

I need to be water, I need to remember that I am indeed water 70% give or take.

I know someone who has “love and gratitude” tattooed (in German) across his chest. He acknowledges that he is 70% water and that water molecules respond to emotion.

Talk sweetly to water and the molecules rearrange themselves into beautiful patterns.

The double slit theory proved that particles behave differently when observed. Just the act of being watched changed their intended patterns.

People are like that.

You behave differently when I observe you. There is a purpose for me being here. I am altering your trajectory in some way. The pearls of water on my hips* carving new canyons in your psyche and you into mine.

On my right wrist I have tattooed ‘there is no spoon’. From the Matrix. The whole quote goes ‘you cannot bend a spoon with your mind, that’s not possible, what you must do is realize the truth….there is no spoon.’

We are all made of particles, atoms, tiny microcosms moving at varying speeds, responding to the things we think and do. I am made out of the same things that compose a spoon, or a lamp, I love lamp.

There is a theory of entangled particles wherein across time and space, two atoms created in the same cataclysmic event will have an equal and simultaneous reaction when the other is affected. Science is trying to determine if said particles had a prior agreement to react this way or if there is another dimension they are communicating through. One without the confines of time and space or any measurable distance.

It’s both.

Time is a manmade construct.

I believe in sacred contracts. You wandered into my life because it was decided upon an exploding star. I wished for you.

I have people in my life like this. I think that is how we meet each other. It’s not written in the stars, it’s written by them. Find someone with a good amount of dust from the same star and there is your soul mate.

Bruce Lee was by all rights a rather exceptional being. He did things most people cannot fathom. He moved around in the matrix with such ease he appeared to be super human.

What if I told you, I am made of the same components as he is/was. We all are. Every element in our bodies is the result of collapsing stars. We are the result of ancient cosmic events and yet we play so small. Stop.

He told us to ‘be water’. I am, and as such I can move mountains.

*The Dixie Chicks

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