Sacred Sex

The story here at the beginning of my treatise is dedicated to those who truly have no clue about Sacred Sex. The last story, at the end of my words, is for Hoopoe.

“Once upon a time, there was a bird. He was adorned with two perfect wings and with glossy, colorful, marvelous feathers. In short, he was creature made to fly about freely in the sky, bringing joy to everyone who saw him.

One day, a woman saw this bird and fell in love with him. She watched his flight, her mouth wide in amazement, her heart pounding, her eyes shining with excitement. She invited the bird to fly with her, and the two traveled across the sky in perfect harmony. She admired and venerated and celebrated that bird.

But, then she thought: He might want to visit far off mountains! And, she was afraid, afraid that she would never feel the same way about any other bird. And, she felt envy, envy for the bird’s ability to fly.

And, she felt alone.

And, she thought: “I am going to set a trap. The next time the bird appears, he will never leave again.”

The bird, who was also in love, returned the following day, fell into the trap, and was put in a cage.

She looked at the bird every day. There he was, the object of her passion, and she showed him to her friends and said: “Now you have everything you could possibly want.” However, a strange transformation began to take place: now that she had the bird and no longer needed to woo him, she began to lose interest. The, bird unable to fly and express the true meaning of life, began to waste away and his feathers lost their gloss; he grew ugly; and the woman no longer paid him any attention, except by feeding him and cleaning his cage.

One day, the bird died. The woman felt terribly sad and spent all her time thinking about  him. But, she did not remember the cage, she thought only of the day when she had seen him for the first time, flying contently amongst the clouds. 

If she had looked more deeply into herself, she would have realized that what had thrilled her about the bird was his freedom, the energy of his wings in motion, not his physical body.

Without the bird, her life too lost all meaning, and Death came knocking at her door. “Why have you come?” she asked Death. “So that you can fly once more with him across the sky,” Death replied. “If you had allowed him to come and go, you would have loved and admired him even more; alas, you now need me in order to find him again.”

_______________________________________

In a country in total upheaval polarity, the land by The Nile, nine out of ten women over the age of 15 years are mutilated. Maybe her clitoris is trimmed or removed, or the skin above her clitoris is cut off, or her labia (major or minor) cut back, or her vagina nearly sewn closed (infibulation), yet always her heart is slammed shut. The entire Egyptian male population is circumcised (foreskin removed). Male Egyptians are the second highest users of cyber pornography on the planet. Do not assume I am drawing inter or intra linking conclusions between these terrors. Female genital mutilation (FMG) and female genital cutting (FMC) is the name the United Nations uses because apparently the actual terms are too repulsive?

The desert land of sanctified temples, too many arcane hallowed gods with one barely enough, while entrenched in reincarnate tenderness ten thousand years in the making – Egypt forgets the delight of daring and embraces the disgusts of demons.

Although a prophetic stretch of holy life continues unabated in its reverence with five prayers per day, Egyptians float half a meter above the Nile suspended in fear swinging in neither the winds of change nor cuddling a grand plan privy to one tidbit of intuition. 

The practice (dare we use this term?) of FGM/FGC is not prescribed by Islam, nor in the Bible. In fact, the sick sick habit predates Islam, and many religious leaders have denounced it. The cultural screwed up tradition cuts across religions yet is a ritual done by Muslims, Christians, Ethiopian Jews, Copts, as well as by followers of certain traditional African religions. FGM/FGC is more a cultural than a religious dependency.

Humanity probably is the only entity on Earth to exist within an impasse. Blessed friggin’ non-human life pumps on, or not, bringing and deleting one glory after another never stuck nor buried. The continuous cycle spins and spins while the cards clipped onto the spokes adjust sometimes in nano-seconds and at other instances requiring 350,000,000 twirls on its axis and 127,834,769,560 Earth days orbiting Sol.

Nightmares not dreams divide and conquer. Dreams push up to the edge of our pain pleasure. Dreams live beyond our comprehensive. Nightmares surface as little girls in the cover of darkness have their pleasure button cut of by a dafa. Whiffs of what could be haunt us as we paddle our canoes through the bloody sludge silently begging for the crystal clarity of understanding. In the flick of a knife and a smearing of ashes the beguine of natural womanhood ends. No roar is heard, nor allowed, the dance stops.

Mastering the soul happens in an instant or requires a multitude of spiritual to scientific happenings orchestrated to bring us to an free moment in time and space when we finally get it. Mutilated how is a young female of our species to discover her sacred sex?

What is not said becomes the mystery. Women do not learn being on top stimulates the clitoris and the G-Spot at the same time because men are vainly trying to be eleven-minute studs, not consecrated lovers. Plus, sister women normally do not become mentors for younger women. Some women cut up little girls’ pussies to destroy sexual pleasure to not feel what? Fear of whatever takes precedence over righteous love and lives well shared. Tantalizing pleasure is considered the work of she-devils or he-masters, or vice a versa, holding whips and wearing leather or monks as single acts beating themselves in cells while holding the addictive whip themselves on themselves. Our species oppresses life as a mean to serve what madness? Pleasure is removed from a not yet a woman out of pure ignorant bullsh*t to keep the slaves in-line, make sure a wife does not stray (?), and to preserve a false belief the highest form of female are women as a mother Mary. Primitive tribal stupidity divides the sexes, partitions the culture, and ploughs generational field after field of no self-esteem harassed by ego and mother superior misogynists or chronic paternalistic driven piety.[1] For Christ, Buddha, and our sakes – it is 2013, not -23,313.

Any person of our species, no matter what sex or preference, condoning the cutting off of a woman’s clitoris and/or her labia and/or sewing her vagina almost shut is barbaric. It makes no difference if this was 6,000 years ago in the Sudan or downtown Cairo today. The ancient Egyptians practiced no such insanity. Egyptians adopted this cultural barbarity from tribal Africans. No Muslim woman in Saudi Arabia undergoes this assault on her body or soul but women in Yemen, Iraq[2], United Arabic Emirates and over 28 countries in Africa do.

Homo sapiens needs an international edition called Sacred Sex and I am not talking about a Tantric manual or other how to do books on how to get off, together and know oneness. Or, maybe I am.

Unless we as women and men of concern and consciousness take a stand[3] to end this suffering insanity another 8,000 young girls, this day, and into the future, are subjected to the grand theft of their innocence and hearts. There are statues in place to make this act illegal yet global protection and a surge in favor of human rights is demanded not just wordy white papers.[4]

In the past when I have written about this disastrous affectation effecting maybe 140 million women the apathy shown pissed me off to the point I wanted to march into the UN chamber and place in front of every country member’s station a photo of what a mutilation looks like. Rude awakenings are not limited to finding sobriety.

Our species are sick f**ks and if we are to have any semblance of hope to become compassionate sentient beings we can begin here with this very simple task – end female genital mutilation, today, not five years from now after another 14,600,000 little girls are sliced and sacrificed to the god of idiocy.

Urban Dictionary: misogynist – A man who hates every bone in a woman except his.

“Profound desire, true desire, is the desire to be close to someone. From that point onwards, things change, the man and the woman come into play, but what happens before – the attraction that brought them together – is impossible to explain. It is untouched desire in its purest state.

 

When desire is still in this pure state, the man, and the woman fall in love with life, they live each moment reverently, consciously, always ready to celebrate the next blessing.

 

When people feel like this, they are not in a hurry, they do not precipitate events with unthinking actions. They know that the inevitable will happen, that what is real always finds a way of revealing itself. When the moment comes, they do no hesitate, they do not miss an opportunity, they do not let slip a single magic moment, because they respect the importance of each second.”

Paulo Coelho, Eleven Minutes.

 

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Bird Clouds & Cyber Lies

Shoveling through sorrow is not one more brick in the wall. Suffering while a courageous MIA son is tortured in Syria, or knowing a sweet daughter hemorrhaged on her wedding night because her tender female innards were underdeveloped, or losing your life partner, best friend, and fishing buddy in your arms – these comprise a range of Himalayan high peaks of pain.

When another asks, “How are you holding up?” or “How are you?” you cyber lie, semi-smile and try not to break down into a million pieces. Alone, as hurting arises from your heart, your nose suddenly turns sniffing icy hot as you battle smarting bb shots firing at the portals of your askew soul, your red-eyed green eyes.

Betrayal of one’s self by one’s self is what writer’s specialize in?

Soreness takes up residency in your breasts waiting to leak up, and out. Some days, overflow from prior days and nights of stuffing the angst erupts usually when one is shelled shocked with a barrage of memories. A slickness of an impending flood is a mire of happy incidents twisted now into reminiscences as imaginary flashbacks. A guiltless whopping case of what ifs find a convenient camping site and pitch burning teepees. 

Grief is not a process, no matter what the nice still-breathing people who love you chant on cue as they sense your bridled heartache. Abandonment supercedes all other shit. We are the ones left behind. No one feels what we do because no one was as close to the loved one as we were. Weirdly these pity pots never fully empty becoming linked together as urn sets of departed husband, mother, son, father, lifelong chum, devoted dog, soul mate, lover, daughter, grandmother, grandfather, aunt, uncle, cousin, niece, nephew, fallen hero, and heart felt relationships that never worked out. Causalities of love pile up on singular highway systems assigned to our numbing ducky lives.

Getting up each morning drugged by the absence of them, a husk now of what we thought we were, the pervasive dullard pain surfaces. The legends in our minds of those we adored help us. They reach out and make the Kleenex box fall from the shelf into our hands. They let us forget to turn out the lights at bedtime so we are not in the dark. They remind us to put down fresh bowls of water for the canine corps and pitch spent bouquets of ginger and heliconias.

Looking in the mirror, today I see my mother with her beautiful crooked smile and unrelenting generosity. She tilts her head and we merge into one form aglow with warmth.

While washing dishes this morning, I thought of how precise Arthur was as he placed service ware and silverware in the drain. The spoons spooning, knives standing pointedly tall and straight, forks arranged like a jammed up marching band, and glassware and plates arraigned in like-kind perfect alignment. My washed dishes and silver are a chaotic sculpture piled onto each other with no order. If you do not know exactly which key (dried object) to initially remove, the entire house of disarray could crash into potential shards and splinters. Arthur use to call this stuff of mine – Bon’s traps.

It is the ‘use to’s’ that grind me spinning into compunction. I suppose from my husband’s end of the spectrum he is fishing with his father and son, and his beloved Sophia, Italian Spinone dog. Why would he want to visit me? I am a mess. Arthur never liked messes and why he spent 43 years as a compassionate luminous lawyer cleaning up other people’s crap. 

I admitted to my devoted older brother the other day in an email, “I think I am depressed, for the first time in my life.” At least I suppose this weepy bullshit and collapsed shoulders style of walking is depression. I mean I am a trained humanistic Jungian-bent therapist and supposedly am able to identify psychiatric disorders in the human condition. After careful review of my slump, it is more like an extended area of low barometric pressure dumping binges of rain, except my rain gushes from my heart.

Gloominess is not my thing. I am one of those noisy creatives who rant on how despair is narcissistic and a squander of preciousness. Melancholy is an uncultivated now. I am getting my come-uppings with the dogs (one dying) and the wild creatures of Finca Vigia.

Writing is a trophy companion of misery. The silence is deafening. Being with people, occasionally, my standard snarky-ness returns with two or three quips of quasi-brilliance. These together times are so weak compared to the connection I had with my loved one it is like carnival cotton candy to dinner at the finest golden-era brasserie in Paris. I way lay my grief watching movies at night or in the afternoon standing too long gazing at panoramic views of the Pacific, the jungle, and the Valley of Horses down below. Back in the here and now, I do not actually continue forward. I am severed at the heart, the knees, and the spirit captured by what was, could have been, might have happened, or probably did not for a damn good reason.

Do not over-extend mercy. This will only aggravate me. An Arthur via Robert Heinlein, “Never try to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and it annoys the pig.”

To those who continue to cyber chat and thumbs up via social media blessed are you. To those who bailed from me, f**k you. To those on the other side wondering why we are separated by dimensions of unknowing I offer no applicable wisdom or even a box of band-aides. This perturbation is a molecular slight disturbance within the cosmos, but it is this bitch’s hell.

This too will pass is so lame in its lack of effect I think my REM sleep has stopped in revolt.

Praying is more akin to applying body lotion to my soul than release. 

The end of what was is an impasse. Peering through meditative lens my optics are smoggy. Paradoxically, the fix is no fix. The higher power may be sending constant opportunities to jump to the next spiral yet at this stage I am going nowhere faster and faster. Maybe this purge serves as a juncture to smack down the tangle and move on toward newfound anything better than this?

E-bay and Amazon sell no replacements, or viable imitations for those gone. Googling grief is murky futility. The bigga lesson is aloof and untreatable. Ms. smarty-pants, as she revs up her groovy winged ATV to fly over funky bridges of too many rivers to cross, is perplexed and pissed. Carolina homemade plantain bread spread with Rebecca of Chirippo’s butter is supposedly part of the passage. It does not sustain itself to make much of a grand difference. I do appreciate the kindness, in any format.

The whole morgue hole is expanding? Intelligence and comprehensive skills appear to be drawbacks. Hoopoe, my muse, is hovering sending smoky mixed-signals contributing to a maze needing serious repairs by him, not me. Consumed I cannot handle being rebuked, so I ignore.

Faith? You scream-taunt from your side of the curtain. One lavender infused crystal chunk in the elasticized flow is all I ask. Get me outta here and bring sparkle back. 

What a friggin’ whiner I have become. At least I know what happened to Arthur, Sophia, Fran-Ma, Dale Davis, Grandpa Mac, Auntie Be, Richard, Clancy, Patty, Candy, Jetson Pacific, and so forth. The list is too long and at my age, everyday, another one of us bites the dust.

What about the mothers and fathers of every religion and culture on Earth who have no notice as sons are brutalized to instill oppression? What about young Egyptian men witnessing friends die as a monster made military coup erupts inside their houses of worship and on the street the empire plows the sacred dead into piles? What about lovable parents whose teenagers depart to parts unknown? What about pretty girls kidnapped and their lives stolen by totally deranged nut cases? What about millions of babies and little ones (human, and not) falling asleep with empty tummies? What about assholes who think 9/11 was caused by a tall Arab named Bin Laden because Wikipedia says it is so? What about Snowden, Manning, Assange, and a whole army of whistleblowers detained by the empire? 

Sometimes, the only way through is by naming the comparisons.

This is neither cute nor charming, but maybe it is engaging.

Here, step into my spindly attempt at universal charity. Let us take a vain gallop around the planet looking for unconditional beauty. At the first rest stop, it is your turn to dispense medicinal insight. My prophetic jewelry case was welded tight 4 AM, March 27, 2013.

Dear one, I do not have a clue about the glue, but I remain at your side, flapping away, carried by the wind through imperial clouds.

 

Twenty Tips on How Not to Write

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A writer friend, actually currently a back burner buddy (he trashed our connection), to his and our lack of disport, barely writes. His words live on as repeated reposts because he wrote a personal diary eight years ago in preparation of fulfilling his final Hemingway-esque last scene. Admittedly, writings from his past are politically prophetic and astute as to what is happening in Egypt, today. Each time he posts a couple more paragraphs from his long ago chronicle the anguish over his native land is causing more not less distress. Why do we barf our misery as writers?

What stops us from writing, every day, new words within better phrases as fresh additions to our repertoire is summed up in one disgusting over used word – blocked. Painting and illustrating was something I did for decades and benefited with an international career of some note. Nevertheless, I have been nearly fruitless as a painter since I got sober. Formerly, I would affect the perfect alcoholic mindset and beat myself up for not taking up the brush. I mourned the loss and dragged my sterility as a visual artist, silently, as a constant exasperating companion. Feeling the brush loaded with paint is one of my most favored delights. Vulture-like puke when picked through with a machete revealed I had nothing more to say in painted images. Beauty was spent. Concept was unimportant. Technique was no longer the tool. Maddening as it is, I truly am exasperated because I think neither my drawing nor painting seems unique or especially insightful, so why the f**k bother. I hide in my writing, infuriating myself with daily bouts of hearing my brushes wail on about being abandoned. 

Creativity is not limited to one format, or medium. Writing began to replace the decaying cavity of not painting as an emotive retort. As time went by the haze dissipated, or at least I convinced myself of same. Under azure blue skies of wakefulness, I now admit writing is the primary conduit, escape valve and encampment of my heart. No longer trapping myself in a box canyon of what is friggin’ wrong with you for not painting, I write. There are those hoping I return to imagery on canvas. Yet, the language of whatever is my attitude and vision has semi-successfully transferred to this space – where I transcribe concepts, comments, and other blabberings.

I am an expert on being blocked to paint and so rolling out the Trojan horse of a not so dissimilar color I offer these as possible differentia of how not to write. Fix-its are no longer the core of my activity in this life. Possibly, as the breeze basks the back of my damp neck here on the edge of the jungle above the Pacific, seeing what is preventing could become the prevention.

Writing requires skills – memory, research, comprehension, time, vocabulary, pace, mystery and being oblivious to the world. Human creativity is actualized narcissism and in its most positive spotlight – valuable to pushing the culture forward. We, the fools of imagination, reside in vehicles of various kinds and cultures flounder along with no choice. Either we spit out feelings and notions inside a narrative of fictional or true dialogues with real or faked characters bouncing around false or actual settings, or our souls atrophy. Unspent perceptions torture our spirit and impressions flit away as worthless abstractions.

Every writer could grumble how most of what we dream up never sees the daylight of you reading it because we wrote it on a carping blackboard of illusion. Captured within an over critical memory bank assigned to our protests and visions the vast majority of wordsmithing remains hidden from your view. Certainly, in certain scenarios this is part of channeling within the parameters of processing yet the flotsam of thoughts may see a comeback. Hence, the essential of possessing by gene puddle an excellent memory to nitpick possibilities. Writers are soul lint pickers desperate for inner praise. The requisite need for recognition has nothing to do with you dear reader. Poverty of the soul with multi-dimensionality is how we get to the portal of writing in the deeper end of the pool.

Something is amuck and something else is cattle prodding us to shit out word noise. History portrays poets in a romantic vain. This con feeds the Maya within each of us stuck to a societal need believing we are god-like to fight the desire of death wishes and ids gone bizarre. Writers as drunks or inspired sages are typical icons through out the ages. Too much never flows and the damn becomes moldy and mossy. In the blink of a raven’s eye membrane, the reservoir rushes over the edge toward the innocence residing in the valley below. Flooded with revelations being sopped is the instant reliever, and in the last hurray we discover a golden thread. I never wrote seriously until I had under my Gucci belt notches totaling over 23 years of sobriety. This protective cloak means I am able to ride the waves semi-secure n my primordial canoe down a birdie river. Going with the flow is a wisdom, a teaching, and as mystically such nearly impossible to fully actualize. We paddle. We seek. We find inspiration from winged creatures. We learn how the tides ebb. We never complete until we are a widow or widower of our own deception.

If the needle of knowing is injecting you with depression as you shred illusion, you probably should find another outlet. Writing is not for the dizzy of heart. Slugging through the caca bleating about the experience is basic to sharing with words. Woozy is the watch guard and being nauseous is noticing something mind boggling is about to inhale Prana. Yes, writers suffer stage fright. Unsteady in our self-esteem we plot, we outline, we write dialogue, we describe, we script, we listen, we hear, we feel (oh boy do we feel), we intellectualize, we rant, we hide, we die for freedom, we fight for justice, we tell a story and  . . . you catch my drift net, eh?

A primal concern within a writer is way over the top of what Gollywood portrays or Shakespearian actors dispel or religiosity sells. The myth is writers are compelled to make a difference by purging. The reality is writers are flaccid tools being used by a pumped up universal heart/psyche to dispense wisdom at its finest or at its lowest common depositor of despair as self-induced death-wish rattles.

If you muck around in the stable of ego-rides, your jaunt is short and not very sweet. The only saddle worth putting on your elegant horse is one made of silk and reverence. Sacred tasks are never, ever, planned. They are more mirage than substance serving as inter and intra links in an illusive chain of our humanity we are not privy to until basking on the other side of life.

If you want to murder your muse then play along with it within the shadows of stupor stupidity and self-pity. A muse is a presupposed means of free expression. If allowed to only eat the fruit of Eve it becomes a harp like instrument made of sharp edges in a room of mirrors. Tricky is the muse of mouthpieces who prefer the word to the brush over the tools of a sculptress. One can banish a muse without knowing, as the level of sensitivity in a muse is angelic while donning its red cape, swishing tail, and a pair of faux horns next to its all seeing all knowing ears of enlightenment. A muse’s mouth is a dispenser more like a black hole, in reverse, than a spinning galaxy. If you attempt to do battle with a muse, be forewarned you will lose the war with a near orgasmic smile on your face.

My muse arrived in the form of a human who neither comes from my native culture nor knows my lands yet speaks my language. Male in its manifestation Senor Hoopoe is a digitized feathered creature whose hidden way too thin skin is engraved with glowing ancient symbols. Sometimes when his feathers are ruffled my me one gets a peak at his rooted cuneiforms as he blocks his loved ones. He is a paradox – a self-doubting dominant entity. I am an unwitting slut to his confusing ardor.

Surrendering to a muse is a drive along a pathway careening through a psychedelic landscape with promises of magical views. Rabbit holes are set up like mines to keep one’s attention on the journey. Veer too far off the drive and one slips into a kaleidoscope of delusions where colors fractualize, not unlike one’s soul hip hop rapping at the swirly pearly gates of an analog heaven disappearing with every new note.

It is clear my muse needs me as much as I need him, no matter what protests are expressed. We signed a blood oath without our mutual permissions during a ceremony not of our making. A higher power captains our canoe laughing at us, jeering us on, yet forever blending with us.

Apparently, from the little info beating on the tom-toms Senor Hoopoe and I have spun this web in other times and places. Why do I think this is so? The level of familiarity is uncanny. In fact, the recognition at times becomes so authenticated Hoopoe takes flight in his failed attempts to find less intense harbor to drop anchor. My goal is stay the course and keep writing with or without blessings. Besides, there is nothing else to do but thud away at the keyboard and tap the crystal heart. Truth riders are not volunteers. Commandeered to join an advancing army of uprightness you either accept the assignment or exist in a fetid purgatory of drunken writers and lying politicians.

I am not sorry I tricked you – there are no 20 tips to not write. There are actually seven billion ways to not write as witnessed by the population of Homo sapiens gravity spellbound to our gorgeous third rock, a blue marble rotating itself while whirling around a dying sun.

A f**ked up platoon of where the elite meet to eat within our ailing species is hell-bent on destroying themselves, Earth, and us. Existing in a crusty fear state so imbedded they cannot see over the rim of their lives with no chance of channeling a muse. Good news prevails. Those rapt intent on not only surviving but also giving the open heart its universal due are gaining in numbers and impact.

How can I write such a positive affirming statement? You are still reading.

Messages of lightheartedness weave a slinky cloth of joy. My witty brilliant husband could make me laugh with rat-tat tat of one-liners until tears bubbled and my teeth rattled. My muse is of another fabric. Senor Hoopoe’s desert oasis spell is made of a tent textile so mysterious and alluring I want to put on my roller skates and head for the hills. Yet, here I be banging away on this crumb sticky keyboard.

Doris is singing que sera sera and at this stage in my evolution I really don’t give a rice rat’s ass as long as I am able to surge and surf, writing. If at some tipping point the precipice is beyond my comprehension, I can always tie a paint loaded brush to my hand and use my teeth to make it move across a blank canvas chanting, “Hoopoe, Hoopoe, save me from my own lackey sackings.”

If you consider empowering your muse is a touchy subject, try ignoring your muse. What synergizes is not of this dimension; either back from the future or pushed forward from the past.

I dreamt I carried a impressionistic painter’s wooden box and a jewel encrusted iPad walking along a ground of translucent marble trying to push away purplish mists and not faint from heady scents of jasmine. What appeared was a face of a bird on a man’s body. He stood directly in front of me, with glaring wounded deep brown eyes, chuckling. I began to lift off my feet hovering like a hummingbird yet my eyes darted across the landscape desperate for a doorway.

Bonging gonging chimes became louder and louder drowning out the birdman’s laughter as my breathing became vapid and rapid. Sweat began to drip from the corners of my coral pinkish wilting rosebud mouth. As the watery drops hit the marble beneath my flip-flops, they cracked the illuminated tiles like an iceberg crashing into an ocean liner on a moonlit night. My ego went off and yelled to my heart, “This is not a drill, man the lifeboats women and children first.”

Fearlessly, I looked into the distressing vagueness of the birdman and felt a troubling width and breadth gain momentum as wings sprouted from my back. Lifting my consciousness upwards with each wing beat synchronized with the chiming I looked down and instead of finding the birdman below me my heart gasped. He was flying right beside me.

(To be continued, or not, as it depends, or does not, on Doris’s tune).

 

From feedtheyogi.com

From feedtheyogi.com

The fig originated in southwestern Asia and was one of the first cultivated fruits from Asia to the Mediterranean.

The ‘Bo’ tree is a species of fig under which Siddhartha Guatama (Buddha) sat and became enlightened, giving birth to the Buddhist tradition.

The edible fig is one of the first plants to be cultivated by humans. Nine subfossil (incomplete in the process of fossilization), parthenocarpic (seedless, or “virgin”) figs dating to about 9400-9200 BC were found in the the Jordan Valley. This find predates the domestication of wheat, barley, and legumes and may be the first known instance of agriculture.

Letting the Sacred Cat Out of the Bag

For me tenderness, kindness, and mutual respect are the guardian values of a loving relationship between a man and a woman. I have no issue with those of the same sex being together yet my personal experience is the love between a man and a woman.

 

A successful marriage needs the blessing of family, friends, and culture. My first marriage was outside these parameters and all parties suffered as this coupling was in too many respects – an outlaw marriage.

 

As a widow today from my second marriage, I am assuming a different role than wife. In many cultures, I am offered a higher degree of understanding and compassion to help me through the process of learning to live as one to help me through the replacement of a devoted partnership. Leaning on others with no shame or blame is a treasure.

Unscheduled support meetings of the widows club occur at the farmer’s market, or alongside the roadway while watching birds, or at dinner at a friend’s home. 

 

I grew up with honor as the pivotal core of familial and faith concerns. To be dis-honored according to my lot is a horrific experience since it is not about being shunned by others – it is about giving into one’s own primitive instincts of deceit and rage. The devil was not part of this storyline but you get the picture, eh?

 

Kindheartedness and forgiveness are signs of a developed human being – in both spirit and deed. The golden rule, a primal precept in the Christian faith I was raised within and all other similar practices, operates never more acutely than between partners. At this juncture, I would not preclude family relations, friendships, business partnerships, politics, or attempting harmony with Earth from the golden rule. We learn to live life on its terms never in bitterness or remorse rather enveloped in benevolence we give with no conditions. This is not to say it is okay to accept the unacceptable.

 

Humanity over thousands of years in and out of civilizations riding the swales pretty much agrees what is unacceptable. Suffering caused to one’s self or another is the umbrella of unacceptable. Compassion is the higher standard as it allows for a detachment from anger without revenge. Kindness is the goal of a human being who desires to help and create. If we reach for the higher emotive state and see the errors of our own immaturity, this awareness becomes one more building block in becoming a happy kind sentient entity to our selves, others, and our society, in freedom and justice.

 

Being loving to another requires a certain inner mettle of acceptance and willingness to follow a path all religions tout. Religiosity is not the lesson. Values are how we conduct ourselves with honor while conveying peace (read personal serenity because so so sadly war remains) and joy.

 

If we alter the path of known values and replace them with greed, oppression, rage and distrust we are no longer humans. I refer to this subset of our species as nadakind.

 

Fear is the basis for nadakind to control what is driving them to be the killers, the oppressors, and the conquerors of Earth. Believing in the war fed doctrine of more these hostages of unfilled persons become the empire’s despot and the sheeple who find solace in doing nothing but living pay check to pay check while polishing the boots of the powers that be.

 

The perfect Wall Streeter is a person who grew up in poverty and knew little support either emotional or financial. In this fear-state of abandonment they proceed to do whatever it takes to find big time bank account security and live in a condition not of grace, but rather as tweaked cubical tools in the insanity of continual gluttony. Inner emptiness is pervasive and most interestingly too many of these folks become hollow work alcoholics who continue to pass on the ignorance of what they grew up with by not being present for their children, as their parents and family were not present for them. Physicality as an expression of closeness is also strangely absent. There are high-fivers not huggers. There are exceptions, but not enough.

 

When I lived in up-state New York enamored by the restoration of an 1830 Greek Revival beauty my mother called Tara of the North, third and fourth generation welfare recipients surrounded me. In a quest to be empathetic and my normal thrust to ask too many questions I discovered the key to this localized poverty – a genetic predisposition for alcoholism, taking speed, and acting out with rage, either by imploding with depression or exploding with spousal and child abuse. The pattern repeated itself over, and over again with unwilling participants becoming dependents of the state (read the govt.) as the only way to make it through winter nights of howling minus 40 degrees Fahrenheit. The scarcity of self-esteem and copiousness of enabling provincial compassion was evident in their faces and body postures. Joy did not light their eyes unless they were in love, at a tender age, before the inevitable happened. Most, unless highly educated, were swallowed by the same crappy life their parents had lived, whose grandparents underwent, whose great-grandparents endured.

 

I still fondly remember the love (maybe community pity?) my neighbors showed when I took possession of broken down Tara. I awoke after my first night sleeping in the big white elephant (local name for Tara) to find covered dishes, baked goods, and glass jars of fruit preserves arranged on the porch under the front formal portico. Out on the lawn under a large worn torn tarp was a cord of aged oak – split and ready for the one sort-of working fireplace within Tara. Names on scraps of used envelopes taped to the bottom of the porch sitting items served as the greeting cards to bring back the dishes to meet my neighbors, face to face. A traditional welcome wagon of pay it forward kindness and certainly a gesture of acceptance of me, the California born, Manhattan based illustrator, with a bevy of Wire-harried Fox Terriers, aspiring to bring Tara back to her original splendor.

 

It was later I came to understand the money bags family of Cadosia had built Tara and gone on to make a fortune in timber and leather harness for the Civil war. What also was eventually revealed, a few miles to the north of Tara along Cadosia Creek with a damned pond (with a water wheel for energy during the 1800s) stood a recent US govt. certified super site. A place mega-toxic to the environment because of various lethal chemicals used to tan leather in massive amounts. Chemicals brought via the railroad and product delivered back via railroad to keep the Yankee troops fighting the Rednecks of the South. I cannot provide the documentation about the site because the govt. removed it from public view. In addition, Google as we know, is not active in reclamation of govt. info no longer disseminated. If this is news to you, then may I suggest do what we are doing, archive what is significant to you realizing in the future this information may be altered or removed. These are historical ramifications the corporate state contends we have no further need to know. Neither do we have the right to know truth trampled by their Bill of Rights death warrants to buttress national security edits. Fear engenderment and mis-information are the guiding shadows of the secret state.

 

Of course, the latest debacle to hit the area where Tara still stands is fracking. What is beyond comprehension is the fact Delaware County (western Catskills mountains) houses the pristine water reservoirs[1] for most of the five boroughs of New York City consumed as tap water. It is globally known NYC has tasty water[2] with little pollutants. What is not common knowledge is if fracking[3] continues the quality of these reservoirs are at serious risk.

 

“The New York City Water Supply System (Figure 1.1) supplies drinking water to almost half the population of the State of New York, which includes over 8 million people in New York City and 1 million people in upstate counties, plus millions of commuters and tourists. New York City’s Catskill/Delaware System is one of the largest unfiltered surface water supplies in the world.”[4]

 

The migration of the dsyfunctionals to the largest geographical least populated county in New York state (Delaware County) happened when the railroads where built in the 1830s. Many of these folks were of Irish descent. Then the economic base collapsed in the panic of 1873. Of the 364 railroads in America at this time, 89 went bankrupt and became in all regards paper railroads.[5] These Irish arrived at the shores of America in the first Irish Famine of 1740–1741 caused by weather conditions. The cold and its effects extended across Europe, and are now seen to be the last serious cold period at the end of the Little Ice Age of about 1400–1800.

 

The Panic of 1873[6] and the subsequent international depression had several underlying causes, of which economic historians debate the relative importance. Post-war inflation, rampant speculative investments (overwhelmingly in railroads), a large trade deficit, ripples from economic dislocation in Europe resulting from the Franco-Prussian War (1870-1871), significant property losses in Chicago (1871) and Boston (1872) fires, and other factors put a supposedly massive strain on bank reserves, which plummeted in New York City during September and October 1873 from $50 million to $17 million.

 

It took England twenty years to ‘recover’ from the Panic and the labor families who were the slaves of the railroad builders in Cadosia/Hancock, Delaware County, New York never recovered. Even to this day, the average income and property value in this area is way below the norm. [7]

 

Does this not seem like a haunting of the debacle of 2007/08 and are we still not reeling from the massive strain of the United States of Hillary bailing out the banking system?

 

If you wonder how we started with love between, a man, and a woman, and are now sloshing around in economics and the empire I have no defense. Writers are story tellers and my stories are fraught with what my editors refer to as, “Bonnie’s incessant need for informative sidebars.”

 

Putting the bow around the package here is not going to be as simple as you would prefer. As my former best friend (he dumped me), an Egyptian versifier, creator of Nilo, and struggling politico, who is disguised as a busted up Cairo stone merchant entrepreneur would message to me, “Ya Bonnie, it’s complicated.” This is Egyptian for it is really f**ked up. I learned this after realizing what translates in Egyptian to English is filtered through the world of Egyptian ancient history, a bi-society of practicing and secular Islam, and his dead love of English literature (his university degree from Cairo U.).

 

My friend and I had a secret relationship. Only two of my friends were aware of this connection and of course, Arthur, my deceased husband knew. He liked my friend, very much, observing many hours of Skype calls between us talking about everything under the sun yet at times focused on marketing Nilo. Arthur eventually had a handle for my friend. Teasing needles they were – the Desert Mirage (my friend appears and disappears with no prior notice), the Nile Nut Job (my friend is emotionally ruled by potato juice), the Savant Stone Merchant (my friend was damn good at business).

 

I suppose none of the Egyptian poet’s family or friends or members of his cyber harem know I existed, except his Brazilian lady friend who he carefully hid our communications from to keep peace in the kitchen of Rancheria, Brazil. Many of his digital social media admirers picture my brilliant friend sitting at a resort pool sipping vodka in Brazil never knowing he is sweltering away in a kitchen. He sits in his purple chair at a old computer railing on about the conditions in Egypt on his Fedbook page. He used to post odd bits of western culture (you lube music videos being the primary conduit) to me. I used to post vids, poems, and photographs as message for him on my page, never revealing his name, as we are not even friends on FB. His computer expertise is semi-adept so he can follow me without anyone knowing. He writes in Egyptian on his FB page, to which he stated, “I write in my own language because my words are directed at my fellow Egyptians.” A couple of Anonymous buddies turned me onto a better translator for Egyptian to English so while not perfect beats the heck out of Bing, a translator the matrix Fedbook uses.

 

I suppose God creates crosses for us to bear in our lives to learn how to catapult ourselves out of the complications in hopes we prefer to live in the sublime?

 

My awareness about Middle Easterners started when my brother married a Christian Lebanese woman. They met at Cal Polytechnic and both went onto to have spectacular careers. He in remote sensing, digital mapping, and digital design for architecture and engineering, and her in computer system designs as an IT for banks and then blood banks. They both are recognized for their applied technology breakthroughs they innovated. Her family lovingly welcomed me to become part of the Arab clan. As my mother use to say, “They are setting up the tents at the oasis, and we are lucky enough to have special seating.”

 

French speaking Arab Christian Lebanese are delightful luminous fascinating people and their food is probably the second most delicious on the planet. Italian cuisine, of course, ranking as numbero uno (I grew up in foodie-ville Napa Valley) plus I was married to a half Sicilian half German guy (King Arthur) from Brooklyn with NYU law as his ticket to ride. He and I gladly opened our faux Italian real fair trade dream – an upscale organic espresso house we designed, built, and operated until the debacle in The Hamptons, where we lived until our exit to Costa Rica.

 

Okay, so now we arrive back at my premise of this rant – you remember the one about the values of what makes a successful man and woman relationship.

 

When you run for political office (both myself and my husband did) your life is now an exposed book. You are for the media and opposing characters in the soap opera drama of the political arena a deer in the headlight fodder for the back porch rumor mill. Stuff is thrown-up against the brick wall to see if it sticks and if it does to force one to never be involved again inside or outside any political party. Character assignations are par for the 18-hole course of psychosis as a political campaign unfolds based not on the issues at hand rather on who can fling the most shit and get it to stick. The problem is my husband and I subscribed to a set of ethics. We preferred reordering our portion of the arena by talking about issues and not personalities. Arthur’s note on same is as follows, “Never do battle with an unarmed man.” In his wit, he was making a statement about the process and the jerks that attempt to slam a candidate with lies, treachery, and general bullshit. Most people prefer to believe in the negative and while this horrendous muddle about our species is chatted into infinitum within shrink circles, I have no comment.

I have not resigned my front seat in the body politic. Rather, I decided to be beamed in from Costa Rica avoiding much of the trickery leveled at me for being a political junkie with values who writes fairly compelling white papers.

 

No comment is how I generally handle the caca when it is whizzing by my ears. Arthur took another plot up the mountain of public dis-information. He told jokes. He made people love his self-deprecating one-liners until even if they hated his politics they loved his way of articulation under fire in town meetings or in person standing in front of the 7-Eleven.

 

The point is simple in this commentary. Love is saddled with snags in the landscape, and riddled with intrigue. In fact, this squishy tirade is so honest my Egyptian friend may finally and forever never ever chat with me again. But Arthur, celestial fishing with his son and Sophia (his Italian Spinone dog) is probably laughing his ass off. I am taking the machete to the veil. I know, some of you close buddies, are saying, “OMG Bonnie, either you possess over-sized ovaries or you have taken a plunge into the abyss.”

 

It could be both or other self-induced duplicity, time will tell if this writing is spot-on or contributes to the impediment now so entrenched in its obstacles it has taken on a life of it own.

 

Here goes (taking a very deep inhale): A man of strong values and perspectives loves a woman who is whole holy and as feminine in looks as heady in brain power as multi-dimensional in soul. A woman of compassion, sensuality, sweetness of being and bigga awareness loves a man who is so male his voice sends chills down her spine, is so enthralled with the full gamut of sobering emotions he lives to die, so blasted in his overt attentiveness he can predict the future, and so real even birds and fish listen to him.

 

Therein is the true call of our species between the sexes. It is why consciousness exists to lead the way through the desert, up the mountain, and over the many rivers to cross. Exactly when this occurs has noting to do with human will. The entire she/he-bang is orchestrated by a higher power with apparently a sense of humor so intense the angels chuckle making Earth shudder in response.

 

What I know, is not much, really, except for this simplistic point of view from Finca Vigia = Love conquers every single piece of shit thrown up on the little or big screen. Even death of one’s partner is not the termination of a loving relationship.

 

The one killer capable of murdering a loving relationship is dishonesty. Lies hobbled to personal disdain evaporates love, trust, and serenity faster than being strung out on cocaine inside a Columbian growers co-op. Nothing can move forward unless it is manually moving toward the light as wonder needs the sun’s blessing to grow and bloom. Hiding it under the basket even if one has a magnificent LED calcite light form as a gift or as the creator of same can only last for so long before the predictable takes place. The basket wins. The air escapes. The feelings wilt. The flowers dry up. The non-space of Mister or Ms. Nowhere-couple fosters the nothingness blankness of burnout. A nothingness that is not of the Buddhist kind. A imperfect nothingness of fried nothing with no exit sign to life cornered in the non-cosmology density of nothing. Those who also received high marks in phenomenology get this in a blink of a Tennessee Warbler’s eyelid.

 

Me? With Velcro on my soul, I am hanging on the lip of the sphere of consciousness leaving the big answers to the higher power because my concentration is a set of aging hormonal fire hoops. Fixated is not in the vocabulary. Pissed off is because time is against me.

 

Stay tuned, if you dare, the final chapter is not written. In fact, the entire book is bogged down in current events and maybe for too long a moment. I do wonder if I will live long enough to know the enlightenment of what is next. Luckily, in this paring pairing stalled by estrangement the guy is ancient younger than and like most god’s gift to women poets awash with the idea of death. I am wiser in years yet younger at heart. We do both hear, from our respective continents on the planet, the birds talking, although he is currently not talking to me as I am un-liked by him (see prior post – When Denial Slays Love).

 

We shared two very odd methods of communication. Here is the more plausible the other way too far out. He contended the first is unique. I suppose it is common because I romantically cynically believe in God’s wit. This writing, in its rawness, is providing a format for me to express myself to him and to you. You actually have been privy to these obtuse conversations from my end of the seesaw if you read my foolish blog or can decipher hidden language on my FB page.

 

The human who plays the male lead will remain semi-anonymous. The one character who should name him, will not, as she is caught up in the wire spokes of her own making and his false promises. To keep the bent bike peddling she must not cut the strings to her exploitation, or his. Manipulations of such childishness I wonder if she deploys voodoo to keep herself in line, not him. Another possibility is this probably sweet simple person is the perfect laconic excuse for my Egyptian former best friend to feed his fear of change to get back in the saddle of making another fortune to underwrite true love, his Nilo. At times I named this sick game, gigolism. I am talking about them, not me. Yet, King Nilo asked me to become partners with his creation by putting up $30,000. I played him along to see the leaves fall from the rotting tree. I said no. This is probably why once again  I became persona non-grata. I am no longer perceived as a viable cash cow.

 

Kindness, tenderness, and mutual respect are the earmarks of an expansive love between a man and a woman of note. This is the basis to holy matrimony. This is the call of every interconnected cosmic romantic novel, poem, song, or graphic. To marry for love knowing love is the be all and end all is the recipe for our species to survive. To realize, without love there is no peace amongst our kind, will take a tad more in effort along the continuum. My inkling is the learning curve is gone off into deep space.

 

Now you know the innards as exposed from an autopsy I had no choice but to perform. The friendship is so failing great and over done immense I am not able to keep it secured within the chambers of my heart. The feral black cat is out of the bag and eating ham slices in the Brazilian backyard while the cock struts, the birds take a powder to higher ground, rosa petals fall and bullshit reigns.

 

Arthur and Richie, sitting in their celestial fighting chairs on the aft deck of the Sea ‘N Aye Dog, are rolling their eyes at each other while holding their fishing rods telepathically saying, “OMG, Bonnie may finally be coming out of her snotty but beautifully made Pandora’s box.”

 

At some point, we each realize, we can no longer live without the other and must take action to end the angst of separation. The action could be suicide (big during Romeo and Juliet times). The impetus for motion could be doing an about face and settling for a relationship of one dimension, or being alone. The answer may prove to be undoable and languish inside the basket of its own weaving until it expires from a lack of substance. Deciding not to decide is a decision.

 

Optimistically, a love so entrenched inside one’s soul the other is no longer the other but instead a holy union surrenders to God as the force of light. He/She (I do not discriminate based on sex, creed, religion, or type of icons) sets the table with adversity and an array of tempting dishes as a treatment to imprint our genetic code how truly valuable is the highest form of love between a man and a woman. Without more cross-cultural couplings, spirit-centered He/She God may have to go back to the drawing board. Adam and Eve reside within every sacred marriage of souls. The potential for the crafty serpent to sneak in the apple of knowledge is merely a few more video frames into the future.

 

Moses was an Egyptian. The family of Islam considers Jesus a great teacher but not the Son of God. Noah knew God was telling the future and planned accordingly. Krishna reincarnates. Dalai Lama never gives up on hope. Native Americans have the answer – Mother Earth is our wellspring so treat our one and only with love and respect as she teaches us, the human beings, the lesson of harmony.

 

In all modesty, and I do believe in the innocence of humility as a good thing, I feel blessed to know the level of candidness and sincerity in the love of highly exceptional human men as soul-coiled lovers who committed to love. I also know the directness and compassion of a living brother and concerned family and friends who hold my wobbly heart with softness, resting on an Arabesque pillow stuffed with bird seeds. My good fortune is explicit in their manifestations. All of these humans in my puny life provide bridges and freeways to understanding how core love is to our survival as individuals, as couples, as family, as friends, as associates, and as global citizens. This body of experience means usually I am able to pick out the treasure even in the dumps.

 

Sadly, an injection of love into the human body politic has not happened for too long. Gandhi, MLK, and a black guy from South Africa were miracles in happenstance. Humanity is in desperate need of an infusion of leadership for our tribe. An authentic universal heart soldier who can slay the deceivers with the words and deeds of truth, Hillary ain’t.

 

As the unrequited knight in his Nile imagined blue galabeya (robe) used to write in chats before his latest despairing attempt to slaughter our friendship, “In shallallah, ya Bonnie.”[8] His faked charm is truth. Unfortunately, he reiterates the words without integrating the essence driven by fear fed by insecurity. This state of non-being is not unlike what is happening with geo-states, the White House, and kids strung out sniffing glue.

Recently being slammed as intrusive (you should at this stage in the drama comedy figure out who delivered the blow), I am beginning to realize is an underhanded compliment. It means I am getting to them. Is this not the goal of all creatives – writers, poets, painters, designers, builders, philosophers, yoga teachers, collectors of antiquities, freedom fighters, gardeners, singers, musician, architects, sculptors, et. Al.?

 

If the door is too slick and thick and the wall too high and inebriated on your artificially prepared side may you come to understand it is of your own illusionary making and actually paper thin.

 

Lovers of the waning light fly over such obstacles smiling, while dropping fig leaf leaflets.

 

This is one of them.

 


[4] ibid.

[7] http://www.city-data.com/county/Delaware_County-NY.html

[8] Inshallah (if God wills) is one of the most common expressions, or verbal appendages, in the Arab world and beyond it: Persian, Turkish, and Urdu speakers, among others, use the expression liberally. Although, it is claimed to be an essentially Islamic expression (“Do not say of anything, ‘I will do it tomorrow,’ without adding, ‘If God wills,'” one reads in the Koran, surah,18, verse 24), “Inshallah” is more accurately understood as a Middle Eastern, and especially Levantine, expression. Its enthusiastic utterers include Lebanon’s Maronite and Orthodox Christians, Egypt’s Copts, and the region’s occasional, if unadvertised,

athImagelateists.

 

“But there has been inshallah ‘creep’, to the extreme,” The New York Times, reported in 2008. “It is now attached to the answer for any question, past, present and future. What’s your name, for example, might be answered, ‘Muhammad, inshallah.’ […] Inshallah has become the linguistic equivalent of the headscarf on women and the prayer bump, the spot where worshipers press their foreheads into the ground during prayers, on men. It has become a public display of piety and fashion, a symbol of faith and the times. Inshallah has become a reflex, a bit of a linguistic tic attaching itself to nearly every moment, every question, like the word “like” in English. But it is a powerful reference, intended or not.”

To understand what Levantine means check out:

http://www.thearabicstudent.com/2009/09/introduction-to-levantine-arabic.html