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 for most of the five boroughs of New York City consumed as tap water. It is globally known NYC has tasty water with little pollutants. What is not common knowledge is if fracking 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.”
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. 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 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. 
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.” 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.
 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,
“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: