Mars and Venus Consensuality* of Sobering Bliss

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    I believe this is not my alter ego, rather my former alter id (see bird photo). Why? Id’s are not into cleanliness is next to godliness. Ids are the aspect of our psyche according to Dr. Freud residing in the unconscious. I am Jungian but hang in there with my crappy attempt to pass along no whispering wisdom. What follows is the too loud crushing of recycled cardboard to fashion a cafe table and a pair of chairs – for two. Rereading this, I see it is note in a bottle.
     
    Id is the source of instinctive impulses seeking satisfaction in accordance with the pleasure principle and are modified by the ego and the superego before they are given overt expression. Primitives in our species have not integrated themselves and consequently swish around on wanting what they want NOW, allowing their Id to lead them through existence with neither watchfulness nor reflection. Swaggering four-year olds in adult camo clothing with AK-7s is the vision I am marking up in pastels.
     
    In the Miller personality test administered by US military, prisons, and also certain US police departments what is not commonly known is a near match between rapists and hardcore military or police officers. Within this lot of nadakind, I would venture are groupings of Id-driven types. ‘Men’ who in actuality are little boy primal animals with near zero self-awareness. These triple X-rated beings are not to be confused with psychopaths.Image
     
    Remember in our last social psychology lesson we learned how psychopaths are all narcissistic but not all narcissists are psychopaths? Using this framework we can expound, primitives are stuck inside the bubba bubble of the id, but not all id driven beings are unaware primitives.
     
    In many aspects enormously successful creatives give up their superego (seems illogical, I know) and become childlike ids. They accept no responsibility for daily care (see the dirty bird photo, again) with almost no sense of time or place. Captured by their own imaginations they plunge forward oblivious to the normalcy of human activity. Swallowed up by their obsessive compulsions they paint, draw, sculpt, write, and invent with zip awareness as to when dinner is ready, are way overdue to wash their dirty paws or take a much needed shower – and other conventions of human mini-events hooked to daily civility.
     
    Drug-crazed humans become virtually out of touch with their bodies and bury time, space, and place. Under constant mood altering influence their id takes precedence as their psyche disintegrates. Sobriety offers a pathway out of such neo-human surrealism. Yet, after 29 years of being sober and clean, with years sitting in 12-step meetings, I can testify not all those who stop using become fully integrated humans as Jung contended. Many remain trapped inside an immaturity not able to escape or grow out of as their emotive responses are locked to reactionary modalities. It is as if they are given a treasure of no longer in dire need of getting stoned yet remain fear frozen in their own prison of the graceless id. I have written about this aspect of sober living as not being sober living, and subsequently critiqued for taking people’s inventory. 
     
    Yes, I evaluate others to consider who amongst the milieu is absolutely no longer primordial and stuck on the wheel of what I refer to as masturbatory unconsciousness. Now, do not consider I am snotty speaking of self-pleasuring sexuality as a negative. We are in many aspect apes with bigga brains. What I refer to as masturbatory unconsciousness is the sentient being whose world view is warp-limited by self-absorbed me-ism. In this selfie encampment their energy swirls around like a pre-teenager in-love with love with hormones bursting.
     
    I am straight so I speak from my particular sexual orientation, but quite frankly i could give a toucan’s beak whisker if you are, or are not, straight. For me, love between a man and a woman is a sacred bonding of two souls who by luck of the cosmic Tarot throw recognize each other. Sometimes it is the whammy of eye locks and at other times sparking of unspoken energy exchanges. Such an event of two independent ships passing in the midnight canal and colliding is a rare non-accident, and i believe becoming even rarer. In this scenario of ancient love rites in the magical oasis what unfolds in spite of our contemporary times is a mutuality so powerful it encompasses far more than human mating rituals.
     
    What takes place is timeless, electric, and will-less. Projections and expectation do not surface in this azure blue ocean bombarded with bouncing moonbeams. Under the rainbow lit waterfall there is no horizon, bottom, or vessel of containment. 
     
    Once each champion steps over the holy threshold, fearless, leaving psyche baggage out on the front stoop, what Darwin-develops is remarkable and curious, yet barely contagious.
     
    As I have discussed this with my fellow sex I find in my surveys how few have a clue of what I speak. Yet, poets wax on about it the last several thousands of years. In the extension dimensions (my phrase for love) a man and a woman discover fascinations never considered. 
     
    These parity pairings are noticeable by others because of the depth of communications. Such wonderings are loaded with verbosity, secret inventive forms of attention, and hefty fits of laughter. If true to heart such constant yammering becomes the foundation of a love so intense it is never broken, even after death.
     
    Fear of intimacy of course is the cement boundary of ruination and dissolution. Recognition of same is paramount if the smoking dragons of what was are slain – to allow open space for what will be. Yet, if addressed individually, because the formula of fear is endemic to humanity, paranoia is joyfully released with faith. Faith being another mature operating core value and exhilarating component of expanding dimensions. The silly accepting dichotomy of unless we get out of our selves, we can not become our selves, alone together.
     
    Love is a clever deceiver and trickster. Its godlike nature is effusive and illusive. But, once the Eureka! decision is made to forge ahead in tandem there is practically no positive dream an actualized pair cannot manifest. The passionate union is greater than the sum of its winking parts. Celebrating its arrival is to insure the rest around us know how spectacular is the coupling. Humans cannot live well without hope, even if only by vicarious reinforcement. 
     
    In these extraordinary communions, a tantric oneness is shared and accomplished. All human intellectual to psyche barriers are let go inside the little death. Sex is not a five minute event or prescribed duty. Being inside of each other souls becomes the culmination of an off-world intensity filled with jokes and teases. Timeless orgasmic pleasures where bets are off and time has no relevancy can proceed into hours, or a week. Such delightful encompassing tantric matings find the resonating place of unconditional completeness.
     
    The pair tell each other their most hidden desires to entice and fashion a repertoire of surprises and tantalizations. Alienation no longer exists. Karma has no play. Trust blooms and begins to take seed the rich field where the lovers play, even when separated. Once in their comfy zone, senses are so elevated by a feeding at the wellspring of surrender and submission the experience of dual ecstasy is higher than shooting dope. 
     
    Again, when I surveyed my sex, almost no one had experienced such a coupling where they were lost to conventions and aspirations. My heart was saddened to discover how dis-connected we are from each other yet yearn for the miracle of losing all boundaries enmeshed with another. My point of reference is not scraped from the dogeared pages of romance novels. I have known this delicious oneness and until recently, never realized how precious and unique. I am more than grateful, but not forlorn. A flickering from its eternal votive is crisscrossing my path.
     
    Stumbling along our stubborn way, we receive glimpses of the possibility of such an exquisite golden thread between a man and woman. Yet, once out of denial and faced with its blatant glory it is overwhelming to our small shiny souls. Mainly because its arrival is never when we think it is either timely, or appropriate. God has a sense of humor.
     
    The worth of a haunting relationship such as i describe is better left to bluesy jazz musicians and delicate Arabian poets. The reality is way superior to human vision, or my feathering prose.
     
    “I am standing barefoot in the warm suds as waves roll in, looking calmly across the waters wondering how long before my bonnie love crosses the sea, or sends a sailing vessel to capture me.”  
     
    Either a premonition or a slice of maya . . . time is not on my side.
     
    I move in sync, then blurry, then crystal clarity, then glistening watery diamonds, then poof, then bam.
     
     
     
    * Another one of my made-up words – but you derive its meaning, eh?
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