Dark Desires

I have dark desires.

Yearnings.

Urges.

An absolute hunger.

While I am driving in the car,
my mind wanders to the last taste.


During the day at work,
I am distracted by the memory of your smell.

At the end of the day,
I can't wait to get my hands on you.


My beloved.

My extra dark chocolate bar.


(wink)

Black Iris and Certain Dark Things: Finding The Neruda and O'Keeffe Within.

Georgia O'Keeffe is one of my absolute favorite artists. Actually she's tied with Frida Kahlo; I love them both for being raw and laying things bare, in very different ways.

Georgia O'Keeffe's paintings of large flowers, and some of her abstracts are very sensual.


To me, this painting is like that one lover who remains under my skin, long after I've last scratched my nails down her back, long after our last intimate moments, and our last kiss is nothing more than an ache.

Her work resonates with me. It is like my most secret desires, that I can only whisper, in the dark, after a year of laughing and loving, and desiring. Seeing her paintings is like voicing those desires that make me blush long after I've spoken them; long after a lover's reassuring kiss and compliance.

In the words of Pablo Neruda...

...as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.



The first time I read Neruda's poem, XVII, I felt that he understood something that is universal about passion and love. That sometimes passion is so very deep that it is kept safe, beneath the surface. It is not common, this love he knows. It is not some cute 'eye candy', it is something that I would keep safely hidden deep in my soul. It is not something discussed, yet shows as bright as a full moon on a clear night.


Neruda's words and O'Keeffe's paintings stir something within me. I love intense art. Neither of these artists offer the sunny, easy view. Neither of them travel the easy road. Everything is so intense that it threatens to overwhelm. It resonates in me. I love reading things and seeing art that reflects a tiny mirror back to me. It seems that nothing for me is simple or easy.

I have a running joke with a couple of co-workers: I am not for the weak or uninitiated. No, this is not the bunny slope. This territory I offer is for the road warriors, the battle-scarred. And yet, there is this moment when all the hills level off, the thorns have fallen, all of the overgrown brush is gone and all that remains is...

a tender heart, my rich love, a vast and powerful sea. all that remains is me.

peace

XVII (I do not love you...)

Just thought I would share one of my favorite poems by one of my favorite poets...

XVII (I do not love you...)

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose,
or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as
certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the
soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in
itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid
fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you
without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly,
without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand
on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.


Pablo Neruda
Translated by Stephen Tapscott

peace.

Toughest Week

This is absolutely the roughest week of the year for me.

March 8Th marked the seventh anniversary of my father's passing, and the 15Th marks the sixth anniversary for my maternal grandmother's passing.

I cannot stop crying today.

I was a daddy's girl. Daddy was the person who always encouraged my curiosity and creativity. He is forever with me in so many ways. We were very close, until I came out. We spent the last years of his life locked in a horrible battle. I had decided before coming out that I could live without whomever did not accept me. I never thought it would be him. I missed him before he passed, but at least I could see him before. Even now I will think 'I bet Daddy would know...' before it hits me that I cannot ask him anything. We cannot talk about jazz or golf, old westerns, sci-fi movies, or football. I cannot ask him how old I was when he took me to the park to make snow angels just because the snow was fresh and I had never done it before. The day he passed, I had been in my art room all day (and the day before). I could not shake the thought that I had wasted the last days of Daddy's life painting. No wonder I have been blocked since.

I have said this before. My grandmother was the reason that I knew I was loved as a child. Not that my parents did not love me; She was just different. Mama was the first person I ever knew to 'walk' their faith. By that I mean that her faith was not just at church on Sunday, often she was too ill to go. Her faith was in her words, her touch, her cooking, her love and devotion to her children and grandchildren, her garden and plants. No, she was not a bible thumper. She simply had a faith that was as comfortable as your favorite pair of jeans. I hope that makes sense. When she talked, you knew her words of faith were from having lived it, not because she was reciting what she read or was told. When she was sick and we knew she was passing. I thanked her for everything that she had taught me. I thanked her for everything she was. I thanked her for showing me that she loved me. I told her that she did not have to hold on for us because we were OK; she had taught us to live well.

I literally ache for her still. Often, especially lately, I wonder if I will ever find a place to lay my head that was as safe as she was.


I would say that 80-90% of who I am has been shaped by four people: my mother, father, and my maternal and paternal grandmothers. There is very little that I am that cannot be directly attributed to one of them. I only have my mother left, and I am reluctant to make waves with her because I feel that I would be forever untethered; lost, astray, unredeemed, irretrievable, invisible.

peace

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peace.

Can Somebody PLEASE....

shut this B!%@H up?




And couldn't you just imagine the conversations, on both sides, after this photo was taken?

I didn't think anyone could make Sharpton look good to me, but here it is. Never say never.

If you are unfamiliar with Ann Coulter...um, she is...

she is the Conservative Jerry Springer.
she is a hate mongering shrew.
she is nearly indescribable.
she is probably my polar opposite.


I am able to find things for which I am grateful everywhere.

Peace.

10 March 2007 0105 hrs
Ok. I cannot hold this anymore. This is what I really think of Ann Coulter. She reminds me of the female supremacists who are vicious and ignorant. She is a huge test for me. I have to battle myself to not hate her. Oh, vile dark creature of the night, I do believe she has a special place in hell reserved just for her kind.