I Am The Pin-Up Queen Of My Own Universe

I watched The Notorious Bettie Page for my favorite class. Yes, it was for school! Really!

Anyway.  I have a very different aesthetic when it comes to certain things.  That being said, I adore Bettie Page. I don't look at her photos and judge her harshly, I laugh and enjoy her as it seems she enjoyed herself. I view Anna Nicole Smith and Marilyn Monroe in much the same light.  But Bettie is different. The director, Mary Harron described Bettie as innocent, like a playful, little girl playing dress-up.  She had no agenda.  She would never fit the role of feminist. Though she clearly enjoyed the attention of the camera, as well as various states of undress, there was still a genuine sensuality and enjoyment that never reached the point of vulgarity.  (I know, what I find adorable is another person's vulgar, and viva la difference!)

In the film, a female photographer Bunny Yeager says there is something about Bettie.  It's like she's nude but not naked.  It just seems that she's comfortable with her sexuality.  There was no sex in her movies or photos and compared to today's porn, hers is just fluff.  The thing about her is that innocence and that openness.

I think there is a little bit of Bettie Page's spirit in me.  Wait a minute, I know I am NO ONE'S idea of a Pin-Up, but if you read Last Night I Decolonized My Thighs maybe you will understand what I mean. Though, I am a bit vulgar in that post, there is a bit of unabashedness to it that I love about myself. I love being able to be myself. I enjoy being able to be open and playful.  I love for my love to be receptive and safe so that I may open up even more.  Within a loving, receptive relationship should there be a limit? Need there be?  Yes, of course there are limits to every person's comfort level, but I hope to find the limit of mine. This part of me, however, is not very agressive. It's actually pretty shy, and though I will try to let this side show, if it is pushed away, then it's something that doesn't come back easily. And what I end up wondering is why can't I be fully ME.

What would that look like? Where would that leave me? Is there anyone out there who can handle that? Anyone who wants to? When I am happy and open, I am creative and playful, more outgoing and just better. When I feel loved for who I am it is the most awesome thing ever. If I am able to find what I love to do, should I have to hold back?  It doesn't make sense. It has been a while since I tapped into my inner Bettie-- I may be more Ugly Bettie than Bettie Page, but you get my drift.  What matters is being able to be who we are, being able to be freely ourselves, and being loved just as we are. The real question is what am I willing to do to be fully open?

This Is Not Lust

New Poem, your feedback welcome...

This is not lust
Wanting to taste, feel, please
Every inch of you.
It is not simply carnal
The desire to tease and be teased
As much as I want to love and be loved.

This is about love
The kind that makes me
Run you a bath,
Learn to cook your favorites,
Sleep in your pajamas.
I want to love and be loved
Until you can feel my heart
Through my fingers, my tongue, my lips.
No, Baby, this could never be as simple as lust.

Renewed, almost.

The past few months have probably been the most trying time in my life.


Everything spiralled out of control and I found myself standing by myself. I felt so small and worthless. I felt so completely alone. There was no one to be found, but I had tons of strings attached to me. There were strings leading to small things: the cat, the lawn, the vacuum cleaner, a broken window...just stuff.

Then there was this one huge rope, that could be used to anchor a ship. Now this rope began with my daughter, except she was nowhere to be found. This rope had so many things attached to it that I thought I would suffocate with all of the knots and just the sheer volume of it. I heard a noise, I had missed something and had to find what it was. As I got closer, I heard crying, it was my granddaughter. I picked her up, fed her, put her on my back and continued on.

I found one rope that had nothing attached to the end; that one was left behind by the lover who promised love, but tried to break my spirit because she did not understand how I could love and not ask for something in return.


During this unraveling I got tired, lost sleep, went through a period of denial, went through a period of anger. I wanted to cry but was just too damned tired.

I kept finding so many ropes with nothing and no one on the ends. My sister, aunt...gone. Wow, did I do something?


At one point one of the ropes pulled me, it was my best friend. She tried to help navigate, but there was only enough room for me, so she offered encouragement, advice and support. I thanked God for her, then I put her in my pocket for safe keeping.



Now, I have piles of things to get to and organize but I have gotten some things accomplished. I am still exhausted but I feel better.

Finally I had a revelation that although it is not clean, simple, or neat...I am able to look around and see exactly who and what I can rely upon.

At first I was crushed. What did I do? Why is everyone mad at me? What happened? But the more I cleared things away and looked at things I saw that it wasn't me. I was just the one left standing after the mess was left behind.


It has taken so long to get my head up. It has taken months for me to realize that stuff happens to people and it does not define who they are. What matters is what I do with it, and how I handle it. What matters is how I 'wear' it.

It took me a minute to get back to the point where I can sit across a table and look someone in their eyes and know that I am flawed but not devalued. I am worthy. I am no less a good woman. I am no less funny, articulate, creative, sexy, honest...I was no less anything. I am not defined by my circumstances. I am worth knowing. I am worth the time it takes to stop and take a closer look.




My neighbor has these flowers in his yard every year. Nasturtium, the flower is usually under the big flat leaves. The flower tastes peppery, like a radish. He explained this 3 years ago when I moved in, but I don't like radishes so I kept moving through their paradise. Last year I finally pulled one of the flowers off and ate it. It was delicious, better tasting than a radish and very appealing on a salad.

I am like that flower. I am not the prettiest, but by far the tastiest surprise for someone willing to take the time.

This is not a bad place to be.

Tend That Inward Fire

I went out dancing with my friend Melissa on Saturday night. We always have a good time. We are carving out a fantastic friendship. I am very happy for it. I don't have many friends, and that is something I have been actively trying to change. The problem is that I prefer real people around me. I like womyn who will call me on my bullshit and tell me when I am wrong. I like people mature enough to understand my struggles. I like mature, honest people. It is not always easy to find.

But I digress. After dancing, we went to breakfast. This is often the best part of the night because we talk about whatever is going on: work, dates, girlfriends, children. We talk about everything. A group of young men came in and were seated in the booth across the aisle and half a booth length back, and in the booth in front of them was an older gentleman, he said he's 70.

One of the young men came over and introduced himself to us as Caleb. He said that he and his friends had been to a bar in the Tremont (read a bit trendy) area and had a great time; asked where we'd been and if we were having a good night. Then, the six of us had a conversation that was delightful. We talked about how people don't talk to each other anymore. We debated about whether or not two people watching the same glorious sunset/sunrise were relating to one another. (My opinion is that though they stand at the same spot and are moved by the beauty before them, it does not mean that they will relate to one another at all.) We discussed whether you can find something to which you can relate in everyone, even people considered to be evil. We talked about how rare it is to have people even look you in the eye and smile or say good day.

During the conversation, Caleb mentioned that he is an artist. Which I knew the moment he mentioned the sunset/sunrise. He did not have to label himself an artist, I just knew it. I felt it. I felt it when he walked by to sit down. I saw it in his beautiful, soft brown eyes. I felt it in his handshake. I knew it when he walked up to us and introduced himself, asked questions and truly listened to our opinions. Amazing.

I had just hours prior laughed at myself because I realized that I am an artist and writer no matter how long it's been since I have written or painted anything. It does not change the fact that I analyze the colors of the morning sky while driving home from work. It does not alter my love for words. It does not change who I am, how I move, or the way I see the world. Some things just are.
Just as sure as I could see Caleb's fire in his eyes. I wonder if I will be able to see that in myself, or if others do. And I find myself thinking of Van Gogh's words "should one tend that inward fire, turn to oneself for strength, wait patiently...for the moment when someone who wants to comes and sits down beside one's fire and perhaps stays on? Let him who believes in God await the moment that will sooner or later arrive."

Amazing. It seems to me that we all have that fire. Often we unknowingly and recklessly share it with those who would put it out.

This quote means to me that God/The Creator/The Universe will provide just what we need, we just have to be willing to wait for it. I have never been patient. But I did not have any clue that Caleb would be set before me so that I can see someone else's inward fire burning. I saw in Caleb a fire that has been tended and my God, how gloriously it burns. I feel sorry for anyone who has him in their presence and misses true beauty. I feel sorry for us all for allowing beautiful human beings to pass us everyday without even making eye contact, without smiling, without relating. And, I feel sorry for those who have that kind of fire and have left it unattended.



Peace

What is romantic?

I should have done this before Valentine's Day, but maybe this past month will provide some really juicy answers.

What is romantic?

I fear that I may not be romantic.

Isn't it possible to be romantic at home? Or is it?

If I love gerbera daisies, irises and lilies more than red roses, is there something wrong with that? Lilies are breath-taking and daisies make me happy.

I always feel silly when faced with the expectation of romance. I get that REALLY big question mark bubble over my head.


And all I can think is Yikes, I'm in trouble. It isn't that I don't care or that I don't want to do the work. I am just clueless. I have very simple needs to keep me very happy.

I mean, maybe I am just too easy. I love coffee, books, trees, nature, flowers. So, a pound of coffee from one of my favorite coffee shops, a favorite author, and dinner-out, would be a lovely evening for me.

Boring?

What is most important to me is spending time together. I love having 'face time', catching up, laughing together, eye contact, and an uninterrupted conversation about nothing in particular. I need that time to connect and just be. I don't need to be entertained or impressed; I am impressed by getting a glimpse at the inside of my love, not by things. The important part is the interaction and the time together.

I mean, to me romantic is a quiet dinner, a glass of excellent wine, a walk on the beach (but this is Cleveland and there is none of that this time of year, unless you travel), great music (I would request Lizz Wright, Cassandra Wilson, and Miles Davis to start), and then nothing. Nothing but the two of us and time.

Am I missing the point? What is romantic?

Synchronicity

There are times when I have terrible perceptions of myself. I will doubt even the most basic things. I have said this before, but I can cook a meal regularly, but every once in a while will question that I know how to properly feed anyone.

The universe has been moving for me in profound ways; in ways that I cannot say I believed I deserved. I have been attending church for the past month. Nearly every week, I get a message about my artwork. I have only mentioned the messages to two or three people. This past Sunday, as I was getting ready, my daughter told me I should start painting again.

"I miss your artwork" she said.

I nearly cried. I was beyond touched. I understood in that moment that what I had said with my art mattered, and not just to me.

For six (6) years my creativity was silent. I did not write. I did not paint. I felt that I had nothing to say. Nothing that mattered.

This morning, one of my co-workers said that I have fire and passion in my eyes when I talk about my art, and I put that same fire and passion in everything I do. I did not think that this man paid any attention to me other than the occasional conversation. I was blown away. I felt a little more comfortable about sharing it even more.

There is no such thing as chance. There is sychronicity. I went back to church because I needed a few things:a new love with whom I could be safe, secure, and open, to get in touch with my creative voice, and to feel safe in sharing that voice. There is power and grace in prayer. There is power in naming what you want from the universe. There are no accidents. I am being answered in abundance.

I am humbled and I am blessed.

peace.