I feel discarded. Disregarded. Dissed. Dismissed. Degraded. Deaf to the screams of meaningless mists. All this living and caring and aiming and striving and thinking there was any fucking point to anything. Such silliness. Nothing matters. No one can even see me. I don’t actually exist in the eyes of humanity. I only exist to the sun and stars and moon. To my cat friend and many local insects, as a bringer of food and water.
I won’t say love is a lie, because I am love embodied. I do think it serves me best to stop expecting other humans to be anything but hateful, immature, ugly, killers of everything. The greatest destroyers. Except. Not quite great. Not most of us. We are mostly worthless and weak. Silent and meek.
To be loved by a man who doesn’t merely want to fuck me…this has been a lifelong quest of mine, and alas, so far, I am feeling only fucked and unloved. More accurately, actually, these days I am unfucked and unloved. I suppose that is improvement, though it doesn’t really feel any better. Most of that has something to do with aging. Age 50 feels a bit different from 15, 25, 35, even 45, in this body.
Every week or two, at least a few times every year, someone I have known a long while will ‘offer’ to fuck me. Strangers do it more quickly, usually in less than an hour or two, as it seems to be the prevalent social norm between men and women in this, current society. Would you like to fuck or get fucked? No, thank you. Well then, don’t say no one ever offered.
Yesterday’s offer, from a dear longstanding and younger hot-bodied friend was for “Uncomplicated sex.” You mean masturbation? I got that covered. Thanks, and no thanks. There’s no such thing as uncomplicated sex, at least, not for you and I. If there was, I would have to decline…I think. I did consider it briefly. More than once. If the offer had been for complicated sex it would have been much more tempting, and still, I hope I would have the fortitude to decline. I don’t need help with simple release. The reeving up of chemistry. I got that handled. Where I desire to meet is in the here and now. Fully alive.
Appreciating. Discovering. Unfolding together. Cocreating ecstasy and generating new stardust. New ideas. New dance moves. Let’s make something that has not been before. Let’s go somewhere neither of us have been before.
Anything less than complete presence and sacred embraces, sensual deep kisses, real time healing touch…seems like so much less than it could be–so much less than we have the capacity to be. I’ll try not to serve myself worms so often. Feast on fastness and feathers and fine threads. Appreciate the knotwork.
She ties and unties everything.
And again.
Bah. Anyhow, I will walk about. The earth, the non-human animals, many of us are still mostly alive. Humans appear to be mostly dead, inside and out. Alseep. Vampires. Zombies. They wander about repeating useless soundbites of separation and hate. Wondering why someone else doesn’t DO something about how fucked up everything is. Fucking things. Let’s fuck? Fuckity Fuck Fuck? For fuck’s sake.
Last weekend a man I had met the day before slipped a tiny bible into my hat, after I had said no thanks, or rather, implied it, as he didn’t formally ask. He justified this imposition by saying he prayed for me, and thanked me for ‘sharing that story’. This was a reference to my mentioning that I have been raped and beaten and caged and many things that people fear, and so I am not afraid–or rather, I am quite capable of maintaining courage in the face of my fear. I did not tell him any of the stories of any of it, though if I had, perhaps he would have begun to have an incling of a clue how his behavior is the same violating behavior. Just a bit less bold or brave. A bit weaker and less impressive. The same degrading, demeaning, judgmental, fucking feeble-minded hubris that assumes that all a woman needs is some man to penetrate her just right, and then she will stop feeling insane. Maybe she/I will somehow feel better?
I don’t think that part is actually part of the equation at all. I think it is more simply a matter of men–and women– wanting to feel better in the moment–to feel like, well, at least they tried to help, ‘I mean–I did fuck her, and she still was crazy, so…don’t know what else I could have done.’ Seriously, I bring it up because, well, maybe other women feel a lot differently about it–maybe that is all humanity needs–more belittling, degrading, dehumanizing, and fucking? Hmmm. I guess we will see. I don’t think it has been helpful to me. I could be wrong though. It’s difficult to discern much anymore. Humanity has fully embraced insanity as our cultural norm. Fuck everything. Fuck it all. Fuck you. Fuck me…
Burn the witch. The witches are all me. The bitches are all in me.
I release the hounds. Let go the expectations.
All bets are off. Social contracts are burned and broken. I am free to be solame.
The masculine capacity to hold space for the feminine wild. This is a large part of my work. I train. I learn. I teach. I study. I feel. I live it alive. Visceral. I have been fucked a fair amount. I have held space for myself and for many wounded men–rather–the wounded boys that reside in unhealed, immature men. Most of the men I meet. Women too, to be fair. Most of us live mostly asleep. In the shadows. Dancing.
I am alive. I am love. I am dancing. I am listening. I am speaking. I am honey dripping. I am the earth as it dries and cracks. I am so many seeds. Some of us will bloom. Some of me will unfold. All the rest will go unspoken. Untasted. Unlived. Unbroken.
nmgal007 ~Angel Lilly, Performance Poet, Speaker, Songwriter, Singer 