Episode 19: AWKWARDSEXYTIME Part DEAUXX...
THINGS I WANT MORE THAN SEX, steady love, the magical kitchen, failing at embodying my teachers, A FULL ON PARLIAMENT OF OVERANALYSIS… BURRY THINGS UNDER PRETENSE AND CYNICISM! HOLD MY FEET AND BUID CHICKEN COOPS WTH ME! HONESTY IS SEXY!
EXERPT:
Sitting with desire,
If you can sit with that desire inside of you - let it wash out to the edges of you - in the emptiness, in the lonely spaces, you can alchemize it into a wild creative force.
Some things are not meant to be acted on, some things, are meant to be endured.
Refocused, repurposed… into something more useful. What that is? Well, heck, I’m honestly not sure yet. But I’ve got plenty of desire and nothing to do with it. Except croon sweet nothings to you on the radio. But, I have to be completely honest, it’s brought up more than it’s fair share of uncomfortable feelings. Mostly about my own inadequacy, of course, and doubts, LOADS AND LOADS OF DOUBTS, about how much I really am in control of my heart. Because it seems it’s gone haywire. Off the rails. I’m a goner. I feel like an awkward overthinking pretzel. Is there a name for a group of overanalysis, is it a flurry of overanalysis? A flock. A storm of overanalysis? Ohhh I know a group of wold cats is called a destruction. Maybe it’s a destruction of overanalysis. Or wait maybe a smack like jellyfish? Or a labor, like moles… or maybe a pandemonium? Like parrots. Or I know, it’s like owls! A Parliament. That’s it, a full on parliament of overanalysis. But I like swans in flight - a wedge - a wedge of over analysis… But really, really, it’s just called a cripple of overanalysis. So as you can clearly see…. I’m not sitting very well. I’m more teetering on the edge of my seat, waiting to hear myself say the next worlds most awkward thing. But since this is awkward sexy time part deauxx, and what we are really talking about here is desire; the desire of those hands sliding down my arms. The desire lodged in hundreds of moments of an almost kiss. If only my nerves could talk… I think they would scream instead. Things I didn’t know I even wanted! Why do I want someone to hold my feet and tell me they will build a chicken coop with me?! Like what’s that all about? And I want to sit in a straw hat and a linen dress on the back porch drinking tea and reading a book soaking up the warmth as it makes it’s sweet way through my sundress, waiting for the door to open. “Honey I’m home…” Really, really I just want to collapse into a warm embrace that says, I’m not going anywhere you can rest now.
And maybe, that’s just a fantasy. But I hope, at least, that most of the time, even with ALL of my crazy, and wild heart, that I am at least a woman of honor. That I admit when I am wrong; that I have the humility to remember that I am a work in progress. And maybe I am not the easiest woman. But I show up. And I’ve got mad tech skills, and I am a great problem solver, and I don’t like to fight. And I’m not afraid of spiders anymore, but stink bugs… Boy that’s another story. But mostly I’m gentle, and I’m kind. Well, you know, unless I’m running across the house away from the stink bugs, completely, irrationally. So maybe, just maybe, there’s someone worth wading through all of this for. Worth waiting for. But anyways back to sexy sexy time…
Really I think I’ve finally reached a point in my life where I don’t even want to have sex. I would rather lie and stare into someone’s eyes for hours on end - to just touch their face, their hair, the lines around their smile. To lie unclothed with arms wrapped around me. Warm. To fall asleep in someone’s arms.
Things I want more than sex: to wake up in the early hours of the morning, with a kiss as the light filters in through the tempered glass, with a gentile brush of the hair from my face. The sound of rushing water outside the windows, beyond the fields, the birds awakening with us. I want to breathe and meditate together, legs crossed hands barely touching, searching for the edges of the energy generated between us. I want to grow a garden - hot and sweaty and covered in dirt - laughing and throwing weeds at each other for the fun of it. I want to sit by the ocean - the vastness of the water stretched out before us, the moon reflected. In comfortable silence, in awe of the tides. I want tenderness, exploration, slow long strokes of my fingers down their forearms. I want to lie naked by a roaring fire with hot tea and a book to read out loud to each other. I want to share a hot bath - to soak until our fingers turn into prunes and the waters gone cold. Only to get out and be wrapped in warm blankets by candlelight. I want steady love.
Why is it, that we think the turmoil is sexy? The here today gone tomorrow indifference. Why is it that the tortured is sexy? Why the broken? Why don’t we idolize balance? Balance is sexy. Communication is sexy. Steady is sexy. Dependable is sexy. Honest is sexy. Kind and giving are sexy. Laughter is sexy, even the awkwardness is sexy. Why don’t we idolize that as sexy? But no. It’s always the messed up, the crazy that’s sexy. The scary, the unstable. I think really the answer is that the humanity is sexy, the rawness is sexy. The realness sexy. Because we’re all broken somehow. And that just makes us feel more alive. But why not idolize healing as sexy? Why not gentleness, timidness? I find humility to be a wildly sexy quality. Let’s idolize that for a change! No more star crossed passion, how about, “Honey I made you lunch for work.” Well let’s just bang on the table right then and there. That’s it. I’m done for. Honey I did the dishes… I’m a goner.
So instead of listening to a bunch of crunchy sexy music. Tonight we are going to listen to something else. We are going to listen to the music I would play lying and staring into someone’s eyes by the fire. And I know what you’re thinking… Oooo sexy… but really we are just going to listen to some Gregory Alan Isakov! And some folk music, and maybe a couple heavy hitters, and sometimes they won’t even be about love. But let’s imagine they are on in the background… low and sweet, and you have a fire burning, candles flickering, raw honey dripping from your fingers, tea steaming and a silk kimono wrapped around your legs. Bare against the firelight. Reading “The Book Of Love, Musings On A Crazy Little Thing” as someone tenderly runs their fingers over your collarbone and whispers, I know you’ve been fighting for so long, rest now. It’s all going to be ok.
And sometimes, in little awe-fully painful moments I think I can actually feel the ghost of arms wrapped around me. When I am overwhelmed with the enormity of it all, crying alone in the dark, or my car. A pure fabrication of my mind. Telling me I don’t have to go through it all alone anymore. That I survived. That that is enough. And somehow, all that ever seems to do, is make me feel more alone.
Ahhh there she is. It seems we finally uncovered my inner hopeless romantic. Welcome back! Couldn’t you just have stayed buried under pretense and cynicism just a little longer?
Ohh well. Let’s light some candles in her honor, and break out the kimonos. Time to turn the volume down, and drift into a fantasy as “Was I Just Another One,” by Gregory Alan Isakov plays.
Ohhh dear lord what have I done…
