60

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In my early thirties, when I was living through my only divorce twice, anyone I fucked I instructed split me in two. Crack me open I used to purr and they all did try their best. And then one day I met a boy who's pain matched mine.

    Click

was a girl (mess) all over again

I had impulsively prayed for a body love on a flight home from new york where I kinda broke up with this super rich (smart and funny) guy I was only sort of dating. He was a friend of my ex husband's, more an acquaintance, but the need to justify the difference reveals the masculine conundrum.

Landed, ubered, gathered the mail, and hauled my bag up a few flights of stairs.

Shoes off, hands washed, jeans wrangled down to my ankles.

I came so hard that I squirted all over the hardwood floor in the hallway, peering into a tiny deco crystal chandelier kaleidoscope. Sweatered spine on hardwood because I knew I was going to cum hard and I'm a clean freak. Wiped clean those glossy floorboards. See, the body love's energy came in, and Spirit told me I had work to do.

I next perceived this very specific to-do list, to call in a body love using the energy of my space — a one-bedroom apartment I shared with my two young sons in mid-city — just across the street from those lacma street lamps. So I did all the to-do's before Spirit said tinder. I had worked all week. Wrote down all the tiny chores, crossing them off, feeling great. It was a friday. I tindered over the weekend and remember taking the boys for barber shop haircuts, then was parking in his garage late wednesday afternoon post consultation with an honestly happy couple. They walked me to my car and we all watched a swarm of bees circle the jacaranda to the back left of their home. We had seen the bees before, in a clear line of site out their bedroom window, and we watched again from below until they bid me farewell like nervous parents. I hadn't had that and it was sweet.

That was in the spring of 2019. I wore a cream linen skirt suit, 70's, with suede manolos. Had put a vetiver, neroli and faintly cinnamon body oil on my legs, careful not to oil the suede. It felt like I only took left turns on the drive home seven hours later, and once I successfully pulled iris into her assigned slot, I did know I was fucked. We hadn't yet but I was, I just knew it. You know that feeling when it washes over. Yet when you want the assignment, as in your soul needs the work, you take it.

Lessons come packaged as they will, enticing in their present tense while draped with red flags looking back — that's * if * you pass the test. I finally did. I passed with zero fanfare last fall, and now it's spring again, and I'm grateful to be here. I'm on the eastern shore of maryland, a farmer of sorts, devoted to moving inside learnings out after a long, hot decade fighting against myself in the city of angels, where I kid you not, I had six different bedrooms, each one rearranged countless times.

gIRL mess class starts in our bedrooms because I can tell you that many, many bedrooms are stale with avoidance. Thus on the flip side, bedrooms are ripe with potential for actualizing, living within, our authentic desires on the daily.

As adults, or doing our best to act the part, our energy in one realm of lived experience is indicative of our big picture energy. So I wasn't just dirty talking, I was committed to cracking myself open across the board. What I was doing in bed, I was doing in life. I broke my reality apart, swept up all the pieces, dusted them off and laid them across the table to sort. Like items like to live together, so I compartmentalized my particular gIRL mess into piles. I like a pile. A pile seems to dare hey, here I am, come deal with me.

    Tomorrow, we answer.

No two people's piles look the same.

Not sure if this is called karma or fate, or if it's just the work of being a (high) functioning human being? We're here on the material plane, and maybe we've been here before, hence all the piles, but what * work * it is to be in a human body on the material plane dealing with our stuff?

💤

 IT'S SANDWICHES FROM HERE ON OUT GANG 

55

SAT🪑
Washed all the components of the espresso machine and polished the electric kettle and made myself a dirty chai latte and now I'm going to make a second, so brb —

I will wash and polish in closing as well. I'll wait to know that there is not another, even though a third would surprise me, but let's leave a door open for wherever this sunny Saturday goes. The sun warms my back as I write at my desk. In my office! I hadn't really been using my office, but then I got a bookshelf and the energy of the room changed. Wouldn't you know?

Always a second (hot morning drink?). I do love pairs. Soon two barns will be where there is one. Just across the way. A walking path shall make a bridge. Do dig opposites, like old vs. new, heaven and hell, yin-yang. Love the tension between two entities, and by tension, I mean The Intangible Third. The elixir of life is 'made' by rubbing your palms together and pulsing 'your' bubble of creation. One plus one must make more than two, or sorry, it's a waste of (our) time. Ask Mother Earth and I imagine she'll confirm.

I was recently on a date with a man who told me (and believes) that he is one of the most eligible bachelors in the music art world. Before he told me this, I already knew that I was on A Practice Date. I dated a lot in my early thirties. I had a rhythm down for how I dated then. By 'rhythm,' I mean a code of self-conduct for that time and space when I was new to Adult Dating (very different from non-adult dating (and has nothing to do with being a legal 'adult')). My sons were babies. I was a brand-new Adult with a baby face. We're older now, all somewhat wiser (still have our buccal fat), and we're in different places, meaning a Different Place. Out here doing my best to speak for the trees, I thank my lucky stars for pushing me to get my Heidi on — or what my girlness remembers about Heidi — escaped to nature, fresh air & rosy cheeks, great dairy products, a ghost, miraculous healings, etc.

I didn't plan it (this is a total aside), but I've realized that I have been gearing up for a new dating rhythm. Soooo on this A Practice Date I did that thing that Adults of a particular age (integrated confidence) do, which is to clarify what I am looking for from the get-go. I feel it's clear I'm open-minded about much. And I shared a few key non-negotiables out of respect for us both. Then, and most importantly to me, I hand-talked my way through explaining my Core Desire to be supported in filling my cup from the streaming Intangible Third that my style of making love profusely generates.

Most Eligible Art Bachelor Honorable Mention #7 seems to want a hot girlfriend to coo over his dog, walk the dog lol, and help him translate bell hooks' "All About Love" from the lunar to the diluted solar.

Befores & Afters. I was born into a twisted love dynamic. I allowed my heart to be there in that thorn bush pattern beat into me as a girl. I always could tell what sweater I was wearing when a punch came (cold house) and the pattern would sink into my skin. Patterns do do that. The allowing was true, and in that truth, I became brave. So brave that I am outside of the thorn bush now. I grew up and and sprouted out. Rhizomatic bravery on a quest to connect the dots.

. spreading . without . a . traditional . hierarchy .

Truth morphs

    Another strong indication

I realize that I am at the end of one body of work and at the beginning of another (that I have really hoped to embody since I was a teenager locked in a room without a door). 

Stuffed clams and broiled asparagus on my tv dinner tray are fuel for learning how to watch movies home alone / held still (not up and up and up again, fussing in (inherited) refusal to relax (feel feelings)). 

Allowed to hold still. Safe with sound at an audible volume. No1 screaming and pulling the cord from the wall, 2 drunk / not brave enough to know why she's so angry-scared-mean to her children. Especially me, 4 whatever reason(s).

SUN🌅
Even though I napped yesterday, I sleep deeply and the room begins to leak sun when I get that tasty not ready to wake up & don't have to Energy.

    Uncurl from my sleeping ball

        Gratitude stretches when my heart hurts

A pang means a mind's eye visual of the crusty brown leaf falling away from the budding sprout as it does that first burst open, leaving, outside in nature

☉☉☉☉
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☉   ☉  ☉   ☉
☉    ☉  ☉    ☉
☉     ☉  ☉     ☉
☉    ☉  ☉    ☉
 ☉   ☉  ☉   ☉
 ☉ ☉ ☉ ☉
  🍀☉☉☉🍀
   🍀🍀🍀
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NEXT-THUR-MORN🌹

I have never been more tired in my life:

True        False

I have the space in my life to let the tired leave:

True        False

<bbtalk

23

 

What if your whole life you strived to make the inappropriate appropriately easy? What if you normalized unreasonable expectations until Soul cries out to you, crying while drowning in a sea of never ending _______ (chores 4 maintaining broken systems). Pleading for openness — an expanse of experimental time and space — S u p p o r t m e w h i l e t h e w o r l d s t i l l s p i n s ✩ she criessss

Any systems
you're bold enough
to fix before _______?

Cranky not getting attention soul crossing the mind-body barrier: Hair falls out clumpy, eyes going fuzzy, and nervous system the bad kind of buzzy --- each together demanding you hold still and honestly account for where you've been and where you're going (bumpy)

Would you answer?

Could you not? 

But because *we are where we are until we aren't* the sole question really boils down to:

What does it cost to listen to your soul? 

Remember

Your soul like a child allowed to be a child — I need something, not this. I don't know what, but help me because I'm overwhelmed and crying for you. Change me, feed me, hold me, figure it out for me, with me. P r i o r i t i z e 4 m e ✩

I was born into my pattern. I married it, procreated with it and co-parent with it 👅👅👅👅👅👅 then I push it further, falling farther in love with it, fuck it so good from any-every angle 👅👅👅👅👅👅👅👅 Then there's me. Me as in Us. And I want to be a baller baby dadi beholden to Soul — my long abandoned daughter — and my sons — my living, breathing, fascinating true family who show me more grace, more patient L O V E than I have ever known.

You're doing the same. You're propagating your pattern. Did you follow the rules and put your mask on first? Or is the role you play the mask you're drowning behind? (The Rules.) Trick questions.

And your patterned babies are lovable and deserving of love, as they do what they're designed to do, eating up resources ∴ demanding you self resource like you've never known how.

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Is that why we are here? To live the immersed pattern until we can identify the pattern, see it separate from Self, see ourself putting it down, Pattern down on the ground, gently backing away from maintaining the broken ∴ moving towards  fulfilling Soul's callings, with all the precious babies strapped to your chest, your breasts, your back, sat up on your shoulders. Responsibilities stemming from iteration after iteration, held close, arms free for the labor required to live the alchemical transformation:

N U R T U R I N G w e

21

I am playing with broad stereotypes in energy — the feminine and the masculine. I know these words will be garish in time for they already feel on the outs and their ugliness is a part of their appeal.

    Apart of the Appeal 🍎

Slowing the flow on the bundle of wire rushing into my office router or modem — I don't know the difference and maybe will look it up — and using that example as permission granted to recalibrate my expectations for this earthly experience, because I know I've been here more than I ever wanted to be.

I have loved a man for years now and I have *no idea* if we are a *good match*
I haven't and don't care about the out there in time and space because I love him deeply, now. I just always have. Love at first sight is a purity, so tell me if ? how ? where ? trauma bonds interconnect with pheromones, with past lives, souls, karma?

He comes from a huge family. He's been at a family wedding in a remote mountain town. Nice communication still coming through. Lots of snippets. Some are appealing and others scare me off. Many make me feel tired in my brain. Maybe more scare me off than appeal? Which is why I am here and not there; he already knew. He often knows things before my circuitous process lands me there. He thinks in the masculine's straight lines, so he knows if we *end up together* and we don't talk about it. Or better yet, he thinks in mountains — in steep ups and crash downs.

Masculine and feminine. Solar and lunar. I find these edges useful for placing myself in time and space, because this is the summer that I stopped wanting ? needing ? to clean the house. Stopped Tolerating, so what happens now? In many ways I was brought up as an indentured servant. By the time I was ten, like my eldest is now, I could care for an infant for hours and very often did. I could clean the entire home and had to endlessly. It was my job to iron my father's work shirts with heavy starch. I set the table to clear the table and packed all the lunches the night before. Pack the espresso into the Italian moka pot with the backside of a spoon and turn on the small back gas burner. Wait for the percolation to begin. Wait for the sound to stop. Burner off and pour it into the brown espresso cup with a matching saucer so he could escape his wife's madness and go write upstairs. An office tucked away from It all. I washed my own laundry and much of the household's. I changed the beds. I bathed the babies. As my brothers got older I always tried to answer their questions, often asked from the bath, with honesty.

This love says I talk to my boys as if they're adults.

This love only really comes clean in the bathtub. I've learned that the masculine does best without direct eye contact. Driving. Tandem bathing. Ass pressed into; arms wrapped around; bubbles and hair sudsing; strong fingers. Many long distanced live from the tub chats. Show me.

These Summer '22 heat waves flash back to lockdowns and I don't want or need to keep an outrageously clean home. My, so organized it all goes back together again with focus. But there are days of living mess left to pile on top of the messes prior. I've been unfocused on the couch for three nights now. Staycation because I cannot be bothered to hang everything up, to clear the bed enough for fresh sheets. The *dirty* sheets are now clean, hanging out in the dryer. Fluff and fold seems too much. I am labored. Put the pale blue birds away, intending to bring back the black paisleys. There's not enough energy, which is my truth. All those siblings' babies needing care up in the Alps. He says they all love being parents more than anything else. He thinks this is true. Okay then.

I teach myself everyday not to compare my life's plot to my sons' lot. I strive for age appropriate autonomy and nothing more. It's morning here and very hot. We're inside and I have the oven preheated to 350°. I've asked Ro to please take a box of frozen mini croissants and read the directions to bake them. Call us when they're ready. He seems so uncertain of this request. Why do I test? He cannot figure it out, or doesn't want to actually, so he doesn't. He's scared of the oven, scared of anything that can burn him. He leaves the little frozen croissants on top on the tray announcing he's not doing anything else. Heads back to his room. I try not to think about what would have happened if I said, No. I don't want to. Like I am now. Or maybe I should think about it? Maybe it doesn't matter anymore, like it really doesn't matter that there are clothes all over my adult bedroom and I don't mind sleeping on this really big couch. The oven timer will go off in 25 minutes. Seems like a long time for little minis to bake.

It surprises me when the timer dings and Ro comes trotting in to take them out, then asks how to set the timer for two more minutes? He's pressing lots of buttons, lots of beeping on this dinky rental stove. I get up and walk over to help him help me.

Two more minutes.
Cos mama, they're not golden brown yet like the box says they should be.

delayed gratification farm/work spring/time

Expectation determines outcome. A quantum leap is loosening the grip and trusting enough to relax into the reveal. That has to be about alchemy. I've been too busy burning up alchemizing that I'm burnt out on (house) keeping it together. Keeping this together is missing the point.

There's a pile of returns stacking up by the front door. Shockingly, it all belongs to my mother. Now who saw that one coming?

*I do. We are / and are not \ because he's my cosmic nudge >>

16

The banging coming through the ceiling during the roof's replacement brings me back into childhood. My family lived inside of a gut renovation when most people wouldn't. I remember thinking it was radical, in a bad way, that my baby brother napped right though the massive iron fire escape being welded loose and crash-dropped into a backyard heap. The escape was stripped from the back of the building and just dropped.

Crashing, scary loud and he kept on sleeping. The closet they used as his nursery was on the back of the house, second floor, right there in the middle of It. I was worried most of the time, and about this, so I crept in and covered my ears with my hands, with my eyes on him. I watched for his small back to rise and fall so I could tell if he was breathing. Was he going to be okay?

I was nine when Michael was born and babies still slept on their tummies. I used to rock him to sleep as he sucked on the tip of my pinky. Arches high ballet style to reach him over the side of the crib, pressing up into and hurting my armpits as I lowered him, rubbing his back to ease the transition.

Then I was eleven and there was a second baby brother, who couldn't ever acclimate to the drama. He hasn't yet forgiven me for leaving for school and never really coming home again. 

It was a ragtag demo crew of my dad with my mom's friend Diane's cousins, or something like that. One of my jobs was to microwave endless dozens of soft pretzels. There were three kitchens initially, all pretty gross. The post-Victorian house had been converted into apartments in the seventies. Twenty years later it was trying to keep it together as six of us were hopping floors, swapping one kitchen to rip out another. I would carry the little microwave oven around, looking for a working outlet. I'd run each frozen pretzel under a tap, puzzle piece the shapes together on a plate, before sprinkling the course salt from the tiny plastic pouch. Next, make my delivery rounds holding the hot plate with an oven mitt in my left hand and a squirting out yellow mustard with my right. Jumbo sized with the crust on the spout :(

Somedays, they'd give me a five dollar bill and I'd load the babies into the wagon and steer clear of the scene for the day. In some ways, I've been living the same story for thirty years now. In other ways, everything is changing, shaking loose and getting done. I look outside to rubble everywhere. The roofers' many trucks kept the black bin from being emptied on trash day, so I'll see if they'll tip mine into their big dumpster.

The banging is actually lulling me to sleep. Hard to say no to a mid-morning nap.

&

July 12th, 2022

S&M

Sex&Mindset

Sleep&Make food / your bed

Eroticism 

Exercises

Evening stroll and come up to yours to find yourself in what you see & why it makes you feel that way

Fridge & Freezer

Picnic on the floor

Sleep somewhere else @ home 

Could you, would you host a date in the bathtub?