Tell me how I walk
And tell me how I talk
And tell me how I kiss
Tell every detailed thing
Tell me why I smile
Tell me what a little child
I become around you
Tell me, is it also true for you?
Tell me whispers in bed at night
About life and love and fright
Tell me secrets of yourself
While I pull you to myself
Tell me how the light hits my eyes
When the sun peeks through the blinds
And our feet are tangled into one
Both our hearts, undone
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Celibacy
I have taken an oath. It's somewhat like a nun's, except my oath has nothing to do with an extra-spiritual belief. More the belief that I should save myself for love.
Over the past few years, I've come to regard sex as probably one of the most rote things. I've had sex in dark bushes, sex in cars, sex at the seaside, sex in bathrooms, sex in dirty one-room apartments, sex in luxurious hotel rooms, sex on rooftops, sex outside churches, sex next to ogling complete strangers, sex with ogling complete strangers... my point is, as biological and wonderful the act is, I'm all sexed out.
In the quest for love and partnership, the absolute rule for me holds true: honesty. Emotional honesty is probably highest on the list, as well as honesty with oneself. And if I'm completely honest with myself, love and sex are things that I want entangled beyond untangling - like headphones that have been scrunched in your pocket for over four hours while on an over-packed car ride.
Luckily, I've had sex with someone I loved (I think...) within the past year. And the feelings of want, care, absolution, desire and possession were overwhelming. If you can have sex like that, why would you ever want it any other way?
Sure, my dick still gets hard looking at beautiful pictures of men on tumblr and I lust dutifully over guys with hard pecs and biceps with the most resplendent of curves but physicality is so far-removed from emotion that it doesn't matter anymore.
I'd actually taken this vow once before, about a year ago and I stuck to it until I got to New York and men were falling from skyscrapers and I just thought it was silly to deny myself of pleasure. But now more than ever, the drive behind everything in my life is love. And not just love from another but love from myself. It's probably self-preservation or self-indulgence; whatever it is, I think I deserve sex with love. And so I've decided that the simple act of sex is not enough anymore and probably never will be again.
I will forage and plunder (and blunder) until I find someone I care, respect and love enough to know that when we fuck, we will also be making love. Because there are better things than cumming on a guy's stomach while he looks up into your eyes and smiles. Like laying next to him after, maybe not even touching, and knowing that what lies between you is more than words or thoughts could ever express and that right there, in that moment and in that space, you are safe.
Over the past few years, I've come to regard sex as probably one of the most rote things. I've had sex in dark bushes, sex in cars, sex at the seaside, sex in bathrooms, sex in dirty one-room apartments, sex in luxurious hotel rooms, sex on rooftops, sex outside churches, sex next to ogling complete strangers, sex with ogling complete strangers... my point is, as biological and wonderful the act is, I'm all sexed out.
In the quest for love and partnership, the absolute rule for me holds true: honesty. Emotional honesty is probably highest on the list, as well as honesty with oneself. And if I'm completely honest with myself, love and sex are things that I want entangled beyond untangling - like headphones that have been scrunched in your pocket for over four hours while on an over-packed car ride.
Luckily, I've had sex with someone I loved (I think...) within the past year. And the feelings of want, care, absolution, desire and possession were overwhelming. If you can have sex like that, why would you ever want it any other way?
Sure, my dick still gets hard looking at beautiful pictures of men on tumblr and I lust dutifully over guys with hard pecs and biceps with the most resplendent of curves but physicality is so far-removed from emotion that it doesn't matter anymore.
I'd actually taken this vow once before, about a year ago and I stuck to it until I got to New York and men were falling from skyscrapers and I just thought it was silly to deny myself of pleasure. But now more than ever, the drive behind everything in my life is love. And not just love from another but love from myself. It's probably self-preservation or self-indulgence; whatever it is, I think I deserve sex with love. And so I've decided that the simple act of sex is not enough anymore and probably never will be again.
I will forage and plunder (and blunder) until I find someone I care, respect and love enough to know that when we fuck, we will also be making love. Because there are better things than cumming on a guy's stomach while he looks up into your eyes and smiles. Like laying next to him after, maybe not even touching, and knowing that what lies between you is more than words or thoughts could ever express and that right there, in that moment and in that space, you are safe.
Monday, July 15, 2013
"Us"
And he, one day, said, "I am inexplicably tied."
"Tied to what?" I countered, unsure about the direction of the conversation. I looked at him with a confused expression and he smiled, extended his arm and touched his index finger lightly to my knee.
"To this. Us."
I continued to stare into his eyes, waiting for him to look away uncomfortably, or fidget oddly, or cough unexpectedly, or sneeze gratuitously. But nothing - he held my gaze the entire time until I ran my hand through my hair dazedly and shifted markedly and cleared my throat delicately.
"Us?" I asked quietly as I dared to look at him once more. My heart hammered and there was a numb grind in my ears; as if everything was pressing into me, sucking me into a vacuum of nothingness.
"Yes. There is an us - and it's beautiful."
"Tied to what?" I countered, unsure about the direction of the conversation. I looked at him with a confused expression and he smiled, extended his arm and touched his index finger lightly to my knee.
"To this. Us."
I continued to stare into his eyes, waiting for him to look away uncomfortably, or fidget oddly, or cough unexpectedly, or sneeze gratuitously. But nothing - he held my gaze the entire time until I ran my hand through my hair dazedly and shifted markedly and cleared my throat delicately.
"Us?" I asked quietly as I dared to look at him once more. My heart hammered and there was a numb grind in my ears; as if everything was pressing into me, sucking me into a vacuum of nothingness.
"Yes. There is an us - and it's beautiful."
Friday, July 5, 2013
December
I can't forget but won't remember by December.
I tell myself this to feel better, I won't be bitter.
I read, I see, I feel, I sing and try to let it all in.
Just in the hope to let it all go, I let my emotions flow.
I pretend it was a dream sometimes and wish it were real oftentimes.
I write constantly about this, and slowly everything becomes amiss.
Did it really happen, I wonder while I try to not be fonder
Of it, of this, of the not knowing which limits the growing -
The growth of me, the growth of beauty.
The expectation of things to come; Russian Roulette's gun.
If I pull the trigger will I drift assunder?
Or will I return resplendent? Back to independence?
I can't forget but won't remember by December.
Though it will be alright if I do - because it's you.
I tell myself this to feel better, I won't be bitter.
I read, I see, I feel, I sing and try to let it all in.
Just in the hope to let it all go, I let my emotions flow.
I pretend it was a dream sometimes and wish it were real oftentimes.
I write constantly about this, and slowly everything becomes amiss.
Did it really happen, I wonder while I try to not be fonder
Of it, of this, of the not knowing which limits the growing -
The growth of me, the growth of beauty.
The expectation of things to come; Russian Roulette's gun.
If I pull the trigger will I drift assunder?
Or will I return resplendent? Back to independence?
I can't forget but won't remember by December.
Though it will be alright if I do - because it's you.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Cabbage baptism
Yesterday, I went to help my father pick cabbage that he planted himself. Firstly, my affinity for manual labour is nonexistent. In fact, I consider my only useful limbs to be my fingers since they type (and they do that so well).
We got to the field where the cabbage is planted around 4PM - the sun was orange and hot in the sky and the field looked beautiful with huge cabbage leaves sticking out of the soil in endless rows that went on and on. I have no idea how you actually determine whether a cabbage is ready to be picked but my father went around looking at the heads, cutting at them with his machete when he deemed them ripe (do cabbages get ripe?) and then throwing them at me to stack into boxes.
The beauty of this was that I didn't feel too incompetent because cabbages are big enough that you can't easily drop them when they're thrown at you and, even better, their large leaves act as dams for rain water. As the cabbages made contact with my hands, the water inside the leaves would splash onto me. Probably not the cleanliest water, but as the liquid doused my forearms and neck I felt oddly reshaped. Maybe it's because I was catching cabbages, something I never thought I would be doing or maybe it was because mentally I've been trying this new thing where I see the glass half overflowing or whatever but it was a peaceful experience. The sun was warm, the cabbage leaves were billowing and green, speckled with white and I was soaked by the end of the expedition in cabbage water.
Halfway through, my dad and I went to a mango tree across the way and picked a few. We sat down and sucked on mangoes and he genuinely laughed when I described my views on the cabbage-water baptism and it felt like we shared a nice moment. In all, we picked a whopping seven hundred and ninety pounds of cabbage.
Can we please stop and reflect on this for a moment? SEVEN HUNDRED AND NINETY POUNDS. I tried to keep count but got lost along the way but we picked roughly 600 cabbages. It was long, tiring and I can't believe I felt so cleansed by cabbage-picking. I even had enough energy to go run for an hour and a half after which seemed miraculous.
So if anyone out there has the chance to get a cabbage baptism, I definitely recommend it. It was enlightening... or just fun.
We got to the field where the cabbage is planted around 4PM - the sun was orange and hot in the sky and the field looked beautiful with huge cabbage leaves sticking out of the soil in endless rows that went on and on. I have no idea how you actually determine whether a cabbage is ready to be picked but my father went around looking at the heads, cutting at them with his machete when he deemed them ripe (do cabbages get ripe?) and then throwing them at me to stack into boxes.
The beauty of this was that I didn't feel too incompetent because cabbages are big enough that you can't easily drop them when they're thrown at you and, even better, their large leaves act as dams for rain water. As the cabbages made contact with my hands, the water inside the leaves would splash onto me. Probably not the cleanliest water, but as the liquid doused my forearms and neck I felt oddly reshaped. Maybe it's because I was catching cabbages, something I never thought I would be doing or maybe it was because mentally I've been trying this new thing where I see the glass half overflowing or whatever but it was a peaceful experience. The sun was warm, the cabbage leaves were billowing and green, speckled with white and I was soaked by the end of the expedition in cabbage water.
Halfway through, my dad and I went to a mango tree across the way and picked a few. We sat down and sucked on mangoes and he genuinely laughed when I described my views on the cabbage-water baptism and it felt like we shared a nice moment. In all, we picked a whopping seven hundred and ninety pounds of cabbage.
Can we please stop and reflect on this for a moment? SEVEN HUNDRED AND NINETY POUNDS. I tried to keep count but got lost along the way but we picked roughly 600 cabbages. It was long, tiring and I can't believe I felt so cleansed by cabbage-picking. I even had enough energy to go run for an hour and a half after which seemed miraculous.
So if anyone out there has the chance to get a cabbage baptism, I definitely recommend it. It was enlightening... or just fun.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Letting go
The past few days have been hectic, with a lot of new shit popping up in my life. It feels like I've reached a bit of a juncture - you know what I mean. There's one of those metaphorical forks in the road - pesky fucking forks - and I have to choose a path.
And in doing some reflecting (as well as reading other online blogs about general life trends/rules/love) I have come to the conclusion that I must fully let go of the past few months of my life. This is clearly a vague statement and probably seems like I'm trying to be mysterious and sexy in a desperate bid to seem interesting. I totally am.
In reality, I've just had the most tumultuous time within myself for the past month with many questions arising, emotions that have been betraying me and leading me to believe a myriad of things that were either completely created by myself or the byproduct of analysis that was completely self-indulgent and one-sided (points for using two hyphenated adjectives. I rock). And so, today I am completely letting go of the past. Not in the truly dramatic "write letters to the people you have unfinished business with and burn them in a symbolic gesture" way (although that would probably be fun and is definitely something I should consider, come to think of it...) but more in the manner of "it's in the past, it was the best of times and it is over." I've been holding on to an idealised and fantastical motion picture screenplay in my mind, trying to make sense of shit that basically isn't real and probably never will be.
And so, on this here blog, I profess that I rid myself of the past and will only hold fond memories of times gone by, but will not have expectations, place ultimatums, imagine ensuing scenarios or wreak my inner-self with havoc and sorrow over things that aren't.
Life is now and I gotta keep the fuck up.
And in doing some reflecting (as well as reading other online blogs about general life trends/rules/love) I have come to the conclusion that I must fully let go of the past few months of my life. This is clearly a vague statement and probably seems like I'm trying to be mysterious and sexy in a desperate bid to seem interesting. I totally am.
In reality, I've just had the most tumultuous time within myself for the past month with many questions arising, emotions that have been betraying me and leading me to believe a myriad of things that were either completely created by myself or the byproduct of analysis that was completely self-indulgent and one-sided (points for using two hyphenated adjectives. I rock). And so, today I am completely letting go of the past. Not in the truly dramatic "write letters to the people you have unfinished business with and burn them in a symbolic gesture" way (although that would probably be fun and is definitely something I should consider, come to think of it...) but more in the manner of "it's in the past, it was the best of times and it is over." I've been holding on to an idealised and fantastical motion picture screenplay in my mind, trying to make sense of shit that basically isn't real and probably never will be.
And so, on this here blog, I profess that I rid myself of the past and will only hold fond memories of times gone by, but will not have expectations, place ultimatums, imagine ensuing scenarios or wreak my inner-self with havoc and sorrow over things that aren't.
Life is now and I gotta keep the fuck up.
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