Do you believe in Karma? Whenever I get up to my lake house after a school year ends so I can exhale among the stars, my mind often goes to philosophical ideas. It’s hard not to when surrounded by the beauty up there and the quietude. There’s just so much about the universe we don’t understand, CAN’T understand. And why do we have to? There’s so much written about being in the moment, but of course we can’t just BE in the moment, because it’s too fleeting. The next moment has already started before we can be in it and ends before we can take our next breath and so it goes, over and over. But we can be MINDFUL in moments. We can be mindful in what we eat. How we treat ourselves and others. How we speak to ourselves. How we temper judgement. How we pause to think before we speak. I sit on the beach and try to do just that. I look around me, and I see so much beauty, this moment of sun on water that seemed as if I had faked the photograph, the glitter on the water so surreal it looked like a trick of the camera. It’s hard not to pause at moments like that. It’s funny how at that moment I snapped the picture, I was battling with a persistent spider, none too large, I might add, and I know most would squish it…but I didn’t and rarely can. So what? It’s a spider and tiny and who cares, right? But it lives. As do all insects, the mosquito the only one I wage war with. And so, I let it be and marvel at its tenacity and strength as I will a few minutes later with the industrious ants whose homes will soon be destroyed by summer laughter and excitement in dancing feet. I don’t know where or why I’ve grown to treat these infinitesimal creatures as if they’re human. I have a memory of a childhood friend’s mother who taught me about nature, who espoused often: “Spiders are our friends,” and I hear myself echoing that. No one had ever talked to me about those kinds of things before in my household. No one seemed much to care about that. Of course, there will be casualties, but my knee-jerk reaction isn’t to kill them. We need them more than they need us. For we are all connected with pollination and plants and oxygen and the whole lot of it. But I don’t do it out of some great cause or a belief in karma or fear that I might be a spider in my next life. No. And herein lies my question I posed at the beginning. Do you? Do you believe in karma? And does it only apply to humans in your view? I hear so much about karma. That what you do will come back 3x to us, as if that will somehow even the score and give us the motivation to do the “right” thing, to be kind. What a lovely thought to think, that if I just do right, good things are inevitable and even deserved. You can imagine, knowing me, what I think. I think it’s a load of rubbish. I don’t beat down those who believe that. Just as I don’t beat down those who believe in god or gods or whatever they have come to accept as true. But what I don’t like is that it presumes that when BAD things happen to people that it must be deserved. That’s the problem I have with these belief systems. They are so heavily unbalanced that it makes little sense to me. Certainly, the atrocities of the pasts, the Holocaust for example, tells us this simply is not so. And it bothers me. It bothers me a great deal, because people have tried to use those excuses to explain evil, even applying it in that case. And we’re better than that. I don’t care if there’s karma or a god or not. I live a life that feels right in my soul, in my conscience, in the pit of my stomach, my gut, whatever you want to call it. Whether I’m rewarded or not is of little consequence to me. I am not here to say I’m perfect. Please. Who is? But what I do believe is that there is intrinsic good that exists, outside of anything we can possibly understand, just as there is bad, not because of laws, but because it just IS. It has no beginning and it has no end. I feel it. And that’s all I need. I don’t care to understand or have answers to the rest. Instead, I think I’ll just be quiet, and continue to let this moment--head back, mind open, and face to the sun--be enough.
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Yesterday in The Nu Romantics, I asked a question about the color red. It went something like: Look wherever you are and find the closest thing to you that is red. What is it? And what does it say about you? and I discussed my red bag and its "baggage," both literal and figurative. It was fascinating to read everyone's responses, and those of us who embrace red; and those of us who do not. It says a lot more about us than we think. (Join our Facebook page to read everyone's responses). And at first, I thought it might be a fun activity, just to see what kinds of things people have around them, the small, the big, the deep and the superficial. And really, it sort of turned into a philosophical idea for me. In an earlier post this year, I wrote about the color pink (See Post Here), in the sense of breaking the stereotype about pink, that pink is not necessarily a “girlie” color, and that even if it were, what’s wrong with being a girl or feminine and embracing all those traits that come with it, like empathy and sensitivity for instance? And then, after I conducted the exercise in The Nu Romantics, I began to ponder the very fact that I own a lot of red accessories. Yes. I love fashion. If you’ve been following my new page and Fashion Fridays, you know that already. And I own a ton of scarves and shoes and funky jewelry so that any outfit can suddenly become spectacular, even when it isn’t. But I’m realizing something else about this. It’s really not that at all. Like pink, red comes with its own symbolic value. While pink equates to love and feminine traits by all accounts, red equates with a vibrant energy, one that is tied to sexuality and even lust. Read more on color and symbolism. I am a very sexual person –what was it I wrote in a poem the other day? I have a "broadhead’s sexuality"? (My poetry page)…and perhaps that is partly why I like the color red on my body in the form of clothing, but not so loud that it overtakes me. It’s just a "pop of color," right? Perhaps, too, that is why I love to wear lipstick in all shades of red, even naming my first poetry collection Ruin My Lipstick for goodness sake! I used to think it was because “it looked good with my complexion.” But really, doesn’t it simply match what swollen lips look like after a night of passionate kissing, our cheeks the same rosy hue during and after the heat of love-making? So okay. Red is a sexual color. And I am a sexual, passionate person. But why then only a pop? Why not go all out? We know why. I have repression issues. 😊 Don’t worry. I’m working on it. Perhaps I use it like a sign to let people know. Hey! I may seem sweet and innocent…but…you see this 'pop'?... All kidding aside. I have psychoanalyzed it further. (Why? Because that’s how my mind works!) And so, it’s much more than sexual energy sneaking its way into my world. It’s a life-long stifling from parents and society. If pink is my favorite color, is it because I think it should be? I’m a girl. Girls should act a certain way, right? WRONG! But growing up, that was the case. Couple that with a mother who told me: “You’re not a boy. Stop being loud,” I became a rather shy gal, easily embarrassed, that embarrassment I’ve written about before, where I can feel it right on the outside of my ears. And so maybe red, to me, doesn’t only mean sexuality alone, but instead, maybe it’s my way to rebel, to let go a little, to scream without screaming, you know? And if red is rebellion, then guess what? It’s starting to work, because I have never felt more alive and "seen" than I have these last several months. And so, as I get ready to re-release my Natalie’s Edge series, Edge of Torment (Title voted by you--thank you again!), why should I choose any other color than red for my cover? It’s bold. It’s powerful, and damn it, I don’t want to be quiet about it. I have ditched my first concept, because, for a change, I want to be completely and utterly red, proud, and out loud, for all to see. I think of all the years she protected me and to be kneeling now, taking the flowers out of my hair to plant in front of the soil of her grave, I worry the stone’s shade can’t protect them for long. Tears and sweat mix to blur my eyes from fully being able to read the engravement: Loving mother, wife, and Nana. I look up and watch a cloud, like my mood, move to the left to cover the sun, and the weight of my sadness imprints deeper into the earth. But then I think: Maybe she’s just trying to protect her flowers now. I smile. That would be just like her. Call today's post my closure on my mom’s death, something I think I had been avoiding…but have somehow found this weekend in a cloud. Yup. A cloud. All kidding aside. Nature does that to me. It speaks to me in this very strange way. I’m not sure if it’s because I stare a lot at it--a tree, the sky, the earth--but my mind goes “limp” in a way. It relaxes, like being in a hypnotist’s chair and being told to stare at a spot or a dot on a paper. It serves the same purpose, but it’s more organic. It’s us reflected in IT. I somehow have come to believe that. Maybe Emerson’s “Transparent Eyeball” really does exist. I certainly felt that way this weekend, and that poem came out above. I’m sure there’s not one of us here who hasn’t lost someone to that crabby and persistent dude called Death. It’s really just a fact of life. Like light and dark and good and evil and pleasure and pain and any other opposite, so too, we have life and death. But here’s the thing. Are they opposites really? What happened with my cloud was supposed to be a bad thing, but talk about opposite! Do you think death is a bad thing? A sad thing? It hurts, because we’re living still, especially if we loved that person, and they’re not. It’s almost a selfish thing when I think about it. That’s where the pain is. In our void. That we still have to live without them. We also don’t like to talk about death, and yet we must. We must plan for it. For everything else we plan for--retirement, saving money, etc.--death is really the only sure thing. Have you thought about what you’d like your funeral to be? Do you want to be buried? Cremated? I know. Morbid. But why does it have to be? I realized something about my mother’s death this weekend. I hadn’t dealt with it. Not the way I thought I had. In fact, I realized I hadn’t really gone through the proper stages of grief at all. It wasn’t denial. That is not it…it was just so compartmentalized that I didn’t deny it, I just didn’t want to look at it, face it, think about it in any way. If you read my share last week about my mom, you know why.: The topsy-turvy relationship between mother-daughter, between traditionalist and free-spirt, between stoic and emotional, between proper and wild. But I also realized something else. My mother planned everything. Her plot was bought, funeral paid for, her spot on my dad’s stone just waiting to be engraved, also planned. Everything was a blur, as if my body went through all the motions in a dream I watched from a safe distance, but wasn’t really happening, not to me. I hadn’t really had to do anything but show up and cater it…(that’s not entirely true, I realize, I did), and as I stood in front of her grave this past weekend, planting flowers, I finally saw her death and I somehow let go of so much guilt and resentment and fear and what-ifs. I exhaled it. Quite literally. Right out into the air. And now, I finally have the closure and peace of mind I’ve been searching for these last couple years. It's okay. We must learn to forgive ourselves. Life isn't a game of villains and heroes. It's much more real than that. And grey and all its shades, as my cloud taught me, can be a beautiful color too. We all dream. That much is a fact. But do you remember your dreams? Do you write them down after? Do you think there is anything to them? Is it our subconscious surfacing, or as Freud said, our unconscious minds, that are giving us our deepest answers to our true selves? Or is it complete imagination that has no bearing on, or connection to, our ‘real” existence? Is it actually an alternate universe, where we live for as many hours a day as we allow ourselves to sleep? And what of nightmares, the ones where you wake up in a cold sweat, struggling for air and breath, remembering and not remembering? What the hell are they? As a child, I always had the same recurring nightmare until I outgrew earaches. Gruesome and frightening nightmares, I’d rather not talk about. And last night, I woke, panicked, to believe that my significant other was having an affair with…wait for it…Britney Spears’s sister, a la Zoey 101. Gasp! It felt so real, so true, I woke, breathless, ready to give him a piece of my mind, until I began to howl in laughter. Really? Zoey 101? What the hell goes on during slumber? We all know the childhood urban legends about falling in our sleep, that we’ll die if we crash and actually hit the ground. Or the grandmother who told us that guilt is the cause of vivid dreaming and nightmares. Or the dream dictionaries that have specific meanings attributed to specific things, like if your teeth are falling out in your dreams, x, y, and z are true. Or even more difficult to swallow, that perhaps we live out our past lives in our dream world, which then, of course, would beg the question of whether or not you believe in past lives. In an article from Psychology Today, it states that basically all this talk, from ancient Egyptian beliefs of mystical revelations to Freud and Jung espousing the secrets of ‘self’ to today’s ‘online dream dictionaries,’ has been deemed very unlikely, that while we think we can unlock “secret codes” to glean meaning into our dreams, essentially there is NO secret code, but instead that dreaming is rather random. What do I think? Like many things, I’m content to say I don’t know. I’m not ashamed either. When my mind really goes down the path to make sense of it, I start envisioning Richard Bach’s novel One, of myriad alternate lives we’re leading, each choice, a new path. Or I begin to think that we live two lives and do not know it, the one that is me right now, and the one in slumber. Or that we don’t exist at all really, but that we’re just energy with no beginning and no end. And then, my brain just hurts. What is wrong with just saying: I haven’t a fucking clue? And in admitting that, I can find a semblance of peace…just as long as I never have to dream about Jamie Spears again. 😊 For further reading, click here: www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/supersurvivors/201801/do-dreams-really-mean-anything
Today I ponder looks and body image in today’s society and ask: Do you believe body image and looks matter less and less, that we are finally starting to see people and souls and energies behind the masks, or do you think it’s worse than it has ever been? Do people put too much stock into the way they look? Do you? I don’t know about you, but I think we all have body issues. Find me one person who is completely satisfied with the way they look, and I’ll eat crow. Perhaps it was something one person said a long time ago in childhood, or worse, during those awkward stages of braces or acne. For me, it’s always been my legs, that they aren’t dancer legs, long and lean, but instead, shorter and more defined. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to accept my perceived flaws a bit more. It’s a beautiful thing when you find love, and where those things you once dreaded or hated about yourself, say freckles for instance, have now become the focal point of affection, and suddenly, you’re quite proud you have them. And in a society where the Kardashians are “news” (gag), and where people watch this show like a religion to see what styles they will don now or what weight they will lose or what color their hair may be or what latest plastic surgery they can get to alter their looks, it’s hard to think we’ve come that far. Never mind all the book covers we see daily with perfect women or sculpted, perfect male abs. Heaven forbid a woman (or man) may not buy our books unless someone’s pectoral muscles are front and center. Show me a man in glasses reading a book, and I’m more likely to buy your book! But I know, I’m in the minority. I’m not naïve to think otherwise. Sometimes on social media, I find it to be a breath of fresh air in that many of us don’t know what each other fully looks like, and so, we base our decisions of “likability,” or as Facebook likes to call it, “friendship,” on not looks but instead, personality or work or behavior. A student made me rethink even that though. She proposed a thesis that stated: "Too many people base their self-esteem on the number of likes they get on social media apps where they can change their appearance to look different than what they are. I believe those false filters should be stated up front or banned altogether." I never really thought about that. I don’t have Snapchat and I only just started on Instagram, but I guess most people use it to show pictures of themselves and alter them, that the app allows that, to make prettier faces, cute bunny noses, hip sunglasses, and on and on. Still, I stuck to my guns regarding why people may “like” another. It’s their heart or soul, you know, that proverbial: “It’s the-inside-not -the-outside-that-counts mantra. After reading her thesis, I was reminded of when I went to see The Black Panther, and a promo teaser for the movie "I Feel Pretty" came on, and I wondered, as I watched it, if there would be backlash about it (of course, there is). I'm a huge fan of Amy Schumer --I must admit--and found myself laughing at the trailer and quite impressed with her candor to strip and show herself naked, with all her imperfections, unfiltered and unedited, that maybe we were getting somewhere, that maybe at long last, the quest to be the perfect size or to emulate the perfect look is a thing of the past. But in a NY Times article, it stated that the premise and message of the movie, that “looks don’t matter” is utter bullshit, a lie the media is trying to stuff down our throats, that looks matter more than ever, especially for women, today. Amanda Hess writes in the article: "The reality is that expectations for female appearances have never been higher. It’s just become taboo to admit that…This new beauty-standard denialism is all around us. It courses through cosmetics ads, fitness instructor monologues, Instagram captions and, increasingly, pop feminist principles. In the forthcoming book ‘Perfect Me,’ Heather Widdows, a philosophy professor at the University of Birmingham, England, convincingly argues that the pressures on women to appear thinner, younger and firmer are stronger than ever...Along with YouTube makeup tutorials and Instagram fashion influencers, beauty-standard denialism has exploded online...."
So I ask you: Is female appearance higher than ever as this article espouses? Or are the Dove-type commercials, and the like, slowly changing that stereotype? The NY Times article says no. Me? I’m not quite sure. Everything I wrote above could, very well, be what Ms. Hess has written in her article as “denialism.” You can read it in full here: Article here: https://www.nytimes.com/2018/04/23/movies/i-feel-pretty-amy-schumer-beauty.html Today’s post comes from a movie I watched the other night: The Shape of Water. Have you seen it? This won’t be a movie review. It’s impossible to write one without giving everything away, so I discuss the thing I loved about it the most, the eroticism of it. When it comes to sexy, we all have differing ideas. Just look at last week’s post on hair! Short. Long. Dreads. Bald. And everything in between. We all have different tastes and different styles. What about our reading or movie-watching pleasures? What do you find sexy there? Or does that depend on what you’re looking for at the time, your mood? If you’re looking to get aroused, perhaps to aid yourself in rising to “that” place, the big O, a quick, one-handed read? Or is it a long, angsty drawn-out sexual tease? Or perhaps you prefer more subtle, more sensual art and writing? Less erotic and more romance? What about no sex at all? Just straight romance? Really! I want to know. As I write this, I’m smiling because it started to snow, and so I am going to seemingly go in a different direction for a moment, but I’m not, not really. I always look out the window when I write for some reason, as if Nature herself will tell me what I’m thinking or what’s on my mind. You know that idea that to center ourselves we can place our fingers on our collarbone with our right hand on the left side of our collarbone, move it down just a bit and press? That is what Nature does to me. When I look out at her majesty and stop and let myself go and not think, that is when I think. Oh the irony! And when my mind quiets, I can write. What quiets you? Where are your thoughts? It’s the quiet moments of the morning where I write best, especially in the summer, when my mind isn’t going in a million directions. And the way the snow is falling right now, big, huge flakes, so light you know they would melt on your tongue immediately, their white beauty a direct contrast to the naked trees, brown, barely alive. And I realized I find it oddly erotic. Subtly so. The beauty of it is quiet. It doesn’t make a sound and yet it makes such a loud impression. This. This is what I like. And it ties into my thoughts today. I like subtle eroticism, even though sometimes I don’t write that in my own work. Like I asked you above, it does depend on my mood too. But the things that affect me the most, are not the in-my-face and graphic erotic, but, instead, eroticism that is there nonetheless, somehow a work of art, that I somehow find beautiful or sensual or erotic. I guess one would simply call it romanticized eroticism. Hmmmm…I wonder if that term has already been coined? Perhaps I should coin it if not, because yes, I do see the world that way. Things I truly admire or marvel at bring me to that conclusion. The Shape of Water does that too. Its director brings us a tale that is so rich with such beautiful, yet subtle eroticism, we suspend our disbelief about all of it. It strips barriers of stereotypes and what it means to be human and lets us just see living and love and hate and racism and good and bad and light and dark and greed and pride and science and nature and romance and the romantic and everything in between. It is no surprise why it won best picture. It reminded me that I do wonder, often, if we don’t really exist as we think we do. That perhaps we are all just connected parts of nature, four seasons, going through the cyclical inevitability of life. When I look up at the sky and pause and see its infinite expanse and ultimately question true existence and whence and how I came to be, I have no answer. Somehow, that too, is beautiful. And I realize, I don’t mind at all. I do breathe. I do feel. I do love. And that is all I really need to know. For I exist.
Do any of you women have short hair? And heterosexual men—do you prefer short or long hair on “yo’ woman?” Yup. That is the basic thrust 😉 of today’s #ThursdayThoughts. Hair! But bear with me. It’s going to take me a little while to get there. But you know me by now! Last week, I tackled something pretty serious and slightly profound, so this week I thought I’d take it down a notch. You may be asking what the holy hell I’m talking about hair for? In a world gone Big-Brother mad right now, I stopped and did something completely mindless and without deep thought. I watched "The Bachelor." Yes. That cheesy, contrived TV-show that pits women against each other in a game of wooing and competition to see who can win the man. What ensues is a journey to find “love” but of course we all know, it’s a journey to win, to connive, to become what it takes to succeed, the weaker players easily weeded out early on. It’s all rather foolish and sick and shallow and yet, is it? How is it really any different than any other game or contest? Are we against all contests? Why is this one deemed so ‘wrong’? Does it require stamina? Yup. Skill? You bet it does. Taking risks and overcoming fears and phobias? Hell, yes. I wouldn’t do half those things they are required to do! Intelligence? Yes. On many levels it absolutely DOES require a deep amount of emotional and social intelligence, and even intellect. The smart ones do rise to the top. People look at it and think it’s about looks only. But don’t looks just come down to personal preference? Attraction is so much more than that, and we all know it and often can’t even explain why we’re so attracted to someone (See: the-pheromone-myth-and-online-relationships.html). But I’m not here to defend "The Bachelor." It’s a twisted peek into the human psyche on both sides of this equation, participant and spectator, and some nights I felt a thin sheen of slime on my skin that no shower could remove. But even as I scoffed at its superficiality and complete manipulation by the producers, donning the most butter atop popcorn known to mankind, slapping on a pair of comfortable yoga pants, and inviting my girlfriends under my favorite throw, squished on the couch together, our ridiculous buns bobbing in laughter to the moments of sheer lunacy on the screen, I began to realize the show succeeds not because it may cater to the lowest common denominator in our society, but because it is a contest, a competition, like any other competition out there that people flock to see its champions and losers. Is it really so different than the Olympics? Football? The Greatest Chef? And the like? Make no mistake, it isn’t about love. Not one bit. Not usually. And anyone who wins “the prize” who watches back the utter gluttony and lies told by “the catch” (yes. I suppose a fishing competition is more akin to this than the basest of sports), is inevitably bound to taste the flavor of their own vomit. But what I’m really here to talk about is Bekah M, the Bekah who didn’t win, the Bekah…wait for it…who had short hair. GASP! Funnily enough, some of the major news outlets were “reporting” on this. And some proclaimed: “Are you serious? This is news? Short hair is news? In a time where there is gun violence and immigration debate and the most polarizing president in history at our helm, we’re talking about hair for god’s sake?” Everywhere on social media people were yammering: This is the first time in “Bachelor history” (for those of you who have ever watched the show, you’ll get the joke) that a woman with short hair has made it this far! It is a bit ludicrous, and I chuckle even as I write this, but it really DOES say something, doesn’t it? Hair seems to say something and always has. According to archaelogist, Elizabeth Bartman in Time magazine online: “Even despite the Ancient Greek ideal of a 'bearded, long-haired philosopher,' women in that society still had longer hair than men regularly did. Roman women kept their hair long and tended to part it down the center, and a man devoting too much attention to his hair 'risked scorn for appearing effeminate.' Further, the bible may have started its popularity in our western, Christian culture that quotes St. Paul: “Doth not nature itself teach you that if a man have long hair it is a shame unto him? But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her.” And more, many scholars believe it stemmed from the belief that hair and length was a direct correlation to someone’s health. “In order to have long hair you have to be healthy...You have to eat well, have no diseases, no infectious organisms, you have to have good rest and exercise.” Who doesn't want a woman like that? In an article from the University of Brighton, UK, on women of Victorian times, and we see it the literature I seem to love, “A woman’s long hair, after all, is the emblem of her femininity. More than that, it is a symbol of her sexuality, and the longer, thicker and more wanton the tresses, the more passionate the heart beneath them is assumed to be.” We are reminded of Lilith and Ruth, Ruth even transforming herself by having to have her luscious locks “castrated,” hair being such a powerful symbol of sexuality and wanton sexuality. Even today, as noted in an article in Psychology Today: “There’s an idea floating around that long hair on women is appealing to men—that mass of flowiness and texture supposedly trumpets femininity, adding to women’s appeal as the gentler sex.” But the article goes on to say that many men today are actually drawn to women with shorter hair, saying, “It seems more like a choice, like the woman is more self-determined.” And that this is appealing to the modern-day man. Is that true? I’ve never worn my hair short. As a lover of dance, I wasn’t really allowed that option, my early years in a very strict studio. I also don’t have Becah K’s face to don such an adorable look. It may be because my brother liked to tease me upon first exiting the shower, towel wrapped around my head. “What’s up Moon Face?” Regardless, it seems all this talk about “hair” and “that” Bachelor contestant is much deeper than it appeared. It’s really a study in all three of the great “ologies”—anthropology, sociology, and psychology, if one really begins to think on it, delve, question it. Just why short hair seemed to make ‘news’ makes a bit more sense now under this lens. And revisiting some of the Victorian literature while researching this topic a little bit, I realized that hair is always mentioned somehow. I used to think it imagery for writing sake, which it is of course, but really, it’s much more than that; it's a reflection of culture and even history of the female entity. It is has also made me think about my own writing and heroines. Personally, my hair is the one thing physically I have never complained about. I like my hair. There. I said it. I admit it. I was graced with good hair. And we females are critical enough about ourselves daily not to say so if we actually like something about ourselves. Why is that uncomfortable to do? Perhaps something to tackle in another post. But every single one of my heroines has luxurious, long hair. Some of my minor characters do not--Patricia, my favorite from Natalie’s Edge, sporting a bob, Olivia, the villain in Thorne, also sporting one, and Jennifer, Thorne’s lesbian, best friend dons short hair, and maybe my coolest character ever--but the heroines? No. Not yet.
So to Bekah M. Thank you. My next heroine just may have short hair! There is no question my next heroine will twirl off the pages with grace and sass, very much the way Bekah M did. I’m not sure what my hero (or usually anti-hero) will pull in the bedroom, but damn it, I just may dedicate my next novel to our short-haired vixen. And isn’t it funny? Even as I write this, it still feels slightly uncomfortable in my mind’s eye. We still have a long way to go, like almost everything else still fighting its way out of stereotypes, discrimination, and tradition. And so perhaps that is why a silly, mindless, let-me-shut-off-for-a-few-hours-and-not-think TV show made news about the girl with short hair…There’s much more there than what does, or doesn’t, reach the below the surface of a woman's neck. :) In The Nu Romantics the other day, this question was posed: If you were given an envelope with the time and date of your death inside, would you open it? Why? Why not? My knee-jerk reaction was, of course, “No,” harkening back to Julius Caesar’s famous quote: “Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.” But on further inspection, I realized that wasn’t true, not for me. Not at all. I’m not old. Not by societal standards. In fact, one may argue I’m still but a babe in the womb. But I’m not young either. Life’s experiences, responsibilities, they make us who we are. No two people are the same or see life the same way. Two people may look at the sunset and know it’s beautiful, aesthetically we may agree, but what of the person who doesn’t see color? What is his vision of it, who can’t see the orange and yellow and red like Nature herself had painted it just for our exhalation, where we sigh and believe for one infinitesimal moment that god exists? Is it the same as yours or mine? What of someone who has a memory that isn’t pleasant or had an experience tied to that moment of Nature’s story? No two lives are alike. And neither, then, is beauty. Almost everything we see is tied to experience. And that is very personal. If I had the opportunity to know death in an envelope, a necessary end to life, I would, indeed, open it. And here is the sad truth that, perhaps, on first reading the question, I didn’t want to admit. It doesn’t matter when. It will come. I get that. But I don’t often live my live as my imagination would have me, the way my dreams play inside my soul. I’m responsible. I’m loyal. And often, with it, comes obligations. Much of my life has been lived this way. What I realized after pondering this question, is not IF I would open it, but what I wished for it to say. What I realized is that I began to envision, hope, for what was inside, and the words I longed to read. Words that penned the story of the life I often wish I could lead but do not. Yes. Some may think this sad or pessimistic or depressing. Maybe it is. But it's nothing if not honest. I wished, for one brief moment, that the envelope I opened would tell me my time was drawing near. Selfish you may say? Yes. It is. It's not that I don't have happiness. I do. And would not change much of my life. But it' a safe one. For once, I'd like to live a little "un" safely. Alive. In the moment of only right now, where my heart is. Hop on that plane. Hold that forbidden lover in my arms. Skinny dip for hours without worry. Take a train without knowing where my long, extended leg's foot will touch. Never wear lipstick again. Visit and talk with people I have no language in common with. Sip wine and not worry about its cost. Stand on the top of a mountain, alone, and breathe in the air. Jump off a cliff. Spend my money. Look in the mirror and not utter a single, negative thought. Touch a rainbow.
Fear is a terrible thing. But it’s part of who I am and how I was raised. For once, yes, I’d like to just not care…I'd like to live, selfishly in one blissful moment of only right now, and see my life play as I often watch it in my mind. But I know, the truth is, I can't touch a rainbow. But the thought alone has made me smile. And for that, I am happy. I’m always looking for a good television series to sink my teeth into, much like the books I read (and write for that matter), stories that are slow burns, that last, that reveal bits of characters and their pasts piece by piece, slowly. I don’t like short stories very much or quick-to-rise, rushed action. Some people do and that’s fine, but it’s not my taste to read or write that way. I often find myself upset, lost, and sad when a series I love ends, regardless of which medium it’s being told in. When I begin a television series, it’s easy to give up on the first couple episodes. People rave about it, while I’m at a loss to like it. However, I find that really good series are slow to catch and the same is true for the novels I love. Of course, some never catch, the flame burning out to gray ash before it can be inhaled, and you decide to move on; it’s not worth it. Life is too short, and fiction and creative stories too plentiful to waste time on, time that is so elusive as it is. But I always give my novels 100 pages and my shows three full episodes before I give up. Oftentimes, I’m so very glad I did as they turn out to be some of the most thought-provoking and provocative of tales, tales that make me think and question and reflect. Bloodline, a series I started, is one such show. A slow burn for sure, Bloodline lights that fire, revealing bits and pieces in glimpses of the myriad hues of yellow, orange and red, the crackle loud at times, and others, soft and nuanced, where we mostly see things in a third-person, limited fashion, through the eyes of the protagonist, John. It gets interesting when he and his siblings lose their father, and we start to learn their pasts as the memory of their father, their hero, starts to unravel. They start to realize they really didn’t know their father at all. It made me think of my parents and the glimpses they let me see of them, but made me question, like these characters, if I really knew them at all. I began to see that my perception of them is very much that of Mom and Dad, a narrow, myopic view, like many roles or hats we wear in life. The sister or the writer or the teacher, but that those things don’t begin to explain who we are, not truly, not the essence of our spirit or being, but only labels. I’ve realized that though I had glimpses into my Mom’s past and her extremely tragic and difficult childhood, I didn’t really know it or understand it much; certainly, I never gave it much credence or weight. She was my mom. The stoic. Likewise, my dad, too, though I knew of his tough upbringing, a mother that didn’t want a boy, who relegated his sleeping to an attic without heat, causing health issues to plague him throughout his life from severe illnesses he had developed, he was my dad, my rock, my hero, whose threshold for pain is probably one of the reasons he died so young. Had he been diagnosed earlier who knows. But he was used to pain. And I realize there is so much I didn’t know about either of them. Glimpses only go so deep. And the show has also opened up some memories that I had buried, that I hadn’t thought about in years and years, much like the characters themselves had. I talk of my dad a lot, how he was my hero, and he was. But make no mistake, he, too, was flawed; he was no saint. He may have seemed that way with me, but he had a dark side, and it’s interesting how this show has somehow caused certain memories to resurface, things I had forgotten, by choice or otherwise, I’m not sure. We often like to put our parents on pedestals, especially when they pass, remembering only the good in them, trying to engrave their legacy into our minds in a way we think they’d want or how we want to immortalize them. But they were people long before they were our parents with stories and dreams of their own, some realized and some not, triumphs and failures. It is those things who “make” people who they are, who they become, and it’s disconcerting to think how little we actually get to know of them.
We read. We watch visual representations in the form of movies and television shows. And we choose those we relate to. We do so because it’s what makes us vitally connected as humans. Not as our professions or our roles in life, but as people first, people connecting and thinking and hopefully reflecting. I can only hope my readers can feel the slow burn of my stories, not giving up early on, but watching the fire grow with each turn of the page to discover that things are not always what they seem, where the pasts of my characters are exposed to be as much a part of their present and their future…just like our pasts are. Is there anything you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t tried? Too scared? Or is it that you have no talent in it? Is it too risky? People always say silly idioms like: You only live once; or take a chance; or you’ll never know if you don’t try. Someone once wrote: What if I fail? Oh, but darling, what if you fly? 😊 This morning, when I woke, I lamented that I couldn’t take an adequate picture of what I saw. I wished for much longer than the briefest of moments that I could paint my view with brush and stoke in maybe watercolors or acrylic. To write it is almost impossible for me. The snow is falling as if feathers were let go out of a pillow and the pines…Oh the pines! It’s as if an artist took her paintbrush, dipped it in the purest of white, a white that doesn't exist, and meticulously placed its color just so. I swear. It felt like I was dreaming. I’ve always wanted to be an artist. In my mind’s eye, I see things so vividly. Sadly, those that “BE” decided I would have a recessive gene, and the skill of“art” was not bestowed on me. I’ve always been drawn to art in all kinds of forms. I loved the Degas ballerinas at my studio. In fact, I'd sit and get so lost in the detail that I often entered my class late. (Ha! Being late. It's my forte!). The renaissance painters. A beautiful photograph that no painter could depict. Odd, surreal stuff, like Dali. Depictions of Satan or Hell or fallen angels. I remember bringing one to college with me, I admired it so much. My roommate looked at me like she had just been put in hell herself. I didn't care. Art fascinated me. But I, myself, couldn't draw well. Or paint well. And taking the perfect picture happened once-in-a-blue-moon while. A picture of a sunflower I took graces my bathroom, but ends there. And my watercolors still remain two: A flower and oranges. Perhaps that is why I started to write so young. I had this creative energy inside of me that needed its voice. It was loud and strong and really, I can’t remember a time it was silent. I remember the first time I shared a bit of it I wrote. It was some silly contest in 4th grade. It was a simple bit of verse about nature, something assigned and something that just seemed to flow out of me. I remember thinking I’d probably be laughed at and almost didn’t share it. But I’m glad I did. It landed in the school “newspaper” and it validated, even that young, that it was okay that I had a voice of my own. And that it was okay to share it…sometimes. That idea of sharing work with others still doesn’t feel all that comfortable and sometimes, that’s okay. Some audiences are meant to be one. You’d think I’d be a bit more skilled at it by now, but it still makes my belly a bit too uneasy. Sometimes what resonates profoundly with me, the things I'm most proud of, don't seem to be the ones most people like. I do grow each day. Learn new things. And try to wake and put something down every morning, whether it’s poetry, this mumbo jumbo I share with you some mornings, or fiction, where I let my subconscious reign and roam free with little restriction. And so, I try something I’ve always wanted to try this summer, something I’ve long said I would do but haven’t. I have signed up for an introductory art course. One of the instructors where I work convinced me after we argued vehemently about those “step by step” studios that produce “paint by numbers art which is anti-art by its very nature.” (I still don't entirely agree with her!) Part of the course is photography and it’s the first I’ve seen where I don’t need a fancy camera. That is the next class. Perhaps, just perhaps, it’s never too late to try. What, really, do I have to lose? Absolutely nothing. Oh, but what I might gain!
On a hot, summer day this coming July at my family lake cabin, you might find me taking a hit of a joint, back firmly placed against the peeling wood of a floating dock, eyes closed, knees slightly bent, a contented smile hard to hide, the sun caressing my half-naked body as it welcomes the slight sunburn it knows it will garner, having been covered in layers of wool and cotton for too many New England months. Pink is such a pretty color. Perhaps I’ll roll over onto my tummy, hold my chin in the fists of my hands, elbows firmly placed on the wood to get comfortable. My legs might even cross behind me at the ankles to sway, and you might even hear me hum a tune, something like Weezer’s, “And it feels like summer,” as I take long, slow inhales and exhales, watching the smoke disappear up into the clouds like my stress. (‘course, I romanticize. You realize there is no way to get a joint out to a dock without, most likely, ruining it. 😉). Funny I’m thinking about this, isn’t it, with so much snow on the ground and sticking to all the trees this morning? It’s beautiful really. The snow is still even coming down ever-so ethereally, so lightly, and the trees, the huge pine trees, are weighed down by the wet, white wonder. It makes me wish I could paint. But not all the trees look so lucky. Some are bare but for the snow that sticks to them. And even that pretty white color can’t hide its pain. I almost feel bad for them. They look cold. Old. The one I look at right now as I write this has what appears to be a wound. I see the chipped wood of its protective outer layer gone, exposing what could almost be described as a slice in its soul, the bark, red, visible, even as I know summer will do its repair. But not all its broken branches will find their way back to rebirth. Even with all this romantic beauty around me, the picture only artists can do justice to or famous photographers, like Ansel Adams, and even with my fortunate life that allows a safe distance of warmth as I sip my coffee to marvel at it through my window, I’m beginning to feel cold myself. Winter out-welcomes her stay, and so, my mind drifts to that special summer place, where anything has always been possible. It’s where I wrote my first love letter, where, for one summer, innocence got gladly lost under a crescent moon, where, if you’ve read Ruin My Lipstick, I sometimes dared to swim to the deep part of the lake, where teenage girls shared one joint between eight lips and dared to tell our secrets. This summer, a new law will be in effect. I will be able to walk into, I’m assuming, a smoke shop in my cut-off, jean shorts, sun-kissed, messy hair, skin still damp, and buy a joint or a bud, or what will it be? I’ve never actually bought the stuff. It’s hard to fathom. Smoking weed has been such a taboo, secretive act for so long, to think about doing such a thing in the open air, makes me feel like that teenager who is finally able to drive for the first time alone. It’s a bit like masturbation. You’ve kept it hidden for so long, to share it freely, it just seems…well…odd or out of place, not something we brag about or share. That stuff is private. The funny thing is that I don’t smoke marijuana. Of course I have. I don’t mean that. I even inhaled it. ;) But I never really liked it. Not my bag. Anymore than a puff or two and I didn’t feel like myself anymore. Felt a bit out of control. Paranoid. I wonder if it’s because I was so self-conscious back then, worrying about EVERYTHING, if my legs were long enough, if my shifting eye color was too weird, if I was smart enough or good enough to get into the college I dreamed of. I wonder if I just wasn’t confident enough in who I was to alter my psyche, but instead it just highlighted my perceived flaws. I really don’t know. But this summer, I may, on a warm, July day, lie alone, in a newly-purchased bikini, much more comfortable in my own skin than all those years ago, and contemplate all the things I wish I’d done but didn't, and perhaps, too, blow a bit of the past in rings of smoke and see what words it writes across the limitless, night sky in front of me. Or perhaps, still, all these years later, I won’t have the urge to alter my state of being at all under a night sky, and instead, safely smile in the daylight of the blazing sun. Yes, perhaps, that will be quite enough. ~Ruin My LipstickToday I ponder jealousy. Have you ever been jealous? Duh. Of course you have! All of us have. It’s as natural as breathing. Right? We’re human, and with that comes myriad emotions. And jealousy comes in many forms, but I’m talking more “romanticly-infused” jealousy. In fact, jealousy has almost even been romanticized, especially in literature. In our writing and/or reading, depending on which camp you’re in, we love bouts of jealousy with our characters. Don’t we? My books are filled with them! Love triangles we call them. We root for our heroine to get “her man” back from the snarling grips of some nemesis. Or we revel in the angsty ups and downs of the romance trope, the break-ups, the make-ups, “I hate you, I love you,” as Taylor Swift croons. Without tension and build up and conflict, why read the story, right? Rollercoaster of emotions if you will. Thrilling, but safe from the confines of our safe and comfy beds, under covers, lamp lit as we lick our finger to turn the page or swipe our across the tablet screen. But in real life, it’s not always so neatly resolved. Sometimes it’s nothing: We might get twinges of envy that fade quickly, shaken off with a wave of the hand that says: This is silly. Stop it. Other times, it can be downright debilitating, causing our actions to be ridiculous, irrational even, especially in matters of the heart. And then there is every nuanced hue in between. Jealousy needn’t always be a bad thing either. It helps us, maybe, to keep things in perspective, to never take what we have or want for granted, to never become complacent. It can even keep a relationship fresh and exciting. Without any at all, it might even become stale or boring. No jealousy ever, and you wonder if your lover has any emotion in him. But if unchecked, it can be a monster, yes that “green-eyed monster which doth mock/The meat it feeds on.” Love triangles and the like happen in real life, they’re not so fun, are they? Yes. There are some people who thrive on this kind of drama, who almost always seem to find themselves in the middle of things they shouldn’t be over and over. But they are not common. At least I like to hope they’re not. But some of us have been there, without trying, without even knowing sometimes. And it gets ugly. Fast. It can even turn obsessive, and that’s not good. Are you constantly “checking up” on someone? Scrolling their status or trying to see who/what/when/why/how they’ve interacted with someone? Extreme jealousy stems from extreme insecurity and that is where we must pause and self reflect. That is simply not healthy. What’s really horrible is when you are on the end of jealousy. Someone is somehow jealous of you, and you have no idea why. Perhaps it causes them to lash out in both visible ways and duplicitous ways. Remember John Knowles’ A Separate Peace? Gene was so jealous, he “jounced the limb” of his best friend, which ultimately led to his death. Yes. Jealousy can do that. Sometimes around social media, we even see it among authors. The 1-star review perhaps or the “drama” and bashing I can see. We, too, even see it between friends, like the characters from A Separate Peace, the biggest cut of all. When you become the victim of someone else’s unchecked jealousy, it can lead to devastating consequences. Blame is placed on you for things out of your control. Someone’s boyfriend flirts with you or “likes” you, and somehow it's your fault. I never understand, speaking from the female perspective, but of course, it can be any combination, how when someone’s "eye roams," it’s the “girl’s” fault, never the man’s. That somehow it doesn’t take two to tango and falls on the sole shoulder of the woman the man decided to show attention to. One plus one equals two. Basic math here folks. One plus one does not equal one.
So I leave you with this. I challenge us as human beings to stop and think about where our jealousy comes from. If you’re an overly jealous person, your actions probably reflect that. It’s not attractive. And it stems from deep insecurities, most assuredly past experiences that have colored you this way. But we must live in the present. We need to be the best possible version of ourselves we can be right now. And while we may love the color green as a dress on our bodies or a pair of Converse on our feet, it’s the not the only color in the universe. If it is, perhaps it’s time to open the 120 colors of your crayon box again. After all, life it too short to limit ourselves to one shade of color. We’re much more colorful than that. And we owe it to ourselves and others to paint our worlds with who we know we can be. I’m pondering, today, like many days, life and death and relationships and the rush of trying to accomplish everything in 24 hours and for what, besides a tear in our nylons? (Okay. I don't wear nylons, but I do wear tights! I'm being metaphoric here. ;) ) What are we exactly rushing about for? How many of you can relate to THAT? While in the grocery store checkout line, my mind drifted to my mom and a poem poured out of me and onto the note pad on my phone. And after I wrote it, I thought back to an older post I wrote, about the way I’ve always been compelled to write this way, this stream-of-consciousness way, even in the weirdest of places: I was the girl who always read and who carried her notebook with her everywhere to jot down things she observed: the woman smoking with her coat pulled tight against herself in the cold wind; the shy teenage boy glancing at me from under his long bangs, fidgety and nervous; or the plump 3-year-old pulling on her mother’s pants in defiance to get attention. I was always looking for a “story.” And though I don’t carry a notebook anymore, my phone has replaced it. Easier even to record ideas, thoughts, snippets. The truth is, I wrote a lot about my mom too. I had a complicated relationship with her. Can any of you relate? I wonder if it’s more common among mother/daughter and father/son relationships. That dynamic. Those high expectations. I wrote about this before: (loveand-all-its-idiosyncrasies.html). You see, my mom had a tough life, dreams ripped from her more than a few times, and she was what one may call a pessimist as a result. She was harsh. She was critical. She didn’t like me laughing too much. She often questioned my choices. Do you want people to stare at you? Aren’t those jeans a little too tight? Isn’t that skirt too short? Must you make such a fuss with your hair? You know you’re pretty, but you do realize your looks will fade? Aren’t you going to eat something else? Have you practiced this week? Can’t you be more like your brother? But what I realized in that checkout line, now that my mother has passed, all those things I used to do for her when she was ill, that I sometimes internally complained about, produced an bit of an epiphany in me…and hence, the poem. The tick tock is deafening. Muscles ache from strain. Rising sun. Feet on cold oak. Passing cars, honking horns, angry fists of move over and fuck yellow lights. Undress. Dress. Leotard. Bun just right. Spray in place. Grab an apple. Keys? Don't forget the milk for Mom. Dash to the express checkout and curse and hiss Into the back head of the too-chatty, blue hair, fumbling in her too-big purse, fingers not quick enough. Pour a quick glass of red to match cursory letters on black and white Times New Roman font In teacher's ink. Speed-dial family. Snapchat friends and try to breathe. It's what you've waited for. Except now, the silenced whirring rush tramples the solace because you realize that the only way to stop is to admit: Not anymore. And you look to see Irony holding Time's hand with a grim grin. Every year. One fewer thing to do. One minute. One second. Closer to death. It might seem a little dark from Rosemary, the romantic. I have a lot of them. These kinds of poems. And they probably don’t make sense to anyone but me. But they’re there. Often. And just below the surface. Always. It's okay. We all have a little dark in our light. I'm just grateful I have this little thing called writing to allow me to see them. It makes me whole. Tattoos were once thought of as marks of the troubled, the degenerate, the troubIe makers. Employers shunned those with tattoos and lies and myths about them were widespread and full of misconceptions, exaggerations, and lies even. Times have changed, like most things based on fiction and lack of knowledge or understanding. And tattoos are more common and accepted than ever, even consider works of art. I have one small tattoo that I got in college on a whim, and though not profound or "serious" in its outward appearance, I do love it. I got it at a time when I was truly discovering myself and my sexuality, where I could finally accept that calling myself a feminist and having submissive sexual tendencies didn't have to be opposing forces. Thank you, college, for that! I'm pondering getting one more, either on my shoulder or lower hip, right on the bone, or on the underside of a breast. Something also small. I'm not a fan of ostentatious tattoos. My body just isn't big enough for that, and it's just not something I find attractive, personally. Plus, I like skin. ;) I want it to be a quote, and I would have gotten one already, except that I'm not sure which one! Of course, Shakespeare comes to mind, and I've narrowed it down But lately, I've been pondering my own quote, one I penned myself. Is that too self-indulgent? I was thinking about "Ruin My Lipstick" to mark and forever remind me that I published my first poetry book, something I never thought I'd have the courage to do, but I'm not sure at 80, I'd be happy with that choice! And then again, why not? It's another turning point in my life, another mark of accomplishment, a growth, a reckoning. “Ruin My Lipstick” is the title poem of the collection, but it has layered meaning for me in many ways. Literally, there is this: “I liked to wear lipstick and nothing else and found myself fascinated with the shape of my lips and the different colors I could make them.” But it’s also very symbolic and figurative. We all have insecurities, and as I was compiling my poems to include, I realized the theme of facade runs through much of my work. In fact, most of my writing does, even my novels, those fronts we all put up in real life: who we are expected to be, which is sometimes in direct competition with WHO we really are. “Ruin My Lipstick,” therefore, is that idea. I look “put together.” Or I look proper. Or I look the part of whatever role I must play in the moment I am in it, but just under the surface, there is always this brimming sexuality or sensuality that is as much a part of me as breathing. And so secretly, I guess the idea of “ruin my lipstick,” puts those two ideas together as one, and allows me to be flawed, to accept those flaws, and to be loved because of them. In “Nude of Her Tights,” I talk about that symbolically and literally. Here’s a bit of it: Insecure. She lifts a leg, one at a time, rolls the nylon up over painted pointed toes, across straight knees, up higher over the spot charged with electricity because of him, and at last rests them around her waist with an elastic snap. She stands, exposed, but for the nude of her tights, and runs her fingers down her body one last time. The legs that were never long enough are suddenly just right. So frankly, perhaps I want this tattoo to be less frivolous, less rebellious really mean something to me, more of a reflection of the person I am now today, not the college student in the beginning of self discovery and rebellion, but the older version of myself that I am happy I am becoming, albeit, slowly.
To get a copy of Ruin My Lipstick, click here: NEW RELEASES Do you believe in ghosts? Why or why not? Has something personally happened to you that makes you feel the way you do? And if you do believe, what exactly do you think ghosts are? I watched a fascinating film last night: “A Ghost Story.” Has anyone seen it? It takes a very interesting approach to the idea of ghosts in a traditional visual but quite an existential non-traditional way. Besides one of the best endings I’ve seen in cinematic times, the idea of time is explored. We think so linearly about time: beginning, middle, and end, that to ponder it this way is intriguing. The way the director creates this is brilliant. And like any really good movie, it has stuck with me, as in, I keep coming back to it, its idea and content. I recommend it. In a fascinating article here by Live Science, they state: “If ghosts are real, and are some sort of as-yet-unknown energy or entity, then their existence will (like all other scientific discoveries) be discovered and verified by scientists through controlled experiments — not by weekend ghost hunters wandering around abandoned houses in the dark late at night with cameras and flashlights… In the end (and despite mountains of ambiguous photos, sounds, and videos) the evidence for ghosts is no better today than it was a year ago, a decade ago, or a century ago.” For the whole article, which is quite beautifully objective for a change, visit here: www.livescience.com/26697-are-ghosts-real.html My mother used to espouse the existence of ghosts. She had two stories. One is too personal to share. But one she would tell us as kids was about the house in which she grew up. Each night, she said, a little old lady took her hand and walked her to bed. Every. Night. She said she later discovered who he woman was through research and pictures. Nothing horrific or terrifying. Just a woman who lived there a hundred years ago. Could my mother have seen pictures somewhere she didn’t remember? Had she heard a story in her youth? Or was there in fact a ghost. I, myself, had a strange experience with a Ouija board. But the details are fuzzy, and I wonder to this day what really happened. Sometimes I wonder if I created the story from a real experience that, through embellishment and fabrication over the years, has blurred the truth of it. I’m honestly not sure. I don’t think I embellished at all. But to think otherwise, leaves me so baffled, I know of no other way. Even writing about it here frightens me.
I invite anyone to share their views with me. Personal stories. Stories shared with you. But I guess the big question is: Does it even matter? For either they exist or they don’t. And really, what does knowing do to change that? Yet another judgmental and arrogant person I've dealt with. Seems these last few weeks are filled with them, and I have no idea why! What is it about sensual images and the writing of erotic stories that can really get people’s knickers in a bunch? I addressed this last week with the word "erotic" and no sooner did I get into it with another on Twitter. This pompous know-it-all actually took one of my graphics and changed it. Now that takes effort! Would you like to see? I've attached it at the end if you do. I engaged with him, rather than simply block or lash out. Hell, I figured, at least I’m getting some interaction about my writing, right? And it slowly turned into the “I have a degree in English lit…and…” Yeah? So do I, buddy. But I didn’t go there. He wrote: “Usually if has anyone (sic) of either gender on the cover half naked, or uses the word Billionaire in the blurb, (or has a sword), I flick past it.” Okay. He is entitled to his opinion. But I did my own kind of flicking too (it may or may not have been with my middle finger!). Talk about judging a book by its cover. No mention of swords or billionaires in my blurb (not capitalized either, Mr. English major FYI), but yes, Natalie is en pointe ‘half naked.’ Oh my god. The gall, huh? Sadly, he is not alone in his view as Amazon agrees, because Temptation was put into the “jail” ages ago and my publisher hasn’t fixed it, because, well, if they do, I’ll lose all my reviews supposedly. This closed-minded way of thinking is getting old. And tiresome. When he started to insult the Bard, and that he “never re-reads a book” (What????), I knew it was a useless, one-sided conversation, that I was dealing with a very bored man, an unhappy one I’m sure. He hadn’t read my work, and I realized he wasn’t going to. That somehow because I explore the sensual and erotic in my writing, I’m lesser. I espoused that it’s really sad that such judgments and repression run rampant so strongly and that I find it disturbing. The question that still lingers for me more than anything though, is why he felt the need to go out of his way to engage and further, rework a graphic of mine. Buddy—you need to have more sex. Clearly. And therein lies the crux of the problem. I'm convinced of it! Natalie’s Edge is about the journey of discovering our true selves, including our sexual ones. The world of repression is very real, and for some of us, our writing is the only safe place we are allowed to express it. Writing that series was quite cathartic for me. And no one can take away its profound importance to my journey not only as a writer but as a human being who breathes and lives one day at a time. Darkness can consume an individual, swallow up the light, an unhappiness that doesn’t make much sense when that person seems to have everything. And we must reckon that or wither. Writing and exploring some of our darker thoughts and desires can often free us. Sometimes, it’s even therapy for conquering depression. And sometimes, we don’t even know until we let our subconscious roam free on the blank pages soon filled with so much of our truth, we only then can start to live. To deny sensuality is repressed, archaic nonsense. I grew up with the Catholic idea that sex is bad, so I know a thing or two about repression. I keep thinking we’re making progress. But we really aren’t. I won’t get into my political views here. But it’s quite apparent. And I ask why…just why does expressing oneself and embracing all facets of our beings get minimized to a sound byte of “porn”? My work is not “porn.” It is about relationships and romance, exploration, and submitting to visceral desires, through the written word to elicit emotion. My work is about love and acceptance. And I pity those that choose to ignore and suppress a vibrant and important part of living… If someone wants to roam about half a man, to him I simply say: I actually feel bad for you. I know. I've been there.
Eroticism is a quality that causes sexual feelings, as well as a philosophical contemplation concerning the aesthetics of sexual desire, sensuality and romantic love... I call myself an erotic romance author. I call myself a lot of things. Just look at my bio! I'm a blogger, a poet, a writer, a dancer...and in all of it, I see the erotic, the sensual. When someone tells me they don't like "erotic" writing, I wonder what they mean exactly. My first reaction is to scream: "What? Should I check your pulse? Are you alive? Are you breathing?" Because for me, the erotic is as natural as drinking water. Sometimes we sip it. Sometimes we gulp it. Sometimes we devour it. And yes, sometimes we can choke on it. Without it, I doubt a person is truly living life fully if they can't find beauty in the eroticism of being a human being with needs and desires that are basic and instinctual. Why deny ourselves who we are? What I realize is that those who say they don't like THAT kind of writing (and it happens to me ALL THE TIME and did so yesterday), is that they must be thinking of something I am not at all thinking about, i.e. we are not on the same page in the Merriam-Webster dictionary. To be human, we are sexual. And things in the world around us are beautifully erotic. I think we've been taught that embracing the erotic is bad for some reason. If you don't have erotic impulses, forgive me, I feel bad for you. It may be time to go see your doctor. And sex is only one part of it. Some sex, frankly, isn't even all that erotic at all. So, I'm certain my definition must be different. A painting can be erotic. Beautiful photography can be. Love-making and sex can be. Dancing, yes, can be. And writing, to me, without any sense of eroticism, is down-right dull. I am hard-pressed to think of any novels I adored once I passed puberty that don't have elements of eroticism in it, not romance, eroticism. I mean that.
"Erotic" is not a four-letter word that needs to be chopped up on some uptight, sanitized cutting board. We read for the human condition. Life is messy. Life isn't linear. Life isn't black and white. And without eroticism in our lives, we are not whole. We feel lost. Alone. Maybe even depressed. Love and lust and sex is all part of living fully; it is all part of feeling, discovering, and exploring the truth of who we are. For every Christian who blames Eve and temptation, I'd bet a million dollars she'd do it all over again. "I don't like erotic writing." Uh-huh. Sure. No, you just don't want anyone to know. And I used to live a life like that, hiding who I was. I have no idea how we change the conversation. But when we do, I do hope it includes the erotic. After all, EROTIC is not a four-letter word but a six-letter one. ;) As some of you may remember, I lost my cat not too long ago and hoped to get a new kitty. There are myriad shelters where I live, housed with many feral and unwanted cats especially, and so I sought to adopt one. In my journey, I was denied by one shelter for not having taken my cat to the vet enough. I often marveled at the superiority of my cat to my dog: He was independent, I never needed to bathe him, he only ate when he was hungry, and I didn’t have to worry about expensive “daycare” for him when I knew I’d be away for a while. In short, he enjoyed life and himself. He also loved the outdoors. He could sit outside for hours, rolling around in the sun, chasing birds, climbing trees…being a cat. He was also the most lovable cat I’ve ever owned. Loud and from Puerto Rico, when he wanted attention, which was often, there was no earplug in the world that could block him out. He was a lap-cat and a lover and was uncharacteristically friendly and trusting. Replacing him is impossible I realize, but still, I want to give another a home. After I got past the vet issue, it then came to signing a document that stated I would vow to only keep my new family member indoors. I have heard this before. And it is true. It’s dangerous out there for the small critters. But no. And I said so. Any cat who wishes to go outdoors will be allowed. If he/she wants to remain indoors, then so be that. I’ve had two cats in my past who destroyed doors trying to get to the great outdoors, their natural habitats and natural inclinations. I’m not going to deny an animal’s happiness just for the sake of prolonging his/her life. To me, that’s cruel. What “family” member is confined and imprisoned? We argued. And here I sit, still catless. There are myriad unwanted felines. Some have heart issues. Some body deformities. Many possibly unable to trust. And here I am, ready to love one. I guess it comes down to whether we want to live a brilliant life, like a flower that blooms and dies too quickly, or live a life without color. And I couldn’t help but wonder if this woman treats all animals in this way. But of course not. When I arrived to discuss the adoption, she was putting away her lunch, filled with meat. And I found it absurd, because after all: “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.” ~Orwell Painting by artist Paweł Kuczyński.
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I LOVE to write and read. I particularly enjoy reading erotic romance that has tons of emotion in it. I hope you will ask me questions and share your favorite authors and novels. I welcome all feedback.
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November 2022
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