Cogito Ergo Sum (Part 1 of 3)

He could feel them, those tremors – the uneven vibrations. The holy ones were rising all around, bursting forth from their graves with a gaudy violence. Some of them were now standing in the city streets wearing those long, white robes and crowns. From where he was seated, he could see their aloof faces which betrayed a disdain for something – perhaps this world. They seemed to be showing off but not quite fully as if they were better than boasting. His breath quickened and his grip on his chair became stronger each time one looked his way. If only I had believed what I was told. If only I hadn’t been rebellious.

The red clock on the eastern wall of his room struck 10 pm, but he didn’t notice – he couldn’t. He was now too busy staring at his trembling hands. This is scary. I’ve never felt like this before. Immediately, his hands began to shake less; they must have read his troubled mind and decided to grant it a little ease – only a little. With hands a bit more steady, he took his black, raggedy, dusty bible from out of a draw in a black, shiny night stand, turned to page 305 and read thus: “Behold, my terror shall not make thee afraid, neither shall my hand be heavy upon thee. Surely thou hast spoken in mine hearing, and I have heard the voice of thy words, I am clean without transgression, I am innocent; neither is there iniquity in me…” He stopped dramatically and slammed the book shut, dust particles flittered about. I wish your hands would’ve been heavy on me! I would’ve learned! I surely would have!

As if planned, his computer started playing a song, that song, the one he listened to daily. The chorus had a part in it which goes “there’s no salvation for me now, no space among the clouds.” And that’s what he sang the loudest. Sure, he sang the entire song missing not a word of the lyrics. But all he seemed to really hear and really sing was “there’s no salvation for me now, no space among the clouds.” By the time the song ended, the trembling started again and his eyes began to flood.

He didn’t dry the tears. Instead, he left his drawing table and stumbled into bed, throwing himself on it without removing its blue and black blanket. Things are better left the way they are in times like these.He stared at the walls, but his eyes weren’t piercing as usual; they were now blinking quickly in treaty with the rest of his shaking body. The walls seemed blank as usual, unmoved by his plight as if to say, “this is your problem, yours and yours alone. We can’t help you – nothing can.” A sigh escaped from the depths of his soul, somewhere seemingly unknown to him until now. Did I go too far? Dig too deep?He sighed again and again and again. They all came from the same deep, dark, icy, unfamiliar place. Then a maddening silence, which was becoming all too familiar, rushed back in to fill the void. There’s nothing louder than this kind of silence. 

That all-consuming muteness stayed with him for the greater part of an hour or so he thought. This is more fear and loneliness than any man can bear… he was beginning to think when something mist-like in form started to invade his room. It came up from the ground, rising like smoke, and then settled in a rocking chair in the corner where his grandfather used to sit whenever he visited. He stared at the thing, his trembling intensified and sweat streamed down his face. He started backwards, slowly moving towards the other side of the room. It couldn’t be…could it? He would’ve probably run if he weren’t frozen in awe.

“Jesus Christ!” fear pushed out of him.

“Guess again,” said the mist-like phenomenon coolly.

“You’re not my grandpa! You can’t be!”

“I never said I was. Non tam cito salire ad conclusions.”

“You look so much like him!”

“Looks can be deceiving,” said the grandpa look-alike, smiling wryly.

“Deceiving how?” said the scared one.

“Well, exampli gratia, those aren’t your real hands that are trembling.”

“What the hell do you mean? Of course, they’re my hands!”

“Well, prove it by touching your face si potes.”

The scared one tried to do as he was commanded, but he couldn’t. His hands were no longer his to control. In fact, his entire body was no longer his. It had occurred to him many times before that his “reality” could be sham, but trust in his normal sense perceptions was never this tested.

“For Christ’s sake, what the hell is going on?” he screamed at the grandpa look-alike.

“Call me Confucius,” said the phenomenon playfully.

“I’m floating above my body now! Why am I floating above my body now?”

“Nah, scratch that, call me Zarathustra. He was always my favourite sage,” the phenomenon went on with the same playful indifference that only made the scared one even tenser.

“Okay Zarathustra, why am I above my body?”

“Adhuc sub judice lis est.”

“The case is before which judge? And what the hell is with all the Latin?”

“You tell me! Do you even remember when you started to learn that forgotten language?”

He replied in the negative, but Zarathustra could tell that he was lying because he was afraid.

So Zarathustra laughed. “You don’t have to lie to me,” he said with his usual playfulness “you can’t, really.”

“I swear I don’t!” insisted the scared one, giving consistency precedence over truth.

Zarathustra only laughed.

While he laughed, a scene from the scared one’s memory started to play out in the room. It was when he started learning Latin online 4 years ago. He was sitting in front of his computer reading phrases off a list of Latin Phrases on Wikipedia. He could see his lips forming them and calling out their meanings.Ab extra (from without), ab imo pectore (from the bottom of the heart), ab incunabulis (from the grave)…

“Okay, you’ve proven your point,” said the scared one.

“If you think I have, Luke, then I have,” said the still playful Zarathustra.

“How do you know my name?” said Luke, still afraid.

“I know everything you do.”

“What are you? A demon?”

“Adhuc sub judice lis est.”

Luke sighed. Zarathustra continued laughing sympathetically, in the same way a father would at his child’s charming but unreasonable fear of the dark.

And then the scene from Luke’s memory evaporated slowly and smoothly.

“Please tell me what’s happening to me,” said Luke. He was a little less tense now but his shoulders were still sunken more than usual.

But Zarathustra said not a word, still wearing only that placid smile.

While Luke gazed at Zarathustra from mid-air, a greyish-blue, cloudy, spiralling mechanism resembling the top of a tornado materialized and Luke was pulled towards it; everything else in the room remained motionless. Zarathustra watched and laughed as usual. Luke caught a glimpse of the laughing phenomenon’s face; it was younger than his grandpa’s. This can’t be real! He was still noting Zarathustra’s look when darkness seemed to wrap itself around him as if it were about to devour him – and it did. His gaping mouth closed when he realized that the darkness relented rather quickly and he was spat out somewhere – the first sign he saw read “Savannah.”

There was a child playing where he was transported to, a boy of about age 8. He was playing in a field of dandelions with butterflies encircling. A light gale was blowing, cool and calming. And all around was soft with afternoon sunshine. Luke started towards the boy, looking around agitatedly. As he drew closer, he saw that the boy wasn’t alone. There was a woman sitting under a palm tree some 60 or 70 m off supervising the child’s play.

“Mom?” Luke sort of whispered.

She saw him and bade him to come to her. Oh God! He went although he hesitated a little. She was sitting all lady-like with her long, black and white polka-dot skirt wrapped around her ankles. The lines on her face were gone; she looked much younger than the last time he saw her, which was about 2 years ago. And she wore a constant smile. This smiling woman has the body of my mom but she’s not my mother, her countenance is much too…

“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked softly when he was close enough.

“No,” he replied somewhat angrily.

“Do you want to know?”

“Yes, I’m dying to!”

“That’s a question you’ll have to answer for yourself.”

“You people are impossible! All these riddles, all these games, I hate them! I’m confused and I want answers!”

“Well, it’s chaos that gives birth to dancing stars, and to find your answers, you must learn to draw water from your own well.”

He recognized what she had said about stars and wells as quotes from a book called Thus Spake Zarathustra. My mother would never read this. Who is this?

“Who are you?” he asked in a subdued tone.

“Just something from the shadows,” said the smiling lady.

“Which shadows?”

“The shadows of your forest, I suppose.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me.”

She still wore that frozen smile when he didn’t respond. He noticed but only stroked his chin with his thumb and index finger and gazed at the sky as if he expected something to fall from it anytime soon. The woman didn’t seem to care. They must have stayed five minutes like this when a rose fell from her hair. It hit the ground softly. It was a pink one, and he was sure it was important. So, he picked it up and was about to put it back from whence it came when she stopped him with a motion of the hand, a stern but calm movement.

“What should I do with it?” Luke asked.

“Keep it. It won’t be around much longer anyways.” She said with the usual equanimity.

“What do you mean?”

“Look and see.”

He looked and the rose which had grasped so firmly was gone.

“I expected that something weird would happen.”

“You’re learning!”

“I guess. Will it stop, though?”

“It should. I just hope you learn something from it.”

“What can I learn if one moment I’m out of body and the next in it? How am I supposed to understand anything? I keep seeing dead family members and keep being transported around.”

He closed his eyes, scowled, took three deep breaths, clenched his fist and was about to tell her not to give him anymore answers which he’d have to figure out but his eye’s opened just in time to notice that she was gone. He turned towards the child and he wasn’t there either. Typical.

Part 2 http://eternalremedy.com/cogito-ergo-sum-part-2-of-3/

Part 3 http://eternalremedy.com/cogito-ergo-sum-part-3-of-3/

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Hold On

So how does one even begin a letter addressed to a rock? I suppose with hello…
I’m not quite sure what I’m doing, and I’m positive my words are unfit to bear this weight. My God, I don’t recall ever being this far from sanity. We’ve been flirting for so long, you know, aberration and I. I’ve just always been too scared to give him all of me.

 

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Our story begins the morning after a wild night. What contrast you meet, from being the life of the party to waking up deceased. I was taking a walk by myself, I just really needed space. “We are alive, there’s reason to celebrate!” all the justifications from the night ring through my already ringing ears. The illusions always vanish by the morning, and all is exposed by daylight. When did partying become such a euphemism for punishment?
And then I stumbled upon you on the road. It wasn’t love at first sight, having always been allured by glamor. You were in no particular way shiny, yet you managed to maintain this confident beauty. Like the girl next door. Pardon my vanity, but it’s something I could relate to. As soon as I picked you up I felt the timelessness of looking into forever. And oh how you gave my hands purpose! This life thing beguiles me, but these were times of certainty. I was sure in that moment that letting you go was neither open to me nor safe for me. Imagine the perplexity, coming from a girl who had lost her faith. Naturally my body protested, but your silence was so strong. You told me that if I could just hold on….you would bring me life.

I showed you to my friends and they said they were happy that I found you. But no real truth is said through timid lips and averting eyes. I know better than that. I mean, who could blame them? After all you are just a rock. Our world is one who cares only for diamonds and gold, the sparkle and the glow. I don’t mind, because you are my precious stone. I know they’re all in search of something like you. Look at all the lonely people searching for something real to hold.

I still don’t know who found who, but we’re together. Hallelujah and Amen.
Up until you my life was an air conditioned ride through the city, cold within and without. Your wind is noble and so subtle, and you push my humble sail boat further than my greatest efforts with oars. Nothing else matters. I can’t tell you how many times before I said I don’t care. Maybe I didn’t then. I know that if you were ever to crumble to dust, it would break my heart. I pray you never fade away. I know that at any moment I could no longer have you to hold, and this anxiety empowers me.
I’ve forgotten yesterday already, the night and all the stains of lust. I can’t help but feeling that this is time is different.
I’ve come across so many things before on this road, and I have tried to hold on. All fell from my grasp. After finding you I still wandered, but I wasn’t lost in the same sense. My walk carries now all the air of footsteps with purpose. Surely this is life.

Some days you are heavy to hold. Some days my grip needs rest. I’ll even admit sometimes I’ve considered throwing you away like my friends might have. But then I look down and it’s just me and you and… if I could just hold on.
I find myself in tears, not because nothing this good lasts forever, or because I’m distancing myself from other people. Nothing has ever felt this right or looked so beautiful, and I’ve wasted so many smiles. Without you I was naked, I see that now. I spent so much to decorate myself with clothing and all was transparent. Beatitude is within my grasp and my skin is aflame with every caress. To hold you is to touch the places I could never reach.
Since I met you I’ve lived as spirit. Not confined to this flesh, no cracked skin, no scars. Oh sweet deliverance for my thirsting soul.
To spread my wings and plummet off the cliff into obscurity is such a leap. But good Lord the view. I feel so strong in flight. I’m rambling on. I… just the ways you make me feel…
The blood parades through my veins, I’m alive, I’m alive, and I’m alive.

Yours Truly,
Julie.

Existential Awakening on the Dreadful Avenue of Love Declined

“The heart was meant to be broken.” – Oscar Wilde

My heart failed me in love once before. It couldn’t take me to the finish line of a spirited summer romance, so I fell and broke it into a million little pieces. It pumped blood as usual, but I was dead, buried in the depths of despair. What a horrible time it was! Lonely and dull, my nights went on forever. The days did too. Food lost its appeal, so did the company of my closest friends.  A stubborn heaviness formed. I felt like a beast of burden whose work was never done on my worst days, and like a child of Sisyphus on my best, cursed with doing things to relieve my oppressive mood just to sink into gloom again as soon as I showed any noticeable sign of improvement. There’s no doubt about it, I was on THE DREADFUL AVENUE OF LOVE DECLINED.

Walking that desolate street, my spirit saddened with every step. I was asked a serious question: “are you strong enough to be alone, to walk this life without having a sadomasochistic bond with another?” The answer was a bitter no. It took me a while to realize that, though. In the meantime, I carried on in miserable denial. All sorts of clever games and rationalizations were invented to keep me away from an unpleasant veracity. It wasn’t my fault; I wasn’t the stupid one. Everything was on her. Such were my thoughts. Oh, how desperately I fought to hide my faults and feebleness from myself! But I couldn’t! I really couldn’t!

Her imperishable smile was burned in me. When I closed my eyes, it’s all I saw. It caused me to lose sleep. Many nights of diverse emotions where spent awake in acerbic contemplation of that smile and its owners whereabouts. I wanted to know where she was and who she was with. I wanted to call so badly, but I couldn’t. My pride wouldn’t allow it and even if it did, I’m doubtful that she’d have answered, so I continued on in dark desperation, lost in my summertime sadness.

Worst yet, a part of me didn’t want to be found. I wanted to think of her and hurt. I suppose, to a wounded soul hiding its deepest feelings inside an elaborate mental fortress (a sort of inner babelicstructure), an unhealthy “kiss with a fist” imagination of romance is pleasing.

Eventually, though, my psychological tower of babel tumbled down. With time and luck (A WHOLE LOT OF LUCK), I started to wake up – to open up my eyes and see. I soon saw my world for it was – an illusion. I saw that my feet weren’t on reality’s terra firma and that my expectations were guided by lazy thinking and drawn from a sadistic culture. Honestly, the awakening process is a singularity that I can’t explain fully; neither can I tell people how to get there. Perhaps it’s a thing that happens to the lonesome drifters going through metaphysical anguish, or perhaps it’s a natural part of life that takes place when people are allowed to think and reflect intensely. All I know is I began to know intellectually and feel deeply that my general outlook on life was the creation of my conditioning in a benighted culture, and that I was as a blind man being led by other blind men.

Naturally, then, I began to question myself. The questions started off small and primarily revolved around her. “What did I see in her?” was the first. “Did she care about me as much as I cared about her?” came next. And “what would I have done differently if I weren’t so stupid and childish at the time?” came after. Examinations of this sort marauded around in my mental labyrinth for months. Then the questions got a bit more universal: “what does it mean to love? Was it better to have loved and lost than to have never have loved at all?” Those nights that used to feel so lonely began to be stirring. The questioning process gave life a new dimension – a deeper one. All sorts of things flashed across my cerebral canvas. There were so many questions, so many ways of twisting them and so many ways of working out their answers. The theory of relativity, the theory of gravity, theories of cosmic expansion, ideas about the survival of the fittest, and notions of soul of humans under an invisible leviathan (modern welfare state) were all made to apply to romantic life( and my entire continuum of experience in general.)

Of course, these things have nothing to do with love. Nevertheless, they were sweet to meditate on. I was still rocked with confusion, but my chaos was turning into the creative kind – the kind that gave birth to dancing stars. I had come to understand that “there are more things in Heaven and Earth than were dreamt of in my philosophy.” Of course, realizing this made me categorically petrified and stressed, but along with the apprehension came a chance to inquire into nature of existence and to reinvent myself through all sorts of strange and, perhaps, sacrilegious means – it was an opportunity to“find my faith living in sin.” To that end, I read widely and listen assiduously, soaking up all the wisdom I could. Then working with the novel truths I discovered, I started to reconstruct myself from the wreckage of my past, one fragmented piece at a time. It was a lonely excursion, and sometimes I was afraid of the things I found. As with all humans, a monster lived within the shadows of my psyche and because thorough self-examination shines a light on it, I was made to see it and I was a bit frightened by what I saw.

Overtime, however, I learnt how to deal with this darker and more irrational part of myself; I made friends with it (I won’t try to explain how I did. Any attempt to do so would be a long and winding digression). With this acceptance and, thus, integration of my “darkness” into my personality, came a more acute sense of humor, a more lively conscience, and increased objectivity.

Under my novel “enlightenment,” I set out to understand the very mechanism that had put me on my path – romantic love (and marriage by extension). Examining this sort of love closely, I saw that in our culture (and most other cultures) it was a very peculiar and paradoxical social construct. For in a romantic relationship, you’re expected to foster the freedom of someone who can make you jealous. And no matter how hard you try in your love life, you’ll never escape this contradiction. When conceived intellectually, it seems like it would be an easy task, but as most of us suspect and only a few of us are fully aware, we are more led by emotions than reason. As the Danish Philosopher, Søren Kierkegaard, puts it, “the heart has reason which reason knows not of.”

Furthermore, a romantic relationship is scarily fickle. Of this we are all knowledgeable. It may fulfill one of our deepest yearnings – the wish to be one with something. But at the same time, there’s no guarantee that a relationship will work. More disheartening still, is the fact that the object of our lovemust leave us (or we them), either at death or in life; the game of romantic love is one which we are all bound to lose. It is reasonable, then, to ask “why play the game, why start something thatmust fail?” I think the answer lies in watching a candle burn.

With a little activity of the mind, we can imagine that lit candles are aware of the short supply of their wax. They don’t seem to be paralyzed by it, though; they always seem to burn to their potential’s brim and their only concern seems to be with the art of fueling fire – an art that more resembles a waltz than a painting. The aim of a painting is to capture a moment and weave it into the visual tapestry of time for as long as corruption, whether natural or man-made, will allow. But a waltz is the moment, and when the waltz stops that moment is gone forever. Hence, a painting edifies the future using the present, while a waltz crowns only the present.  That’s probably why it always seems as if flames are gracefully dancing in a continual now, moving in such a way as to honor the present.

So must our romantic relationships and marriages be a dance where both lovers strive to be fully present, paying attention to each step as if they were perpetually getting re-married. How charming is a love like that!

With this attitude towards the romantic contract, lovers will bond out of freedom. They’ll be there (in the relationship) purely because they love “dancing” with each other. No need to gratify society, parents, and peers will be responsible for their bond – they’ll not be together because of the will of any external establishment. Their love is an existential commitment based on a spontaneous reaction to life. As such, they’ll give of themselves more freely, and anything they demand of each other will only go towards the natural development of the “dance.”  Yes, there will be disagreements, and tempers might get lost a few times because any two people will have divergent views and needs, but there will be a certain beauty and challenging contentment even in the most hostile times. And I suspect too, that in such a relationship, conflicts will be resolved very hastily because “dancers” are usually more focused on finding solutions rather than satisfying their own unnecessary hubris.

However, a relationship such as this can only be reveled in by people who have turned their “loneliness into being alone.” By this, I mean that they’ve come to realize that they’re a world unto themselves – a cosmos to be explored unreservedly. Furthermore, they would have also come to realize that every other human being is a consummate mystery that they’ll never figure out, even the ones closest to them are beyond psychological measure. And that responsible freedom is the hallmark of a life well lived, as such, they should grant it to the ones they love and strive for it themselves. Thus, they’ll have the type of love which says “I need you because I love you,” and not “I love you because I need you.” The former is the rarely seen mature love, while the latter is the immature kind often seen in movies and heard about in silly pop songs.

It is easy to see, then, that in a mature, loving, romantic relationship, the conditions of felicity are the parameters which allow a couple to commit themselves to living as sexual partners devoted to well-being and exploration of each other. Marriage is crowning state of such a way of life. Being married is the couple’s “living out of that constitutive act of commitment in countless further acts, and in each spouse’s disposition or readiness both to do such acts of carrying out their commitment, and to abstain from choices inconsistent with it, until they are parted by death (or divorce, but preferably death).”

Jealousy and a wish to control the people closest to us will always be there, these are fixed in our nature. Thankfully, though, they can be a diluted with a well-developed conscience.

I’ll stop here for purposes of brevity and laziness. Curt, I know. But I believe I’ve said all that my heart found exigent…

For the one I met too soon.

 

 

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La Nuit de la Virginité Perdue

The night was getting old, the sky and clocks affirmed that. A full moon ruled in the absence of the sun. Poised, and relaxed, it moved slowly across the firmament, throwing its silent silver on the lithosphere with a delicate charm. It was as if it knew its existence was monotonous and it was at peace with that. Underneath its pale and borrowed illumination, though, was an attractive young lady who had grown tired of her constrained life, which was precisely dull. Monotony might have been fine for the moon, but it was not good for humans. And stuck in an unchanging and frustrating situation, the young woman was naturally fed up. Her name was Clarisse, she was a virgin. And this was the night when she’d trade all her claim to chastity for few minutes of wild abandon.

Clarisse’s story would have been typical of a girl raised in the French countryside of 1692, but Clarisse lived in 2013 London, when sexual mores were an infinity more relaxed than that of any pre-industrial polity of rural geography. Shameless fornication permeated her culture, so much so that everywhere she turned she was bombarded with images, slogans, and memes suggestive of coitus. In such a world, it was natural for the 22 year old Clarisse to be extremely curious – an inconvenient truth she did her best to hide.

Her unhappy condition could easily be blamed on her father. He was strict, authoritarian, and much more sadistic than he should be. He based his whole world on the bible and would not dare question it. Needless to say, he was a religious fundamentalist and his was a dying breed. Insofar as he was able to, he wielded his patriarchal power over his poor daughter with unintelligence and vanity, thinking that he was doing the Lord’s work. And the thing God found most abominable, according to the girl’s father, was a woman who lost her virginity before marriage. His influence on her was so strong that although Clarisse was of the age when she should be beyond his authority, she still terribly feared his disapproval. So up until tonight, Clarisse was made to live a life of quiet desperation and sexual frustration, all the while pretending that she hated or was at least indifferent towards  the very thing that fascinated her the most – the male phallus, a symbol of natural generative power.

There was only one time when sexual carte blanche was permitted in the girl’s shackled consciousness and that was after marriage, a day which couldn’t come too soon for her. On that blessed day, she always imagined that she’d strip off her clothes with superhuman haste and lose her sense of guilt and self-control along with them in anticipation of consummationem matrimonii.And although she was desperately horny, she was determined to and sure that she could hold out till then.

But “all certainty brings a grin to the Devil’s mouth,” because the day Clarisse met the young Chad Thompson was the day she began to be released from her father’s spell and placed under a new one – Chad’s. Chad was ruggedly handsome with a soothing light-heartedness mixed with the right amount of masculine cruelty that made him popular with the ladies everywhere he went, which, consequently, made him the man about town everywhere he went. And from the day Clarisse laid eyes on him standing against the silhouette of the setting sun with his brown trilby slightly tilted and very complimentary to his grey V-neck worn in such a way as to suggest that he was half predator and half prey, she was a little more than slightly infatuated with him. And by the time they finished their first conversation, which was 3 days after she saw him matched against the sunset, she was nearly completely spell-bound.  And by the time they ended their third tête-à-tête, she was entirely under his wizardry.

Deep feelings of romance were, of course, new to Clarisse. She had always caught the attention of young men at her local church because she was immensely attractive, but their attitude towards sex was just as constricting as hers and they were correspondingly afraid of liaisons. So her affection for the opposite sex never even came close to blossoming. Furthermore, as an evangelist, her father was a man of considerable status in the church and she believed it was also her duty to do all in her power to protect his ministerial distinction. After all, if a man can’t preach to his only daughter, who could he preach to?

But no amount of preaching could stop or dampen what she felt for Chad. She was deeply in love.

Clarisse and Chad had been talking as friends for 2 months now. And they spoke a great deal about sex. The more conversations they had, the more the sweet Clarisse relented on her strict morals. So by the time January 29, 2013, was preparing to become a note in the moving symphony of eternity, Clarisse was more open to fornicate than ever. He knew she liked him, it was easy to tell. He’d flirt with her, and she’d try her best to keep up. She wasn’t very good at it, but it’s the intention that counts in these situations. If any young man says he has turned down attention from a beautiful woman because she wasn’t as good at broadcasting sexual interest as he was, let him be a liar.

La nuit de la virginité perdue caught Clarisse in the young man’s apartment, which was three blocks from her house. She had told her father that she was going to sleep over at her friend’s house and she had told her trustworthy friend about her plans. So she was safe from her father for now. Clarisse was sure of her love and to prove it she was going to trade her Christian virtue for sexual dissolution with the willing merchant, Chad, no matter what or who said otherwise. She counted the lie as necessary and stubbornly repressed all attendant feelings of contrition. “Better to ask for absolution after experiencing pleasure than to never experience pleasure at all,” she thought.

When the hour and mood was right, young, urban lovers started kissing. Hands started to meander over sensitive areas, lungs started behaving as if they were being starved of oxygen, and bodies, in general, became tense and alive with sexual energy. She was nervous, and Chad could see and feel it in how fast her heart was pumping blood. But it was too late; she was way too deep into her lascivious excursion to turn back, so they naturally went forward. The first article of clothing, her beloved Zara top, fell and her bra followed thereafter, exposing two well-formed breasts. Then her pants slipped off her fertile hips and round posterior; she was left in her silly pink, white and black polka dot panties. She thought the state and appearance of her underwear made her seem exactly immature, but Chad didn’t seem to notice them. Sometimes, curiously, blemishes on works of art made them better and she was truly a work of art. He took those silly polka dot panties off her and then it was her time to remove his clothes, which she did with a fair amount of trembling.

All this time they were standing up, but passion now moved them to his bed. It wasn’t the bed of roses that she had always wanted to accommodate the loss of her virginity, but in this heated moment she found that wish nugatory.

Chad took her virgin condition into account and made her climb on top so she could be in control. With much sighing and extended sensitivity, she eased her way into sexual union. Once joined, the girl took her time in moving about so that the boy’s phallus touched places inside her she wasn’t aware of until now. At first she was in painful discomfort. However, that subsided soon because in all her tentative moving about, she accidentally discovered her most pleasurable spot and ecstasy washed over her in waves. She had a few violent convulsions and moaned from a deep place, presumably from where their bodies where joined. On perceiving her enjoyment, the boy started to enjoy himself too and their movements seemed to flow for the next twenty minutes.

In any event, the boy did what was natural and secreted a white solution into the contraceptive that was wrapped around his phallus. With that, he separated from Clarisse, ending their first liaison.

All fell quiet for a while, and then Chad asked for feedback, which Clarisse gave. Then all fell quiet again. By now, Clarisse had begun to feel guilty, and didn’t feel like talking, but then the thought came to her that the loving God who gave her free will could not possibly be mad if she exercised it. That thought was followed by the feeling that she was asking a question that should not be asked, but then the thought came again that it made no sense for any loving and fair deity to punish a young woman for expressing her naturalness. Her mental pendulum swung back and forth between such discrepant thoughts and feelings for the rest of the time she was awake, which for most of the night. She didn’t find relief for her doubt and guilt, but the noteworthy thing was that she was dissatisfied with the answers her father given her, and was now in search of better ones. It was the beginning of a brave new world.

 

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An Impossible View.

I left paradise.  I didn’t bring any baggage with me, I left it all there.  You followed me, I hope. Regardless I’m in the desert now. My lips are parched and cracked, but still I sing songs of my redemption. My knees are weak and tired, but I march on.  On and on, further than I’ve ever been.

I rose from the ashes of my charred past. I chose to, I chose to choose.  After a lifetime of arrested development caused from my illness, I needed treatment.  Inoculate me Doc, I want unmitigated immunity. Cure me from life’s feasts and famines.

Here in the desert my eyes delude me, they tease me with pleasures from my past in paradise. Even my tongue is tired; he is worn from the taste of sweet nostalgia, out here in this bitter desert.  My heart is strong however, and he reminds me not to look back, because it is an impossible view.

I am leaning on the rock, but dam near close to falling flat. Something’s got to give here in this barren tundra, either my life or my weakness. Every breath is on purpose now.

I’m not going back. No, I’m not going backwards. Yesterday is finally falling from my aching shoulders. Although still crippled from my past plights, I feel strong.  I no longer see with my eyes, and I see things much bigger now with each step, the journey inward, the fight, and the war.  I and I swing swords on the same side.

Reader the veil is gone. No…no I am definitely not going backwards…

Read on if you would like to know more about the desert I now travel.

I hope to see you there. Bring your friends with you. 

What the old lady gave me…

All is still where I am, so memories and thoughts collect like rain drops in a puddle. Sequestration always brings reflection. I lie peacefully and let my head know the solace of a pillow, breathing effortlessly as I recall a dialogue I had with an old lady on train.

She wore a yellow dress with white and red flowers on it, that’s all I can remember about her clothing.  But, I remember her face in a bit more detail, especially her eyes. The kindness in them gave them a delightful and peculiar appeal, and they lit up with every word she spoke. Also, her voice was extremely pleasing and notable and she talked with a curious mixture of childish disregard and prudence. Her words were filled with rational charity, the kind you’d expect from a loving but strong mother.

I was going to Manhattan, and had boarded the train in Brooklyn. She came in somewhere along the ride and a congress of wisdom seemed to form naturally. We started talking generally and then we started diving into matters of the spirit.

It’s entirely unnecessary to give an extended account of what was said, nevertheless, insofar as I can remember, this was the most salient thing that she said: “life is a mystery, young man, knowledge is good, but our experience of this world will always be limited by our senses. So, don’t worry about figuring everything out, you can’t. Also keep a sense of humour, especially about yourself for it will be a source of strength, and remember that change is the only constant thing, embrace it. Lastly, love with all you have – your intellect, your heart, your time, your commitment.”

I can’t remember how the conversation ended but I remember being told to spread the message. So, please give a wise old lady’s words an ear. Test them and see if she tells the truth

I Get Lonely Too

Too often we are reminded of the bounds of our humanity. We are rudely awakened from the peaceful rest of the good times, like a brash whisper that keeps us aware of how fragile we are.  Over time we’ve become a people so weathered and jaded by the perplexities of living. We try to busy ourselves, doing things, digging through this darkness. But there are quiet times.  The volume inside your head reaches deafening heights and amidst the chaos, you cry out to deaf ears. I hear you though. I get lonely too.

Your motivations run thin, and your faith is strained. Trapped in a role with scripts we’ve seen before and words that are not our own. You wonder what it all really means. Here we are, enclosed in a cyclone of despair from our doubt.  Deep in the center of it all, while worry swirls around us, we find each other.  In this great void we find an imperishable substance.

All around you there is a culture that practices external disconnect, in search of an internal connection. Social media teaches us that we need to tell others what our lives are like, instead of including these people in them. These are times where you are encouraged to document events instead of living them. Technology gives us the luxury to talk to each other from any distance, and consequently there is no need to be close. We are lost, lost and alone.

You crave intimacy.  The current nature of relationships is turning us into objects, groped instead of touched.

In this social climate, working towards finding yourself is paramount.  In self-discovery you raise yourself up. Only by taking that step can you raise others up as well.  This is how you create real connections, and the only way you will truly feel connected. When you decide to work hard at becoming who you are, you gain the strength to pull others along with you.  The reverse has opposite effect as well. Every time you choose comfort over strain, settling over achievement, you do an injustice far greater than your eyes will ever reach.

This week as you get the urge to submit to weakness, whether it be physically or mentally, remember all the people you are letting down. Carry on soldier, and feel the power. 

Break the Chains

There is consequence in becoming something.  In choosing self-discovery you will glow. You are now an exception to main stream culture, and being unique is luminous. Insects are attracted to the light. You have gripped the reins of their untamed thought space, capturing their attentions.

You now represent something far greater than you. You are the snowflake to the avalanche of change, and just as conjoined to the associated fear. Change is shunned by the people, and they will resent you because you are no longer what you were. Whether the change was positive or negative is irrelevant, what you are now, is threatening.  They are all fighters who are conditioned to survive, thus understand they must eliminate the threat.

In committing to loving yourself, you hover above the others in angelic grace.  They will hate seeing you up there because it reminds them of where they are. They will try to bring you down in response. Please forgive them, it’s in their nature.

Break the chains. They cannot bring you to their level unless they have something to grab on to.  I want to give you the axe that will cut you free from the restrains of validation, but you’re already holding it.  Do not put your peace in that cage. Make your achievements your own, and their effects will linger around forever. In seeking approval, you sign the deed of your wellbeing away to those who will never understand how precious a gift it is.

Whatever step you have taken toward finding yourself is truth. What is true is your lifestyle, the manner in which you live. There can be no confirmation of this from anywhere outside you, the subject.  You are not up for discussion.

All these years you have been a close neighbour to happiness. You will understand just how close when you accept what it really means to live truth.  Your empty words, looking to be sustained with agreement, will die off. Your mouth finds itself occupied with life’s most cogent weapon, a smile. We all know those cut deep.

Your challenge this week, in a situation where you typically feel hurt, is to smile and really mean it. Feel the power.