Letters

“A real love letter is made of insight, understanding, and compassion. Otherwise it's not a love letter. A true love letter can produce a transformation in the other person, and therefore in the world. But before it produces a transformation in the other person, it has to produce a transformation within us. Some letters may take the whole of our lifetime to write.” 

~Thich Nhat Hanh

Real Love

 

He’s not perfect. You aren’t either, and the two of you will never be perfect.

But if he can make you laugh at least once, causes you to think twice, and if he admits to being human and making mistakes, hold on to him and give him the most you can.

He isn’t going to quote poetry, he’s not thinking about you every moment, but he will give you a part of him that he knows you could break.

Don’t hurt him, don’t change him, and don’t expect more than he can give.

Don’t analyze.

Smile when he makes you happy, yell when he makes you mad, and miss him when he’s not there.

Love hard when there is love to be had. Because perfect guys don’t exist, but there’s always one guy that is perfect for you.

~Bob Marley

Real Love isn't perfect.. It's not one-sided. There's no version of it. It's not a fairytale or a storybook with a happy ending and doesn't always come easy. Love is overcoming obstacles & facing challenges with someone who wants to face them with you. It's not about holding on and never letting go. The right person will have flaws and shortcomings just like you but they'll want to stay without being asked to and removing you from their life is the last thing they will ever want to do.. Leaving your side is the last thing they want to do but they'll do it if you ask them to because love only wants happiness for their beloved. Look, love is hard sometimes but it's absolutely worth it when you find it. 

Kisses, m.

Photo Credit: Tyler Shields

Buddhist Love

 

Do Buddhists love? Yes, fearlessly and faithfully without attachment. Often I think people can be driven apart by miscommunication... it takes so very little to honor another human and costs so much to be critical and unfaithful. 

Here's are the Buddhist Precepts rewritten from the perspective of loving another human.

Do you cause harm to others after telling them you love them? Or do you try to remain kind?

Enjoy!

Kisses, m. 

Because I love you, I promise never to harm you.
Because I love you, I promise to never take anything you don’t want to give me.
Because I love you, I’ll speak only truthfully and kindly to you.
Because I love you, I’ll treat your body with love.
Because I love you, I will keep my mind free from confusion so that I act only out of wisdom.

Photo credit: Tyler Shields/ Chromatic 

C'est la vie

Sometimes you're hit by Cupid when it's too late to do anything about it. Which sucks but that's how its meant to be or it would be different. You will get hit again. We all do. It's unusual what makes your heart go thump thump thump. And fuck if you didn't see the heartbreak coming. You should've but you didn't. Yeah youre left thinking “what just happened” & “how did I miss those feelings”  without so much as a chance to do a thing about them. If you can then do something while you can, if you can not change things then let the other person go. Cardinal rule of love: do no harm. live and let love. C'est la vie!

Love & feelings are a tricky thing but make no mistake they are worth embracing. Now Barbie loves to see the love... And she enjoys to see her favorite Dolls and Kens embrace others in love affairs, yep even when she's falling out of love. There's nothing better you can imagine than being in love with someone who loves you back. Even if it's just for a minute. And I suppose this doll is hasn't really been alone... There's nothing unkinder than denying someone their ego & pride. I guess lack of a relationship with someone is a relationship if they occupied your time for a while and then left you feeling love or something for them. Crazy thought. Hush. You can't change people, their actions & feelings or what has been but only move forward. Hopefully people forgive you for loving or rather caring about them or they won't.  There's nothing wrong with caring for someone? I can't imagine caring to be that bad of an offense. 

Here's a story about getting hit by love. 
enjoy!
kisses, m. 

hit

(2-13-2011)

What is it honey? Tell me about it then. Love. What about? It hits you that’s for sure. Knocks the wind out of you if you’re not careful.

 Let me tell you… Falling is the easy part. The jumping is the tricky part. Most people won’t get close enough to the edge before backing out. How does it happen?

Well you meet someone and you find yourself getting to know each other. All too well. That’s always fun. Soon enough you can‘t stand to be apart and you start telling yourself: It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. And somehow you know you’re in too deep.

At that moment of depth you know you’ve been seduced by their charm.  The feeling you get when they’re around is overwhelming happy. There is no one else you’d rather be with. You still wonder if it was supposed to be different. Wasn’t it?

Your defenses are down. You are completely caught off guard. But that is love. And then there’s no other way it could have been. It happened when you weren’t looking. A wall you can’t get around, over, or crawl under.

Before too long comes the realization: I’m hit. This person’s love has wounded me. I’m not the same as I was.

No way it’s all a big accident and fooling is no longer an option. When you look in the mirror you know by your own reflection that it’s growing inside. Love. An emotion that can not be caged is bigger, louder and completely taking you by surprise. Standing face to face with the inevitable and its more than you care to think about.  You’re consumed with the hope that they are feeling the same.

How do you know?  My dear, you don’t. Have to believe they’re hit just like you.

Desire

Blow yourself... In the right direction. Don't do drugs. Blow kisses, not cocaine! Love yourself more! Any unhealthy toxin that you put into your body to gratify it is a poison. Yeah, I'm not talking about wang or putang. But you should probably watch out where that comes from too! Safe not sorry, perverts! Ok whatever I thought it too! ByGones and let's be moving on.

You don't always need the things you desire. From a buddhist perspective there is no difference between greed or desire. Greed is essentially an attraction to something that you think will gratify you or satisfy you. I could give you something witty that buddhism teaches but it is best you realize this on your own. Drugs, like possessions & attachments are... You don't own things, they end up owning you. Soon enough you end up tired of them and wanting something else.

Here's a story about drugs. One of the most potentially powerful addicting drugs that most everyone gets a taste of... LOVE. Well if you treat love like an object that you must own... it becomes an drug addiction that you cling to. Love is not possession or a trophy, it is freely given without condition. If you really love someone or something you never stop loving them even when the person or object is gone from your life.

Are you addicted to the things you desire? How about love?

Enjoy! 

Kisses, m. 

Love is a drug

(2-7-2010)

Love is a drug. More addictive than any other. Once you’ve had a taste of it there can be no substitution. Sweet like nectar hitting your lips and tongue for the first time. Souring all too quickly leaving an unquenchable need behind. Ruined from the moment you’ve gotten it into your system. There’s no getting it out. You can not return to life without it. Life can’t possibly compare without a hit or bump of it. Your mind screams, ‘Give me a fix.’ You’re hooked! A functioning junkie recklessly traveling hidden among the good people of the world grasping, taking down anyone that’s willing to fall with you. Foolishly you will lie to yourself, cheat yourself and deny any other way for one more taste.

Tricky business this commodity of love is. People wanting the best quality without paying the price for it. It’s not all fun and games now. This is a serious entrepreneurship. My affairs are handled with the most discretion. Some hustlers out there might be lying and tell you they market the original and barter only in the best product. Others can give you a better price. But make no mistake, I’m the only one selling the original and the BEST is my specialty. Needless to say there are unscrupulous people in this world, it is better to steer clear of those unsavory sorts who feed off of others to get ahead. Those sorts would rather trick you into believing something that isn’t real, rather than stand by their word. My word is law and I stand by my business firmly. No fakes here.

To be perfectly honest, it’s not my intention to get you addicted. In fact, by the time most of you find your way to me, it’s a crying shame. Deep in the throws of ravenous emotional cravings. Wide awake for days, no appetite, warm skin, shakes, lack of focus and completely out of your mind. Out comes my case and with the most delicate sensitivity I offer up my wares. Liquid sealed in small vials labeled #1-8. The delicate bottles lay still upon a violet crush of velvet. #1, #2, or even #3 will ease you back into your routine with the hope of a future romance. Definitely takes the edge off for the brokenhearted. #4 and #5 will grant you the illusion of infatuation. Perfect for budding affections. #6 will throw you amidst a sea of passions temporarily. Couples only. You’d be surprised that’s not a better seller too. And not for the faint of heart, but #7 and #8 will jump start a fading love. On occasion I’ve refused the wares to potential buyers. Some want a test, while others insist that I prove their worth. My experience is quite simple, it’s best not to sample the goods. Love is addictive enough without tampering with the synthetic forms. Bottom line: If you’ve found your way to me, then you’ve been given my word. That should be sufficient.

A considerable number of years pass and it’s understandable that one builds up a reasonable amount of clientele. Especially those who may know about my special products. #9 & #10? Those aren’t available to the general public. Word gets spread and the cat gets let out of the bag. My reputation firmly stands on the principle that #9 & #10 do not exist. Although a few are quite familiar with my work and have sampled #9, I repeatedly deny the product is existent. It exists to a select few, those trusted above all others. But some things, like #9, should be kept from prying eyes. If everyone knew it was so accessible they would want a piece for themselves. No one wants to share. Selfishly people take from each other without consequence or consideration for another’s feelings.

The ultimate problem is the unstable nature of love and the inability to control it. #9 & #10 deal with the most extreme intense feelings, obsession and desire. The uncontrollable area where passion and insanity collide. Both will result in instant affections, but due to the unbalanced compounds there is no telling what can happen once unleashed. Deadly to the novice and experienced alike and should not be meddled with lightly. #9 will make you fall in love so deeply without the blink of an eye, bringing with it a handful of unrestrained yearnings and emotions from all who are involved and then quietly disappearing without a trace. #10 draws the fine line between love and hate clearly before you. Obsession with no end. Deadly. Misguided affections can result in severe consequences. Perhaps the most unstable of my compounds, #10 can have the adverse affect of being one-sided, quickly reversing into hate.  A dark passion springing into jealousy and becoming deranged can seek to destroy its intended affection.

The night is coming to a close and the sun is sneaking up like a stranger with its unyielding light. Winding down to my final few moments alone, I decide it’s time to call it a night. Closing up shop for the night when in walks my last customer. After all this evening has been light, and I can tell this guy’s got a need like no other. Disheveled hair, thin as a rail, without an ounce of peace in his heart. “Give me the one that makes it better!” demands my gaunt customer with a wild enthusiasm. “I heard there’s one that makes you fall without an end. I need it! NOW! She’s has to feel it again. It’s called…”

Quickly remembering myself in the room, I try to stop him before the words come out, “I can only make it better if she is a willing participant. Despite your broken heart a love that has ended can not be revived. If you would pre-f-,” but I’m interrupted.

“10! That’s the one. Yeah, someone told me that was what I needed. It would make her love me again! FOREVER!”

“Ah. My, oh my, this is troubling. Where did you hear about that one? Love is fleeting, especially in synthetic form. Temporary are the drugs I offer. The real thing can not be duplicated. I can promise you I have something that will help your feelings. Let me give you a sample of #1, perhaps #2. In a couple of days you will be right as rain. Please?” I offer as I motion toward his hand.

Snapping back he reaches into his pants and snatches up a ball of money. Gently places it in my hand. With a breath he mouths, “Your word is law.” As he pulls back he persists, “I was referred and you can not refuse!” Deadliest of combinations, a rattled mind without a questionable conscious. A hardcore junkie to the bone. You could tell he’d been through several dark dealings before finding me. Shaking uneasily he yanks out a gun. “Just give me the Shit!” You can keep the money. I need this. I HAVE TO MAKE IT RIGHT!”

Perhaps I’d hesitated too long, but at this point there was no refusing. Silently I gather together my wares. Delicately I unhook the bottom of the case to remove the deadly pair. Carefully I put on a pair of gloves before I open #10. It was like a poison and even the smallest drop would send a grown man into frenzy. Cautiously, while the lunatic stares at me intently, I place a small amount into a vial. As soon as I’d sealed it, he snatches up the vial and races out of the shop. Immediately upon exit he drops the gun into a trash receptacle at the curb. Desperate men cling to anything in a hopeless state. Deep in my belly there’s a hope that this won’t end badly. Hope is all you really can ask for.

Love is a drug. A drug without apologies. Addicting. Mesmerizing. However it is curable. Well not entirely?  You can go without, but it is not recommended. Denying the craving will only make it stronger. You can not live without it, once it’s there.  There is nothing that can substitute for the real thing. The road to recovery is covered in debris of failed pasts and emotional disconnection, but nevertheless worth the journey. 

Pass love on...

“Just like a rumor can get carried on, so can inspiration...” 

- Janelle Monae 

Love

running for a kiss - magnum 5             

"I think I stopped writing characters, because I wanted to fall in love," I tell someone the other night. And they mused, how romantic. "I think I wanted to be myself completely and truly so someone could appreciate me exactly for who I am, not a character." The moment it leaves my mouth, I know it's the truth. It's the first time I've admitted this very human desire to anyone, let alone to myself. It wasn't until recently that I have attempted character writing again, and it's proven to be a delicate balance of love and darkness. But I've surrounded myself with love, happiness and support which is the one thing I've done differently from the past. So...

Love. Go. Just love. Love goes. It keeps going. That's the way love is... It goes; continues to move regardless of what happens all around in the world. And when you love yourself you find yourself moving ahead toward a life that is sweet. Be happy. 

This short story; well the idea is based on the souvenirs that we collect from our relationships with people... the boyfriends/girlfriends, lovers, and friends. The memories, the loves, the passion and the pain are always present regardless if we want to forget them. You can run away from things, but who you are will always be with you. 

Have you ever sacrificed anything for love? 


[Untitled]
(6-23-10)

It‘s been a great many years since I’ve taken on a new pupil. The entire flat has been empty for nearly six months and most of my things remain packed away in storage. I’ve not been here in over a year. Sooner or later I knew that I would be returning back, but the introduction of a new pupil was quite unexpected. It isn’t often that I take on a new pupil. I’m still trying to remember where the furniture goes and what rooms held the music books. My housekeeper Greta has been kind enough to keep the place in order through my absence.

Life here has changed much since I’ve been away. Not at all how I remembered it. The last tenants painted the kitchen a shade of ecru. Greta hadn’t mentioned it. Sometimes when I sublet the place there are changes, this particular one makes my stomach turn. Outside the South Windows, the lights of summer dusk seem much more alive with the sounds of people in streets. The old Bechstein sits quietly in the corner of the room beneath a sheet. Certainly not the same as the Steinway I’d been playing on for the last several months, but nonetheless a wonderful instrument.

I can faintly recall the distant moment when it came to stay. With that very first introduction along came my first pupil, Victor. Just like the piano, he stayed on with me, although not as long as the piano. Victor helped a man to deliver my large black beauty. The two men carefully positioned the Bechstein against the far wall where it seemed most at home.

The introduction seemed harmless enough but proved to be more. I can vividly remember the hours spent talking to Victor about the nature of music and its significance. He was awkward but with impeccable manners, often waiting for an indication on my part. Our conversations would drift into discussions of performance, drive and passion for the craft. At the time, I still hadn’t been able to accomplish much between my performance schedules and it was a pleasure to talk with someone willing to understand more.

Victor almost instantly became a fold to the flat as well as the Bechstein. Days were spent at rehearsals and nights spent playing for Victor. My talk of harmonies and the instruction of finger placement captivated him thoroughly. We never mentioned lessons although he was quite content and mesmerized by the piano. Every time I played for Victor I knew he was absorbing every movement and nuance that my body made in an attempt to understand.

Mozart sent his hands around my waist and lips upon the back of my shoulders. Berlioz made him grow heated with desire. His arms would wrap around my body while his hands would find their way upon mine; mimicking the dance upon the keys. His fingers became longer extensions of the ivory while he questioned me about the piano and its voice.  Something about Victor’s curiosity felt comfortable. There was a reassuring manner in which he spoke, a willingness to take on anything that incited my interest.

Soon his curiosity became my pupil culminating in a passionate and relentless pursuit. The instruction came by way of technique and ear training. Notes on the page did nothing to stimulate Victor’s motivation. And it was quite easy letting the sound of my voice train his ear by example of pitch and harmonies.

Often my hands would gently find solace guiding his across the keys. Firmly directing the fingers to flatten and uncurl to become longer as I linked my arms around his to support the proper movement and accuracy for tone. Taking my turn to dance upon his hands. Gently nurturing his motions with the pressing of my lips.

The cabinets next to the Bechstein should have had the books. Greta must have moved them when she left. No matter. Perhaps the study then, I will need to make a final tally of the furniture in there as well.

It was remarkable that Victor required little to no teaching by book. Although he wasn’t fluent, he was quite adept. My favorites of his interpretations happened to include Bartok and Schubert. These were the pieces that would send my hands down, around embracing and desiring more from my pupil. His lips always managing to meet mine between breathes. Night after night we would be completely spent on or around the piano after a thorough instruction.

Dust seems to permeate each break or opening in every room. The simple movement of opening a door sends a cloud of haze scattering through the air. As I pass through the thin cloud I can see clearly that the previous tenants hadn’t made use of my study.

My desk has remained in place uncovered. A thin sheet of dust now coats its surface. I can make out a small stack of papers in the bottom right corner. Although curiosity compels me, I choose to open the window and air out the room. With a small rush of air the papers fly off the desk and a stack of thin books tumbles from the corner bookcases out onto the floor. The papers swim through the dusty air until finding a home upon the dusty floor.

I’ve been in this room before. Almost exactly like this. Standing amidst a sea of ransacked papers and music books. It was like this when Victor left. After seeing the room taken apart, I’d almost half expected to find the Bechstein destroyed. We just finished a set of Beethoven’s Sonatas and he said it wasn’t there anymore. Something missing in my voice was what happened he said. I’d only come from a quick rehearsal. He had three hours to get angry and leave. I had fifteen minutes to cope. Victor’s absence came as abruptly as his arrival. Sometimes things come to an end without warn. My time with Victor was no more than it needed to be, but no less significant. Somehow, the Bechstein will always remind me of Victor.

Picking up the papers and dusting the room reminds me of another pupil, Ana. During her stay, she would spend considerable amounts of time in the study. Ana was always quite particular about details. I think perhaps during her time here, my study was at its organized peak. The music books that now lay in complete discord once had an order, a system attached to them.

Ana came to be my pupil by chance. At the time I had continued to stay busy with the Symphony.  It had been at two years since Victor left and at least three months since my lover James had left me for a cellist interning in the summer symphony at the university. I’d made the mistake of introducing them at a benefit dinner over the Fourth of July weekend. The thought of taking a roommate had become immediate as there was a possibility I might be taking work as a pianist in London for a couple of months.

Ana had been a guest vocalist with the symphony for the previous season and had accepted the offer to return. The concert violinist had arranged the introduction with the promise that I’d consider tossing in a lesson or two as a part of the agreement. Ana was lovely and very charming. She was taken with me instantly and begged me to consider her right away. We agreed and she came to stay.

With Ana came three packed bags and the tale of a jealous ex-lover; whom felt completely betrayed by her actions. A situation that I never pressed further for information. She was quite happy to stay on and habitually asserted that I give her instruction. Her eagerness to know the craft came unexpected to me. From the very first lesson I could sense a feeling of satisfaction and infatuation from Ana. It was almost like an instant desire to please me.

Show me more she would often ask. Aside from her vocal training, Ana passionately spent afternoons at the Bechstein without pause. Typically I would find her immersed in a Schumann dance or Beethoven sonata. There was something refreshing about her talent. Unlike Victor it wasn’t all fingers and arms without technique. Ana sought theory and meaning to deepen her appreciation for the piano. I couldn’t help but encourage her desire and provide the proper tools. She was quite an exceptional talent. At times, my own skills seemed to pale in comparison. Like most undiscovered things, living unnoticed amongst the ordinary. Until something new and foreign is taken in to find an unknown capacity that lay dormant.

Despite the pupil surpassing the teacher, Ana continued to be captivated by my performance. At times we would play for each other until the early hours of the morning. Upon my turn, she would sit next to me at the edge of the piano seat. It was the passionate chords of Rachmaninov that changed her posture. As though she was the pianist performing she’d lift her head accordingly and watch my movements with an appreciation of beauty and understanding. To her it was far more than fingers pounding against a keyboard. With her head slightly turned she would whisper into my ear and gently let her arms subside into my movements. Many times after the performance did we find ourselves down upon the thick rug beneath the piano completely exhausted.

And over time, I accepted Ana as a companion in addition to being my pupil. It wasn’t that I reached for her, or she reached for me. The desire was set into motion through mutual participation. Ana stayed on with me for nearly two years until she agreed to visit Paris for a season and chose to remain abroad. Now and again the opening notes of Rachmaninov’s Vocalise hang close to my heart like a souvenir left behind.

Six years later my study shows the strain her absence. I have no system for my books and the oversized mailbag in the corner reminds me that it’s been a bit of time since I’ve received a letter from her. Somehow we’ve managed to continue an intermittent correspondence since she left. Perhaps there is a note in the pile.

The sound of the bell interrupts my efforts to re-stack the fallen books. The movers have brought the remaining pieces of my furniture.  The conservatory is quite bare without the Steinway. During Ana’s stay we acquired a Steinway that properly resides in the conservatory. I think that’s the first piece I want brought in. It has been away for too long. Absent from its home next to the East Bay Windows overlooking the lights of the city.

The absence of the Steinway brings me to my last pupil, Lamont. He had stayed with me over three years. Longer than any of the others and we were nearly married. Lamont would have been completely aghast without the Steinway and it was the first piece I had sent away. He had detested the Bechstein. It was a cheap thing to him and beneath his expertise. Sadly of all the skills I bestowed to him, humility was not one.

Greta has returned and brought a set of dishes from the store. I honestly could not have remembered about the dishes without her assistance. It’s nearly eight o’clock and the movers have finished setting up the furniture. It seems as though I may have forgotten a few chairs but it’s nothing that can’t be done without. My last months spent in this place were without most of the furniture amidst a sea of boxes. Another thing that could not have been done without Greta.

Leo is an unimportant man that left me in London six months ago. When he left, the music became my passion once again. I ran off to London last year, after accepting residency for the season. That unimportant man came along. Leo has been here after Lamont left, but the Steinway has not. Sitting down before the piano sipping a glass of Pinot Noir, I think of the only music that can bring it all back. Chopin. There is no easy way to remember Lamont without it. Every memory is guided by an emotion set to music. As I gently tap the keys I find that she is out of tune. I’ll call the tuner in the morning. There will be no lesson tonight.

Lamont came almost immediately after Ana. We met through friends at party where he was playing an Irish jig on a harpsichord while dancing alongside. He thought I was pretty and brought me chocolate so I would dance with him. I found him to be charming and funny, so I did.

Lamont never moved in, but never left. And wasn’t my pupil when he came, but was before he left. His favorite room was the conservatory. He enjoyed sitting at the bench in front of the Steinway with a glass of red. His glass would be empty before asking me to play him something by Chopin. Chopin was his standard. Although he couldn’t play it, he arrogantly refused to allow me to teach him. Always preferring to listen and distract while letting his mouth do unforgettable things as he knelt before me.

Unlike the others, Lamont could play piano, but not very well. The idea of instruction made him feel apprehensive. After two years he finally let me teach him how to play Chopin as long as told him about her. He was always curious about her. Why she came before he did. When we started I didn’t have an answer and eventually put away the pictures and played him Chopin. After I told him about her, he thought he knew me completely, the part of me that couldn’t be captured in a photo or through a glimpse. I don’t think he ever knew me at all.

Lamont insisted that I use the Steinway to teach him. According to him it was a creature of higher quality and the only suitable choice for Chopin. I despised his arrogance but loved the idea of instruction. Our lessons were not smooth, but he made progress in a matter of months quickly learning to imitate my technique. Regularly he would engage me in lessons by candlelight and then seduce me before we finished. Nodding his head to call me closer, indicating that I should sit with him then grabbing my face to kiss me roughly, until I kissed him back. Once he was satisfied my lesson was over and I was left atop the Steinway with my bare skin and tossed hair listening to his interpretation of something by Chopin.

As I gently tap at the out of tune key I recollect how heat can quickly make an instrument lose its harmony.  Despite our passion for one another, in the end things began to sour swiftly. With Lamont, it was always more, more to tell, more to know, more that he didn’t want to be bothered with. I had grown impatient by his arrogance as he had grown exhausted of my instruction. My refusal to marry him was something he couldn’t understand. He locked himself in the conservatory and stayed another week playing Chopin. So I decided to send away the Steinway. That he could understand. And he did.

Occasionally I wonder if Chopin will ever have a different meaning.

It’s ten o’clock and the bell is sounding. He’s finally arrived. As I make my way down the hall, I can only stop for a moment to take my hair down and fix it in the mirror. Although I had planned for his arrival I wasn’t sure of how to continue. It’s been a week since I’d seen him in London. Methodically I find myself creating rules when there should be none: Practice on the Bechstein, not on the Steinway, I will not teach you Chopin, and you can’t ask me about the others. All these insecurities are swimming in my head, but I pause and let him in. Then I tell him, it‘s been a great many years since I’ve taken on a new pupil, let’s see how this goes.

Rise

A mature person does not fall in love, he rises in love. The word ’fall’ is not right. Only immature people fall; they stumble and fall down in love. Somehow they were managing and standing. They cannot manage and they cannot stand – they find a woman and they are gone, they find a man and they are gone. They were always ready to fall on the ground and to creep. They don’t have the backbone, the spine; they don’t have that integrity to stand alone.

A mature person has the integrity to be alone. And when a mature person gives love, he gives without any strings attached to it: he simply gives. And when a mature person gives love, he feels grateful that you have accepted his love, not vice versa. He does not expect you to be thankful for it – no, not at all, he does not even need your thanks. He thanks you for accepting his love. And when two mature persons are in love, one of the greatest paradoxes of life happens, one of the most beautiful phenomena: they are together and yet tremendously alone; they are together so much so that they are almost one. But their oneness does not destroy their individuality, in fact, it enhances it: they become more individual.

Two mature persons in love help each other to become more free. There is no politics involved, no diplomacy, no effort to dominate. How can you dominate the person you love? Just think over it. Domination is a sort of hatred, anger, enmity. How can you think of dominating a person you love? You would love to see the person totally free, independent; you will give him more individuality. That’s why I call it the greatest paradox: they are together so much so that they are almost one, but still in that oneness they are individuals. Their individualities are not effaced – they have become more enhanced. The other has enriched them as far as their freedom is concerned.

Immature people falling in love destroy each others’ freedom, create a bondage, make a prison. Mature persons in love help each other to be free; they help each other to destroy all sorts of bondages. And when love flows with freedom there is beauty. When love flows with dependence there is ugliness

-Osho

Dream Roomspiration: Love

Barbie knows that love is a terrible thing to waste but enjoys being reminded once in a while by her friends. But rest assured dolls, Barbie never wastes her love on anyone or anything that doesn't deserve it. So Dolls and Kens what do you do when you have love that shouldn't go to waste? Use it! How? Decorating that wonderful Dream House of yours! 

Dream Roomspiration: Love

 

Would you decorate your house inspired by love?

Barbie would.

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

New

“According to Kierkegaard you are leading an authentic life when you Presently Issue New Kindness to everyone.”

m.

Power

Inspiration: Style Icons Alexander McQueen vs. Salvador Dali - Pleasure

“It is important to look at death because it is a part of life. It is a sad thing, melancholic but romantic at the same time. It is the end of a cycle—everything has to end.”  

– Alexander McQueen, 2010


Must death be seen as a sadness? Can death be a pleasure? It is said that there is pleasure in a little death. I once read somewhere that love, sex & death were synonymous. It seems that perhaps the French agree. For you see there is a phrase “Le Petit Mort” and translated it refers to the Little Death. It is coined in reference to the achievement of spiritual, mental or physical release of an orgasm & the feeling of melancholy that transcends the experience. The “life force” that is expended through the chemical release of the body produces a loss, a pleasurable loss, albeit a loss.

So perhaps when you next take pleasure in death remember its but a little death and you should be enjoying it.

The pleasure is all mine.

Enjoy,
Kisses. m.

See

What do your eyes see? I always think of cloud-watching and my favorite zen master when I see something interesting in the sky. How about you? Ever see things that really aren't there. Even in the actions of others. You imagine what you want to see in life. And you choose how to act upon it. There's only insincerity if you hold that inside yourself. We see ourselves in the actions of others. Whether it's good or bad is entirely up to you. Ridiculous as it seems you can not control what others perceive and you will go crazy trying to. Best advice: Take care of yourself first then help others. You're opinion is the only one that matters. Love yourself more. Here's a picture I was playing last year, [I love to play with digital photos & editing tools. Technology exists to be used!] and a story about the fun in seeing things that aren't really there. BE AUTHENTIC to you and you won't give a fuck about what others are doing or thinking. It's not what you see it's how you see it. Create the life you want to live and ultimately live it.

Kisses, m.

Lolita in the sky with diamonds. 2012.

  

What do you see?

(9-4-2010)

“What do you see?” He asks.

“I’ll tell you what I see if you tell me first,” he insists.

He tells me to go first to see what I’ll say. Always like a challenge wanting to be answered. It was his version of a psychologist’s test to gauge the mental processes with the imaginings of the eye. There was nothing analytical about it.

 “It’s a clipper ship,” I say and smile while running my hand through his hair. “With great white sails that dance in the wind.”

“Really, I think that it’s just smoke.” He points to a line breaking across the horizon and through the middle of the mast of the ship and smirks with a hint of laughter. The funny part is that he always says the same thing. Even though he knows it’s not true it’s always the same thing.

“No there, look it’s a handful of feathers pouring out of an overstuffed pillow.” His eyes light up when I contradict him.

“And above the pillow there’s a head of hair waving.” He joins in.

“How about there?” I motion toward a new formation.

“It’s white gloved fingers pointing in the direction of the wind.”

“No, it’s a cat with a wide-toothed smile larger than the top of his head.”

The birds are dancing through the teeth of the great big cat that knows a secret he refuses to share and I know this just one of those games that we love to play. It’s never just smoke in the sky. Clouds are but a dream away from the touch of a hand as we lay back and watch the sky.

“Is this a dream?” I ask him.

“But what is a dream?”

“Something the mind sees and makes real.”

“Clouds are a dream.” He tells me while reaching over and brushing the leaves from my hair. “That’s what my mother used to tell me when I was a child.” It’s a conversation that we had a thousand times and the same story never grew old. He tells me about this story with a small smile in his eyes. After the story it’s always the same.

“What were the clouds like when you were growing up?”

“They were big and fluffy and had the most beautiful colors.”

“What kind of clouds were they?”

“Big white ones like today, sometimes small streaking ones, and occasionally there were the rainclouds.”

“Tell me about the rainclouds.”

“Oh, the rainclouds brought the most amazing thunderstorms with them. The grays and purples among the colors of the breaking daylight…”

“Really?”

“The most amazing storms came and went. Reaching across the landscape. Those Arizona plains slightly dampened. Like hands dropping water through them upon a dry scene. It is nothing like today. ”

Today is different. The transition of colors moves and shifts against the clear blue backdrop. Slowly grows the grays and purples mixing in with the white. Creating a multicolored oversized version of a Rorschach puzzle that awaits our interpretation.

“How so? How is it different?”

“The clouds aren’t one, they are many and look there’s a man with a hat holding a dagger made of cotton sticking out of it.”

“You’re right the sky is different. But he isn’t holding a dagger it’s a pair of scissors with a feather in the hat.”

The colors are growing darker and the shapes keep intensifying deeper and fuller. He asks me “What do you see?” again and again and I tell him there’s a million things that are creeping across the newly coated blanket of gray against blue. He tells me that its not a million things. I tell him its now a slow climbing a black balloon with a white diamond in its eye that watches our movements. He laughs and agrees that it’s rising and rising to overcome it all. The birds are still dancing through the white upon blue, in and out of the gray-black in the corners.

“Maybe it’s just smoke.” I tell him.

“Is that what you think?”

“Maybe I’m inclined to agree?”

“Then smoke it is?”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“It’s not just smoke.”

“Well, before it starts raining and the clouds lose their shapes and colors, tell me…What do you see?”

You can't understand...

How I Could Just Kill a Man.


Ah, could you kill someone? Or feel angry enough to kill them. Well, here's a little advice: don't kill them but definitely get angry enough to be rid of them in your life. Tears, like the killing, are optional. Here's a little music that has been my song of the day and an old favorite piece of writing. It was included in my eBook "Killing Changes You" which you can buy here. 

Enjoy!

kisses, m.
  
 How I Could Just Kill a Man - Charlotte Sometimes
 



Between my legs

(12-9-09)

Between my legs. Lies a hope for the future. Safety. Love. My insecurity? The reason he strayed is between her legs. The reason I stay is between mine. Infidelities he shouldn't have. We're both crying. Both aching. Knowing it’s too damn hard to watch him leave each time. Welcoming him back into my arms despite these flaws. Into the warmth, the depths where he’d linger too long. Falling and fading quickly, taking me down with him. Consumed by desire. A dark desire that is delicately hidden but ever so welcoming. Watching him savor the taste like drinking a hearty pinot noir as the flavor deepens into a meaningful experience. An exceptional wine, meant to be slowly enjoyed down to every drop.

Disappointment. My weakness. Inadequacies as a female. The one thing that sells you short as a woman is there between your legs. Never being taken seriously. As a woman it will keep you weak if you choose. Deprive you of love if you let it. Or allow the true nature within to become empowered by it. Controlled. Demanding. Eve in the Garden of Eden with that convincing apple. Damned is the man that believes he is manipulating a woman. A woman is a cool calculating creature never to be trusted or taken lightly despite what lies between her legs.

Waiting for him to return one more time. Deep down knowing that the game never changes, yet I’ve been foolish enough to continue this way. Sitting carefully, naked in the cold dark kitchen at the small table I trace my fingers carefully along the Formica surface. My bare skin is alive with the anticipation of his return. Element of surprise. It is my very intention to seduce and distract. The pressure of cool metal steel is nestled against the inside of my thigh as I wait. Looking down I can see the invention of death between my legs. Just as I continue to think he hasn’t returned soon enough the front door moves. Quickly my hand reaches in pushing aside the revolver where his eyes can not see. Nothing but my smile and open invitation.

Carefully the dark room masks his face as he moves closer to me. Only his eyes are visible as he makes his way forward. From the looks of it, he’s quite pleased to find me unclothed and honest. Standing over me his hands reach down into my hair and along my neck. An extraordinarily hard kiss as he makes an effort to lean in. The roughness of the moment is intoxicating as his grabbing hands continue to trail along my bare skin. Hands around my hips and in the small of my back as lips move downward, tracing their way from neck to breasts, then further. My ambitious efforts have me fumbling through his clothing, unclasping and removing, as he advances. As he reaches my navel I continue to reassure him by gently stroking his hair; beautiful hair, dark, thick and lush. Head movements find a balance as he nears my thighs. Tug at the back of his head to make eye contact. Lifting eyes meet mine in a piercing stare. Shh! He calms me with a smile before reaching between my legs.

Slowly I part my legs further and give way. Sliding the gun out from its hidden place, ever so silently, with a scoot of my thigh. Removing the cold steel instrument of death as he bends forward to kiss the inside of my thigh. Lips continue to softly caress my inner thigh as his hands come around to circle my hips and pull forward. Silently I find a place beneath his temple. Bare. Visible to my aim. Rocking my hips forward to meet his increasing movements, with my target in sight, I squeeze the trigger tenderly releasing death. Between my legs.