True Love For Ever & Ever

But the details, aye, indeed, the circumstances, aye! How complicated they were!

This time it was a case of a high Tenderness Required Quotient on my part and a low Tenderness Available Quotient on her part.

Why do I require so much affection? Probably because that little disagreement Moms and Pops had about how much oral satisfaction this son would be allowed. Funny how incidents long forgotten in their minds shape my entire life's search for companionship and love. Dear God, Cute.

Why so little tenderness available from my Love? Well, her secrets are not mine to give away -- let's just say rough childhood. She needs a lot more than she has to give. And to God of this outrage I cannot even speak, for He comes back at me with equal force, saying, "For you, my Son."

So when eventually my Love and I cross pathes, we are magnanimously attracted to each other. So much so that I happily and without regret end a marriage to another woman.

We spend three years as close as two people can physically put themselves, but still the distance between our hearts exists. And when I begin belaboring my desire for more closeness, she finds her best efforts insulted. She slips away from me as easily as she came near.

Some men call women whores. They stop at betrayal, and this leaves them tortured by anger. That she would promise everything, drain them of their nerve, and leave them alone with nothing but their love of her...well, it's easy to understand that feeling, isn't it?

Other men excuse all her behavior in face of their infinite love, but they are tortured by the limitations to which one can actually love a whore. So self-hate, insecurity, and weakness follow, and it's so easy to understand those feelings, isn't it?

I, however, can make no sense of it. I have been through all of that, and those feelings are not how I wish to cast or express my True Love.

If she and I were to talk, we would either be peace or we would make war. I am guilty of everything she could say about me, and she cannot ever know the dimensions of my love for her. There is no in-between, other than this aching distance.

Where does that leave us, as individuals?

Her? I cannot say. In fact, knowing any details crushes each piece of my shattered heart 1000 more times. Apparently, she is practicing gentleness with a new love. To consider that is like falling into an endless hole of blackness and despair. Instincts for self-preservation deny me from going there.

I am left abstract and apart: Loving shadows and memories. Loving glimpses and speculations. Loving living examples. Dialoguing with myself, with tenderness and longing. Looking. Hoping. And finding dreams to be the only reliable solution to a day of reality.

I have no understanding of my True Love. I am nothing but a vessel for it to express itself, and the audience member of my fascination has vacated my theater.

The Enchanting Wizard of Women

Have you ever heard tell of the particular story, of the dream in which you might find a man living his life? Ahhhh, it is a wonderful, complicated story.

You see, it is about magic. Pure, and simple, no questions asked -- MAGIC. Novices may have contextually realized that this magic is responsible for every, well, everything. However, the magic necessary for this dream of which I speak is a very certain spectrum of the overall Force moving the entire universe. This spectrum is that which makes plants grow.

Many call her Mother Nature, for indeed her appearance is often very lovely and displays myriad qualities that are feminine in nature. However, her appearance is not about what I am talking. Nay, I am speaking of the energy that causes her to yawn, and stretch, and grow, and twist, and pull, and thrust...oh yes! Thrusting is perhaps the most exciting moment of the explosive process which is life.

Needless to say, we could probably pitter-patter the semantics of this energy, how to describe it, and precisely what it is...oh, for the rest of eternity. But for the sake of this story, we shall not endeavor to do so, thankfully.

As I said, there is a particular role that exists in the grand stage-play of humanity, and this roll is generally regarded as the Wizard. Of course, we have so many popular examples portraying the wizard in his oldest incarnated form...always so old! Well, of course, let us not forget Harry Potter, a tale of the young wizard and his teachers. But how many stories are there of the middle years of the wizard? The years where he is graduated, free of all social games and spiritual threats. Ahh not many.

Perhaps it is because these years are generally boring and tragic. Siddartha, for example, sat in meditation for some 30 years or more. Jesus was crucified.

However, these are but two, again very popularized examples of the middle-aged wizard's life.

Fleshity-flesh-flesh-flowers-mmmmmmm!!!

I once heard a little girl in the playground at the park when I was working-out sing, "I come from HONEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYY! I am in Heaven!"

Ahh, the simplicity, the accuracy! Children are masters without any knowledge of their profound value. Because here I am robbing her simple truth and divulging it to the cosmic consciousness.

Luckily truth is as deep as it can be plumbed. Sigh, it is but another triffling poetry. . .if not savored, it disappears as if it never was. And believe me, the way she said it was like a rare bird's song; impossible to describe or repeat.

Last night's dream was another rip-roaring ride of fantastic magnificence. But I wanted to play that organ so bad I got up early not to record the dream, but to get an hour of funky hum in before work.

However, there was an aspect to the dream that should be drawn, as words could never describe this spectacle.

Right near the end of a long, long dinner-type-party with multiple families all coming and going, levels, an opulent environment as if by the sea, high-up in sequoias, and in luscious bohemian architecture at the same time, we were all floating away. Haha, yes, literally, we were floating up like balloons through branches, like we were driving down streets towards our respective neighborhoods. The morning was dawning, or the night was falling. I see two girls with very nice bubbly-shaped bodies oogling me and they see me liking them. As I do, what had seemed maybe to be fabric was now skin, and their balloons breathed ever-so-close to mine, within reaching distance, and began turning as if their street went that way and my path lay straight ahead. . .

As the closest girl turns, her ass becomes closest to me, in my face, and my eyes greedily dig to within inches of her -- her pussy shows itself to me, and it is unlike any human sexuality -- it rises like the flower of a passion-fruit...[pic]...the stem lifting and retracting as the dark ring of the flower contracts and relaxes. Like a wave goodbye.

I am shocked, tickled, and smug. I wake up, wood, and it is morning.

Jailhouse Harem.

We are living on Sanborn, on our side, but more like in the big apt building next to the church, at the end of the street. I am there in contentable something, but I get up to go outside. I go over to my old house, and it is my place still. I go inside and hang out, and contemplate my conflicting desires. It feels like those days when I had the thick heavy curtains and my Beatles posters on the walls. Like the days when I fantasized about hiding a camera in my room and recording sex with strangers.

I become inclined to go somewhere I am not supposed to go. Instead I visit Rhonda at her old place. She had nephews over, and I just say hi and excuse myself.

Somehow there is a giant battle. There is another couple fighting on our side, Liz, myself, maybe another friend. We line up in formation and face the opposing army...I see an armadillo and hippo-like creature closest to me. I make eye contact with them -- I have a staff. They look strong and deadly in a fight, so I determine my strategy, I will swing in such a way that I will jab out their eyes. Just my realization of this scares them, I feel my fight won, but the battle starts. I am reluctant to do this because of the permanent damage it will do, but our lines advance towards each other. I am almost begging to them to stop and turn around, but as they get closer, I stab the armadillo creature in the eye with my side-to-side, rapid circular swinging.

Something shifts in my feeling about the fight, I begin to fantasize or see that it is really a very sexualized party, where people are all really trying to flirt and hook up.

Liz stops the whole fight (or waits till it is done), and says conclusively, "That's it! I've known it all along, or at least suspected it. Now this confirms it. You aren't serious about me, you want to play, and that's all you want to do!"

She leaves me because of her post-battle conclusion about me. I am left in the dream wandering and wondering, "Is that really true? Sure I have always wanted to mount just about every girl I see, but in lieu of somebody loveable, real and down-for-a-life-together?"

I feel Leticia's presence strongly and begin thinking that she is doing this to me somehow, voodoo or magic or whatever, despite having concluded in my waking life that she has set me free.

Somehow I end up in jail. Once there, I am shy and try to be invisible. It seems like a tremendous waste of time. I get out but instead of going home, I hang out by where the old courtyard brings down all of its trash. I notice something that looks like recyclable stuff. I begin unfolding and removing shrouding that has been carefully laid around it and on top of it.

I can't remember what I find, but I am excited like I have found something amazing. So I go back to jail. There I feel like I am Woody Allen, just buzzing as if I would talk about anything. And there are women in the jail, and they are all talking in a way that feels like sex.

I get out of jail and I go back to Sanborn. I hang out on the street again, it seems like maybe the other couple from the battle come around (aaron- and orchid-ish?). I do not entertain them, they leave. Then sexy stranger women start mulling around, as if walking up the street. I engage them, and talk like weaving a spell. I copy the thing I saw the women do in jail. It seems like they want me and it is all quivering anticipation like that.

Then I am telling the story of when I was in jail to a black girl. I am trying to describe the way the jail girls would say to the warden, "Weeeellll, THIS negro did/said blah, blah, blah..." But then I get majorly self-conscious, as if I know that I am going to tell this story and it is going to have no punch-line. Suddenly after that, like, everybody shuts up to listen to my loud mouth, but I look at this girl in the eyes, and it is a challenge, like, "Come on, why don't you tell me what they said in jail?"

I choose not to. And then I'm walking up the street with Liz and she's not mad. So I tell her about this thing I have found hidden on the street, and how this seems like a really smart thing to do...like a squirrel, kind of like, hiding nuts along your path so when you really have to walk your path, there will be gems for you.

She agrees, "That would be a great thing to do." Then she says, "Chris could never have done that."

Then I have this weird sensation of erasing my environment, myself and Liz as if I had drawn it all and was over it. And I woke up POP.