Today I'm so burned out from dancing, hustling and the weight of the oppressive cloud of sexual energy that seems to have descended upon me lately that all I can do is soak my sore feet and painfully tense muscles in a hot bath.
Sweet words could not signify
From silent lips so dear
The church-bell of your sweat
I strain-- so ardently! to hear
-- I've also been writing a lot of poetry lately.
I've decided human speech is almost entirely useless as a form of communication, at least in the ineffective way I have been implementing it lately.
Megan and I were meditating again today. She gave me a cute birthday card and some fizzy Airborne tablets to help cure my cold. We chatted for quite awhile, but the only things I really needed to say were:
"Thank you. I love you also."
(I'm going to do her astrology chart next week.)
Why can't human beings cull the gems of honest sentiment from our swirling maelstroms of thoughts and say precisely what we mean and nothing more? Why must we collectively hide from raw expressions of sincere emotion? I often wonder. I generally surround myself with such intensely emotional people it would make sense if a certain amount of brevity of expression-- a natural shorthand among sympathetic souls-- developed over time. But it never does. We just let our tongues spin tangled webs of emotional filigree instead.
Anyway, the next time I'm on a date I'm going to think silently and fixedly of the real matter at hand, even if convention dictates that I must not say it:
"Do I want to wake up in your arms every morning for the next 50 years, drenched in your sweat, come and spit? Am I excited about this prospect? And, just as importantly, do you feel the same way about me?"
Nothing else seems to matter between men and women, romantically-speaking, unless children are involved.
On second thought, that doesn't seem very fun or a bit romantic, at that. Sigh.
PS Yesterday afternoon a young professional surfer I recognized from a big-wave documentary I saw last year came into the club alone. He sat next to the stage and looked up at me with warm brown yes.
"You're beautiful," he said simply and with the boyish ring of sincerity of a non-intellectual native Californian.
My heart began to beat fiercely.
I wobbled over to him afterward, nervously trying not to trip over my 5-inch heels. He was so handsome.
I gave him a couple of dances, resting my forehead against his (which I would normally avoid doing) and some Eskimo kisses (which would signify the remarkable advent of flying pigs regarding any other customer I've had thus far).*
Despite his most adorable efforts to get me to go out with him ("Do you like ARTIST X-- he's a friend of mine and I'm in town to see his show tonight. It's 6-8 in Chelsea, wanna go? " and "Are there any decent coffee shops near the SoHo Grand? Would you like to meet me there?" respectively) I couldn't really imagine that spending time outside of work with him would be a very good idea. He lives in Santa Cruz and is 24, end of story....
* Although I won't say it will never happen again because one never knows.
