I haven't much time to post this week - I'm getting ready to do a performance piece next Saturday at a local women's event devoted to women's sexuality called Cliterature.
Am I nervous? You bet I am. I suffer from acute, shaking, nerve-wracking performance anxiety. Fortunately, I've been building my confidence with vocal and guitar lessons....and I am reading, not singing. I am determined to let go of my fears and have fun.
In the meantime I've been going through some of my old notebooks, again, and pulling out things I like. This one is a few years old...please enjoy. And perhaps, if the video works out, I can post my own performance right here, after the show is over.
She says “Wouldn’t it make sense to stay home with the cat, curled up soft and purring on the blanket?”
Snow flies past the window, swirling, and it obscures the houses across the way. The window is open the tiniest crack, and bits of white cold are floating in, not far enough to reach the bed, but enough to singe the air with frost.
“Don’t go,” she begs me. "Whatever it is can wait. See how the cat sleeps, tail wrapped around his body, covering his cold nose? He purrs mindlessly, surrounded with warmth. He doesn’t care if his shift starts in an hour, or if there are uncaught mice scampering across the snow. His body says sleep, and he sleeps.”
Shift him over a bit, that’s the way. Goddess, your feet are cold. Closer, now.
"You could call in sick. Or maybe school is cancelled. Checking the road conditions requires movement and I’m staying right here."
I’ll move my hand with the
that makes you squirm.
I like to watch that.
And while I watch, and sink and purr, like the cat, and the snow flies outside, while the leafless branches moan with the wind’s caress, while we are, I know you are somewhere else. I can’t follow you there, although I’ve tried, I don’t know the words that might unlock you.
And I want so much to see you open, your heart mind body, but I can’t get there with you.
What closed you, and when?
"It shouldn’t be this much work. I’d rather have it all served up on a big platter and know instead of guessing. Instead of having to penetrate, I want to guide my fingers effortlessly through the fluid of your inner workings. I constantly watch the mirror of myself as we evade what’s tough. Each of us immutable, and yet unreachable."
"Can we start with something simple? What do you like, for instance?"
I answer “I like to watch you sleep.
I like the way coffee smells in the morning.
I like layers of soft, warm blankets and silk pajamas that rub against my legs.
I like the sun as it hits the western horizon and spreads red across the sky.
Colour, I like colour. And the way the hills roll softly on the drive from Waterloo to Wellesley.
I like the spice of dal, the heat of curry and cayenne,
the coolness of the yoghurt, the sweetness of chutney all together in my mouth.
I like to coax tiny plants that cling to life.
I like the smell of basil, the crisp taste of garden-fresh spinach.
A clean house. Apple butter dripping off a knife.
Aimless wandering and long stretches of sand. Darkness, no light."
"What about you? What do you like?"
"No, don’t reach for your clothes yet...."