Open Diary: Day One

September 12, 2010 at 10:19 pm (Uncategorized) (, , )

This piece is more than just a way to talk to Scin while I am out of town. It is a way to explore a particular form of writing that is memoir-like in style, mixing fact with literary elements. I am enjoying playing with this medium and hope you like it as well. 

It is 9-11 and that is not lost on me. It never is this time of year. But, the Gulf of Mexico is calm, people are few, and having a quiet beach to roam moves my mind to other things. 

I think of you. I think about the fact that we began this journey together nearly a year ago. And, I wish you were here. After all the months of short visits, long leavings, and the past couple of months finally in the same place, any leaving is hard. It seems wrong in some way to be anywhere trying to relax and enjoy things without you. It is what it is, however; and mom is clearly glad to be here. So, the mission of the trip is being met. Still, I miss you.

Last year while I was here, I wrote about learning to float. Really, I wrote about trust. This year, my mind is on all the many forms of trust.

I think of the trust between us. It still amazes me how I trust you so—trust you with my feelings; my affections; my deepest thoughts, fears, dreams, secrets. I trust you with my body in ways I have no other. I trust you with my life. I have trusted few. None so deeply as you. It takes a lot for me to trust, as you know. I spent my life trusting only myself, my instincts, my own learning and experience, my own abilities to cope and problem-solve, and a few carefully chosen, close people. I had to learn, by experience, to trust people again. This is how we all learn. I had to learn, by experience, to trust God. As you know, that trust grows, in many ways, each day. I know how hard trust is for you as well. The trust you bring me, I know, is not a thing you give easily. It is a gift. I cherish it. I recognize the largeness of it. And, I respect it.

Looking out at the vastness is that is the Gulf, it is natural for the mind to turn toward the smallness of our daily lives. The blessings we receive each day come to mind almost as a consolation of the difficult things—a kind of reminder that, even in the uncertainty, there is much that is given. Much that is good. Much that is better than good. I watch the sea after the sun has gone down. The water moves in shades of blackish-purple, grayish-pink, and deep indigo. A crescent moon hangs low and shimmers silver on the darkening water. 

As we have talked of faith, of the forces that shake it, the events and forces that revive and increase it, I think of the things we are taught. Our battle, we are told, is not with governments, principalities or people; it is with darker, unenlightened forces. I watch the changing water and ponder these things. We are like the water. We, too, can absorb and reflect both the light and the dark. These simply manifest differently in our solid bodies than they do in the water. In the water, the light is so clear, as is the lack of it as the sun goes down—clear, deepening blackness. Like the normal human doubt we feel when we are walking on shaking ground. We do not fully trust the ground to remain firm. At times doubt is good. It keeps us from becoming too comfortable or careless. But, if we are not careful, doubt can overwhelm us and become a state of being—a state of pessimism and lack of belief.

The things with which we struggle now, the uncertainty, the things we cannot see but which work on us, are like the sun behind passing clouds. They are temporary darkenings that seek to increase our normal doubt and uneasiness. Circumstances are simply the darkness trying to move us into the blackness where we cannot clearly see all the evidence that we are being cared for, that our needs are met, and that we live in a benevolent universe that responds to us. The difficult times are, indeed, the dark night removing the evidence of light from the water. But, the sun does rise. The light does return. And, we can carry the memory of the light within us, shine it outwards until it begins to shine as real as the sun. We can hold a torch into the darkness.

That light comes from the things we know. That we have been given much. That even in the difficult times, there is evidence every day of all we have been given. I look upon the moving water and know that this vastness teaches me much about the movement of the light and the darkness. I know that I need to continue to focus on what I can see, on all of the things that evidence I am being cared for—perhaps learning new lessons in preparation for something else—but being cared for nonetheless. I need to remember that there are things that are mine to do: that trying to be the best person I can be, trying to be responsible and accountable for my own thoughts, words and deeds, and seeking to do the next right thing, are mine. The rest is in hands larger and more capable than mine. It always has been. It is mine to remember that. In that, normative doubt and fear cannot become the lack of faith that brings about a deep undoing.

I am going in now. I will attempt to sleep. I will miss you as I have throughout this day. I will talk to you before we both retire in different beds, in different towns not unlike we did before. When we talk, I will remind you of my love for you, my trust in you and in us, and my trust that we are being cared for, that all will be well. I cannot help but think of all the ways that our journey together has already served to increase my overall faith. I am aware that as I grow in my own sense of self, I grow in my love for you and for us. There may be much I do not know. There may be much that is so uncertain the possible outcomes are out of the range of my sight. But, I do know this. I know from experience that when I am on the right path, obstacles are removed, things beyond my control are resolved, and the things I need come to pass—usually not in the form I envisioned, but they do come. We are part of all that comes to pass. We were brought together in a way that deserves consideration. I do know that this path is not only a good one, but the right one. And, I know there is no one I want to walk it with me but you.

In the morning, the sun will return. The water will be so clear, again, that I can see my feet pressing gently into the soft sandy floor. So, clearly that I can see the way in front of me.

NOTE:  This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.

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The Woman I Love: Through My Eyes

May 18, 2010 at 11:54 pm (Through My Eyes) (, , )

She is my baby girl:
She delights in small, simple things. Cuttings of blue hydrangeas centered on the table. The playful antics and loving cuddles of her cat, Simon. Any opportunity to freely, and with girlish joy, become lost in spontaneous dance in the kitchen, the hallway, wherever the music moves her.

There is a child-like excitement to her laughter; it is sincere, uninhibited, and fills the air around her like sunshine in the park. She is ticklish in certain places and giggles shyly when I find them. She falls asleep with the ease of a newborn. She breathes deeply the peaceful sleep of a child. Watching her sleep is one of the most tender things I know and is the best remedy for my own sleeplessness. Her skin is as smooth as the day she was born, like soft satin flesh everywhere I touch her. There is a wonderfully wicked smile that crosses her full lips when she is up to something and the game is afoot; that smile makes me weak in the knees. And the pout she flashes me when she doesn’t get her way—or thinks she won’t—runs through me like liquid fire. She is my baby girl. And, when Daddy is home, she is denied nothing. 

She is my best friend:
From the day we met, almost 27 years ago, there was a bond between us that seemed to have always been there, like the favorite place you sneaked off to as a kid and only half remembered until you stumbled on it years later. I have always been able to tell her anything. Throughout my life, there have been few people I have trusted, but I have trusted her with things I have told no other—she remembers even the old things and they are still between us. She was, for years, the only person I felt safe enough with to fall asleep first, to cry if I needed to, or to laugh and play in silly, child-like ways. I hold nothing back from her and never have. She was the only person I would watch The Wizard of Oz with; otherwise, I watched it alone—this is because she is the only person I would allow to see me cry when Judy Garland sings Over the Rainbow.

I can laugh with her about anything—even things that hurt. Even when I feel broken by some thrashing from the world, we find a way to laugh. And, I am healed. When I chased her around the house like a teenager in heat and caused her to break her toe, she never once blamed me. She even laughed and tried not to cry. She plays in the snow or throws ball with me and her son. She indulges our boyish games and giggles like the good sport she is.

Through her deep brown eyes, she sees me. And, always has. Her understanding of me is quiet, unintrusive and gentle, like my reflection in the mirror of a softly lighted room. She accepts me as if she is receiving something both commonplace and unexpectedly given just to her, like moon light falling through the bedroom window. She shows herself to me and knows I will keep her close and watch over her. She holds my secrets and my dreams like keepsakes hidden in a wooden box. And even though she knows how well I can handle myself, how strong I really am, she protects me as if I were a baby cub. She is my oldest and dearest friend. I am her sweet baby boi and woe to anyone who tries to hurt me. 

She is my lover:
She walks with the slightest sway in her hips—it is subtle, like the grown up remnants of a cheerleader’s trained and youthful strut. I purposefully walk just behind her so I can watch her and admire the strength of her legs, her ass. She pretends not to notice so that I can feel as if I am stealing glances, but I know she knows.  She has the breasts of a teenager; her nipples rise firmly at the touch of my tongue. I find myself thinking of this when she is talking and become aware I am staring. She feigns annoyance, points to her face and reminds me, “I’m talking up here, honey.” She smiles to herself when she thinks I am not looking. She bares herself to me completely and I am made one with her through her giving and my receiving. She touches me with an honesty I have never known with anyone but her—her touch gently breaks me open to her like Spring breaks the earth and brings forth bright blooming things.

Her lips are like strawberries, full and firm and sweetly soft. Kissing her is such an expression of intimacy and affection that it takes my breath and returns it to me kindly. I know and attend to every sound of her arousal, every change in her breathing. We breathe each other. The connection between us is a live wire crackling on the ground around us. Her mouth parts and I am joined with her. Her legs open and the depth of her is revealed to me. She wraps her legs around me hard and tight and I am made whole. Her hands reach for me, grasp at me; her nails pierce my skin and I am brought forth into her. She comes in waves like an ocean of ecstatic love and I am cleansed. She takes me into her mouth as if I am a gift—her head moves up and down on my boi-clit and I am made large and strong and complete. I am at her mercy. And merciful she is. She is relentless in her giving. She moans and gasps at my arousal, at my hand pressing the back of her head, my fingers pulling at her hair. Strings of near obscenities and romantic ramblings fall from my mouth like a storm. I come into her and she absorbs me gladly. In all we do, there is a joining of more than bodies. This is not simply loving recreation; it is re-creation. We are raised up, burned to ashes, and born again. 

She is my baby girl. I am her butch daddy. And, I deny her nothing. She is my best friend and, as such, she shows myself to me. She reveals herself to me. She is my lover. I am her baby boi. And, she denies me nothing. She is the woman I love.    

NOTE:  This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.

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