Discovering you, discovering me

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“Eve was framed” photo by Lori Vrba

Observing you, perception defines

I see my essence in your divine

I see my reason in your purpose

I see my ego on your surface

I see my flaws in your perfection

I see my deficient in your rejection

I see my sympathy in your exposure

I see my anxiety in your composure

I see my eccentric in your audacity

I see my coyness in your vivacity

I see my colors in your expression

I see my rigor in your digression

I see my love in your lust

I see my cynicism in your trust

In pieces of you, pieces of me are set free

Discovering you, I am discovering me.

My Love…

Alex Grey's 'Cosmic Lovers"
Alex Grey’s ‘Cosmic Lovers’
“‘My love, you are a river fed by many streams.
I bless all who have shaped you,
The lovers whose delights still dance patterns on your back,
Those who carved your channels deeper, broader, wider,
Whitewater and backwater lovers,
Swamp lovers, sun-warmed estuary lovers,
Lovers with surface tension,
Lovers like boulders,
Like ice forming and breaking,
Lovers that fill and spill with the tides.
I bless those who have taught you
and those who have pleased you,
and those who have hurt you,
All those who have made you who you are.’”

— excerpt from The Fifth Sacred Thing: Starhawk

Romanticism

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“Satire is people as they are; romanticism, people as they would like to be; realism, people as they seem with their insides left out.” Dawn Powell

“…Romanticism is people as they would like to be….” to add, romanticism is people as others would like them to be, events as people would like them to be, things as people would like them to be.

In the end, the people, event, and thing never are what it is wished to be. So why do we romanticize all of them as such? Maybe we should blame our creativity? Our endless imagination which can dive into whichever abyss it desires to get lost in…usually triggered by what the heart wants to feel.

Maybe we should blame music and movies, which give the impression to be written just for us. From music lyrics that invade our mental state and flirt with our feelings, to film’s  happy or heartbreak endings, fit to validate our mood.

Besides people and things, we also romanticize our past. To bring realism to light, hindsight is 20/20 with a slight case of amnesia. Enter romanticism and we romanticize our past based on how we feel about our present. Lack of contentment can send a person lurking in the past, romanticizing the loneliest days as one of their best; romanticizing a love that evaporated to the love that got away; romanticizing sleepless exhausting nights with a crying baby as sleepless nights of bonding with the new love of their life.

It is a cruel game, this game of romanticism. Even more cruel is if we give into it and assume romanticism as satire (or as people, events, things as they are), only to realize that romanticism took advantage of our naïvety and pulled us in and spit us out with the disappointments of failed expectations.

But, there is beauty in the intoxication of romanticism. This beauty lives in the inspiration it gives us, the inspiration to create. That love, that person, that event, that past, we romanticize and we create beautiful music, beautiful paintings, beautiful poems…beautiful art. Romanticism LIVES in art…no matter the satire.

A wild woman, A wild man- by Alison Nappi and Aubrey Marcus

A wild woman is not a girlfriend. She is a relationship with nature-by Alison Nappi

But can you love me in the deep? In the dark? In the thick of it?

Can you love me when I drink from the wrong bottle and slip through the crack in the floorboard?

Can you love me when I’m bigger than you, when my presence blazes like the sun does, when it hurts to look directly at me?

Can you love me then too?

Can you love me under the starry sky, shaved and smooth, my skin like liquid moonlight?

Can you love me when I am howling and furry, standing on my haunches, my lower lip stained with the blood of my last kill?

When I call down the lightning, when the sidewalks are singed by the soles of my feet, can you still love me then?

What happens when I freeze the land, and cause the dirt to harden over all the pomegranate seeds we’ve planted?

Will you trust that Spring will return?

Will you still believe me when I tell you I will become a raging river, and spill myself upon your dreams and call them to the surface of your life?

Can you trust me, even though you cannot tame me?

Can you love me, even though I am all that you fear and admire?

Will you fear my shifting shape?

Does it frighten you, when my eyes flash like your camera does?

Do you fear they will capture your soul?

Are you afraid to step into me?

The meat-eating plants and flowers armed with poisonous darts are not in my jungle to stop you from coming. Not you.

So do not worry. They belong to me, and I have invited you here.

Stay to the path revealed in the moonlight and arrive safely to the hut of Baba Yaga: the wild old wise one… she will not lead you astray if you are pure of heart.

You cannot be with the wild one if you fear the rumbling of the ground, the roar of a cascading river, the startling clap of thunder in the sky.

If you want to be safe, go back to your tiny room — the night sky is not for you.

If you want to be torn apart, come in. Be broken open and devoured. Be set ablaze in my fire.

I will not leave you as you have come: well dressed, in finely-threaded sweaters that keep out the cold.

I will leave you naked and biting. Leave you clawing at the sheets. Leave you surrounded by owls and hawks and flowers that only bloom when no one is watching.

So, come to me, and be healed in the unbearable lightness and darkness of all that you are.

There is nothing in you that can scare me. Nothing in you I will not use to make you great.

A wild woman is not a girlfriend. She is a relationship with nature. She is the source of all your primal desires, and she is the wild whipping wind that uproots the poisonous corn stalks on your neatly tilled farm.

She will plant pear trees in the wake of your disaster.

She will see to it that you shall rise again.

She is the lover who restores you to your own wild nature.

The male inspired response:

A wild man is not a boyfriend, he is a force.- by Aubrey Marcus

Can you love me in the blinding heat of a birthing star, when I shower warmth on distant moons?

Can you love me in the hole of the cosmic Black, where no one can reach me? Not even you?

Can you love me then too?

Can you love me when I drag buffalo skulls through the dirt for days, to the rhythm of an ancient drum?

Will you love me if my beard hides the scars in my heart, from battles I cannot explain?

WIll you love me when I lack courage, when I am defeated, when I won’t let you patch my wounds?

WIll you trust me when I smell of sweetgrass and sage, and when I stink of whiskey and sweat?

When I drink from the cup and play in astral light, will you anchor me to Home?

What happens when my words don’t work, and I can speak with only my eyes?

Can you love me enough to let me go, without asking me where I’ll be?

I am no poodle to lay groomed on a leash at your feet. I am the wolf that fetches the bones of truth.

A wild man is not a boyfriend. He’s not built for animal husbandry. He is a force. He is a cause for an effect. He is a mission.

Are you afraid to let me inside you? Not just my flesh, but my soul. The wild man is neither burglar or vandal. I will not take anything from you. I will not trample on sprouting seeds or pick flowers as a trophy. I am the sun on flooded fields and the fire for tangled webs.

Don’t be scared, lover, mother, maiden, crone. Take me as I am.

Even if I have the power to destroy worlds, I will not destroy you.

A wild man is a protector. A father. A warrior for all that is good.

When the chaos seeks to obliterate you, sheering your flesh from bone, I will hold all the pieces together in love, until you are ready to reassemble.

When your seas boil, and your winds throw cars at corn fields, I will wait patiently for you to catch my eye, so that both of us can laugh.

When Hell opens up the fiery gates, and sends all the cosmos against you… I plant my heels deep in the ground. I lay my shield low. My sword is sharp then, my love. The steel sings sweetly. With a smile, Hoka Hey! My last breath a farewell kiss. Today is a good day to die.

For ours is the oldest love affair. The greatest story ever told. Cupid and Psyche, Shiva and Shakti, You and I.

Same same but different. Would we have it any other way?

A wild man is not a boyfriend. He is a force.

“Take a lover who looks at you like maybe you’re magic…” -Frida Kahlo

Frida  Kahlo
“Take a lover who looks at you like maybe you’re magic..”

A lover who can see past your tragic

One who finds your imperfections perfect.

One who speaks your words before spoken.

One who knows where your shadows live.

One who asks nothing of you to give.

One who believes you can reach the stars.

One who is there when you’ve tried, but fall.

One who shows you their universe.

One who won’t judge your past hurts.

One who bares their naked soul.

One who holds your heart of gold.

One who kisses with pure intentions.

One who smiles at your name’s mention.

One whose eyes reflects your divine.

One whose magic you see shine.

Attraction

Vladimir Kush's Dream Catcher
Vladimir Kush’s Dream Catcher

Skin tone, Beautiful smile

Shy smirks, Mysterious eyes

Darkness of hair, Softness of lips

Curves of the body, Hands grips

Quiet demeanor, Internal dialogues

New perspectives, Intelligent monologues

Amusing humor, Brilliant mind

Consistent actions,  A heart so kind

Open affection, No expectations

Exposed adoration, No hesitations

Sharing of self, An open core

Expressive sentiments, A depth to explore

Begin on the outside, And then move in

Peel back the layers, Starting with skin

Pulled in from surface, On to the heart

Attraction is met, To create love’s art.