Irony. The very spot in the middle of my back that I couldn't reach properly to apply sunscreen today at the beach, is the same very spot that consequently got burned and is still very hard to reach to apply aloe vera. Feeling lonely...
A mes amis saucisses...
Si, durant votre vie saussiflarde, vous aviez eu la chance de rencontrer Yvonne Reichen,
ma mamie Nice, vous auriez probablement eu la chance unique de connaitre son amour
infini de la bonne chair.
Vous disposant dans une assiette, elle vous aurait dévêtit de votre enveloppe blanche,
vous faisant frémir en vous attrapant avec ses longs doigts agiles.
Scrutés et reniflés, vous auriez sursauté de plaisir a l'arrivée des coups secs de fourchette.
Vos pores fraichement ouverts et suitant quelques gouttes de votre chair fraiche, vous auriez
patiemment attendu, attisé par les effluves chaudes du chou blanc barbotant dans son riesling,
enlassant des grains entiers de poivre noir, caressant le lard fumé, et se couronnant d'une
unique feuille de laurier fraichement cueillie du jardin.
Enfin, elle vous aurez gentillement allongé sur le lit acide, fumé et sucré, et aurait refermé le
couvercle de la cocotte pour vous laisser transpirer de bonheur en toute tranquilité.
"Where did men go?" I asked. My friend Jacques said: "Remind me Adele, why do you need them?" He inspired me. Thank you. My response to you, Jacques:
Oh my dear, as long as men, or should I said boys, will believe that the feminine emancipation has made us self-sufficient and satisfied alone, confusing women independence with disinterest to them, genders will continue to walk in parallel, not hands in hands. The stronger the feminine, the greater the need to find the strong masculine to venture into the sacred, magical and creative land of her deep psyche -whether it's to teach, run a company, make art, food or a baby, all acts of LOVE, all acts of TWO.
Fifty years ago, which ever feminist said "we don't need men" was a frustrated woman, reactionary, making a rhetorical statement, greatly useful then, but absolutely hurtful now. Feminism has helped women rights, sexual liberation but has somehow hurt the deep, true, soft feminine. The modern women claiming she's strong like a man is only a weak girl covering up her lack of feminine by putting herself into a man's shoes. She's an unfinished, incomplete human being. Men and Women NEED each other, more than ever, times are great and challenging, calling out for a realignment of our eco-system. What is it? The endeavor of LOVE. A healthy tribe: we make the duo to build the trio, the quartet, etc, up to the village. Or how would we exist? We need to learn from each other again, to spend time and to built together, to LOVE together. Not a girl-boy, business deal type of union, this terrifying love of conventions barely holding up a few years because it's based on both parts egotistic "to do/to have" lists of life "things".
We are MADE to be completed by the opposite gender, as a part of a bigger ensemble, a greater Nature, which takes us through the experience of love, of life, and eventually throws us into each other arms, into Mother's mysterious arms. LOVE, a difficult and exciting land, new and challenging, but smelling like musk, rose, lips, and the warm vapors of the fresh homemade apple pie. This is LOVE, and it takes two. Like Miss Yin is useless without Mister Yang, which we already both carry: a feminine woman has a happy masculine side and a masculine man, has a happy feminine side. MEN, we need you. In conclusion, "Where did the men go?" was a call for the re-union, calling out women and men to meet up again.
I'm not waking up anymore. My dreams won't stop. Madame Night extends her fingers into my breakfast soup, juices or teas, and sucks them with her big mouth in front of my sleepy eyes. There's nothing I can do but watch her pointing at my inward, speechless as she caresses my tongue in circular loops. "Tell yourself the story again", she says, even though I haven't caught my breath or figured if it's Monday or Saturday yet. "I can't speak with you inside my mouth" I retort. Pause. She whispers: "Of course you can, turn up the low frequency amp and talk back to yourself. I don't need to hear you, I just watched you sleep." Barely breathing through my congested nostrils and my morning asthma, I oblige. I flip my third eye and re-run the run. The three acts, again. I derail for a bit, leaning on the left side of my bed-boat, to reach the morning sky, searching for air. Well, all I see is a beautiful cenotes, colored in deep green and blue tones, inhabited by a family of merpeople looking at me, through the most transparent liquid. What is that water? Because around it, on the road above from where I'm standing, everything is a grey/beige dryness, cracked stones and sticks of antique Bruxelles in ruins. Old Europe in future decay? My subconscious designing a neo-antique future, like they do in those sci-fi post-apocalyptic movies. What a strange dream... Splash! I'm inward again. My bedroom window is pushing me into the wet hole like a teen friend at the public pool. "No pushing!" Says the guard. Which guard? Too late, I like the jump anyway.
Email à trois de mes meilleurs amis, envoyé le 26 juillet 2011. Trois ans plus tard, je viens juste de remettre le couvert.
Les dernières pages de vieilles et pas si vielles histoires d'amour se tournent. Il y a toujours un autre chapitre, on a déjà lu le livre, les livres: ils appartiennent tous à la même collec, la collec des petits coeurs en joie et puis en peine. La vie roule sa bosse au soleil de Californie, vite-vite malgré la chaleur: je me sens courrir derrière ou pousser devant, mais en fait je suis vraiment dedans. Pourtant, je me sens seule. Dans un tourbillon d'évènements: chansons, rencontre, weekends, écrits, déjeuners, obstacles, chansons encore, amis, travail, travail, travail. Je continue. Je mixe le tout. On continue tous.
Parfois j'ai envie de tout lâcher, de tout foutre en l'air, aller dans une petite cabane avec un vieux miroir et une chaise, un vase et une fleur des champs dedans, un coussin ou je m'assoie et je fais: RIEN. Je pense a Herman Hess, la montagne, la Suisse, je pense aux odeurs de lait qui traverse le beurre frais. En fait, je me sens comme dans un petit cliché, passionnée, à regarder la vie par la lorgnette des belles histoires. C'est ce qui crée la distance, le regard sur soi, sur la vie, mais cette même observation fait la création, logique.
L'histoire est rarement synchrone avec l'heure du levé et du couché du soleil. D'ailleurs à minuit, les histoires se transforment en citrouille, aussi simple qu'un gros légume, qu'il faut éplucher, couper et mettre dans la soupe. Pour nous rappeler, dans l'histoire, que tout ça n'était qu'une histoire? Souvent, j'ai l'impression que je mélange carrosse et coucourde. Yin and Yang se chamaillent, derrière, devant... Merde, les "YY" twins, show me the middle!
Bon, je ne sais pas ce que je vous raconte, la boule de neige d'été est partie en sucette, Fulguro --- Point!!! La petite histoire du jour: je suis allée sur la page de P. pour le "unfriend" après maintes hésitations.... F...ing FB ... et il est maintenant "in a relationship" avec la femme avec qui il ne dormait plus. Toutes les petites cases s'alignent bien, et la vérité est qu'il a bien fait. Bien fait pour moi aussi! Je lui avais dit de le faire. J'espère que c'est un acte du coeur, car cette femme est là et elle l'aime.
Moi, j'étais pas encore guérie et mon héroïsme de pacotille -- to "unfriend" him -- n'est finalement qu'un dés de courgette dans la soupe a mémène.
Là, je veux partir de L.A. et vous faire des câlins. I miss you.
Aaaaannnnd scene! It's sad to witness the irony of it all... I was waiting a few days to see if you'd manifest anything. Niente. Bottom line, I don't really want to hang out again and I'm not really attracted to you, but I did have a great night, so I was curious to see how the aftermath would play. Well, the contrast between our date and its aftermath is striking. It all feels fake now, and those soft words in my ears, the "smittening", I mind as well toss them in the trash. I mean, do guys really have no balls these days? Please, tell me. One says one has been thinking about a lady for a while, really thought she was special, at first sight, and after one finally gets in bed with her, years later, the charm is gone? Why? Did one change his mind about the lady because one got to ejaculate once? Tristesse! First time sex is exciting sex but hardly ever deep. A man should know so much. Or, are we dealing with the stereotypical case of hunter got the prey, hunter is sated, hunter goes home?
I thought you were above average Lalaland Joe. But apparently, no. The trick with the One-Night Stander is that he barely ever reveals his profile at first sight. The very fact that he's not communicating is giving away his true identity. Hence my reason to only mention sex above. If there was any real feelings to follow up on, they would already be shared. Women don't mind One-Night Stander, but they hate disguised ones. Keep you woo-woos, be a proud one night lover and let's all have a wonderful time. Too easy... The LA One-Night stander is a trickster and a coward. Is your "busy" Hollywood life has given you a not-so-rare case of amnesia and you forgot that I even spent the night with you? Do they think we're stupid? It's offensive. No one is too busy for me. Like my friend Dana says: "Busy is another word for asshole!" She's right.
Most L.A. guys just don't call anymore, they text at best when their genitals are too full or they don't even text at all. No matter how much they appreciated the woman they spent an evening with, she's not even granted the courtesy of a: "It was nice but I don't want to see you again." That would be too courageous to do for average Lalaland Joe. Here, lots of men make women feel unappreciated, un-courted. And lots of women play overly sexualized power trips to control men, I'm aware. But the real tango, the feminine/masculine dance is doomed, fated. It's tragic.
Sadness colors that tragedy, a little. The bloodless story of modern relationships. The irony lays in the very events of our movie night. You know... "Her"... It was a really a promising title tough, but life shows itself before it even happens, sometimes in front of our eyes, on the big screen. It's Hollywood after all. Up to us to take note. And that's kind of poetic, or at least good material for reflection. We were not going to be a good story, but your silence gives me a great space to say what I think and probably make it a decent post for my blog. I still really appreciated our evening, yet it just lost half its life juice. C'est la vie!
Written on March 28st. 2009 while digesting a hardcore break-up - corrected and posted December 1st. 2013 while writing a screenplay about love, fertility and water.
We are linked to the soil of our planet by an amazing umbilical cord, which has fed us our entire life. Our mother has eaten the food grown from this soil, which has nourished her body and soul, allowing her to breath, to open her eyes, to wake up and walk, to grow and learn, to fall asleep and dream. Nutriments of the ground have grown her to be a toddler, a young girl, a teenager and a young woman. This food has fed her eggs, future us. Our dad has roughly taken the same path, roughly. And one day, these two amazing, lucky living creatures have met to love each other and create the super lottery winner, us! The food she ate grew the embryo we were, gave her magical strength to push us out of her womb and produced the milk that has fed the newborn we became. Dirt to wheat to bread to human's mouth. We have grown, following the same path, yet sometimes forgetting we're an extension of our mother, of our soil, hence our mother earth, all a perfect chain leading to lucky us. We're babies of the earth. "Humanity" comes from "humus" or soil, and means "earthly beings".
Like our mother soil, we recycle ourselves every minute, every day, every season. Every seven years, our cells are entirely regenerated. We're going through winters and springtimes like any other beings, mammals and else. In winter, a soil is hibernating, resting for a few months in a state of sterility to regroup and wake up stronger after a harsh yet necessary nap. What about us? How do we take our winter break and grow again in the spring? Have we, in the modern cities, lost our ability to know our natural cycles, which were perfectly understood in other cultures?
Some human beings still have their feet on mother ground, and understand nature's cycles by observing their environment: the width of tree rings, the number of onion skins? There's no such thing as a nature separated from us. Nature is one, we are her, she is us, by the umbilical cord. Could we be "in" nature again in modern city time 2013? Can we anticipate disease by tuning in to our organs, like the farmer anticipate rain by looking at the shapes of the clouds in the sky? Can we understand nature better by smelling lilies, kneading a dough of bread, brushing a friend's hair, or looking into a lover's eyes while climaxing?
The circle of nature. We take and give, we eat and expel, we produce and consume, we learn and teach, and we live and die, back to the original soil. We are recycling organisms like our mother earth. Like the good mother she is, she shows us that the more we give back - nourish, repair, replenish, cherish - in short, the better the recycling, the happier the body and soul. Maybe it's where nature exists, even if less visible in the cities, in the healthy process of recycling, in the "eco-nomy" of things, material or immaterial. Each part of us has a function and place. Like Cahuilla Indians of California summarized so well: "Things have to be right" (meaning in accordance with nature).
So. Valuable lesson: to prevent an irreversible "life" food coma, we shall carefully avoid the waste. The more we eat, the harder it is to digest, obviously. Excess are human but digestion should be processed consciously. As fat, painful, sad or dirty as they are, emotional or material wastes should be carefully observed, smelled, understood, loved and reintegrated into something creative, new and alive. Pollution is less the issue than the acceptance of pollution and the healing process of it. Dirt isn’t dirty, nothing is wasted and everything is impermanent.
By nature we change, age, die. People who fight growth claiming an artificial stability, usually accumulate toxicity and end up sick. Let's see, how could a soil suddenly decide to stop growing plants, refuse to get dry, wet, frozen, polluted or eventually die? Isn't it more stimulating to see us as evolving, grounded creatures then immaterial, disconnected beings floating above ground? Do we want to be flimsy creatures that break under cold, melt under sun and rot under rain?
But what happens when a cycle of life is terminated too abruptly? What is nature doing when a sunny day at the beach turns into a tsunami? When something more painful than the coldest winter day, happens out of nowhere? Some events are endured like a life abortion or a painful planned delivery. Death of a love one, abandonment, betrayal, lies, accidents, unbearable wounds like hard break-ups are just our personal hurricanes, wildfires and earthquakes. Our own natural catastrophes. We painfully deny them as we feel that the change is unfair, or too soon. Not now, please! The story isn't over! My fruit isn't ripe yet! I need more time, more life, more love. It's way too soon to fall off the branch. If it ever dies, let the fruit be plumed, laying in the green grass, bitten by a happy mouth.
Yet, as unnatural as they seem, catastrophes ARE natural. Like the fever expels the disease by raising the body temperature, earth is shaking off her diseases by trembling, flushing, and heating up. Personal or universal disasters are little deaths giving us the chance of a clean slate, and in time, the best fertilizer to grow happiness with. Because when the shock is so hard, the survival mode kicks in: a cocktail of phenomenal hormones, natural medicine produced by nature, allows the healing (adrenaline, coagulation or fertile ashes post wildfire). And sometimes a total shut down is diagnosed by earth (a coma or a sterile soil). Imagine a tree fighting the hardest winter of its life. It gathers all it strength to fight the stress of the exceptional cold and if the tree doesn’t freeze too long, it should live even stronger, knowing its furthest limits, surviving its deepest wounds.
Like most Japanese do, we could use a goldfish to warn us of an emotional earthquake. Awareness, anticipation, along with a real connection to our roots, in other words to our planet, in other words to ourselves, can allow us to always keep a little goldfish in the back of our mind. My personal catastrophe: a hard break-up, has started by purposely ignoring the little goldfish I always carry in me. I saw the tsunami from day one but I had to stand still, stay on the beach and wait for the scary wave to take me. The whole experience was schizophrenic. I was suffering but I had to go through it. I ended up calling it my dive into the "bucket of shit". The deeper down the bucket, the smellier the shit. Yes, I hit rock bottom against the smelliest crust of shit. Why didn't I run if I knew the wave was going to hurt so bad. Why didn't I listen to mister goldfish? Well I did actually, and he told me the two sides of the story. He said that if I'd run, I'd never know why that flood was hitting my life so violently. That if I stayed in a comfortable routine, up in the coconut tree, observing the wave from a distance, checking my demons from above, I might never have a real access to my deep bucket, my deep shit, my deep life. I needed a change, to digest something very heavy, unresolved for years, rotten in me. Hibernation and winter weren't enough, I needed an earthquake in the form of a dark man, the sexy shadow in me and face it, like the wild woman does when she finds herself in the dangerous edges of the Special World, in the very dark cave, the underground of her psyche.(Thank you, Pinkola Estes). Facing the wave of water was the same as standing at the entrance of my cave. So I dived in, I really went for it. Dark, scary and delicious, I owned this love story and loved my torturer more than myself. I never turned my back to run until it was completely over. I fucked, I cared, I loved, I craved, I lacked, I was humiliated, I was hurt, I felt like shit, in the bucket of smelly shit and I cried, cried and cried more. I excessed and "intoxified" on love and then granted, I had to detox, which was the hardest part. Lack of breath, lack of sleep, lake of life: a little death. But nature and a nasty email from my demon lover came to rescue, I got angry. Very angry. Heat formed a ball in my throat and flushed my cheeks up, I was ready to fight back. Not directly with the demon who didn't deserved any of my energy at that point, but against manipulation, perversity, injustice, false indifference, moral abuse, nastiness and cruelty in love. Fire fight was the first sign of detachment from the shadow. Fire was my new light, and my new weapon to sweat it out. One day at a time, I finally digested and shit a very nice amount of creative writing, and a completely renewed me. Happier, cleaner, flushed, recycled.
I'm proud. But I know that sometimes we can't recuperate. We freeze. Is fear the enemy? Does it prevent defrosting after winters and leaves us in a permanent hibernating state? Cold. Rootless. Depressed. Anxious. Bitter. Uninterested that springtime will always come, incapable of dropping our sloughing skin? The animal gets scared around a predator. Fear gives him the strength to fight, to survive. Have we lost the ability to use fear to set ourselves in motion back to life, leaving us petrified instead? I was scared, but fear and pain gave me the strength to kick myself back up when I hit the very bottom. Fear is another precious gift of nature. An alarm: a temporary a state with a chance to motion.
And sadness? Can we drown in our own tears? Well, everything gets sad at times, everything gets wet. Mammals grieve the loss of an offspring. The river flows under the rain, the ocean moves under the storm. I like to say: “When a mermaid cries, it only makes more water”. It's just water: cleansing, flushing, changing us. It happens and it passes, like all parts of life, no matter what. A lot of waters, a lot tears meet in the ocean. The function of the ocean is to give life and to recycle death. It's a recipient, not a dumpster, but it will cleanse everything, and nourish us back. To die a little to live, and we shall try to breath through it.
The last step of my recovery was air. To inhale the wound, into my heart and exhale it out, through my back. That breathing exercise was my yoga teacher's Tara's exercise for forgiveness, which means, "to give up", or "to give completely". The acceptance of this difficult part of my life and the let go of it, through my back, back to the universe. Air terminated the work of my own little catastrophe by creating space and carrying away the pain. It was an ultimate experience of complete loss of control, and a final trust of own cycle of nature.
A wise woman friend once told me: "In Arabic culture, we say: there's onion days and honey days." It's a grey day that makes the next sunnier. It passes. Onion to honey. Always. Winter ends, resting soils make fertile soils, good nights make better days, stinky manure makes the gorgeous rose. Even our emotional catastrophes, our break-ups, diseases and death are part of the seasons of life. Part of the complex eco-system and atmosphere we live in, and call planet earth. Earth, Fire, Water and Air do their work, always. As long as we accept, digest then let emotional hurricanes pass, the energy of life always recycles, always wins, and always thrives.