The Art of Making Love

I met an Asian woman that was studying English as a second language at our local college. We dated a few times and our different cultures always gave us lots to talk about. In her language she said there was no term for “fuck” the way we in North America use it when we are angry. The word they used for “fuck”, which I have now forgotten, could be translated to mean “the art of making love”.

She was short and sweet and fit so nicely into my arms, our kisses were soft and gentle and delicious. She said she loved my gentle ways. I was so looking forward to making art with her. We got along so well.

She said I was different from all the North American men that she had met. She said her friends called North American men either “coke” or “fuck”. I suggested they could also call them “beer”. She laughed. I think I came up with a few other names for them. 

I told her that she could call me “fuck” but to never call me “coke”. I was trying to make a joke and point out that I do not drink coke or beer but I would love to be called “the art of making love”. I told her that buying a coke was against my religion. Just like shopping at Walmart. 

She said that she had dishonoured me and that she could never see me again. 

And that was the last I ever saw of her.

hop skip jump

hop hop

I trust that I know more than I know now. So now I jump “with reckless abandon” (Castaneda) into everything once I have pondered all the options. I am no longer afraid. No longer afraid of what lies under the surface because I know I act out of love and not out of some other “need” hidden under the shell of who I am. I have “absolute trust in the goodness of the earth”. I know I am “one of the ones we have been waiting for” (Alice Walker). And I know myself very very well...

hop   

Even when I fall off my horse he stops and stands beside me. Not falling means not trying. It means staying in your safety zone.

And I love flying.

I no longer “fall in love”.

I “fly in love”.

Landing is after all just a controlled crash. And I have always thrived (not just survived) from the experiences. “If you are prepared to fly, you must be prepared to fall”. (I will have to find that song again!) And if you are prepared to fall... you must be prepared to crash.

hop

It’s a style of writing I came up with years ago. To simulate how we hop from one thought to the next. Much like an i-pod on shuffle. To be as un-academic as possible. To be as organic as possible.

hop  

It’s also my practice of being ready for the next challenge, to have a solid launching pad (or is that pod?) to take off from and land on. One must have a solid pad (or is that pod?) to blast off from and know the base of who and what I am to have a place to land and recuperate on... to get ready for the next blast off...

The pad (or is that pod?) is named that because it is swampy, organic, ancient and at the same time like a modern launch pad, cutting edge, a place to blast off from with all the aids of current information and technology. It’s also a place to wrap myself in. To morph into and out of. To grow a new tail... to lose one. A pad (or is that a pod?) on which to rest while my new wings dry.

skip

We once thought that DNA was solid, a compete sequence limiting us what we can be. Our genetic fate. We thought of it as read-only disc. Now we see it as more of a read-write disc and we can influence what is written and therefore what is read.

We cannot change our DNA, we can however effect which strands we activate and use to grow from by changing the wrapper.

We can change the wrapper in which we hold our DNA. We can accept the wrapper we are given, one made out of Chief Boyardee, GMO’s and hydrogenated oils or we can build our wrapper out of the organic goodness of the earth. 

   

It may not save us from getting cancer or some other disease but it does give us a ‘chance’. A chance to...

jump

be the hop,

paul

Dates 101.1 The River Elf

The River Elf.

She loved rivers so I knew the perfect place for our first date. A walk along the river.

Again I met this wonderful woman on-line. She was studying to be a healer. 

She was very fit and healthy, cute and short… my kinda woman! And was learning natural healing.

I took her for a walk at my farm. As we walked I was trying to find something in common to talk about so I began asking about all plants that we saw along out walk.

I asked her to find a plant for me.

“Find your own plant” she told me.

So I reached down and picked a small yellow flower.

“Here” I said, “tell me about this one”.

“That’s my flower!” she yelled, “you’re a fucking asshole.”

 She got in her car and drove away.

 St. John's Wort

101 Dates

101 Dates and the search for love

Not sure where to start because I don’t remember my first date! Well, I do remember my first date but not my first current date since my last relationship ended. So I think I’ll start with the women who was also on a quest of 101 dates to find the right guy of which I was one – just not the number 101!

I met her on-line and we emailed a lot. She began phoning me and we talked many times. She ran a small business and I was able to help her with some staff problems. She was very spiritual and a health freak – so we got along great until one day she told me that buying “freshly squeezed” orange juice was not a good choice for my daughter. She was right of course! After that she disappeared.

The next spring I heard a story on CBC radio called “freshly squeezed” and now I understood exactly what she meant. The orange juice industry was lying. About the same time I contacted another person on-line. She instantly wanted to meet me. We arranged to meet the next Sunday. I told her that was easy!

We met at a spot between our cities and she wanted me to take me to the beach. It was May 24 long weekend. As we drove she told me the she was the one that was phoning me the year before and even though she had gone away and dated many men she thought of me every day.

Before the afternoon was over we were walking hand in hand and sharing gentle kisses. She loved my gentle kisses and touch. We had such a strong attraction and connection. It was so easy.

She explained that she was seeking someone and that she was not ready to settle down and that she was trying to meet as many men as possible and develop a friendship first. We met many nights and went for many walks; she told me the story of her life. It was an amazing story of trouble and love. She shared everything with me. We had the most wonderful times together. Our kisses were – magic. Our bodies wanted each other.

She told me that I used one word over and over and that she wanted to open a dance-health club and call it that. I couldn’t guess that word. It was “Thrive”. She called me all the time and a talked about how much she wanted to see me. We were always making plans to go dancing but they never worked out.

One weekend we had a date to go horseback riding but there was a thunder storm so we went to her place instead. She wanted to get naked and for me to give her a massage. We spent all day naked kissing and cuddling and eating and talking. I gave her three massages. First I gave her a muscle massage. Then I gave her an energy massage… then later I gave her a sensual massage…

After midnight she passed me a condom and asked me to make love to her. I couldn’t do it. I made a promise to the world to only make love when I am in love – in a relationship… I held her as we fell to sleep.

We hung out a lot together. My daughter was in a play and I took her to it. In the middle of the play she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I don’t know why but that has always been one of the most memorable kisses that I have ever had.

On my birthday I was alone, my daughter was in a play and I was drunk on reading Tom Robin’s “B is for Beer” with all those pheromone Fairies flying between us I called her and told her I loved her.

I never saw her again.

Where oh where

Did my little blog go? Been off for while and tried to post something last week.. Where did it go?

Blood soaked heart

Blood soaked heart.

I was at a party with my horse in a dream. I was leading her around without a lead. She was prancing and showing off and loving the attention. There was a beautiful young athletic looking woman there that following her around and finally got on her bareback. Later I saw her in a room shooting up. She didn’t see me but later I saw her with a bloody nose. It wasn’t from being hit; it was from all the drugs she had been doing. She let me clean the blood off her face and nose. I cleaned her face with a soft wet white towel and rinsed the blood out in the sink. A few hours later she was shooting up again between her legs. She was naked in room full of people.

She saw me looking at her. “No one fucking cares” she said.

As the party was ending her nose was bleeding again. I began to clean it up but then she began bleeding from her eyes. I was wiping the blood from her face and told her she was too young for this, it would kill her.

“You’re such a fucking romantic” she said and leaned into my chest and let me hug her.

“You think you can save the world but you can’t you know.”

 I said perhaps I could save her.

“Why, so I can live and watch the world die? I don’t fucking care, I just want to get high.” She was crying on my chest. “Look, I’ve ruined your T-shirt.”

I told her I always ruin my new shirts, I can never keep them clean. I told her not to worry about it.

“Look” she said, “I bled in the shape of a heart on your shirt.”

Call me a feminist...

“I’m not a feminist as you know” she felt she had to tell me.

What? I thought, why does this 75 year old woman have to start off the conversation telling me she is not a feminists when it seems clear to me that she represents what the suffer jets fought for? Her right to vote and own property and be person. Her daughter has a successful career and like her mother, not afraid to live unmarried. Her two granddaughters have both graduated from university. All of these women have benefited from feminism and yet their grandmother feels she has to tell me she is not one? She knows I call myself a feminist as her granddaughters continual tease my about being over the dinner table. (I call myself and ecological feminist but that’s another blog.)

Her husband died about 20 years ago at which time she got her driver’s licence. She is a very strong and independent woman somewhat confident in her sexuality and yet she feels there is something wrong calling herself a “feminist”. Where does she get the idea that feminine is “evil” and wrong.

From the mainstream media of course. I know her male friend is an ex-cop and a Sun reader. He was one of those cops that entrapped gays in a sting operation at a local park. The cases all got thrown out of court before the got that far.

Who educates these people?

My theory is that it is the media plants. The people that work for the “firm”, those that operate in the media, the universities and politics. The people behind Stephen Harper like Tom Flanagan who has been quoted as quoting Machiavelli’s “fortune is a woman and it is necessary, if you wish to master her, to conquer her by force." (http://rabble.ca/blogs/bloggers/gerry-caplan/2011/12/how-stephen-harper-creating-new-canada)

So these shills for war and oil and the bankers tell us one thing, we are in Afghanistan to save and protect the woman and children from the abusive Taliban… and yet they are determined to return them barefoot and voiceless back behind the oven.

And why is it that seemingly intelligent strong minded people can’t see the hypocritical thinking of the corporate media and its shills for oil, banks and war?

It’s because the liars know that if you repeat a lie often enough it becomes a “truth”.

They know the power of words and symbols and will tell lies take away their power and redefine them to meet theirs. A quick Wikipedia search and we see feminism defined as “… a collection of movements aimed at defining, establishing, and defending equal political, economic, and social rights and equal opportunities for women.” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feminism)

And yet the shills want us to think that feminism is somehow wrong.

Why? Because the War Machine is afraid of women.

It they let women have an equal voice we will nurture peace; create a just and equal world for everyone. Greed will go the way of the dodo bird as it seems to be consuming itself anyway.

We cannot dominate nature as we are seeing (male) but we can nurture nature for all of our benefits (female).

So call me a feminist and Uncle Tom a manly male as he calls for the execution of Julian Assange and the raping of women to master them.

Personally i want the women in my life to be my equal... and very different!