I’m not sure if what to make of this portrait. My daughter (i.e., Ariel) created it. I figure the woman is from another place and time. She was in love but lost her way to beauty. Men became angry when she did not see upon them as a possible suitor. The eternal drum in her village holds her corpse. Her name was Wanda…
Men worship to be loved by a woman of darker skin. They would touch their lips on burning coal to please them…across the Pacific they travel miles just to smell her robe…or the flowers that draped her hut in a village long since gone. She was known to make men soil their pants with excitement. I wonder when they saw her what did they feel: Love? Saddened? Euphoria? How could one woman drain wealthy men without touching them? Who knows? Maybe its just a fantasy these lost souls were seeking, nevertheless, Jacob was different.
Jacob was a handsome mix of Latino, Native-American, and Jewish descent. He grew up in communities that never refuse their children. A freshman at Harvard when cohorts introduced the Pacific Goddess named Wanda. The story has it no man can see her and not fall into a quiet trance. She was this beautiful, as like a singular rose among many unwanted bushes, her complexion blinded men. Her body a mosaic of curves, breasts, and long hair which ran to her lower back. Jacob was enamored as a stone watching her move, he wanted the woman who wanted no man.
I am sure the story ends as usual, Jacob loses his way kills her and himself in a bit of rage. How tragic, beauty ruins as much as hate…but what happened you ask? Don’t know? I was only willing to read so much. As the story goes read the entire story and become like you know…Jacob. Never seen or heard from again. The village holds secrets especially Wanda’s private affairs.
I saw a beautiful bird fly by me today and I asked where she was going. Her voice covered with silk hidden by a peculiar smile said, “I’m going to fall in love with you today”. “This little bird understands nothing about love, at least not about the love of a strong independent man. Her wings fluttered and she whistled, “Do you love someone?” I replied with expedience, “Of course, I love a confident woman, her scent sequestered with confidence and breasts humming a melody especially for me. I’m a fussy lover little bird. My lover must show me everything. Her reservoir must have things in it I’ve never seen or taste.”
I saw a bird fly toward me today and sat beside me on a bench. ..I said “how are you”? The attractive feathered friend seemed puzzled and joyful from the encounter. “Why are you smiling I asked?” Her smirk unable to run and hide from her smile, her lips oozed with shyness. She spoke, ‘what kind of woman do you love?” I thought for a moment while my head filled my hands. Hmm…I love a sincere and hot woman. Her flesh tender to the touch yet sizzle when I kiss her privates. I want her to stab her nails into my back as my eyes descent upon her belly’s breathing rhythmic. My lover’s cramped smile says in any language, “Oh baby, you’re so good to me”
What you know about love, the bird says. “Hmm…a lot, I feel my lover in my imagination while she’s in the shower, I taste her before I see it. I’m not shy little bird. In fact, my heart says everything out loud; I’m a naughty boy with a glamorous mouth. My lover loves this, I can tell. Oh, how I talk about her body and my preferences. I have the wildest imagination. At times, I drain myself just from the touch of her pelvis on my chin. Sometimes…I bite my lip sometimes but it doesn’t hurt. Bird, I love her until she breaks and I put her back together again for the next day.
“Eyes wide open with my mind wide shut. Heart still beating with the blood flow ceased. Arms outstretched but my hands can’t feel. In the midst of a storm stark naked begging for the refreshing coolness of the rain the ease the burning of my ignorance. Pouring the water on my tongue hoping that it will quench this insatiable thirst to feel what so many others seem to experience.
Staring glazed over into a mirror hoping to become enlightened in my own self worth and existence. Searching for my way around a dark room feeling nothing but hoping to find a way out. Peeling away at my own flesh hoping to develop a new layer of sensation. Unaware of the concept of pain and incapable of understanding the affection of emotion.
Eyes wide open with my mind wide shut. Heart still beating but the blood flow has ceased. Arms outstretched but my hands can’t feel.
You rise, shining your presence on us all. I rise to your warm kisses upon my soul, bringing me into a state of overwhelming passion. You grace us with your gentle sometimes over powering existence, yet when time comes, you understand how to give us space. But for me, this space you provide is hell. For without your light I am lost in a field of darkness, drowning in a sea of the unseen, burning in the fire that is the pain of my past.
You rise, allowing us to move freely underneath your beautiful glare. I rise to the song that you provide for the birds to sing, placing a smile on my face and a sense of exuberant optimism for the start of this new day upon my heart. But then surely, you must rest as well. But what about me, there is surely no rest for the weary!
For in your absence, my mind runs rampant wondering if your light will shine once more; my arms, fully extended search for the way back into your warm embrace; my feet, blistered from the journey to forever bask in the light of your presence; my heart, cold and torn from your exit and leaving me in the silence of the night.
Oh sun, by day I take for granted your loving warmth and nurturing embrace and by night I cower bruised, battered, beaten, lost and alone awaiting your return. Day and night, so such is the pattern of life.
You will not wish, cry, or pray away what is bothering you spiritually. You will not tithe, donate, or give charitably away this divine irritableness either. Sadly, only the clever and immature attempts to barter with nothing. As we know, the purgatory starting line will continue to reappear with this thinking.
The tao te ching, bible, quran, or motivational books are useless concerning your spiritual uneasiness. Being an accomplished reader does not gain favor. Renewing one’s consciousness requires rigid inner reflection and determination. As a result, old belief patterns should become susceptible to refutation. “Out with the old and in with the new.”
But, unchaining false realities, harder than imagine. Why you ask? Because the chained consciousness lives with soreness as an acceptable feeling. Hence, the doubtful spirit becomes easier to fake as real in public. In the end the inflexible consciousness unwilling to trust her inner being will pain religiously.