It’s been two years since I’ve spilled my celestial milk upon this electric page. Much has happened. Inertia and stagnation have not been around to stain the days. I have been operated on and split open like a pomegranate and I now have more scars to add to the tattoos of life’s fabric.
More grey hairs have found their way like succulent weeds through my genetic clock and sprouted their silver trails. My hands and feet are as brown as ever, and as I move around the sun, with new corporeal stamps of time, I think I’m more beautiful than I was in my twenties. I see it in my face, in the experiences I embraced, in the loneliness endured, in the ecstasy I’ve enacted.
I see the grey on the sides of my hairline and I see how it adds a witchy aspect. My nose long and already witch like is lovingly shadowed by the silver hairs.
I’ve entered the most ecstatic times I’ve ever experienced with a lover.
My body healed finally from years of neglect and self-hate has become a temporary love temple for myself and shared with another. I’ve entered the most succulently, spiritually magnetic time of experimental sex, deep-hearted play and transcendence…so far.
I think of the memories of pleasure we carry in our body..and the memories of pain-sadness-injury-fear. But the way I’ve been feeling lately…this pervading scent of pleasure intoxicates me, unexpectedly jumps through my memory, through my fingertips, through my cells and reminds me of why I’m here. To come. To experience the passion of living and speaking the no-name of it. Just to call out in sweat, in ecstasy at 3pm in a bedroom the no-name of pleasure is a heavenly act of rebellion. I think of Lilith who refused to lie under the power of God’s created man. I think of Lilith, the woman who yearned for knowledge and was punished for the transgression of DESIRE.
I think of knowledge as pleasure. Arcane knowledge, banned books, banned art. The body as a text, like Monique Wittig’s Lesbian body. Tracing over the flesh, under the nails, breathing into your lover’s mouth, leaving soft pressure on silken skin. Winterson’s heroine’s wild and riding seas of uncertainty..but fearless and full at times of self-worth. I think it is a great dis-service to not speak up about the pleasures of sex with oneself as much as with others.
What a shame so many, and I say women in particular based on my own encounters with female colleagues and friends, say ‘Sex..what’s that…I don’t have a partner’. How ridiculous. The greatest romance, is the one with oneself, right Oscar? How many have had their sensual imaginations hijacked by media forces, by lazy second-hand notions. To not touch one’s body lovingly…as though one is waiting for permission from the presence of someone else? Or something else.
To never succumb to self-love is a sad state of affairs. I encourage at every opportunity the notion that all beings should reach out to themselves with bated breath, with anxious hands, with feathers, with the wind upon their goose-pimpled flesh, with sun on heels, on thighs, on neck, with book on belly, with poetry on the tongue, with memories of scent and light and sound…and touch themselves for the palace of their own divinity, their own return, is only a breath away.