Of Course, That's Who She Was
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Image by Engin Akyurt from Pixabay
The girl from No Man’s Land would have looked a downtrodden prostitute in her tattered skirts were it not for her walk. Hers was not the gait of desperation. She had the long stride strut of a man.
One glimpse and his body became a traitor to him yet again, his longing for her more brutal than ever.
The Wanderer didn’t realize he was following her until a large black carriage caught her attention.
A quartet of horses pulled their burden with a high-stepping trot, the open box exposing the four noblemen inside.
The cape of one soared outside the carriage, its extravagant length sweeping along the wharf. The gentleman’s face was hidden with the likeness of a skull, and the Wanderer realized it must be All Hallows Eve. All the occupants were in costume, their faces covered in masks.
But their voices were loud, their accents rendered uncouth from drink.
The carriage stopped before the most raucous tavern on the wharf, the sounds of merrymaking ringing from inside.
The Wanderer raised his brows.
Surely the gentlemen wouldn’t dream of going inside. This was the place for those who lived and worked on the wharf, not for the guests of a fancy dress ball. But the garbled discussion about the fun that could be found on the wharf confirmed they intended to do exactly that.
The Wanderer shook his head and snorted.
The noblemen looked absurd stumbling out of the carriage, tripping over the capes cascading to their ankles. When they lifted their masks, they uncovered bloated features and bleary eyes. But the tallest of the four was the last to remove his, the grinning violet demon replaced with a handsome face.
The Wanderer immediately recognized the type of noble he resented the most.
He suspected this was a man whose pride exceeded his ability. Even his beauty betrayed that kind of vanity. Sharp cheekbones sliced the midline of his face, full lips curled in derision, his chin at a high tilt. His dark brown eyes were empty when he looked at his friends, his contempt for them thinly veiled. But he still followed them into the tavern.
The Wanderer saw the girl watching them as well.
Her eyes glittered as she stared after the billowing cape of the handsomest nobleman, her thick teeth gleaming when she smiled. She didn’t hesitate before she followed.
The Wanderer’s throat grew tight and the churning in his belly surged the taste of bitterness to his mouth.
“Go home…”
The call of his heart was endearing in its gentleness.
He tried to capture the lightness of spirit he had from his vision of going back to the village.
But the memory of the girl was seared into his flesh and the thought of her with the arrogant nobleman made him burn. The Wanderer found himself in front of the tavern before he knew where he’d gone. His stomach clenched and the throbbing of his heart was agony. He tried to will himself to turn around and go home.
Instead, he pushed through the doors.
The revelry inside knocked the wind out of him.
Seamen were everywhere, both fishermen and pirates. There were also vagabonds, conmen, craftsmen, and merchants. All of them drinking together in the riotous brotherhood of men, the only women in the tavern were serving wenches and prostitutes.
The former were comely with blouses laced up their middles, generous breasts pushed against their necklines, arms muscular from carrying mugs of ale, most holding three to a hand. Others carried snifters of high spirits, their balance impeccable as they held their trays high and pushed through the crowd. The wenches were adept at avoiding unwanted touches, leaving room for the night ladies to move in.
The prostitutes’ faces were garish from powder and rouge, their flimsy gowns cut low to the waist. They stalked for the amorous embrace, their sharp eyes prowling for the look of lust, a mouth turned down from hidden sadness, boredom crossing one face in the company of friends. Those were the signs the night ladies sought out before sidling near their men and smiling with a suggestive wink.
The Wanderer couldn’t move at first.
The shouting and singing merged into a loud buzz ringing in his ears, his nose assailed with the smells of sweat, liquor, and cheap perfume.
Then the mass of bodies became a rolling sea that drew him into its storm, and he found himself winding through the crowd.
The Wanderer was grateful nobody was in costume, for that would have been too much to withstand. He was surprised to find an empty stool at the bar. Before long, he had his seat and a frothing pint before him, leaving him free to scan the room.
The fancy dress quartet was easy to find.
The florid tavern keeper kept them separate from the mêlée, settling them at a large round table on the stage and gesturing to the prettiest of his wenches to serve them.
She seemed cheerful with her dimpled cheeks and a round face framed with copper curls. But she had a taste for the vulgar.
The noblemen roared when she pulled a match from her cleavage and struck it against her teeth to light their cigars. The stoutest of them smacked her bottom, chortling at the loathing that marred her features.
The wench made her way to the counter and waited until she was loaded with snifters and mugs. Then she disappeared with her tray into the latrine, smiling when she came out and returned to the table onstage. Her tone was playful as she urged her honored guests to throw the spirits down their throats, for there were more to come. She smirked after they drained their snifters and bowed with a low curtsey.
The Wanderer laughed with everybody else in the tavern.
But the noblemen had no idea of the crude joke played on them.
Revelers cheered the feisty wench, tossing coins on her tray and pushing notes down her cleavage. The tavern keeper waited with raised brows as she made her way through the crowd. He placed more drinks on her tray and pointed to the stage, but his severity relented with the grin he couldn’t suppress.
The wench made a show of a loud sigh with longing gaze to the latrine. But her revenge was enough and she sashayed to her premier table.
Finally, the Wanderer spotted the girl from No Man’s Land leaning against the back wall of the stage.
She grinned when she looked at the serving wench delivering the fresh round of drinks. She had appreciated the prank as much as everybody else in the tavern.
But the girl still planted herself in the line of vision of the handsome nobleman, making herself a caricature of provocation with her elbows hooked around the railing and exaggerating the arch of her back.
With her beggarly garments and disheveled hair, the pose should have been ludicrous.
At first, the Wanderer shook his head, embarrassed for her. He wasn’t surprised when the nobleman glanced at her and flicked his eyes away, his mouth curled in a sneer. He was legions above this girl in his station in life. He knew it and didn’t bother trying to hide it with genteel modesty.
But his hauteur didn’t affect the girl in the least. She continued her vigil.
The Wanderer frowned.
Her intent was clear.
But her eyes were every bit as cold staring down the handsome gentleman as when she had looked at the Wanderer. When the nobleman glanced her way again, she grinned with a hint of disdain. An expression her target recognized.
The nobleman scowled and turned away. He even made an effort to converse with his friends. But the girl had gotten under his skin. And his company grew more tedious with each round of drinks.
The Wanderer knew the handsome nobleman felt that gaze penetrating him from the tension in his back and the rise of his shoulders.
But the nobleman couldn’t resist the lure of her stare and looked back at the girl again.
Her grin had spread into a smile, her large teeth gleaming. A spark of fear lit up his dark brown eyes for a moment, and the handsome face paled.
The smirk disappeared from his face when the girl threw her head back and laughed. He turned towards his friends again, but his determination to ignore the girl didn’t last long. After a few minutes of trying to engage with the drunken louts around him, the nobleman looked back at her.
Her blue eyes glittered and she leaned her head to one side, her chin tilted in much the same way as his.
His ale suddenly distasteful to him, the Wanderer struggled to get the liquid down his throat. It wouldn’t be long before the nobleman succumbed and left his friends to go to her, his fascination more apparent each time he turned her way.
He had to hand it to the girl. He had never witnessed the arrogant seduced through insolence. But the thought of the girl with the nobleman left the Wanderer seething. His fingers were white gripping his mug, and he downed the bitter ale until there was none.
The Wanderer hadn’t noticed the drunkard slumped next to him until the other hiccoughed, the spasm jerking his elbow into the Wanderer’s side. The stranger mumbled a garbled apology, glanced at him with reddened eyes, then his head bobbed to his mug.
Irritation swelled inside the Wanderer.
The raucous noise and putrid scent of spilled ale, watching the woman he desired seduce another and being elbowed by a stranger were more than he could tolerate.
Deciding he’d had enough, he slid off his stool.
“That one’s back in town,” the drunkard muttered. “She’s the devil, she is.”
The Wanderer stopped and peered at the man slouched over his mug. He wasn’t facing the stage, but instinct told him the drunkard spoke of the girl he followed.
“Pardon me, Citizen,” he said, touching the slumped shoulder and pointing towards the stage. “Do you know that girl?”
The drunkard’s head jerked up and his eyes cleared for a moment as he looked between the Wanderer and the girl. His face was white.
“Hell no!” he shouted. “And you don’t need to know Ella Bandita either!”
The drunkard slapped him hard on the chest before slithering off his stool and weaving through the crowd, shouting at the foolhardy lust of stupid young men.
But the Wanderer hardly noticed.
The room started to spin at the sound of her name. His vision blurred and his knees buckled. The Wanderer gripped the edge of the counter to steady himself, the shaking in his thighs beyond his control.
Ella Bandita. Of course, that’s who the girl was from No Man’s Land.
The Bard’s stories meshed with images of the girl from the woods, intertwining until his mind was a kaleidoscope of memory and legend.
The Wanderer held his breath and prayed she had not heard. He looked towards the stage.
The girl was staring at him.
Even from a distance, the Wanderer saw that muscle twitching in her jaw.
The Call to Go Home
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The Wanderer didn’t recognize where he was until he saw the ship.
He blinked and had to look again.
The vessel was just like the one he had been on five and a half years before, except for the name on the stern. When the horn blew, he started, suddenly aware he was on the wharf, immersed in a mass of people swarming around him.
The crowd blew kisses to the passengers on deck, while they leaned over the railings, waving to the loved ones sending them off as the crew hoisted ropes from the dock.
His heart squeezed from the joy and sadness around him.
But the sight of an old man crying and shouting good-bye to a youth on the ship stopped him in his tracks.
In that moment, he saw his grandfather as he had been on the day he’d left. Their Patron and Patroness had stood on either side of him. The gnarled hand had been at the level of his heart and the Bard had never stopped waving, growing smaller from the Wanderer sailing away.
But he had remained on the deck, waving back long after his grandfather was gone.
A surge rose from the depths of his belly and returned the Wanderer to the day he knew his grandfather had passed, that moment the Bard’s soul passed through him.
His vision flooded from the tears streaming down his cheeks, making him blind to the stranger drawing him close.
There was warmth and strength in that embrace, and he sobbed into the unknown shoulder. After a time, the other pulled back and the Wanderer looked into the whiskey brown eyes of the old man he saw waving good-bye to his grandson setting sail for his grand adventure.
“Son,” he said. “It always hurts to lose someone. But the pain is worse if you hold on when it’s time to let go.”
Before the Wanderer could say anything, the horn bleated farewell. The old man touched his face and slipped away.
The Wanderer watched as the old man turned back to the boy on deck of the departing ship, waving with one hand and blowing kisses with the other. The youth’s face was filled with the bittersweet of excitement and sorrow, just as he had been five years before.
The Wanderer couldn’t stop crying.
He left the crowd behind for a lone stump down the wharf. There he faced the sea and surrendered to mourning.
His heart throbbed in the same manner whenever the girl from No Man’s Land had angered him. But this time, he was thinking of the last time he saw his grandfather.
Shocked, the Wanderer tried to push it away, but the sentiment wouldn’t be denied. Breathing deeply, smoke from the ship’s furnace mingled with the salt of the ocean, both acrid and refreshing at once. His tears dried up and he wanted to curse at the sky. His limbs were taut with the urge to run and make his escape.
But he didn’t.
The Wanderer finally admitted he was angry with the Bard for insisting he leave, and with himself for going when his heart told him to stay.
He remembered his first sight of the boat and the blinding white of its sails. He felt again that rush of guilt when he knew he wanted to get on board more than anything in his life, even while his grandfather was dying.
He couldn’t breathe when he thought of how alone he had been since the Bard passed on. Loneliness was the one thing in life he found unbearable.
Then the memory of his parents’ murder rushed in and the tears came again, a torrent of sobs wrenching him apart.
But this time, the Wanderer didn’t fight it.
He allowed the terror to consume him, just as it had that night.
He flinched when he remembered the intruder who had come to his room. Then he saw himself, suddenly overcome with tenderness for the terrified child he had been. He finally recognized the shame he had carried all his life for surviving an ordeal his parents didn’t.
Something lifted from the Wanderer. The relief made him giddy, so much he almost fell over.
Then he continued through his memories of those early years with his grandfather when he was trapped in a world of terror and helpless rage. That prison disappeared in the onslaught of love showered on him for the rest of his childhood.
Then the Wanderer had nothing but a deep gratitude for the grandfather who had saved him from the abyss of darkness that could have consumed him for the rest of his life.
He could still see the Bard’s face, with its deep lines and black eyes filled with the wisdom of life well lived.
And the Wanderer wept again until no tears were left.
Alpenglow streamed across the sky once he was done.
He felt empty after the storm of grief that he’d surrendered to. But the sensation was not unpleasant.
The Wanderer turned around and saw that the crowd had long dispersed, and the ship was tiny at the edge of the horizon. He smiled at the last glimpse of the vessel before it disappeared into the eastern mists.
He felt as if he were a shade above the ground when he stood up, the buoyancy like nothing he’d ever known in his life.
“Go home.”
The voice was soft, but the Wanderer saw nobody when he turned around.
“It’s time to go home.”
Then he realized the murmur came from inside him, the voice of his heart echoing through him.
Suddenly the Wanderer yearned for the village, for his friends and neighbors.
Then the Bard’s cabin came to mind. Instead of cold darkness, the windows and door were lit up from within because of course, a fire blazed in the hearth on his return.
He saw himself enter, and savored the aroma of wood burning, the heat warming him to the bone.
Everybody was inside to welcome him home, voices tinged with affection.
The image was so vivid he almost believed he was there until the call of the fishermen pulled him back to the wharf.
The smell of fish made him grimace and the Wanderer listened to the salt rough voices of seamen shouting to one another how well they fared.
But when he looked around, the Wanderer recognized the changing hour when the day people came to their finish and the night people to their start.
Fishermen hauled nets, their muscular necks straining while the ladies of night sauntered along the dock, their rolling hips an exaggeration of availability.
Dusk was forgiving of these women, lending the illusion of bloom over their defeated faces. They loitered near the boats and ignored the disapproving glares of passersby, their eyes narrowed slits fishing for the men looking for them.
The Wanderer smiled at the furtive couples he passed as they made on their way to the bordellos.
Life after dark was the same all over the world. But here the night people struck a deeper note inside him. They were a part of him, citizens and outcasts of the same country. Listening to them speak in his native tongue, the Wanderer finally knew he had come home.
Then he saw her.
The Fool's Journey, Part 2 - On the Road # 28
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Hey y’all,
Since Sun and I got a late start from Eugene, we didn’t get far.
Sun suggested we stay the night in Ashland because we’d have a place to crash there - a friend who she had met at EarthDance in September working in his kitchen
She didn’t tell me her “friend” was the Knight of Cups. I also thought she had a girlfriend, but hey! Sexuality is fluid.
Since Sun had made 0 book sales on my behalf, I was agreeable to a free place to stay. I also learned yet another lesson in getting what you pay for, but more on that later.
Again, I don’t regret giving Sun a ride because she had great stories, it was another chapter in this grand adventure, and awesome things would come of it. Just not in the way I thought they would.
Before we went to the Knight of Cups, she also turned me on the luscious Jackson Well Springs, a lovely place to soak and sauna naked at night. I wouldn’t have found this wonderful place without Sun.
She ran into another friend from her time in Taos, and ran off to have tea with him.
Finally we made it to our crashpad and the Knight of Cups.
His name was Matava. I’m pretty sure he named himself. He was originally from New York. But once he had awakened to a higher vibration, Matava donned loose, flowing garments to indicate his enlightenment, and made his living with exotic cuisine and Ayurvedic smart drinks.
I think he was a caterer with a New Age edge.
I had to admit his tea was excellent. But I doubt it made me more intelligent. As far as his healthful cleanse cookies were concerned, they tasted funny - probably because they didn’t have any sugar
Sun and Matava got reacquainted with a lively discussion over the wisdom of human design and Chinese astrology. Matava consistently referred to the Chinese and Western astrological significance of his absent housemate. I don’t remember her name, but she was at least 10 years older than he and owned the house.
“She’s a Fire Horse AND a Scorpio,” he said. “She’s very Scorpio.”
I suspected that meant he’s her lover who pays no rent, and the Fire Horse Scorpio gets pissed off with her errant Knight of Cups on the regular.
And then Sun started disrobing.
Like a lot of Pacific Northwest hippies, Sun dressed in layers of heavy sweaters. As she and Matava animated over all things New Age, Sun took off one heavy sweater after another, along with her leggings and woolen socks until she was down to a t-shirt and loose, flowing skirt and bare feet. She also contorted her body in visually appealing stretches that thrust her ample breasts into the limelight.
When Matava slid down to the ground in a bent-knee crouch, Sun followed suit, with her long skirts making a pretense of modesty. Once they overlapped their big toes and gave each other that look, I knew exactly where this night was going.
But I was exhausted and it was time to crash at the crashpad.
Matava had made up a massage table in the living room for me to sleep on and I was out within minutes.
Unfortunately, exhaustion didn’t render me deaf. The High Priestess, Sun, elevated the Knight of Cups, Matava to the state of the Lovers, and woke up the Fool who had given her a free ride. I was tempted to make some noise to disrupt the high vibration of their coupling, but why?
From what I heard, it sounded rather average.
The next morning, Sun hinted that she'd forgotten how much she liked "Matava's company," with the implication that she could hang in Ashland even though a storm was coming that we would be wise to beat. Then we hit Evo's Cafe. The High Priestess went to the market to replenish the supply of ass-wipes for the Knight of Cups. The Fool checked email and pulled out my tarot deck and started shuffling, wondering how I was going to gracefully extricate myself from this situation.
Upsidedown Temperance asked me for a reading, even though he had no money. One of the eccentric, homeless youth that has found some sanctuary in the most tolerant coffee house in the affluent arty community of Ashland - home to the Shakespeare Festival every summer - took a seat and I gave him a reading, which he interpreted for himself. Once Sebastian had satisfied his need to talk about his neglected talents while he had someone's attention, he left the table after a couple of hints.
A well-preserved, nicely groomed black man with a shaved head and pretty face at the table on my left who had observed the interaction of the reading, started up a conversation. His speech was as refined as his looks, so I gave him a brief rundown of my story and explained that the cards were a gimmick I used to get people's attention to the book. He then asked me what I thought it meant that the cards got people's attention. What did I think people were seeking? Of course, I didn't know.
"They're looking for that third voice," he said.
His name was Amien and he had moved to Ashland from Santa Rosa, California just six months before. At fifty-two, Amien had had many lives, as a professional dancer and an artist, he had designed sets and done the lighting for many productions, and although settled was in chrysalis for his next life incarnation. He encouraged me to do a storytelling, although he preferred philosophy and science fiction. The noise of the cafe distracted him after a couple of minutes, so Amien suggested going by his cottage and doing the storytelling there.
"It's very peaceful, I'll make some tea, and it'll be much better."
Never, never, never go off with strangers, always said my mother, the Empress. You may come across the Devil, maybe even Death, and then what are you going to do?
But I am the Fool, and I am no longer a little girl. Amien gave off a good vibe-ration, my instincts told me it was safe, so I went. Besides, I thought he was gay.
Besides, it is the Fool's nature to trust. Will this step send me careening over the cliff or dancing over the rainbow?
If one doesn't trust, one doesn't get to meet the Magician...or the man who makes things happen.
Amien was a highly talented artist from what I saw of the pieces in the mother in law apartment. After listening to "The Birth of Ella Bandita," he bought two books, offered me his spare bedroom - a good hidey-hole for the Hermit - and said he'd like to throw a party for me.
"We'll make it very nice, very selective," Amien said. "So you will meet the kind of people who can help you."
The best part, it really was no strings. Amien had his libido and his attention distracted by a sweet young thing, half his age, who led him around by the nose...or the head. I provided good conversation, a sympathetic ear, and good counsel.
"It'll be my first soiree," he said.
Ain't it grand how artists support each other?
That night, he introduced me to the Hierophant, who had the mother-in-law apartment he lived in. Melody was a teacher, whose daughter also was a self-published writer. She was also throwing a dinner party that same night, so Amien suggested they coordinate their events and I be the guest storyteller for both parties.
He helped with making up the flyer/invites, thinking up such refinements as "intimate setting," and "light refreshment provided" and a discreet "Books for sale."
The party had a good turn-out, and The Fool got to take a turn as the Star, entertaining the Court with a tale. Emperors, Scholarly Hermits, Lovers, and Empresses made up the audience.
It was grand, but alas not perfect.
As much as the Magician warned the Fool to be selective, I gave a flyer to a woman whose Tower had come crashing down. He had met her and was surprised that I gave her an invite.
"She strikes me as somebody with a Ramona complex," Amien said. "I suspect she's missing parts."
He shrugged and said it'll be what it'll be, but the Magician called it. Just as the Star had told the climax to an audience of enthralled Courtiers, and was forty-five seconds away from the end, a Queen in the audience interrupted.
"There's somebody out in the cold."
Turning around there was the woman of the fallen Tower peeking in the windows, wanting to be let in. The Fool did, and gathering my wits, finished the tale. Honestly, it was more disruptive to the audience than it was to me.
An hour later, the Fool realized what a mistake inviting the fallen Tower to the party.
"That's why I consider myself legitimately schizophrenic," she hooted in laughter at her own joke.
The Magician gave the Fool many a pointed look until there was an opportunity to generously volunteer a ride in the Chariot of my Brown Beast.
It occurred to me that I shouldn't be compassionate at the expense of others. After all, this sanctuary was home to the gracious Hierophant and Magician.
They didn't ask for this.
"I told you so," said Amien as soon as I came back from giving Julia a ride home.
Other than that, The Fool took a step off the cliff and ended up with the World in his pocket.
I love Ashland!!!!
Peace,
Montgomery
The Fool's Journey, Part 1 - On the Road # 27
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Hey y'all,
I love being on the road.
As exhausting as it is, I absolutely fucking love being on the road. There's something about throwing oneself in the path of chance...
Not to mention that being on the road is sweet living at its most distilled. All the sour, bitter, and not so tasty parts are culled from the nectar every time I start up the Beast and ride into the sunset.
Even if there is no sunset, I always feel more and more amazing the further and further I get away from that place where not so wonderful things have happened.
Is it also immature?
Of course it is.
But to throw oneself in the path of chance is to be the Eternal Fool at the start of one’s journey in the Tarot, leaving myself open to the domino effect of things as they happen.
After Thanksgiving, I left Eugene to go back to Seattle to the bazaar managed by an eighty year old clown at the former elementary school.
This time it was a waste of time and money, not to mention that Marcia (pronounced Mar-See-Yaa) Moonstar just had to come by my booth to bitch and complain every chance she got.
Even though she had the benefits of my boom box playing music in her booth because I didn't have batteries and that was the only outlet in the room, the energy vampire still had more juju to suck out of me.
Mar-SEE-YA Moonstar was a wannabe High Priestess, while she was truly Upside Down Justice because she was also the one making money.
The unfairness of it all got to me. I had to get out of there. I got in the Chariot of my Beast by 2 in the PM, left the flea market early and drove to Portland.
As soon as I left the city limits of Seattle, I felt lighter and breathed easier. It felt great to cut short the unnecessary suffering of a bad decision and just move on.
The flea market idea wasn't so great after all...
I'd been hearing about craigslist ever since I got down to the lower forty-eight, and I came up with a crazy idea in regards to rideshare.
"Good at sales and need ride to Denver?" so began my ad.
In a nutshell, I made it clear that anybody who sold my books would get a free ride with no gas money.
I thought what the hell? It's free to post an ad on this site, so what did I have to lose? I didn’t even expect anybody to answer since I put it up at the last minute.
What enterprising salesman-types would be looking for rides to anywhere?
Well, somebody did answer my post. I didn’t get an enterprising salesman type, but I did get Sun. Just imagine my surprise when my post was answered by another Fool on her own Journey.
"I'm in Eugene and am ready to leave right now."
Yet another stop in Eugene to meet my prospective saleswoman eager for a ride free of gas money.
Sun, nee Susan, was born and bred in the farming plains of Iowa. She was a robust blonde with slightly cocked blue eyes.
At twenty-four, Sun was as cosmic a hippie as one who had come of age in the late 60’s. She spent at least a year living naked and homeless in the island wilderness of Kauai. Somehow she ended up there after flunking out of college due to her activism in things that matter.
Sun recommended herself with the claim that in her gypsy travels of joblessness, she often went door to door canvassing for the Sierra Club for the going rate of 50 bucks a day whenever she was broke. So she would likely be comfortable approaching strangers to sell my collection of original fairy tales.
She'd been road-tripping around the West Coast for two months, but was really compelled to keep her promise to her folks in Iowa and return for visit by Christmas. I was heading to Denver, which was on the way more or less, and Sun had a cousin there she could stay with.
Knowing Sun made me fully understand why those who are just passing through are looked at sideways by those who have put down roots, paid their dues, and accepted the benefits of staying in one place.
The nomadic don't invest in any one town, therefore how can they be trusted?
Back in Homer at the beginning of this DIY book tour/road trip, Lia, the woman who let me sleep in the Beast on her property had a saying:
“We are all interconnected.”
How true. And there's nothing quite like giving a stranger a ride in good faith a road trip to prove it.
If nothing else, Sun had great stories and was fascinating to talk to.
Our first hours on the road, Sun showed me a picture of her girlfriend, her “baby” as she called her, and told me all about the paradise of living naked in Kauai.
She had been part of a gaggle of transients who moved their encampment from place to place around the wilderness of Kauai to avoid getting busted and kicked off.
She said it was glorious to l to eat mangoes from trees and not need any money until the day some guy showed up who took a dislike to her. He nudged and nudged until she was exiled from the village.
Even Paradise has a dark underbelly.
But as far as our original agreement was concerned, I often had to remind Sun to talk me up whenever we made a pit stop.
"Oh...yeah..." said Sun every time.
Unfortunately, my enterprising saleswoman had the attention span of a two year old.
She didn’t sell one book. But I don’t regret giving her a ride because the risk of giving cosmic hippie Sun a ride to Denver lead to other more wonderful things.
More to come on my Fool’s Journey in the next email.
Peace,
Mana
Yearning Lust
/
The more they made love, the more he craved that softening.
The Wanderer tried to enfold her in tenderness, but the girl always pushed him away.
He had never known a lover like her.
She had the delicate flesh of a woman and the hard drive of a man, a lust equal to his. He saw it in the hunger blazing in her eyes every time she reached for him, and his heart beat violence inside his chest.
The Wanderer lost count of the days that passed, their carnality both bliss and torment.
He yearned for the girl to melt in his arms just once. But after each shudder that claimed her body, she grimaced like one in pain, moaning and turning her face away.
“Are you all right?” he would ask.
But the girl never answered.
Her gaze was primal before she fell upon him again, ensnaring the Wanderer in a delirium of coupling that left him exhausted and exhilarated. He fell into near unconsciousness while making love to her. His peak crested into his dreams and blurred his reality when he woke up joined to her again, their bodies churning in a rhythm that left them breathless.
Eventually, they had no choice but to stop.
The girl collapsed in his arms, too spent to resist and resting on top of him. The girl was soft in his arms, the closest to surrender he would ever get from her.
His pulse slowed and the Wanderer fell into a doze. The slumber was a relief until the bite of her teeth woke him up. He saw the girl gnawing on him, her thick teeth piercing his flesh where she sucked below his left nipple.
“Stop it!” he yelled, jerking away. “That hurts!”
The Wanderer was shocked at the blood dripping from the wound, his skin mottling around it. When he looked at the girl, his heart started pounding hard against his ribs.
The ferocious longing in her eyes stirred up tentacles of fear.
“What was that about?” he whispered.
She groaned, that muscle twitching in her jaw. The girl reached for her naked throat, her fingers groping for nothing. Then her gaze turned to ice and she started to laugh.
He heard the edge of hysteria in the sound, and wondered if this was the start of a fit. But the girl heaved for air until she stopped, and wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth.
“You are one lucky fool, Wanderer,” she said. “You’re the luckiest fool I’ve ever seen.”
She reached for him again and the madness of coupling continued.
Finally, the Wanderer fell off his last peak to soar into the realm of dreamlessness.
How long he stayed there, he didn’t know.
But he knew the girl was gone before he opened his eyes.
The soreness of his flesh permeated his bones and he ached.
Her absence was as acute as her presence had been.
He fought to stay in the limbo between sleep and waking, but the crack of burning wood and the smell of smoke pulled him awake. He almost collapsed when he sat up, his hunger making him dizzy. The scent of savory was a relief, a hint of food made ready.
The girl must have gotten up early to prepare the meal for them.
The Wanderer came outside his tent to an explosion of color.
He was shocked to find the autumn season reaching its peak. The trees had been mostly golden when last he remembered, but the clearing seemed on fire with the orange and red leaves glowing from the evening sun.
He was spellbound for a moment before he saw the girl had left.
Her space in the camp was desolate without her things to fill it up. The only trace of her was the iron mesh resting over the pit. On top was his skillet filled with the meat, herbs, and mushrooms she had cooked for him. The fire was nearly dead, the embers spitting their last flares.
Next to the pit, she’d staked a pole where the carcasses of two squirrels dangled. They were skinned from their necks to their hind feet, the meat of their bodies still fresh, their eyes filmy and unseeing.
Too weak to forage, the Wanderer couldn’t ignore the meal she prepared for him. But he tasted nothing as he ate, knowing the emptiness would consume him later.
Longing and Loneliness
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Image by Мария Ткачук from Pixabay
“My name’s Addie.”
“Addie?!” Carla exclaimed. “Oh, that name won’t do around here. You need a new one. Do you mind if I call you ‘dearie’ until you figure out who you are?”
I shook my head.
“I suppose that’s fine,” I muttered.
“In that case, welcome to your new life, dearie.”
Carla held up two fingers to her brow in a playful salute, and made a kissing sound with her lips.
“I’m sure you’ll have some fun once you find your place here.”
With that, Carla turned and made her way down the staircase with a jaunty gait.
I closed the door and thought I would die.
Who had I become in these past weeks? Who was this graceless, insecure, wilting blossom of a girl? I had never suffered discomposure like that in my life, not even as an ugly peasant. I abhorred myself for the next hour as I replayed the scene over and over again.
I saw Carla almost every day after that, but we didn’t exchange more than greetings and smiles.
It seemed she was always on the move, and I finally noticed the variety of visitors to her apartment. Most of them were men, and I made a point to be in the deepest recesses of my apartment, so as not to hear them.
But many of her callers were women. I figured they must be other courtesans. Carla and the woman in the apartment below me seemed to be close friends.
In passing, I heard her name was Filly, which suited her. She looked more like my imagined courtesan than Carla did, a soft blonde with creamy skin and outrageous curves.
The first time I saw Filly, she was draped in white furs with painted red lips. I wondered if she was also an actress in one of the theaters. Filly seemed extravagantly glamorous.
The voices coming from Carla’s apartment, whether she had one of her men or women friends over, usually sounded very happy. There was always lots of laughter beyond her door, and those sounds of gaiety made me feel lonelier than ever.
One night, I had trouble sleeping and was wandering aimlessly around my empty apartment when I heard a whispery, light-footed gait coming up the steps.
I hadn’t heard the door to the street open and it was rather late. There was no way that such a walk could belong to one of Carla’s gentlemen callers.
Out of curiosity and the desolation of being alone, I opened my door in time to see Filly bouncing up the last few steps. Even the way she moved oozed voluptuousness.
Filly seemed ready for bed with bare feet, pale yellow hair hanging down to her waist, her face empty of powder, rouge, and lipstick, and in a shimmery gown that hugged her curves.
She smiled at me. I thought she was much prettier without paint on her face.
“Hi there!” Filly called to me in a cheery tone. “Do you have a name yet, neighbor?”
At that moment, Carla opened the door. She too was dressed for repose, in a pale green gown that floated around her, chestnut hair falling in waves past her shoulders.
“I’d love to know that too, dearie.”
I flushed and shook my head.
“Not yet.”
“Well get one, silly girl.”
Filly’s voice bespoke a light heart. She had inky blue eyes that twinkled when she giggled. She seemed the type who was easily happy, and in that moment, I suffered the first stab of envy I’d had since the Patron’s Daughter.
Carla and Filly looked at each other for a long moment. Carla raised her brows and Filly nodded. Then they looked at me.
“Would you like to join us?” Carla asked. “Maybe we can figure out a new name for you.”
The unexpected invitation ignited something inside me.
I really wanted to say yes. I yearned for the warmth of conversation and laughter around a hearth. I wanted to accept so badly, but instead I froze and shook my head.
I couldn’t stop the tears from stinging my eyes, so I looked away.
“Are you sure?” Carla pressed gently. “I never see you with any company, dearie. I don’t know how you stand it.”
“I know,” I stammered. “I’m sorry. But I can’t. Thank you.”
“Ok,” Filly said, in a gentle tone. “Feel free to knock on my door any time, or even tonight, if you change your mind. Don’t be shy.”
“Absolutely,” Carla added. “Call on either of us any time you want. You don’t have to be so alone, dearie.”
Yet couldn’t even bring myself to look at them. The kindness and welcome they offered tore me apart, and I didn’t understand why.
Soothing After Nightmare
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The Wanderer was shaking, and before he could stop himself, began to sob.
He felt the girl stiffen and her weight shift.
But he sat up and grabbed her, burying his face in her neck.
“Let me go, Wanderer!”
But he had to hold on.
He couldn’t see anything but the nightmares and memories still haunting him. The images were slow to disappear. But they did the more he became aware of his surroundings, the hard ground underneath him, the chill on his skin, his rough blanket fallen around him.
The girl was rigid in his arms, but warm and soft.
He held her tight, breathing in her aroma. He was surprised when he noticed her folded legs hugging his hips. She must have climbed on top of him during his nightmare.
Then he remembered.
“Did I hit you?”
“Yes, you did,” she said. “Now that you’ve finally come back to your senses, will you please let me go?”
He strained to make out her shape, but that was impossible in the darkness of his tent. Her smooth liquor voice and sweet pungent smell disoriented him. Only the feel and smell of her made this seem real.
He wished she would touch him. Maybe then he could stop shaking.
“Can’t you just hold me for a while?” he asked.
“You can’t be serious. You want me to comfort you?”
“Is that really asking so much?”
“Yeah it is,” she said. “I’m not exactly the comforting type.”
“You woke me up from a nightmare, didn’t you?”
“Because you were screaming and woke me up. What else was I supposed to do?”
The girl sounded as bored and detached as always.
For once, the Wanderer welcomed the bitter hardness to pulse inside him, anything to make the terror go away. But his rage wasn’t enough. His limbs were overpowered with a violence of trembling he couldn’t stop.
He didn’t know who he despised more, the girl for her indifference or himself for needing her not to be.
“I’d like to know something about you,” he snapped. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Go ahead,” she said. “Ask whatever you want.”
“Do you ever hate yourself?”
He savored the sharp intake of her breath. He had actually gotten to her. The Wanderer knew for certain when she didn’t answer right away, a victory he hadn’t foreseen.
“Well,” he persisted. “Do you?”
“All the time,” she said. “If you must know.”
“I dare you to try something different. You might surprise us both.”
“I have no idea what you want of me, Wanderer.”
“That’s crazy,” he said. “Hasn’t anybody ever calmed you down when you were upset?”
She fell silent, but the Wanderer didn’t push her to answer.
He regretted his harsh words. The thrill of cruelty was already wearing off and left him ashamed. It was strange talking to the girl without being able to see her. The blackness made their dialogue a specter floating in the abyss where it would be forever suspended.
“Yes,” she finally said. “Once, there was somebody who did.”
There was weariness, even sadness, in her voice he never heard before.
The Wanderer was surprised by the flush of sympathy pouring into him, even relieved. His compassion brought him back to the man he had always been, whose kindness and goodwill made him friends all over the world, the man his grandfather had raised him to be.
“All right,” he said gently. “Why don’t you start with that and go from there?”
The Wanderer couldn’t believe it when the girl did as he asked.
She leaned into him and wrapped her arms around him, her head falling to his shoulder and nestling against his neck. She gave a long sigh when he pulled her close, her body melting into his and her hands slowly stroking the length of his back.
The Wanderer gripped her until the shaking subsided in smaller waves. Then he loosened his arms and they continued to hold each other, their breathing merging and rolling in mirror rhythms. His lungs expanded with the air she pushed out and his breath flowed into her every time he exhaled.
Then his trembling was gone.
His face still buried in her neck where her scent was lighter. He inhaled deeply and let his hands roam over her back.
The girl didn’t resist, returning his caresses with her own.
Before the Wanderer knew what he was doing, he brought his lips to the flesh below her ear.
But the girl didn’t pull away.
He felt the offering she made of her neck, her sighs longer and louder as he nibbled down the canal to the base of her throat.
In a swoon, the Wanderer collapsed to the ground and the girl fell with him.
The Unexpected Courtesan
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Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay
The Capital City pulsed with excitement.
I wasn’t immune to the thrill of that charm.
Yet a gnawing ache consumed me. I didn’t understand what it was for several days until the morning I woke up and knew I was completely alone for the first time in my life.
I wasn’t simply alone. I was lonely.
That was the moment I realized I couldn’t continue navigating this Capital City like a frightened rabbit. I had to learn about this new home of mine, so I could become a part of it.
On that day, I spent the afternoon at a café around the corner from the Avenue of the Theaters.
It was my favorite because I was the most comfortable there. This was the café I came to in the dark, early hours of morning when I arrived, after a long day and night riding in the coach carriage.
At the time, I thought they had just opened, and marveled at the gaiety and raucous flamboyance of the people there, especially so early in the morning. But this café had been open through the night, and closed during the breakfast hours before the business of the day was to start.
The people there had been up all night. I didn’t recognize them for what they were that first morning - the actors, the acrobats, the singers, and musicians, as well as the gamblers, brothel harlots, courtesans, and their gentlemanly escorts.
Since this was the first place I had landed, I went there the most often when I wanted to get out of my apartment for the refreshment of tea and muffins or finger sandwiches.
The waiters who worked there recognized me every time I came in. Although they watched me like everybody else did, their demeanors were pleasant and they never loomed over me.
That café soothed my nerves.
On that afternoon, I took a table in a corner where I would have an excellent view of the other patrons, and spent a relaxed few hours watching the people who came and went.
Many of them glanced my way more than once. Most of them smiled in a friendly manner without being intrusive, and a few people even nodded to me. I finally had the courage to smile and nod back.
That was the first day I felt like I had taken some control over my life in this foreign place that was the Capital of my country. I felt lighter when I came home to my empty apartment.
That was the first day I met my neighbor across the hall.
As I came up the steps, she was turning the key in her lock. The click echoed down the staircase. To my surprise, rather than starting her descent, she waited until I reached the landing.
Magnetism emanated from her. Her presence grew stronger with each step I took until I reached her.
From her dress, I could tell she was going out for a magnificent evening. My neighbor had the longest waist I’d ever seen, and her dress showed her willowy lines to advantage. Her gown was a shiny, deep forest green, fitted through the torso with skirts flaring from her hips. Unlike the other women I had seen in the Capital City, she wore no hat and her warm brown hair was arranged in a crown around her head.
The simple style suited her well.
The coif drew attention to her face, which was more handsome than beautiful with her square jaw, straight mouth, and aquiline nose. Her gaze was startling. Colored with swirls of green and brown, her eyes seemed rectangular directly beneath her straight brows.
Her appearance surprised me because I knew she was a courtesan. Although attractive, I had expected somebody more voluptuous and sinful-looking, like the blonde woman who lived in the apartment below mine.
“Hello there,” she said. “So you’re my new neighbor.”
“Salute,” I replied in a soft voice, suddenly shy and awkward.
“I’m Carla,” she said, removing one of her gloves to shake my hand.
The naked palm held out to me made me look down. Carla appeared to be in her mid-twenties, and her natural self-assurance intimidated the life out of me. I could scarcely bring myself to take her hand.
“Uh no,” she said, shifting her palm to grip mine. “A firm clasp is much more agreeable when meeting somebody new. What’s your name?”
I couldn’t say anything.
I had never been one to embarrass easily, but Carla set me off balance. My face was so hot I knew my cheeks had to be bright red. Carla might have been used to discomposing people when they met her. She didn’t seem offended, or even surprised. If anything, her long thin mouth turned up slightly at the corners.
“So do you have a name?”
“I…I don’t know.”
I was mortified at my lack of composure. Although I’d never met a woman like my new neighbor, she was only being friendly and I was acting like an ass. Desperate to escape, I fumbled with my keys, and was suddenly unable to discern which key would fit my apartment door.
Carla drew her brows close and cocked her head to one side. Her unwavering regard unnerved me to no end. I almost believed she could see right through me.
“You don’t know if you have a name? Or you have a name and don’t want to tell me? I hope it’s not the latter because that weasel of a con artist beneath me is bad enough. I would hate to have an unlikeable neighbor across the hall.”
“Of course not,” I mumbled. “My name’s Addie.”
“Addie?!” she exclaimed. “Oh, that name won’t do around here. You need a new one.”
At that moment, I would have given anything for the floor to open up and swallow me.
In my first interaction in this big city, I knew I was completely out of my depth in the face of this unflappable woman.
I couldn’t bear another second of embarrassment. I was frantic to get inside my apartment. But my hands were shaking so much I couldn’t get the key in the lock.
Carla took the keys from my hand, fitted the key in the right lock, and the click sounded so loud I jumped when my door opened.
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
“You’re welcome,” Carla replied, her expression amused. “Do you mind if I call you ‘dearie’ until you figure out who you are?”
I shook my head.
“I suppose that’s fine,” I muttered.
“In that case, welcome to your new life, dearie.”
Carla held up two fingers to her brow in a playful salute, and made a kissing sound with her lips.
“I’m sure you’ll have some fun once you find your place here.”
Past and Present Collide in the DreamTime
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Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay
The dream started like the others.
He drifted through heat until he came to the cabin, but this time the Bard held onto him longer. He wanted more than anything to rest in the safety of that embrace, but the Wanderer knew their reunion wouldn’t last.
When the old man pulled back, there was sorrow in his deep black eyes.
“There was something I never told you,” he said. “Sometimes it can destroy a man to follow his heart.”
Before the Wanderer could answer, his grandfather pushed him through the fire and he came out in the garden surrounding the manor.
He knew it was summer from the sweat on his brow and the scent of lilies nearly overpowered his senses.
Then he saw the couple.
The Patroness had never looked more beautiful. Her eyes sparkled and she had a robust bloom in her cheeks, strolling with her husband through the garden paths.
The Wanderer arrived in time to hear her say she was pregnant.
The Patron gave a shout of joy, picking up his wife and spinning her through the air. His beloved was light as a feather floating and fading away.
Her chambers were the next destination in this journey of dreams.
The Patroness seemed ready to give birth, her belly swollen and round beneath the sheets.
But the Wanderer was aghast at her appearance. Her cheeks were hollowed, her skin the color of ashes, dark circles under her eyes. He suspected she’d been confined to bed for months.
The Patron was at her side, reading a parable in the rhythm used to lull a child to sleep. But his wife was agitated.
“Be good to her.”
Her voice that once rang with the clarity of a silver bell was ravaged, now raspy and hoarse. She gripped her husband’s hand and pressed her lips to his palm.
“Please,” she whispered.
The Wanderer had to look away from the desperation in her eyes.
The Patron paused, then set his book aside to stroke her forehead.
“My love, please don’t distress yourself.”
“The baby is a girl. Girls need…”
She trailed off, her face crumpling before she turned away. Her husband caressed her and murmured soothing words. But she turned back to him with a hard set to her features.
“Give me your word that you’ll be good to her.”
“Everything will be fine,” the Patron said. “You’ll mend after the baby comes.”
“Promise me!”
She tightened her grip on his hand until his fingertips were white, the ferocity in her gaze forcing the Patron to look away.
“If you love me, then you will be good to our daughter no matter what-”
“That’s enough!” the Patron shouted. “Of course, I’ll be good to her. I give you my word along with the promise that we will make wonderful parents for our little girl.”
Her features softened and the terrified urgency in her eyes was gone. The Patroness was almost beautiful again and she kissed her husband’s hand with ardor, disappearing from the Wanderer’s view as he drifted back into the mist between dreams.
But there was no warmth and all was black around him. The chill on his skin reminded him of nights in early spring before winter was ready to let go.
Then he heard her screaming.
He came back to the chambers of the Patroness, startled when a servant walked through him.
He realized she was the midwife and the birth must have gone horribly wrong. The woman’s features had the distortion of grief and the bundle she held in her arms was silent.
The Wanderer thought the baby must have been stillborn, for the Patron’s anguish was deafening.
He sat in a pool of blood, the cords along his neck bulging from the howling threatening to tear the room apart. He held his wife in his arms, rocking her back and forth. Her head rolled aside and the Wanderer stared into eyes that had gone black, seeing only into the land of death.
He knew this was only a dream and struggled to come awake, but he couldn’t.
The dead stare of the Patroness blurred, leaving the Wanderer gazing into the black eyes of his mother.
He never realized how frightened she had been that night until he saw her as a man. He reached out to her, but she looked right through him, standing at the door with a finger to her lips.
“Be quiet,” she said. “And do not move.”
The Wanderer turned around and saw himself. He was a little boy in bed with the covers up to his chin, his eyes wide with terror.
Then his mother closed the door and thrust him into the darkness. He couldn’t do as she told him this time. When his mother screamed, the Wanderer screamed with her.
Silence and stillness had killed her. He would yell and fight. He would rail against the demons he was blind to, the intruders who had murdered his parents.
The Wanderer felt a touch on his shoulder and swung his arm. His hand balled into a fist, his fingers crushed against skin and bone.
The punch was gratifying, but it wasn’t enough. Suddenly his wrists were gripped, his arms pressed above his head, and one of the demons was upon him.
“Wanderer…Wanderer…”
He wasn’t a child anymore. He knew he was stronger than his attacker, pushing back until the weight on him gave way.
Then she leaned into him and he heard her voice in his ear.
“Wanderer, wake up!” she said. “You’re having a nightmare.”
He opened his eyes and saw nothing. He pushed again, but confusion exhausted him enough she was able to keep his arms pinned above his head.
He knew it was the girl from her scent. The honey musk was undeniable, her breath warm on his face.
“Wanderer, do you remember where you are?”
He was shaking, and before he could stop himself, began to sob.
He felt the girl stiffen and her weight shift.
But the Wanderer sat up and grabbed her, burying his face in her neck.
Modern Sexual Healers and Backstory - Tantric Shitshow 4
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Image by Saray Villar from Pixabay
Hey y’all,
Thanks so much for the letters, notes, and WhatsApp texts and calls. Those bits of contact warm my heart and bring me joy.
Anybody who has meant to reach out but hasn’t yet, anybody who hasn’t for a while, or even anybody who touched base with me a couple of days ago - to reach out after this email would be especially supportive.
About 20 years ago, I came across some New Age magazine and landed on an enthralling article written by a woman who possessed eloquence and insight as she described what she did for a living.
As I remember it, she had started her career as a traditional talk therapist, but eventually found herself going in the direction of sexuality, particularly in the area of sexual dysfunctions. I don’t recall what her self-described job title was, but it was something similar to sexual surrogate.
What she did was far more intimate than giving paper handouts on effective masturbation techniques for clients who came to her for all manner of problems - premature ejaculation, erectile dysfunction, low libido, sexual abuse, rape, incest, frigidity, inability to orgasm, or some combination of the above. Because sexual dysfunction is often rooted in trauma.
The writer made clear that the only clients she worked with came to her for help. Therapeutic help, even if it was sexual.
She also made it clear that what she did was considered prostitution because genital contact was involved, and there was always the risk that she could be arrested and thrown in jail.
I remember thinking as I read this article that this woman was a hero, that what she did was incredible, and how fucked up it was that she could have her reputation, career, and life ruined because of it.
Charles Muir and his ex-wife, Caroline Muir, proved (yet again) that sex sells. They started the company that would become known as Source Tantra through marketing the ecstasy of incredible sex. Bigger, better, stronger, more explosive orgasms could bring transcendence to everybody at every age.
He’s been very successful at that.
Yet even Source Tantra moved into the therapeutic arena.
I’m sure most of you have discerned the nature of the private sessions given by Charles Muir’s team reside in this space between therapy and sex work.
And herein lies one of Rashmi’s most bitter grievances about Neo-Tantra. She can’t stand it that this new breed of sexual healers often cloak themselves with the titles of “tantrikas” or “dakinis.”
“They rub one out and have the nerve to call it tantra.”
Not that Rashmi has a problem with prostitution.
“If a woman is a prostitute fighting for legalization, and the protections and rights that go with it, I will fight shoulder to shoulder alongside her. Just don’t call it tantra.”
She was not especially impressed with a change of nomenclature when I told her about the woman who introduced herself as a Shamanic Sexual Healer in the hot tub at the Cascadia Tantra Festival. She was friendly, engaging, and had finished her ISTA (International School of Temple Arts) training right before FOSTA-SESTA shut down the Craigslist personals and Back Page, which is where sexual healers found most of their clients, alongside the prostitutes.
The Shamanic Sexual Healer was passionate about her work. Until then, she had trimmed weed to make a living, and it sounds like this career has given meaning to her life and some direction.
“To be clear,” she said at the end of our conversation. “I don’t have sex with my clients. I do genital massage and that’s as far as it goes.”
“It’s no different than a happy ending at a massage parlor.” Rashmi huffed when I told her this story.
I think that’s harsh, but the law agrees with her.
Rashmi’s feelings are understandable. It goes far beyond cultural appropriation to use the verbiage of tantra to camouflage a particular kind of exchange.
I know many people would agree with Rashmi and with the law.
For the record, I don’t. I don’t think it’s that black and white. I think this hybrid of sexual healers falls within shades of gray.
How somebody perceives what they’re doing makes a difference. So do the boundaries set on what is offered. That alone shifts the intention. If the focus is on healing, that distinguishes one from the other – sex workers/escorts/prostitutes/hookers/massage parlor masseuses and masseurs are not the same as sexual healers.
Of course, prostitutes are healers in their own right. They have done an eternity of helping those who suffer sexual frustration, loneliness, isolation, sexless marriages, loveless relationships – maladies that plague millions of people.
Here’s a link to a deeply moving story from one of the first Mystery Box Shows that proves the point.
Enjoy! Part II is coming right up next.
Peace,
Mana
Sweet Freedom Tasted for the First Time
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Image by Melissa Angela Flor from Pixabay
The Sorcerer practically handed me to my future.
Although he had been thorough as he explained to me the nature of the bohemian part of town I was to go, I didn’t understand the cause and effect of living amongst the libertines of the Capital City.
I’m sure the Sorcerer did.
We become the people we surround ourselves with. I’m sure you understand that, Shepherd.
Anyway, I did exactly as the Sorcerer told me to, and everything went precisely as he said it would.
He had prepared me well for getting set up in a place of my own.
My palms tingled when my landlady handed me those copper keys. One for the street door and one for my apartment. None of it seemed real until I opened the door for the first time.
Moving in was easy, since all I had was what I had carried when I fled for the carriage that would take me to the Capital City.
I loved that apartment, in some ways even more than my glorious Casa.
By the time I moved in here, I was at ease with riches and the luxury wealth afforded.
But in the beginning of this Life, my apartment was beyond my wildest dreams.
The landlady brought me there in the late morning. The light alone made me fall in love with the place.
The windows faced east, and stretched more than half the height between floor and ceiling. The sun beamed through those tall windows, and the radiance was so brilliant I almost believed I had just entered the gates of heaven.
I knew I had to live there as soon as I walked in.
The spaciousness was too wonderful. In that first minute in what would be my first home, I savored the sweet taste of freedom. Real freedom. And I had never known it in my life.
How incredible it was that I remained inscrutable. I could scarcely breathe. I wanted that apartment so badly it hurt.
The landlady was exactly as the Sorcerer had described, a stout matron with a tight mouth and beady eyes that darted from side to side. She clearly loved money, especially when it flowed to her easily.
She didn’t pay attention, however. If she had been more observant as she guided me on a tour of her best apartments, she could have cheated me with an exorbitant rent.
I managed to talk the rent down to nearly half of what the landlady declared as the proper value for it.
Of course, offering six months rent immediately with a gold coin put the negotiation in my favor.
The landlady stared at me as if I had just said I’d been born on the moon. Then she gushed and promised to be at my service if there was anything more that I needed, anything at all.
After I got to know the Capital City, I found that there were many apartments of a similar style and spacious layout, even with brilliant morning light.
But to me, that apartment has always been the most beautiful place in the world.
The elegant building I moved into was divided into four identical apartments between two floors. Mine was upstairs with a southeastern exposure.
My neighbors across the hall and below me were courtesans, and a con man lived in the downstairs northwestern apartment.
I was shocked that the landlady told me all that straightaway. Yet later I would learn that nobody in the bohemian neighborhood attempted pretense at respectability.
I didn’t take much notice of my neighbors right away. That was my biggest mistake. But I had been in the Capital City for less than a week when I moved in. I was so overwhelmed with this strange and wonderful new place I couldn’t attend to specific people just yet.
My first days in that apartment, I wandered from room to room, looking up the blank walls that stretched so high. I had no furniture for weeks because I had no idea what to get or even how to get it.
I didn’t mind having nothing in my new home. I saw endless possibility in the vast emptiness of the rooms.
The first day I went to the open-air market in the town square, the sights, scents, and sounds staggered me. The cheerful shouts of the merchants to boast of their wares lent a celebratory atmosphere to the place, while the aroma of exotic spices wafted through the air.
When I saw the beautiful rows of autumn produce in yellows, oranges, greens, and some reds, the thought crossed my mind that I may have picked the ripe fruit and vegetables, and my blood ran cold. I couldn’t bring myself to get anything other than a loaf of bread, a round of cheese, and thick slices of cured ham.
It was just as well. When I got home, I found that I had no pots or pans to cook in, and I could have gotten those at the market too.
I stared out the windows for hours, looking at the comings and goings of the people who lived on my street.
They were like nobody I had ever seen before!
Everybody seemed so glamorous, the women with their sweeping gowns, dramatic cloaks, ornate hats, and hair falling in perfect coils over their shoulders. Their parasols may have protected their fair skin from the glare of the sun, but the main purpose served was to make the women look elegant and stylish.
The gentlemen were almost as leisurely as their ladies, their fashion no less decorative with their stockings, heeled shoes, tight breeches, fitted waistcoats, high hats, and canes that were seldom needed for support while walking.
Suddenly, my Patron and Patroness, and their spoiled Daughter and Son seemed provincial and ridiculous with their affected airs once I could compare them to the sophistication and easy confidence of these marvelous Citizens of the Capital City.
I was also painfully aware that the Patron’s Daughter’s clothes that I came with seemed ordinary at best, and dowdy at worst next to the gorgeous fashions I saw everyday. Although I had the money to pay for new clothes, I hadn’t an idea of where I could find them.
This was especially mortifying, especially because I could see I was no longer invisible.
With the exception of the Noble Son, I had never been seen in my life. Yet once I moved to the Capital City, every time I left my building, everybody could have been the Noble Son.
People peered at me closely all the time, openly looking me up and down. Even though their expressions revealed interest and curiosity, rather than hostility, contempt, or even indifference, I was embarrassed. I didn’t look like somebody who belonged there.
I didn’t know it at the time, but everybody in the neighborhood wanted to know about me.
As if I didn’t stand out enough with my country clothes and the air of one who was lost, I would later find out that my landlady had gossiped about me paying six months rent up front with a gold coin.
The Sorcerer was right in that nobody asked questions.
But everybody sure talked.
The Wanderer's Denial
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“So I was wondering,” the Wanderer said. “Do you think we could share our supper tonight?”
The girl didn’t answer right away, swinging her leg over to dismount. She fingered her star-shaped crystal, muscle twitching in her jaw, and looked beyond him.
The Wanderer went numb when the girl walked to her tent, shocked that she would continue to slight him.
Then she pulled the necklace over her head and dropped the pendant inside.
“All right,” she said, turning to face him. “I suppose we can. I’ll need an hour to get the bird ready.”
The Wanderer was too stunned to do anything other than go to the pit. To his surprise, they worked well together, falling into each other’s rhythm with ease.
The girl had the pheasant dressed and lined along the spit by the time the fire was ready. She laid it between the prongs and placed one of her pans underneath to catch the droppings, while the Wanderer made up his hash. His mouth watered when he poured the fat over his dish, stirring it in with his spoon and inhaling the savory wafting from the skillet.
Tonight, his hash would be perfect.
“I think the pheasant is done.”
The sound of her voice startled him.
He looked up, surprised the evening dusk was growing darker and the girl already pulled the spit from the fire. Without a word, he gestured for her to hand the pheasant over. He tore the meat to shreds, mixing it all into the hash until it was moist, then loaded a mound on each plate. The aroma made his head swim, but the Wanderer knew it was only a hint of the tastes and textures to come.
Rubbing his palms briskly and hovering them over his plate, he closed his eyes to give thanks, a blessing ritual he hadn’t done in months. He opened his eyes to the girl staring at him, her fork dangling from her fingers.
“Did your grandfather teach you that?”
“Yes, he did.”
“So tell me about him,” she murmured. “He was a bard, right?”
“Why should you care?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” she shrugged. “Just a mention of him got the Lawmen out of here.”
“Are you going to tell me what brought them here looking for you?”
“I’d rather hear about your grandfather instead.”
“Was it because you crossed the border illegally?”
“It could be for lots of reasons.”
“Give me one.”
The girl shook her head and took her first bite.
The Wanderer was gratified when she closed her eyes and sighed deeply, but hunger pulled his attention to his own plate. The supper was better than he expected, the meat tender and the hash softened, the infusion of herbs stronger with the base of animal fat. He chewed until he no longer distinguished one flavor from another. When he took his next mouthful he moaned, amused to see the girl scowling at him.
“I take it you prefer silence while eating.”
“I don’t care how much noise you make,” she retorted. “But are you going to talk about your grandfather or not?”
“Why do you want to know about him?”
The girl didn’t answer right away, eating until her supper was half finished. Then she turned towards the Wanderer again.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess he sounds like an interesting topic of conversation.”
Although her voice held the casual tone of boredom, the Wanderer narrowed his eyes. He even set his plate down and peered at her.
“Well if you’re going to be like that,” he said. “Tell me why the Lawmen showed up and I’ll entertain you with stories about my grandfather.”
“Forget it,” she snorted. “I didn’t ask you to lie for me.”
“I know you didn’t. But-”
“But nothing. I don’t owe you an explanation.”
The rest of the meal they finished in silence.
The Wanderer had to exert himself to eat slowly, for his relish had diminished. He couldn’t stop thinking that this strange girl who had refused to speak to him for the past month had now shown interest in the Bard.
The lure was irresistible.
“So what do you want me to tell you?”
“Whatever you wish to share,” she said. “Did he teach you how to cook?”
“Not really. He taught me how to forage.”
At first, the Wanderer found talking to her difficult.
Her inscrutable expression implied indifference, stemming the flow of his memories and making his speech come in hesitant bursts. Eventually her face relaxed, and the girl fixed her gaze on him and unlocked his past.
After that, the Wanderer lost himself in stories of the Bard. He even smiled as he described how strict his grandfather had been in the woods, refusing to let him gather alone until he’d made no mistakes for a year. Growing up, he’d always been frustrated with the Bard’s exacting standards. But later, he would be grateful. He could always feed himself when he had nothing, the marks of nourishment and poison similar all over the world.
“You learned that much during visits?” she asked.
“I grew up with him.”
His throat tightened and the Wanderer stopped talking.
The girl frowned, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, she held up her empty plate.
“Supper was quite good,” she said. “If your grandfather didn’t teach you, how did you learn to cook?”
The Wanderer was relieved the past rushed back so easily. He opened up again to the vivid images in his mind, returning to the nights for stories when he taught himself how to pair herbs and spices through his sense of smell. He could hear the logs crackling, his back warm from the flames of the past, the Bard’s voice ringing through the cabin. Drifting in the sea of those memories, he murmured the adage his grandfather had repeated as the years passed.
“Follow your heart.”
“What!”
The girl’s voice had taken on a jagged quality. The sharp point of one word pierced the images from the past and those memories dissolved.
The Wanderer was pulled back to the present, to the woods of No Man’s Land and the lingering aroma of supper, to the fading light of a dying fire and his neighbor.
She seemed feverish with her cheeks flushed.
“What did you just say?”
“That was something he liked to end his stories with,” he replied. “A lesson of sorts. I don’t understand why that would upset you.”
“Just what was your grandfather trying to teach you, Wanderer?”
He paused, taken aback by her sudden insolence.
“My grandfather cherished love more than anything,” he said. “He always claimed that everything in life that truly mattered always came back to love.”
“I’m sure that’s very nice,” the girl snapped. “But so what?”
“So he made up these stories about this Ella Bandita, a woman who destroyed men with too much pride by stealing that which they never valued. Hence, he finished his stories with ‘follow your heart.’ So we’d grow up and live in a way that honors love.”
“What was it these men didn’t value?”
“Their hearts.”
The girl covered her mouth, but not before he saw the corners twitching. Then her shoulders started to shake, a sign she was helpless against the fit of laughter coming on.
The Wanderer watched the girl try to resist the pull of mirth until she couldn’t hold back any longer. But the Wanderer was still stunned when she collapsed, her entire body quaking as she laughed.
Minutes passed and she didn’t stop.
Then his confusion mounted to rage.
For the first time in his life, the Wanderer was tempted to hit a woman. But as the girl howled and rolled on the ground, it was all he could do to restrain himself. Staring at the girl gripping her stomach, the Wanderer felt something burst in his heart, an emotion he didn’t recognize. The sentiment was violent but not impulsive; it had a lingering quality, an enduring relentlessness.
The girl stopped laughing as soon as she saw his face. She even pulled up and moved away from him.
“Did you ask me about my grandfather just to mock him?”
“Wanderer, I’m not mocking your grandfather,” she replied. “I’m mocking you.”
“You’re going to have to explain what you found so funny. Because I can’t see it.”
“Look upon the obvious and you might. You certainly didn’t learn your lessons well.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.
“If you’ve been taught all your life to follow your heart, then this is the last place you should be. Yet here you are. And you insist on staying.”
She chortled and shook her head.
“You have a place to go, Wanderer. So what are you doing here?”
“I have my reasons,” he retorted. “Why should you mind anyway? I don’t want anything from you.”
“Don’t be such a hypocrite. I know what you want.”
A hard edge came into her voice. But the glint of knowing in her eyes still made his heart beat faster, the air teasing along his flesh just as it had the day he had first seen her. A delicious quiver shot up his spine and made him restless.
“You don’t seem troubled by that.”
The girl chuckled. Her eyes glittered when gazed at him, her large teeth gleaming.
“That’s because I want something from you too, Wanderer.”
Her voice grew soft, a rumbling whisper that made the heat rise from the depths of his belly and the hairs prickle on the back of his neck.
The Wanderer wondered if the girl could see inside his darkness, knowing the desires he dared not think about. Then the vision of a hungry wolf bitch stalking prey came to his mind.
“And the longer you stay,” she said. “The more likely I’ll take it.”
“Why don’t you tell me what it is? Maybe I’ll give it to you.”
“I’d really like to spare you, Wanderer. But you’re exhausting my good intentions.”
The Courtesan With No Regrets
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This excerpt is from an early draft of my work-in-progress, “The Shepherd and the Courtesan,” before I shifted the narrative to a first-person, switching between the POVs of the 2 protagonists in the title.
The Shepherd was enduring the nightmare again. The tower of stolen hearts was screaming so loud, he thought he would go out of his mind. He climbed the steps against the walls, desperately looking for his. Surely, she had stolen his.
The sound of laughter made him look down.
Woman was there, but so was Adrianna. Woman was shaking her head slowly and Adrianna looked amused.
“Don’t you worry, darling Shepherd. Your heart is safe.”
Woman started to laugh.
The Shepherd pulled himself awake, his heart pounding so hard he could feel its echo pulse through him.
The room was black when he woke. Disoriented, the Shepherd couldn’t remember where he was. The support of the mattress and the weight and warmth of the blankets were even more confusing.
Why wasn’t he on the ground? Where were his sheep?
His panic grew and his heart pounded even faster. The Shepherd felt around the bed until he found the headboard and footboard. The wood felt solid and comforting under his hands, bringing his recent memories back of the Capital City and the afternoon in the square, and all those evenings talking to Adrianna.
Adrianna the Beautiful.
He remembered their last meeting and a weight descend on his chest.
Such a lovely woman, she was capable of deep kindness and graciousness, along with her exquisite hospitality impeccable and her captivating charm.
Yet she was also ruthless. The hard set of her classical features when and the unforgiving gleam in her large golden eyes haunted him.
Her last story weighed on him, the tale that had lasted all night.
“Prepare yourself, Shepherd,” she had said. “The tale is rather grueling.”
She had tried to warn him.
The Shepherd shook his head.
What time was it?
What day was it?
He had been exhausted when he went to bed in the early hours of that morning.
The servant who had led him to his quarters pulled the curtains tightly together to keep out the light from the rising sun. The Shepherd remembered the glow of pink and lavender on the horizon with the coming day when he left the back patio.
Feeling his way around the bed, he made his way to the windows and lifted the drapery. He was startled to see darkness outside, with the moon high in a sky filled with stars.
He must have slept all day and well into the night.
As distressing as the story of the Patron’s Daughter had been, the images running through his mine, the Shepherd still fell unconscious as soon as his head hit the pillow and slept for about eighteen hours.
He couldn’t believe it. That was unheard of for him. There had never been a time in his life when he’d slept that long, no matter how little rest he received.
Pulling the curtain back for the dim light of moon and stars, he made out the dim shape of dressing robe placed along the dresser.
Really, Adrianna’s attention to detail was astonishing.
Fully awake, the Shepherd knew there was no way he was going back to sleep. Pulling on the robe, he left his room.
He’d never been up at this hour before.
He was surprised and relieved that there were candles burning in the glass sconces along the corridor, the flames brighter reflecting off the glass and lighting up the way so he could follow his restlessness.
The Shepherd made his way down the stairs, and wandered around the house. He breathed easily for the first time in weeks. The silence of the Courtesan Casa was a soothing relief, and the sconces made it easy for him to roam all over.
This was the first time he had been alone in weeks. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed it. The Shepherd savored that feeling of solitude, knowing he was the only soul awake in that house.
Eventually his wanderings brought him to the gallery of Adrianna’s portraits.
He hadn’t been there since his first day. The temptation to look through the paintings again was irresistible, especially after a few weeks of getting to know his hostess and her history.
His focus was different this time.
This time, the Shepherd focused on her face and her expression, rather than the provocative poses that had shocked him. Those beautiful, golden eyes sparkled, the woman in the paintings pulsing with life, excitement, and lust.
The legend of Adrianna the Beautiful was clear to see.
This woman had no regrets about the choices she made in her life.
The Shepherd closed his eyes for a moment. She was so much more than a beautiful woman, for good and ill. Her willingness to risk herself and those weaker and more foolish than she set her apart from most people.
“There’s an art to taking chances,” she had declared. “Morality has no place in that.”
The Shepherd bowed his head.
His taste for wicked women, as Adrianna had put it, had been hell to live with and beyond.
He looked at the paintings again, turning to her most recent one. Even in her elder years, that mischievousness, that spirit was still there.
Wicked woman.
“Welcome back to the land of the living.”
The Shepherd started at the sound of her voice.
He turned around and saw Adrianna coming down the stairs, a fur cloak trailing behind her. Underneath she wore her bloomers and camisole.
“I was growing rather alarmed about you, Shepherd. If you hadn’t woken up by breakfast time, I was going to send for the doctor.”
“I admit I slept excessively. But we were up all night.”
Adrianna raised one brow.
“Shepherd, you were asleep for almost two days.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I started the tale on Tuesday night. As you said we were up all night. It’s now early Friday morning. The sun will be up in a couple of hours.”
Adrianna came down the stairs and joined him. He liked her this way, with her long, silver-streaked dark hair in a braid, dressed simply for her exercise.
Suddenly, the troubling images of wicked women faded from the Shepherd’s mind and he melted.
Adrianna noticed his expression and smiled gently, with a slight arch to her right brow.
“Of all places to find you, here you are in my gallery of vanity.”
The Shepherd chuckled.
“So, Shepherd, are you staying or leaving as you threatened a couple of days ago?”
“I’m staying, of course.”
The Shepherd hesitated.
“I apologize for the other morning. It was unkind of me to speak to you like that. You’ve been very gracious.”
Adrianna shrugged.
“Don’t apologize for telling the truth. It insults us both.”
“That’s not what I meant. You were right. I have no right to judge you.”
“As a woman, Shepherd, I thank you for that. It is rare that a man surrenders such a precious belief about himself.”
“Excuse me?”
Adrianna smiled broadly.
“That is a long and involved subject that will have to wait for another time. I, too, would like to apologize.”
“For what?”
“That story was too much for you. I should have either been more discreet in how I described what happened so long ago, or perhaps even broke the story down into smaller chunks. It was overwhelming, perhaps more than you could withstand in one long night.”
“Please don’t apologize for that. You are a splendid storyteller, and I would hate for you to feel you had to hold yourself back, especially because I acted like an ass.”
Adrianna nodded and paused.
“Shepherd, does this mean that we are…friends?”
“Yes,” the Shepherd whispered.
“Good,” Adrianna murmured, gripping his hand with hers. “I was worried you would leave after all.”
The Shepherd squeezed her hand back, and her face softened as she smiled.
“I know I insisted on your turn to talk,” she began. “However, given the emotional hangover my last story wrought on you, I have a feeling you may not be ready for that.”
“You’re right.”
“I have another idea if you’d like to hear it.”
“Go on.”
“Would you like me to regale you with my early years in the Capital City? The transformation of the embittered peasant, Addie, into the Courtesan known as Adrianna the Beautiful?”
The Shepherd raised his brows, but said nothing.
“I hadn’t meant to share all that,” she continued. “Those years have nothing to do with Ella Bandita, and as we’ve recently discovered, the judgment of righteous men can be rather tedious.”
“I promise to keep my mind open.”
“And I promise you those tales are far more enjoyable and exciting to listen to than the ones you just endured. It will make a much nicer segue.”
“In that case, I look forward to hearing those stories from a captivating bardess very much.”
Adrianna’s face opened up even more.
“Perhaps you’d like to join me in my morning dance? After sleeping for two days, to stretch and move freely would feel wonderful.”
Sisterhood Where You Least Expect Her
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Photo by yours truly
Hey y’all,
Have any of you heard about the Thorani? (Or Phae Mae Thorani – spelling varies.)
She has so been my girl on this trip. She’s cool and she’s hot. She’s awesome!
She’s also part of the Buddhist legend, and a very important part at that, so I’m both surprised and a little sad that I never heard of her until this trip.
Although I’ve had a healthy respect and interest in Buddhism, I’m no expert and I haven’t studied it beyond a casual interest of an article here, a book there, and dropping in on Buddhist-style meditations from time to time.
So I’m wondering if patriarchy and/or fear of pagan spirituality might be the reason why I’ve never heard of the Thorani until I came to Luang Prabang.
Because she’s everywhere here, this beautiful, sensuous looking woman wringing the water out of her long hair.
One question about her to Kip and he was on it! He looked her up and sent us the Wiki page explaining this wondrous being.
You know the Buddhist mantra pose of left hand in lap, while the right hand reaches to the ground? It’s the pose I’ve seen most often in the statues here.
According to the story, Buddha was deep in meditation under the bodhi tree in his quest for enlightenment. Mara, a demon who was psychotically jealous of Buddha and his mission in life, thought who was Buddha to reach enlightenment?
So Mara cast his demons and his temptress daughters on him to distract the Buddha from reaching enlightenment. Still in his deep meditation, Buddha reached his right hand down to the earth and thought to himself: “Let the earth bear witness to this.”
And an earth goddess, Thorani, rose to the occasion. She reflected on all the good deeds Buddha had done in his life and that created a river of water in her hair. Then Thorani wrung the cool waters of detachment from her long tresses and created a powerful flood that drowned out Mara, his demons, and his daughters.
What a badass!
Photo by yours truly
Thus Buddha was freed up to reach enlightenment, instead of having to defend his meditative state from an onslaught of shit.
One of the things that really strikes me every time I see a painting or statue of her is her striking sensuality and beauty. Often, she’s topless and when she’s not, she’s wearing a bandeau around her breasts. Her sexual nature is obvious.
The Buddhists aren’t known for their celebration of sexuality, so I find that interesting.
Also, there’s something about this legend that reminds me of the union of Shakti and Shiva, even if the Thorani wasn’t Buddha’s girlfriend. Well, he had already left his wife and son to become the Buddha, so…
But Shakti is the dynamic energy who wakes Shiva up, who is in a deep meditative state. And in this instance, the Thorani protects the Buddha, so he can remain in his meditative state to reach nirvana.
The stories are different, but something about the nature of them is similar. This isn’t the first time I noticed that vague connection between Hinduism and Buddhism.
A former novice/monk who took me on a tour of one of the temples said: “Oh we’re also Hindu,” when I mentioned it.
Perhaps this is my imagination, yet I kind of feel like Thorani has been my guardian earth goddess on this trip. Maybe because I’ve been meeting an extraordinary number of my sisters since I got to SE Asia.
The strangest and some kind of wonderful thing happened to me last night. Kip and Angela left on Friday (right now is Thursday morning in Laos). Except for dinner with Peter on Saturday, I’ve had little connection with people since my friends left.
(Peter was a new friend picked up on our first night here in Luang Prabang when Angela offered him a banana as he was walking past. It stopped him in his tracks, and he kept saying in a German accent that there had to be a catch. No catch. Angela thought he was cute, and that’s how Kip and Angela roll. Everybody is invited to the party.)
I was thinking about traveling alone and ways to draw on my inner resources last night as I went to a beautiful, outdoor café with a lot of silk lanterns hanging from the trees and lighting up the space.
Thanks to 3 obnoxious toddlers at the table next to me, I changed tables and ended up next to other Americans. Believe it or not, they’re kind of rare. Most of the Western travelers I’ve come across are from Europe, especially France.
Anyway, at the table next to mine was another lone female traveler. Her name was Natasha.
The food here is incredibly beautiful in its presentation, and she asked me what dish I got – Duck Pancakes – and we fell to talking.
When asked “so where are you from?” Natasha answered:
“Originally? I’m from Florida.”
“Me too,” I answered.
“Really? Where?”
“Orlando.”
“Shut up!”
“What high school did you go to?”
“Boone,” she replied.
“Edgewater,” I answered.
For those of you not from Central Florida, Boone was originally Orlando High, but when the town grew large enough to need a 2nd high school, Orlando High split into Boone and Edgewater.
So yeah, small world. We shared an OMFG moment and she joined me for dinner.
Isn’t that the craziest coincidence? It didn’t stop there.
Not only were we from Orlando, but we’d been gone from there for so long, we really weren’t psychologically Floridian anymore. That’s a good thing, btw. My experience of Orlando is that it’s conservative with a stifling way of life, especially for women.
That was one of the first things we’ve talked about. Another that we talked about was how the quality of travel changes when you’re no longer in your 20’s or even 30’s.
I was reminded of this a couple of nights ago when I tried to get some writing done at Utopia – “Zen by day, groovy by night” is its slogan – a really lovely outdoor bar/café with floor pillows and cushions, etc. on bamboo floors above the Nam Khan River about a ½ mile before it feeds into the mighty Mekong River.
Anyway, I chose a spot on a lower platform with a gorgeous view of a river at night. It was all peaceful and chill, or “zen,” until the group of 20-something travelers next to me kept growing and expanding and encroaching on my space.
They were there for the “groovy.”
It was obvious that these folks with varying accents speaking English and introducing themselves, probably met at one of the nearby hostels, and the invite of “Hey, we’re going out drinking! Wanna come?” was all one needed to make new friends.
Because that’s how easy it is to meet people when you’re traveling at that age. I remember that phase fondly and well, and I’m grateful I got to enjoy that.
But that’s not where I’m at now. I fully enjoyed hostel traveling for a generous length of time, and hostels saved me from excruciating loneliness during my DIY booktour/roadtrip in 2005-2006.
But not long after that, I realized I wanted the privacy of my own room and a place to write, as well as a sense of safety that my laptop wouldn’t get stolen.
Eventually, even the most young-at-heart of us outgrow hostel travel.
So meeting people is more random and less guaranteed.
There’s also the barrier of language. The Laos accent is really difficult for me to understand, so it limits the potential for connection.
So I appreciated that run-in with Natasha who was raised in the same parts where I was, and there with no language barrier. She was easy to connect with because we already had a lot in common. Dinner with her last night was the first meaty conversation I had had in 4 days.
Natasha has lived in China for the better part of 20 years, 12 years in Beijing and the last several in Shanghai. She works for the Montessori school system as a consultant.
Montessori in China. Who would have thought?
Anyway, she’s on a multi-stop trip back to St. Augustine – where she lives for a couple of months a year when she is in Florida – to sit out the coronavirus.
She said living through SARS in 2003 had been bad enough. She told me that everybody in China had to self-quarantine for 2 weeks back then, with groceries delivered to your door.
She also talked a lot about how social media made this thing blow up and the Chinese government doesn’t have a handle on this. She said shops are closing all over China, not just Wuhan – and everybody has to do a 14-day self-quarantine so the virus doesn’t explode exponentially, which it’s starting to do.
“Yep. Did that with SARS. Don’t need to do that again.”
(Ha! That pales in comparison to what we’re going through with the Coronavirus - I originally wrote this on January 30th.)
The panic has spread to Laos too. I showed up this morning at one of my coffee houses and couldn’t recognize the staff because all of them had on blue surgical face masks.
I’ve been seeing more and more face masks on folks as the days have gone by. I asked even though I already knew the answer.
“We’re worried about that virus from China,” said one. “We have Chinese people coming in here.”
Oh yeah, by the way, I’m still in Luang Prabang. I’ve changed my travel plans so many times, I’m embarrassed to admit it. What can I say? I am a lazy traveler.
But I also really fell in love with this town and wanted to stay long enough to truly absorb the VIBE of this place. I’m finally leaving on Saturday, and by the time I go, I will have been in SE Asia for 4 weeks, and will have spent half that time in Luang Prabang.
Now that’s magic.
Seems like Luang Prabang snuggled between the Nam Khan and Mekong Rivers is a vortex that SUCKS YOU IN! People have chuckled with every ticket change and extension of where I’m staying. I even changed hotels for 5 more days.
That gives me the impression that this happens a lot. That people come for a few days and end up staying a while.
One thing I’ll say about this trip is that I feel like I’ve definitely made some new friends. It’s always such a joy and a pleasure to meet new sisters when you least expect to.
Queer or straight, I’ve found that women are not only imprisoned by conformity, they are also the prison guards and the enforcers of the conformity that holds us down and back. I could write several books on this subject because this shit has caused me problems, heartache, and anguish for most of my life.
So, every time I meet a woman – anywhere - who lives on her terms instead of from standards imposed by outside forces, especially when she approaches life with more lust and more hunger and more passion, I do back flips and squeal WHEEE!!!!
One of the greatest blessings of this trip is that I believe I’ve met quite a few of these free-wheeling soulsisters.
Angela and I really connected in the time we hung out in Chiang Mai and Luang Prabang. I also met 2 or 3 women at the Tantric Shitshow with whom I hope to stay in touch. (Obviously, Quixotic Sierra is not one of them.)
And who knows? Maybe Natasha will be a new friend, or that meeting was nothing more than 2 ships passing in the night. Asia is more her turf than it is mine, and she doesn’t need me.
If that be the case, I had a lovely, rich conversation with her last night when I needed it, and that will probably keep me sustained until my next random meeting with a kindred spirit.
Speaking of kindred spirits…
Thanks so much for the letters, notes, texts, and calls (WhatsApp). I especially love it when somebody reaches out for the first time. These contacts, however brief, are priceless and nourishing. I need that right now, so please keep it coming.
Peace,
Mana
The Story Behind Free Flying Press
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I struggle with social media self-promotion.
I have never understood ‘branding’ or ‘author’s platform.’ Every time I hear about the need to ‘define my brand,’ I cringe. It’s one thing to offer my writing as a product, it’s another to make my self into ‘content.’ That is odious to me, this image of livestock burning flesh because some poor cow or horse just got branded - pun intended.
Natalya, the illustrator I just hired for “Why Roses Have Thorns” has made me see branding a little differently. Like many creatives, Natalya wears many hats and has collected a lot of tools to make a living.
Besides illustration, Natalya collaborates with people to figure out their social media marketing plan. She is passionate about ‘branding’ and claims she can talk about it all day.
“Defining your brand is simply telling the story of who you are.”
Well, ok. I can get behind that, especially because Free Flying Press can be utilized as my ‘brand.’ What Natalya had to say spurred some ideas of what the ‘brand’ of Free Flying Press could be.
This website has been up for 5 years, and it’s been an homage to my brother the entire time. Yet I have neither filled out his In Memoriam page or deleted it. Writing this blog prompted me to do just that. Click here if you’d like to see it.
Perhaps some random readers have noticed the various drawings of skydivers in the banners, and wondered what does skydiving have to do with dark-fantasy-love-stories-with-explicit-sex-scenes or innocent children’s fairy tales?
Well, nothing obviously. At least, not directly.
Years ago, when I was trying to find an agent and editor on the pathway to traditional publishing, I always considered the self-publishing path. The original name for this indie author vehicle was Freedom Junkie Press.
‘Freedom junkie’ was my first muse, so to speak. The phrase popped into my head during my first summer in Juneau, and that literally convinced me to stay and make Alaska my home, rather than enjoying it as the last stop of my vagabond bartender phase.
I thought ‘Freedom Junkie’ would be the name of a book, but it ended up being more an underlying theme of my life for close to 20 years.
When I decided on the self-published road, ‘freedom junkie’ seemed an excellent fit for the DIY mentality. I even started the domain in cyberspace: freedomjunkie.com.
Unfortunately, I didn’t protect it, which is what we do when we don’t act on an idea.
Anyway, somebody bought freedomjunkie.com after my ownership of the name expired.
Much later, whoever had bought it sold the name to a Life Coach out of Anchorage who used the expression ‘for realz’ all over her site. It made me sad and kind of sick to my stomach. But no way in hell was I going to purchase a domain name of freedomjunkie.net with this kind of thing around. The time had come to let that name go.
And then, my brother died around the time I finished the final manuscript of “Ella Bandita and the Wanderer.” After the tailspin of grief and apathy wore off enough to pull myself together to get back on track, it was time to come up with a new name for my press.
That’s where the skydivers come in.
Robert’s 10-way team in the 90’s.
Robert had been a skydiving champion in the prime of his life. His team won the nationals twice in the 10-way formation 2 years in a row before he switched to freeflying.
Freeflying skydiving was very new and very experimental at the time he got involved with it. The team was a trio of 2 freeflyers and a cameraman that keeps up with them to get the best shots. It’s a very acrobatic and creative form of skydiving with flyers doing crazy, aerial stunts as they’re hurtling towards the ground at about 170mph.
Robert’s team, Z Airtime, won 1st place at the X-games their first year and 2nd place the next year. Here’s a video of their work that Brian Germain posted on Youtube recently. Robert is the one on the left in the below still, the barefoot skydiver, and the one hamming it up.
Team Z-AirTime was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. I was forever bonded with two of the most amazing people I have ever met. Robert Mahaffey, brilliant wild man of the team, was an incredible athlete in everything he tried.
Lots of things happened between this gorgeous time in Robert’s life and the dark times that led to his death in November 2012.
So in late 2013 or early 2014, when I was ready to get my writing off the ground and it was time to find a new name for my self-publishing vehicle, Free Flying Press had a nice ring to it. It gave me a lot of peace to honor Robert in this way.
Besides knowing he would have loved the attention and the compliment, Robert’s skydiving years were the happiest time of his life. He had found his people, his calling, and even his portal to freedom.
Somehow that elusive freedom is a primary motivator behind this DIY press. The freedom to craft my stories as I see fit rather than follow arbitrary rules that I don’t agree with is my favorite advantage, and I’m willing to sacrifice the validation and prestige of traditional publishing in order to have it.
DISCLAIMER: For all anybody knows, my writing sucks and I’m not good enough to get published. See for yourself and decide: here are some blogs of excerpts of my work-in-progress here and here.
Besides freedom, there are other themes that informed my life, Robert’s life, and the stories behind this press. But those are subjects for other blogs.
To conclude, doesn’t the image of freeflying skydivers somersaulting through the air as they’re rushing towards earth at breakneck speed present an image of ultimate risk and ultimate freedom?
And if that isn’t the essence of an unforgettable, bad-ass ‘brand,’ then what is?
The graphic designer flipped the image, but you can see the stunt that inspired the Free Flying Press logo in the video above if you watch almost to the end.
The Law Came Calling
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Image by Ioannis Ioannidis from Pixabay
He saw their horses before he saw the Lawmen.
The Wanderer spent the morning foraging along the eastern hill approaching the hot springs. The woods were generous with his favorite mushrooms, white with undulating curves, and his sack was overflowing by afternoon. Eager to start the fire and make his hash, he came back to camp early.
But the sight of two horses with their braided manes and cropped tails made the blood drain from his face.
The Lawmen looked like phantoms. Dressed in black coats flaring to their knees, they prowled around the camp.
The Wanderer watched the shorter one come to the girl’s tent with pistol in hand, while the taller one crouched at the fire pit. The iron weave was cast aside and he sifted through the ashes with one hand, the other holding his baton with a firm grip.
But they were afraid.
The Wanderer could smell their fear, the sharp pungency assailing his nostrils. He also knew from the weapons trembling in their hands, their tight lips and pale faces.
Then he stepped on a twig and the loud crack shattered the stillness, catapulting the Lawmen into aggressive defense. The taller one stood, the baton high over his head while the shorter dropped to the ground and aimed his pistol for the Wanderer.
His sack slipped from his fingers, spilling mushrooms, berries, and herbs at his feet.
The Wanderer was transfixed on the man lying belly to the ground, gun shaking in his hand. He couldn’t stop staring at his face, thinking it strange that any Lawman should resemble an aging cherub. He even forgot the other one until he stepped into his line of vision. The taller Lawman peered at him with watery green eyes, relaxing once he realized the Wanderer couldn’t move.
“I assume this is your camp,” he said, after his partner stood up and joined him.
The Wanderer nodded.
“Where do you come from?” the shorter one asked.
“I’m from here,” he replied, pointing to his tent. “I have my papers in there.”
He retrieved his documents and the Lawmen flipped through the pages, perusing the stamps of all the countries he’d been in the past five years. The taller Lawman even whistled when he turned back to the first page and read the name of his family and village.
“You’ve certainly traveled far from home,” he said. “How long have you been back?”
“About three months.”
The Wanderer cursed his absence of mind when both Lawmen looked up.
“What are you doing in these woods?” the shorter one asked.
“Am I breaking the law?”
“No. But why are you living like this now that you’re home? Don’t you have people?”
The Wanderer flinched as if he’d been slapped. His throat closed up and he crossed his arms, leaving the Lawmen waiting for an answer.
When none came, they frowned.
“You were asked a question,” the taller persisted. “What are you doing in these woods?”
The Wanderer knew he was foolish to remain silent. They might arrest him if he didn’t cooperate, but he couldn’t respond.
He glanced at the shorter Lawman.
He seemed more bewildered than offended, his round eyes flicking to the page his partner held open. Then his brow furrowed and he bent his head, looking closely before staring into the Wanderer’s face. He thought it must be his imagination when he saw recognition in the Lawman’s eyes.
“I don’t believe it!” he cried. “I haven’t seen you since you were a bitty boy!”
Official formality disappeared from his manner and the Lawman broke open with a smile. His eyes sparkled when he laughed, clapping the Wanderer on the shoulder.
“I don’t expect you to remember me,” he continued. “But we come from the same village. You look a lot like the old Bard. Do you also tell stories like your grandfather?”
The Wanderer froze for an instant, uncertain he heard correctly. Then he expelled a bellow of air, his limbs shaking from relief.
“I don’t know if I’d make that claim,” he said. “But I do the best I can.”
The Lawman from his village chuckled. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, but his partner interrupted.
“As happy a chance as this is, you still haven’t told us why you’re living in these woods.”
“He has a point,” the shorter one said. “I know you have people waiting for you.”
The Wanderer looked away from the Lawmen, swallowing a hard lump down his throat.
“I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “Except for one.”
The shorter Lawman’s face cleared and he nodded slowly, his eyes filling with sympathy.
“It was a sad day for us all when the Bard passed on,” he said. “I can only imagine what a terrible loss that must be for you.”
The Wanderer nodded, but said nothing else.
His former neighbor pulled his partner aside and they conferred in voices too low to be heard. But the Wanderer was relieved when the taller nodded and headed for the horses. As his partner mounted, the Lawman from his village approached with his hand outstretched. His hold was firm when he grasped the Wanderer’s hand with both his own.
“It’s good to meet you again,” he said. “You’ve grown up into a fine young man.”
“Thank you.”
“So do your grandfather proud,” he continued. “Stop living like a wretch and go home. Some folks worry about you. They need to know that you’re all right.”
“I…uhhh…” the Wanderer hesitated. “I never thought of that.”
The Lawman nodded, satisfied to make his point and went to his horse. While he climbed into the saddle, the taller one looked between the two tents.
“By the way,” he said. “Your campmate’s been gone for some time.”
“I guess so,” the Wanderer said and shrugged. “That’s not unusual.”
“Really? Where do you think she could be?”
From the edge of his vision, the Wanderer saw the Lawman from his village glare at his partner. But his gaze never wavered from those watery green eyes.
“She?”
“Yes,” the taller Lawman persisted. “She. You are camped with a young woman, aren’t you? So where is she?”
“No sir,” the Wanderer replied. “I’ve been traveling with a friend I met on the ship and I suppose he’s still out hunting.”
“Can you be certain of that?”
“Of course, I can. He hunts every day.”
“Very well then,” he said and touched his hat. “Welcome home, Citizen.”
With a final nod, they took their leave.
The Wanderer couldn’t move, staring into the woods long after the Lawmen were gone.
Citizen.
In his mind, the word lilted before echoing through him, soothing a desperation he didn’t know he had, the first time he’d been addressed as such since he came home.
He became aware of her gradually, the thrill along his flesh compelling him to turn around. He wondered how long she’d been there, deep in the woods beyond her tent.
Her gaze locked with his when their eyes met and didn’t waver, not even when she cantered her stallion through the trees to stop before him.
The Wanderer glanced at the pheasant dangling from the saddle.
“So I was wondering,” he said. “Do you think we could share our supper tonight?”
The Shepherd Likes Wicked Women
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Image by Alexandr Ivanov from Pixabay
The Shepherd could scarcely breathe. He realized he held the furs close to protect him from the frost in the air.
It had snowed during the night. The fresh layer made the silence so peaceful.
The Shepherd was startled when fresh-faced servants came in with silver pitchers of hot coffee and prepared their cups.
He looked out to the snow again and saw the reflection was a rosy pink, reflecting the first rays of the sun coming over the horizon.
It had taken Adrianna all night to finish that tale.
The Shepherd was reeling from the images in his mind, horrified at the fate that befell the proud Patron’s Daughter. The image of Ella Bandita’s tower of stolen hearts came to mind.
The Shepherd’s throat was tight when he spoke.
“You mentioned that she married and went on with life.”
“Yes.”
“And that her brother came to live with her after he lost everything.”
“That’s right.”
“How could you know that?”
“Of course, I wasn’t there to witness the ensuing years of her life. But once I was established here, I made inquiries every six months over the years until she died.”
“So she died?”
“Yes. Twenty years after that season, the Patron’s Daughter died. She had been a widow for years, and died with no children. As did her brother.”
The Shepherd closed his eyes, the image of Ella Bandita’s tower of stolen hearts coming to mind. He shook his head to make the disturbing image disappear.
“How did she die?”
“Dipsomania. Sometime during her marriage, she took excessively to drink until it killed her. From what I heard, there was never a time of day when she wasn’t out of her mind from drink. They say she stank of liquor when she was found.”
The Shepherd shook his head slowly.
“How was all this possible?”
“How was what possible?”
“That she was never discovered, never caught.”
Adrianna shrugged.
“If I had to guess, I believe the Sorcerer had a lot to do with it.”
“So what was her marriage like?”
“I highly doubt it was filled with love and romance,” the Courtesan quipped. “Why are you badgering me with these tedious questions, Shepherd? All things considered, the Patron’s Daughter got off lightly. Most of The Sorcerer’s conquests ended up cast off from their families or locked away in a convent. She was very lucky.”
“I beg to differ from that.”
“You can differ all you want to,” Adrianna snapped. “She continued to go to him.”
“What!”
“Exactly. After she knew the Brute was really the Sorcerer, even after she knew how much she had been deceived, the Patron’s Daughter still went to that cabin every week until the night when the Brute wasn’t there.”
The Shepherd looked up sharply.
“What happened?”
“I can’t really know. However, by that time, she was much older and past the bloom of youth. Perhaps the Sorcerer finally grew bored with her and stopped coming. Perhaps the Sorcerer had run the Brute’s essence dry. Or perhaps his desertion was due to death. It may have been after Ella Bandita killed the Sorcerer.”
“How did you know about the essences?”
Adrianna shrugged.
“I don’t know. The Sorcerer must have explained it to me.”
“You didn’t mention that in your story.”
“There was no need to. My story wasn’t about the Sorcerer or his magical powers. How do you know about the essences?”
The Shepherd ignored the last question.
“How do you know Ella Bandita killed the Sorcerer?”
Adrianna smiled slowly.
“I will answer that question, darling Shepherd, after you share more of yourself and more of your story with that woman you can’t bear to talk about.”
Adrianna rang a bell to summon her servants.
“We’ve had a long night,” she murmured. “We need to get some sleep before this conversation becomes a quarrel.”
“But-”
“But nothing,” Adrianna said and stood up. “I’m going to bed. If you wish to exhaust yourself, be my guest.”
“So you think you can just walk away?”
“Walk away from what, Shepherd? All this happened a long time more than forty years ago.”
“You ruined that girl. How can that mean nothing to you?”
“I admit I led her down the path. But the Patron’s Daughter ruined herself.”
“Any chance of happiness she could have had was destroyed! And that wouldn’t have happened without your interference.
The beautiful golden eyes of Adrianna narrowed and her mouth tightened.
“Did you not pay attention? The Patron’s Daughter didn’t have the qualities necessary to be happy. That was not my fault.”
“To deceive somebody like that is…is…Innocence violated-”
“Innocence! Are you joking, Shepherd? I took you to be a man of common sense!”
The Shepherd stopped, at a loss for words.
“The Patron’s Daughter was never innocent, not even as a child.”
“She trusted you.”
“She was a fool to do that, given how much we despised each other our entire lives.”
“You said yourself she had no tools to protect herself from predators.”
“She was foolish and had no experience. Nor did I at the age of eighteen. I was even more inexperienced as she was.”
“She never had a chance.”
“Don’t be absurd! She always had a choice. Plenty of choices! Why do think she continued to make the choices she did? Because she was getting what she wanted.”
“She would never have known of these desires had you not baited her.”
“I didn’t bait her. The Sorcerer did.”
“Your part in it was mercenary and cruel.”
Adrianna raised her brows.
“I beg your pardon, Shepherd. What do you think the fate of the Patron’s Daughter would have been without my interference? Do you think she would have had a life filled with love and joy? Really?”
The Shepherd was silent.
“Somehow or another, the doom of the Patron’s Daughter was inevitable. She inspired hatred. And if she hadn’t inspired mine, she would have inspired somebody else’s. Most likely, she would have been murdered eventually. How dare you judge me!”
“You led that girl to her ruin! That was wrong.”
“Are you trying to be a fool, Shepherd? There’s an art to taking chances. Morality has no play in that.”
“Therein lies the problem,” the Shepherd muttered.
“We both risked ourselves, the Patron’s Daughter and I. Her ruin was my fortune. That kind of thing happens all the time. It’s a fact of life.”
Adrianna’s face was white with anger, and her beautiful golden eyes narrowed as she stared him down.
“Darling Shepherd,” she said, with menace in her tone. “Your self-righteousness is rather mystifying given your taste for wicked women.”
“Do not bring her into this!” he snapped. “She was not that monster back then!”
“So what kind of monster was she? The night you met her, Ella Bandita killed the Sorcerer, an act that you witnessed. Yet mere hours before that she destroyed the most generous and benevolent Patron in the country, and possibly the continent. Her father.”
The Shepherd was shocked into silence for a moment.
Adrianna scowled and bowed her head, cursing under her breath.
“How do you know all this?”
The Shepherd suddenly realized that there was far more to Adrianna’s story about Ella Bandita than a desire to kill the woman who destroyed the men who made up Adrianna’s livelihood.
“You knew her, didn’t you?”
Yachatstasy
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Image by Dimitris Vetsikas from Pixabay
I can feel the rhythm of the sea.
The current lulls while pulling back until the intrusion of crashing waves breaks the spell. Tis a strip tease the ocean does with the shore.
Mesmerizing and violent by turns, water flows soft before the burst of rage that frightens and excites.
There is grace in the erosion the sea wreaks upon the land.
I lie along the jagged edge and stare at the liquid jade beating against the rocks, the stone reshaped with the eternal rise and fall of the waves.
The water’s mark is left over time, its influence ever changing.
Sexuality is poetry when spoken with the cadence of the ocean. Orgasm now has the potential of infinity, expanding to allow ecstasy that is slow and enduring; its subtlety lingers long after the coupling is over.
In that moment of awakening, the sea turns mischievous with a sneaker wave that leaves me soaked.
The ocean fascinates more the further the tide comes in.
The poetry of its language becomes a spoken word jam, a loud roar with staccato timing, merciless in its penetration, and the scenery only grows more devastating.
I want to get closer to the force.
Stepping tenderly along those jagged edges, I move to where two flows of the tide collide at the low point of the rocks.
Sometimes, the tide comes in nice and easy, and the embrace is chaste – a peck on the lips.
Then the momentum builds and builds until two currents shatter in an explosion of foam. The love gets deeper as the tide keeps coming, crashing droplets of salty froth that soar high above me.
Crescendo.
It is a dance and a symphony, and the ferocity is too much.
I start to move, my rubber boots doing a near silent stomp as I wave my arms, circle my hands, and twirl my fingers.
The flamenco beats in time to rhythm of the ocean, the sound of waves booming against the rocks makes me giddy.
So this is how music and dance came to be.
I am certain of it.
Way back when we had the good sense to listen to the world around us, this is how it must have happened.
We called out in response. Clapping and stomping, so consumed were we with the motion and songs of the earth, we had no choice but to move our bodies in step.
How euphoric it must have been to play with the world around us, and how joyous when the world played back almost doesn’t bear thinking about.
Because if we did, we’d have to confess alienation was our own choice.
I resent my clothes.
I want to feel the wind and absorb the salt into my being. I compromise and take off my shirt.
Standing at the edge, I continue my dance with the sea as waves crash before and spits of water shoot like geysers through the blowholes behind me.
The ocean is relentless.
Her aggression becomes a little terrifying.
The waves climb higher…and higher…making a zenith of noise when they fall.
I back off and join my friend.
We stand inside the pelvis of the rock beds, a bowl formed in the stone, far enough from the edge where the rocks meet the sea.
Yet the tide still runs past us, around the stone on either side, and the waves continue to rise high above us before they crash.
But for now, we are safe inside that pelvis.
"This is fiercely beautiful," says my friend.
And she’s right. It is.
Near us, a flock of pelicans coast just above the rising crests of watery emeralds until they peak, and evade the collapse of smashing foam.
Far away, the light changes as the sun drops behind rolling clouds, sending beams across the sky.
Yet the clouds hover above the horizon, leaving a path for us to see clearly the fall of the sun.
At the far reaches of the world, the sea is lavender slate; and there, I see waves rolling and crashing in the distance.
At last, the ball of fire descends and makes shadows of the birds flying across the horizon.
Crescendo.
We have stayed on the edge for over five hours, bearing witness to the spectacle of an incoming tide that happens every day.
But it is exquisite on this one.
Many people have come and gone in that time, but we remained. That piece of the coast belonged to us in those precious hours.
But now, it’s time to go.
The sun is gone and the sky is growing darker. The sea has become ominous and water climbs over the rock beds where we stood earlier.
It won’t be long before the bowl where we stand is flooded and the shoreline is fully possessed by the tide.
Making our way over the rocks, we are exhausted and exhilarated, and covered with salt.
I can taste the ocean on my fingers.
Photo by Terina Chapman
