This past weekend, i was cleaning and i moved the kitchen storage unit in front of one of the windows to discover this poor fellow behind. Having been passed over for dinner, he was about the business of becoming a plant. His determination was admirable.
i fished him out, handed him to K and pronounced him Donald Trump. C’mon… look at him… the comb-over… the orangish tan.
i snapped his picture with K holding him… her head shaking at her mother’s excitement over the discovery of a real estate tycoon in the kitchen.
But i find joy in these moments. A ridiculous amount of joy in them, actually. Conversely, i often don’t find the joy in moments that i should find joy in. Or more correctly, in moments that others find joy in. i’m puzzled by what seems like over-the-top exclamations that this is the best moment or that this is the most intense orgasm or _fill in the blank_. i find myself wondering if i’m just not feeling as deeply as others feel or if others are just full of shit.
Perhaps we are simply in tune to different wavelengths? Someone else might not give “The Donald” in my kitchen another glance, while i miss the magic in their moment.
This weekend, i took part in my first ritual involving “sex magic” and i suppose even the term “sex magic” means different things to different people. There was nakedness, there was sex and orgasms, there was magic, and there was chanting and drumming and intent and ritual. And i was asked about my feelings then and there… afterwards as well.
i felt my responses lacked a certain passion – lacked a spark – but then… they were my honest responses. No hyperrealism, not hyperbole, just my real and honest appraisal of the experience. i decided that i would not color the experience with any bolder a hue than it had for me.
i know some people – have great respect for a few of them – who feel with an intensity that i seem to lack when it comes to the mystical.. the spiritual. Because i respect some of them so much, i can only surmise that their feelings are real and genuine and that they are feeling something that i simply cannot or will not or perhaps… that i should not. i wonder if feeling is like any other “ing” in that it might improve with practice and experience. i find myself sometimes wishing that i did feel what they seemed to feel. It’s like a secret society and i don’t know the handshake. i feel inadequate, i chastise myself for feeling so… but i do sometimes feel like i am less than.
i’m trying to learn to experience what i am experiencing in the here and the now, not what someone else is experiencing or what they say i should experience. If i am lucky enough to fall into step with you… to feel with you… that is magical to me.
i wish now – more than ever before – to have honest relationships and candid conversations… to have real connections with real people that need not be earth-shattering. i won’t fake an orgasm… won’t pretend to feel what i do not feel or not to feel what is felt. This feeling… what i’m feeling, how much i’m feeling… is enough for me now.
it is what it is. i yam what i yam.