A Sensual Education Is What We Need (II)

I’m going to regularly curate a post, always pertaining to sensuality. It is at least good for me and maybe for you o’ reader who remains unseen.

My original intention was to appeal to Autumn’s nostalgic rustlings, but I recently found out about a friend’s family death and suddenly everything feels trivial. I wrote this 24 hours ago, before death had visited so closeby: this season possesses otherworldly sun beams that strangely summon drunken delight and drunken depression through being buried in old, tattered sentiments. The senses cannot be more awake during this transition of cool, fresh weather and life beginning to die.  

And life beginning (suddenly) to die. What a consuming pang of concretized truth this weighs on so many stomachs tonight. Who will wander in the cool night air attempting to send blood through the pang, yet finds only the pang pooling with this deeply blue blood, absent of alleviation, absent of being seen in crimson.

May Job’s spirit find you tonight.

We must then begin with Lia Ices, featuring Justin Vernon. This song and video concept remind me of the film Ladyhawke with Michelle Pfeiffer. Both take us into strange mysticism, one that obsessively digs into the earth for no sane reason or wails uncontrollably until the chords of one’s voice have become like the bark on a tree. It is the tactile experience lending itself to the underbelly of the spiritual–it is the thin space that is momentarily recognized and it disorients, permits intense disavowal and eventually gives us some kind of esoteric transcendence. May you dig into the earth, whether it be through imagination or in reality. Dig. Dig into what ails and persists and hemorrhages.

Now set foot onto a field, run. Alone and hard. Exert your innards to the point of deathlust-panting, wheeze, feel your unpardonably mortal body. Run again. Feel. Run. Feel. And, for a moment rejoice over life surging through your veins and arteries. And, for a moment lament over your loneliness or aloneness; then walk into the threadbarren home and lay down in the tidy, cold room. Do you hear your heart? Do you hear your saliva passing through your esophagus, with rhythm and care?

Do you hear your body as it settles?

See the beauty, in the human form, face, and fingers as he plays the violin that aches of treble pitch. High pitches striking your ears, sending reverberations throughout. Swell with crescendo, hold your breath at this point and sense your body’s impotence in remaining distressed; only full of sweet oxygen. Release.

(Pause in silence)

(Pause in silence)

(Pause in silence)

(Pause in silence)

(Pause in silence)

(Pause in silence)

(Pause in silence)

Next, if you and I are able, a moment of gratitude–

thank you heart for beating continuously and working hard on my behalf

thank you feet for all the miles, anger, cowardice you travel

thank you arms for giving love, holding love, and groceries and crying babes and resentment and apathy and hope

thank you thighs for enduring the commentaries and pinches and (in)frequent disdain or fantasized flurry, thank you for taking me up and down the stairs

thank you breasts for being a source of life, pleasure, and connection

thank you genitalia for being slow or fast to orgasm or not all, thank you for being with me and for me -and patient

thank you neck for gracefully supporting my head and mind as it moves and jolts ’bout life

thank you eyes for seeing and seeing and seeing and seeing and being able to shut even when I refuse

thank you buttocks for your strength and endurance

thank you tailbone for alarming me when I have sat too long

thank you elbows for your funny bones, I learn how to curse really well and creatively

thank you tummy for carrying stress and uncertainty and butterflies and ambivalent fat

thank you body

thank you body

thank you sweet, kind, languaged body


By Joanne Kyger

              The grasses are light brown
              and the ocean comes in
              long shimmering lines
              under the fleet from last night
              which dozes now in the early morning
Here and there horses graze
              on somebody’s acreage
                               Strangely, it was not my desire
that bade me speak in church to be released
         but memory of the way it used to be in
careless and exotic play
               when characters were promises
      then recognitions.  The world of transformation
is real and not real but trusting.
                            Enough of these lessons?  I mean
didactic phrases to take you in and out of
love’s mysterious bonds?
                      Well I myself am not myself
           and which power of survival I speak
for is not made of houses.
          It is inner luxury, of golden figures
that breathe like mountains do
            and whose skin is made dusky by stars.
Lastly, curl up next to the unknown despite its unpredictability and possible agony. Befriend the hawk, the bear, the mother inside you. Tell them their erratic behavior does not undermine your powerful senses, strength, and ability to be healed.  Their bites and scratches sting, but remember how your childhood wounds bled until cauterized, scabbed until new skin was reborn. Skin wants to protect you, will you allow it to heal?



Filed under beauty, le regard, memento vivere

3 responses to “A Sensual Education Is What We Need (II)

  1. Zack

    I find a great deal of inspiration and hope and peace in your posts. Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts.

  2. morgan

    I love when you do guided readings with pictures, music and poems. it’s like giving my mind a bubble bath. so make a book, I’ll buy it.

  3. Hayden

    No words, like Morgan I’m reveling in the bubble bath you just drew for me. Relief, release, ease, ah yes, I remember. this body.

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