On Sex, Take I

Recently, I was surmising about the sexual objectification of women. On my Facebook profile, I even went so far as to question, "If I've got it, should I flaunt it?"

And, here's the reality. Here's the stone cold, hard truth of the matter.
EVERYONE HAS IT. EVERYONE HAS SEX, as in a gender, as in a body with which to act out sexual fantasies, as in an ability to be objectified!!!!

Little 5-year old girls go missing and end up dead because of it.
And, coming of age teenage boys are sexually abused for it.

Sex is easy, folks.
What is hard is listening to the voices that say "No. Although you are attracted to that young woman, she is only 16. And, even though, you are just a mere 24, you must refrain. You are her teacher, and it is best for all involved if you do not get involved."
What is hard is talking about our sexual fantasies, about where they come from and who they are with. About the dreams we have at night and the visions that float through our minds when we masturbate.
What is hard is engaging with other sexual beings in soft, supple ways that are brillaintly sensual but do not distill these neccessary moments down into the heaviness of sexual longing.

We all want sex.
So, how do we get it?
How do we fulfill this very basic human need?

Walking Paths

After I graduated from Sonoma State, in the spring of '99, I moved to the East Bay. I set my bags down in my sister's small studio found off of Shattuck Avenue in Berkeley. During the weekdays, I would commute via Bart and Muni to an elementary school in San Francisco where I would teach dance to "at risk" youth. During this year, it became increasingly harder and harder for me to focus on the daily pattern of repetition that I had created for myself. Rather, the scenic vistas of the Bay Area skyline would sweep me off into fantastical daydreams and down paths that usually led away from where I was supposed to be. My footfalls were heard, and found, throughout that city during that last year of a millenium. I remember those fall and winter nights, when the dark would roll in early and the Pacific would bring thick winds along with it. One night, I was walking on an overpass when a text written with a black sharpie caught my eye. There on the gray metalic support of the freeway bridge, someone had stopped just long enough to scrawl the following words:

Big black boots
that can crush
like leaves
you under
the wake
of all that once was
my ornery sanity
now just little flakey pieces
of cereal
the butterfly of change has once again spoken
so i here i sit
so there i sat
so here i am
so there i'm gone.

So, was this my beginning introduction into the land of embodiment?
Who is to say, really?
Nonetheless, that poem still sits in a black and white composition book that I keep tucked away in one of my bedroom shelves.

"What Have I Learned?" A Monologue

I have learned that taking risk is essential, that I need to believe in my honest intentions, and that I must follow through on my big dreams.

Regardless of what comes, of who I alienate and of how the shit is thrown my way, I must take risk in order to succeed at existing as a human being and at living as an artist. I must believe in my honest intentions.

I do not purposefully mean to hurt you, or anyone else for that matter.
Yes, I have hurt others in the past and, yes, I will more than likely hurt many more people in the future, but it was mere circumstance that led to my actions.

(In other words, if I slept with your boyfriend, know it was not premeditated. It was only two adults making one, albeit momentary, decision. Know that the resulting fallout was difficult to navigate through, for us all.)
((Oh, also, if I become attracted to your partner as she grooves, deep and guttural, by my side on a wooden dance floor ("Ai!"), know that this too is not premeditated.))

It's only life. And, life hurts!!!
The rubbing against one another and the searing friction that ensues.
The spontaneous combustion of magnetic forces pushing apart and pulling back together, pushing apart and pulling back together, pushing, pulling, pushing, pulling, pushing...

Whew!! It's work. It's hard. And it hurts.

But, fuck, if I am not feeling it, then I am not living it.
And, if I am not living it, then I am not here.
And, if I am not here, then I am not (well, I haven't quite figured out this part yet).
I endure the pain so that I can feel the
lovehopejoylongingwishingdesiringfavoringflavoring
You I want to feel You
Your name on the tongue
Your being in this world
Your push to my shove
You.

Does tasting another really have to be so goddess-damned painful?
Can we ever let our defenses down, but for one moment in time, and allow the soft vulnerability to just simply flow?

No.
So we grab tight, to "The One," to those few, with who was can let our belt buckles out a bit, with who we can belch maniacally, and with who our bodies feel a little bit lighter whenever we are around.

But, why? Why can't I just let myself hang, and be held up by, by, by you? By a complete stranger? Why must I feel the need to push out a persona? To be
coolfunnysmarthipcrazylocovato...

Yo no se hombre.

Yeah, yo no se.
I dunno.
Instead, I breathe in and I try to re-member.
I try to Re-connect the invisible thread
And that is the big dream
This is the grand fantasy.

Little baby steps will get me there (here)
Listening, believing,
Deeper listening, sensing,
Still listening, embodying.

We are tied together
bound
like a little red bow
around your finger.
"Re-member," your finger winks at you,
"Remember..."










(this is my final grad school eval.
boo yah!!!!)