Bird in a House

I want to sing my own song that's all
cried the bird and flew into a wall
there must be some way out he cried
and his desperation echoed down the hall

Just another bird in a house
dying to get out
just another bird in a house
dying to get out

I want to join my own kind that's all
cried the bird and flew into a wall
there must be some way out he cried
and his desperation echoed down the hall

just another bird in a house
dying to get out
just another bird in a house
dying to get out

I'm gonna smash my way out that's all
cried the bird and smashed from wall to wall
there must be some way out he cried
and his desperation echoed down the hall

just another bird in a house
dying to get out
just another bird in a house
dying to get out

I know I feel this way at times -- longing to connect with another bird, my own kind. I feel like such a stranger in a strange land. We all do. This is what makes that connection so ecstatic, so intense, so precious. 

Here's to finding your bird of a feather. May you forever flock together. ~~GH
[Tomorrow: Alienated]

Smile A Little Smile For Me

You know how when an actor portrays a convincing "bad guy," people react viscerally and ooze vitriol? They feel a strong sense of, well, sometimes hatred. But when an actor portrays a convincing "good guy," we don't seem to get the equivalent overwhelming positive emotional state.

I understand that, more than likely, this is because we are already naturally good -- supposed to be good like that -- so it's the default. 

Work with me here.

Thing is, I DO experience that positive emotional response. The "squee" that a lot of folks seem to only get from kittens and baby hippos and ducklings and such. I get those same feelings when I see a very wrinkled old man, or a homeless guy with incredibly kind eyes, or a deformed person with a glow about them.

I'm not special. Trust me. I am no Mother Theresa, or anything close to it. I'm just like you. Maybe -- and this is a maybe -- I just permit myself to open up and respond to the spirit in other people. 

I think you can, too.

I told my son the other night when we were talking about connections to start out making eye contact with other people and give them a big ole warm smile. It makes a huge difference. We all need that connection. Everything in Life seems geared toward connecting to others.

So try it. Make eye contact with the next person you see, no matter who they are. Then smile warmly as if you see the very best part of their spirit. 

Then do it with the next 10,000 people you see. 

We need to reconnect. We all do. I love you. ~~GH

Authenticity

Caution: Frank sexual topic ahead. Bail now if you have delicate sensibilities and/or do not want to read a blunt discussion about sex. I did not write this -- I wish I had. Maybe I will write something similar soon. I feel every word of the following essay.

I found this essay in several places, but never saw a title associated with it. So I dubbed it "Authenticity." ~~GH

Okay, as soon as you get to the bottom of the image below, the text begins immediately. 

Last chance to bail. 3, 2, 1 . . .

Sex is not a goddamn performance.

Sex should feel as natural as drinking water.

It should not require confidence.

Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe.

Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.

You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh.

It’s not about being “good in bed.”

It’s about being happy.

One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough.

What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you.

Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.

Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be.

I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this.

I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want.

It’s originality.

It’s passion.

It’s joy.

Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.

I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.

“Good in bed,” what.

You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you.

Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel.

This isn’t a test. ~~ [author] skwyrtle

Craving Communication

In no particular order, I am going to post journal entries I've written since April. Maybe not every one of them, but at least some. I shudder on one hand to expose my heart so blatently, but I must learn to stop being afraid and BE. And so I am.

The woman in the SUV talks on her cell phone and gestures wildly with her free hand, makes sure to keep her palm on the steering wheel while the rest of her hand flails. Communication is like that. For all she says, for all the person on the other end of the phone hears, they cannot see her hand desperately gesticulating. They are not aware of her struggle to convey her meaning while maintaining control of the rest of her world.

Is she gesticulating because she failed to convey her meaning? Does she gesticulate because of ineffective communication, because she doesn’t know the right words to say? Or is the person on the other end of the phone not listening? Unwilling, unable to process her meaning? Are they too wrapped up in the traffic in front of them, or the sinkful of dirty dishes waiting to be washed, or perhaps the weight of unpaid and unpayable bills prevents them from hearing her words?

Does it even matter why? Does it matter that she doesn’t know how to say it? Does it matter why he can’t receive it? All my life, I’ve wondered why, why not. I believed that if I only discovered the key, I could unlock the door and enter the land of communication with another human. If we could truly hear one another, know one another’s heart, we could be as one.

Oh God, what a lonely existence this life is. Unable to connect except on such minimal levels. I am a whole body with huge surface area, craving touch but can only accomplish a handshake. As electric as our hands are when they touch, I want more – I want to feel your body against mine, pressed against me in every possible way. This isn’t sex I speak of. It is connection, communication. It is acknowledgement of my spirit, of your spirit, of our vibration strumming along at the same frequency. For just that little while, we are in step, in tune.

And I crave this. My soul aches for it. My flesh trembles in anticipation of the promise of the wonder of this connection, this ineffable blending – no, melding – of the two of us, whoever “us” may be. And this isn’t even physical; it is spiritual. It is a knowing, an awareness of agreement and vibration that thrums in perfect harmony – a promise and a realization simultaneously.

And all of this is metaphor. My flesh is my spirit. I speak not of physical longing although my spiritual longing causes my physical self to hurt. I want that recognition that comes when you meet somebody whose spirit resonates in harmony with your own. I need that aha moment when two souls connect and remember each other.