(Creative Non-Fiction, Fiction, Poetry, Metaphysical Musings, Occasional Humor and B.S.) featuring Guest Musicians, Poets, and Other Creators because variety is the spice of life.
Sometimes we forget about Time and Reason. For a moment, we give ourselves over to Sensation and allow it to flood us. Its persistent fingers probe and discover light in previously dark corners. We see ourselves there, naked, vulnerable, real. We see our Need. It pants, it whimpers. It aches and its eyes bore holes in our souls. It is not easy to face.
Whether we look, or not, it is always there. Why let it shiver alone? It is part of us, perhaps the very essence of our being. Even if it is not the pretty face we put on for the world. It is who we are. And it's okay. ~~GH [Tomorrow: Richard Thompson Electric Trio Concert]
Call it poetic license if you will. I've omitted some lines and cobbled together lines from two different sections to suit me. I don't think Kahlil would mind. ~~GH
Let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls
. . .
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
~~Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet [Tomorrow: Hollyroodhouse Palace]
Fields of Gold. Eva Cassidy. A perfect
bridge between old and new.
"Fields
Of Gold"
You'll
remember me when the west wind moves Upon the fields of
barley You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky As we walk in
the fields of gold
So she took her love For to gaze
awhile Upon the fields of barley In his arms she fell as her
hair came down Among the fields of gold
Will you stay with
me, will you be my love Among the fields of barley We'll forget
the sun in his jealous sky As we lie in the fields of gold
See
the west wind move like a lover so Upon the fields of barley Feel
her body rise when you kiss her mouth Among the fields of gold I
never made promises lightly And there have been some that I've
broken But I swear in the days still left We'll walk in the
fields of gold We'll walk in the fields of gold
Many years
have passed since those summer days Among the fields of barley See
the children run as the sun goes down Among the fields of
gold You'll remember me when the west wind moves Upon the
fields of barley You can tell the sun in his jealous sky When
we walked in the fields of gold When we walked in the fields of
gold When we walked in the fields of gold
This song represents for me a
time of reconciliation, California, a promise of an exquisitely sweet
future, romance, a promise I made to my then-husband when he returned
from five months away. I'm not going into specifics here, but we
re-committed to our marriage – more importantly, to each other.
If you've followed my blog and
writings, you know how deeply I connect to the wind and nature. So in
1996, Sting's “Fields of Gold” became an anthem, one of those
songs that defines and represents a notch of time in our lives – a
magic carpet of sorts that carries us away and sweeps us up in a
swirl of emotions and memories, the impact far greater than lyrics
and music alone.
Sting's version is wistful, warm, his honeyed, golden words reflect the sun and the fields. I felt safe and sheltered, yet simultaneously revealed and exposed to the sun when I listened to Sting sing “Fields of Gold.” His version represents the heat of youth, the rhythmic flames of sexual passion, the persistent driving beat, desire that is never quenched.
Moving ahead to 2012, I am
getting to know someone new, and among the many pleasures we share is a
love of music. He introduced me to Eva Cassidy's work. Her voice
slips in and out and swims between the very cells of my DNA, caresses
them, whispers to them, makes them bleed and then heals them. The
wabi sabi effect is amazing. She breaks and then repairs my soul.
And today I discovered her version of
“Fields of Gold.” I putoff listening, recognizing this would forever change its meaning for me. Funny how the simplest acts are often the most difficult to initiate.
When I was ready, I took a deep
breath and pushed the “play” icon.
Cassidy's rendition is powerful, rich,
soulful, crystal clear as a frozen waterfall, pregnant with promise.
Hers is platinum, silvered, a mirror held up to the future while
still reflecting the past, bouncing between the two into infinity.
The broken vows rebound like pinballs, clanging chrome bells,
fracturing the mirrors. Jagged shards of shattered promises tinkle
like wind chimes in a breeze; the past's frozen crust falls away. The flood rushes forward and carries in its wake the tender bud
of a potential silver spring.~~GH
The switch turned on when a boy's hand came in contact with my hair. When he made the tender, almost sacred gesture of smoothing back my long hair to expose my neck to his hot kisses, electricity coursed through invisible circuitry along my spine and sparks flew in an area far removed from his attentions. How I loved feeling so alive, so fully involved and caught up, so helpless yet so in control – panting and heaving, my chest rising and falling against his as he tried to gain the best advantage, fumbling and pushing as I gasped and demurred, murmured and resisted.
Kissing was the best. It was clumsy business until the logistics got worked out – whose head tilted right, whose tilted left, where did the arms go, how would our weight be supported – would I even allow a kiss? But once the details fell in place and skin met skin, we became raw sensation, pure nerve and sensuality, tongue in quest of tongue, lip sucking lip, simulated pumping and seeking of hidden treasures – promises yet to keep.
Fumbling. Sometimes there was fumbling, and oftentimes clutching. The boys who fumbled or clutched in desperation, reaching for a breast or trying to seize a nipple like a purloined chocolate bar from the corner store were doomed to failure. They made what we were doing seem bad; they made me feel dirty and allowed my mother's cautions to filter through my physical sensations. The boys who coveted my breast and eased their way around massaging and comforting and slipped needily but naturally into my shirt were the ones who earned the prize. The ones who paid homage to the harnessed breast, then gently and patiently worked their way beneath the harness – they were the ones who earned bare nipple prizes. They were the chosen ones who suckled, who marveled, who whispered in amazement, "I've never seen such large breasts before!"
On rare occasions, there was dry humping. Grinding. Leg against crotch, sometimes knee against crotch. Sweating, panting, eyes closed, murmuring, begging, twisting, moaning, pushing, pumping, moisture, wonderful strange salty scents. We'd shift positions, mash mouths together, see each other out of focus, wonder who this stranger was with glassed-over eyes and wild hair, this person with their hands on every part of our body at once and still not touching just the right place. Sometimes a boy would commit the ultimate offense and try to unzip my jeans, or his own. The sound of brass teeth hissing was enough to break the spell and snap me back to an upright position. "No, we can't." Somehow we'd sort it out, make our peace, stay within society's limits while we danced a dangerous tango of desire and devotion -- not to each other, but to ourselves. Narcissistic, needy, selfish and salacious, our youthful yearnings made us frenzied and left us frustrated by the end of the evening when we said our farewell's and exchanged good-night kisses.
