And I’m high again

It feels good, actually, except for the no sleep part, and maybe the slight misuse of stimulants to keep it going. I am a little worried about what I know will come later – the crash, but for now, I’m alive so fuck it all.

That’s why I haven’t written on this blog; I’ve been amazingly productive in other things – none of them important, but fun and giving me lots of pleasure. I started writing in a language I’ve never written in before, and even though I haven’t written anything terribly important, but it’s been interesting trying to do it and seeing that it is at least entertaining to other people. It’s strange, in that language, I could hardly write anything coherent for years, and all the sudden, I can do it. Not without errors and stuff, but in a way that manages to capture what I want to say and have a “voice” and all that. I am pleased, mostly because it widens the circle of people from whom I can try to get love by writing.

That’s not why I’m back to this blog now. I’m here because I just woke up from a dream that was half manic, but wonderful. Since this is the place I can tell the truth about everything, it becomes the place where I can confess this one. Beware: it is a sex dream. I think later it will be one that I want to write or use as good writing material, so I need to get the details down so that I can come back later and pull out the poetry that was there.

I dreamt I was in New York again, but not real New York but some kind of dream New York mostly influenced by the markets of various other countries: crowded, colorful, full of tight alleys. In the dream, I wandered the shops with two men that I had to do business with, one older, one my age or so (not anyone I know in real life). At first we were at all these business meetings, which I hated because they were all about all of these things that I hate like business and finance and technology, but then we went out together for them to show me New York.

We got lost in those alleys…they went into a pizza place, but it grossed me out because it was pizza with meat. (I have been a vegetarian for at least 15 years.) I stepped out, but it was like we knew we’d get lost from each other. I didn’t mind, but I felt obligated to them…it wasn’t clear anymore whether they were my friends or what.

I walked down an alley of the giant New York market – which looked like a covered mercado or souk, definitely not an American place…but it was full of shops selling New York things – endless milliners’ shops with hats that I wanted to try, family intergenerational businesses run by orthodox Jews. They were full of fashionable hats and strange hats that I wanted to try, to find the one that would be perfect for me. I felt bad that I got separated from the other two, but I kept trying to ignore the buzzing cell phone that they called me on because I wanted to explore alone.

Tucked in among the hat shops I saw a small stand/shop, with a small opening facing the market, and the opening and doorway were covered with the merchandise. The store had a stained-glass sign sticking out into the alley, with pseudo-medieval lettering in bright red with the name of the store: CLEFT. It was one woman’s store, she was the artist and owner, and the art was mostly female erotica. The stuff spread out on the entryway, and on a table blocking the door were all these black-and-white photographic portraits of young women – their faces – looking angry, mysterious, strong. They weren’t particularly good artistically, but I liked them.
She told me that they were pictures of women who had been victims and weren’t anymore – victims of what, she did not say. It was her artistic mission in life to photograph them, to capture them somehow.

She knew I wanted to go in and invited me. The store was full of these black-and-white prints. I came in, aroused, knowing that even though they weren’t great art, that I wanted one of them as a souvenir. I kept looking around, but couldn’t find the one item that would speak to me. In addition to the black-and-white photos, there were a few wooden objects, painted by her in brilliant flowing colors.

The owner/seller was an older woman, maybe late fifties, and not conventionally beautiful, but to me she was. Long, spirally curly gray hair, and as colorfully dressed as her store was black-and-white. She was in these bright long multicolored robes, and once I was in the store it was clear to me that she and her store were the “goddess merchandise” type hippie places, with books on female spirituality, drum circles, etc, except that she was the real thing. She was not wearing makeup at all, didn’t look young, but had that sort of clear-eyed hippie look you sometimes get, like some of my mother’s friends. She was definitely overweight by western standards. To me, she was absolutely beautiful…all that femaleness, the female flesh. She was one of those witchy wise women, tres feminine, very free.

It was strange. In theory, I also am attracted to female spirituality and I’m a hard-core feminist, but those kind of places always seem weird to me…the women in them too often seem like they are grasping for any identity, the neo-paganism/Wicca is just a sad postmodern shadow of what those religions are really striving for. Also, I’m a pretty hard-core rationalist, and all the crystals and fairy stuff bugs me. The excesses of “goddess worship” seem as ridiculous as the masculine phallic excesses.

About this woman, though, she was spectacular. I remember that her name was something like Deborah, which surprised me, because that’s a warrior woman’s name…not a witchy feminine one. The other thing that surprised me is how complete she seemed. She was utterly feminine, goddess-like, without the brokenness that you see too often in the real women who are drawn to those circles. She was a real witch. She was untouchable, unbroken, truly feminine and truly free.

This is another thing I don’t have a lot of experience with. Again, in theory, I love women and I’m a super feminist, however, the path life has taken me has made me (or I have chosen) to look to the female warrior for inspiration and strength, for a model to base myself on. Because of that, I’ve ended up with few female friends. Women seem so reluctant to be the protagonists of their own lives, to be their own heroes (obviously this is due to society that tells women they can’t be), and I’ve worked so hard to not be that way, to not be supporting cast in my own life, that I just don’t have much in common with most women anymore. Most of my friends are male. The two female friends who work with me in my vocation also have no other female friends, because, having worked so hard to beat “female weakness” out of ourselves, to be tougher even than the tough men in the field, we find ourselves utterly contemptuous of women who are weak.

That’s why this goddess-woman was so surprising. She was so feminine with all the moon stuff and goddess stuff and witchy stuff, but she wasn’t broken at all. She knew what she wanted, and she wanted me. She offered to paint me something new if I couldn’t find the right item in the store. She wanted to make love to me, and she was clear and unapologetic about it, just waiting for me to come around. Which didn’t take long; I found her irresistibly beautiful, myself aroused. As I walked around her store, looking at her women, her painted items, I wanted to let her…and I did. Her wild gray hair and brilliant robes dropped down between my legs, and, unlike men, she knew what she was doing and my letting her was unconflicted, and I woke up in a wonderful orgasm, just as she finished with me, and gave me the perfect gift from her art that I hadn’t been able to find myself: a wooden spoon that she had painted in all the colors of the rainbow.


Weird, huh? I wanted to get the details down so that at least later I can go back and take this and write it as real erotica, as it definitely had the potential for that. I’m not sure what to make of the whole thing. Manic-depressives are supposed to be intensely drawn to bright color or “color-reactive” or something…and her colors were exquisite, the first thing I noticed. She was older? What does that mean? She wanted me, which I guess still leaves me somewhere in a traditional feminine role, but that kind of aggressive pursuit would have been gross coming from a man.

Incidentally, I’m not a lesbian, which is sort of a shame because my life would be a lot easier if I were. If any family would be fine with it, it would be mine. (When people ask me if I am, I often answer, “In everything but the sexual orientation part.”) But also, human sexuality isn’t black and white, and I doubt there’s a woman alive who can’t appreciate the beauty of the female form…or if there is, that must be kind of sad for her. It seems that to identify as bisexual or homosexual nowadays doesn’t mean loving women as much as a whole socio-political construct (“It’s a lifestyle…I’d have to get a whole new wardrobe…”) in which I have no interest.

I was also glad to discover that I really do love and respect the women’s women, the witchy women…I’m not really contemptful of them – just the ones who aren’t fully realized, and that I guess I still believe that the real ones are out there.

And what of the spoon? Not even going to go there.