In case you were wondering, I can be seduced by good music.

When the music is really good, you can just leave. Once you put the music on, your work is done. The music is enough. El Farol from Santana’s Superstition, for example. Take a moment to listen. Let it play while you read….

I hear that and I’m being made love to, slowly. Deliberately. Expertly.

The music you bring sets a mood, sure. But, it also tells me who you are, where you’ve been, where you want me to go. You choose something like Santana and I’ll overlook a lot of other things. The very essence of creating music is so sensual that when it’s beautiful, no matter what they look like, how they keep themselves, musicians are transformed by the music they make.

A dozen years or so ago, I was being seduced to Barbara Streisand. When I was a knock-around girl, the wiseguys spun the crooners: Frank, Dean, Tony. That music was campy, but those guys had a style, a certain appeal. But Streisand? For seduction? C’mon, I think Streisand, I think Yentl. Funny Girl. Babs looking like Juan Epstein in her annoying version of “A Star is Born.”

I do not think sexy. I do not think free. I do NOT think of your hands on me, making my body sing.

All I remember of that night is thinking “Streisand? Are you kidding me? I’m really gonna need a drink to get through this.” This was three or five years after I’d had my last drink.  I didn’t have the drink and maybe I can blame his crappy taste in music for distracting from, rather than enhancing, the experience; maybe he wasn’t a good lover ( I can’t swear we did or didn’t, but we probably wound up in bed despite Babs. “No” wasn’t a word I was particularly familiar with yet.); maybe I had no business being there and Streisand was the red flag I ignored (as I am wont to do with red flags).

I’m just saying, if, at the very least, you leave me with good musical memories I’ll have a reason to come back for more. And remember more than your bad musical taste.

The first time I heard Eminem was also the first time I heard the sound track to Heaven’s Gate.  Slim Shady was foreplay, it got my attention. That’s what foreplay is supposed to do. I remember every moment of the music. And every movement of the man. It didn’t work out for us, but I think of him and smile any time I hear a country waltz.

From the Night of Endless Streisands, I got nothing.

Music isn’t part of seduction. It is seduction. You should know that.
And, I will leave you for Van Morrison, Neil Young, Carlos Santana, Leonard Cohen. You might as well know that, up front, as well.

Thanks to Anna Pulley, whose tweet inspired this post.

Enjoy

Filed under: Sex Life, art & music, sex & violins | 1 Comment

There’s a Sufi poet, Hafiz (the best translations are the ones by Daniel Ladinsky).  Hafiz writes love poems to God. This is one of my favorites.

Every child has known God

Every child has known God,
Not the God of names,
Not the God of don’ts,
Not the God who ever does Anything weird,
But the God who knows only four words.
And keeps repeating them, saying:
“Come Dance with Me , come dance.”

Everyone wonders what God looks like. People want to have some concrete vision of their higher power, some small box to put God in, some physical container or body. Museums are filled with paintings and sculptures of Catholic, Jewish, Hindu, Muslim, Egyptian, Greek, Roman gods.

I think if you want to know what God looks like, you just have to open your eyes a little bit. your heart a little bit. your ears a little bit. and then, get out of your own way and listen…

with your heart.

I took this picture of God for you, while I was driving:

I know, I shouldn’t have. But the law only requires a handsfree phone, no one’s said about a handsfree camera. We were stuck in traffic. It was 50 degrees out, my sunroof was open, my windows rolled down, the music was playing, the sun was shining.

I keep this feather in my visor. It’s from one of the  guinea fowl at the farm. In case wings and flight aren’t big enough convincers, if you look, you can see God in the polka dots.

I can’t even get the books on my bookshelves to line up evenly, but look at that. Polka dots. Home grown polka dots. How simple. How orderly. How impossible.

I did not take this picture of god:

This was taken by the Hubble Telescope (not to be confused with this Hubble, also at one point in history, sometimes confused with God). Amazing, no? Total chaos. Totally beautiful. The origins of the word, awesome. These are candid snapshots of the universe, dancing. The origin of the phrase “Dance like no one is watching,” no doubt.(Click here for a slideshow of more photos)

Another bit by Hafiz before I go. I carry this one with me.

Manic Screaming

We should make all spiritual talk simple today
God is trying sell you something but you don’t want to buy

That is what your suffering is:
your fantastic haggling
your manic screaming
over
price.

But I get it, I really do. That need to put a face to the concept of God. A long time ago I heard a woman say that when she thought of God, she thought of tag team wrestling. And that way, when life got too hard, she could just tag God, and God would take the rest of that round until the bell rang. And she could rest a bit. That way, there was always someone in her corner.

I can wrap my brain around that… and so, my dashboard Jesus looks like this, because God comes in a million colors, and so do luchadores.

Filed under: Miracles, faith, meditation, simplicity | 1 Comment

I had to take a little time off from the “other” blog, from writing in general. I’d written about the rape. Again. It’s hard. I was going to say You don’t know what you take from us when you rape us. But, I’d be speaking to people who either don’t care - those who rape on uncontrollable instinct, who feel entitled; or to those who do care - those who rape with the intent of breaking our soul - pimps, mercenaries, warriors.

The rape I wrote about was almost thirty years ago. I think I should be over it already. But, apparently, I’m not.

It was not my first. I was in a blackout the first time and only put the pieces together afterwards. It probably wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been drunk enough to black out. But I was. It did. And I don’t remember the details. Blackouts are a mixed blessing that way.

And truthfully, the blackout is only the first time I can bear to think about. What came before are scattered puzzle pieces, each belonging to a different puzzle picture.

The rape I wrote about wasn’t even the last time I was attacked. Statistics show that once a person is raped, molested, assaulted, the chance of it happening again, rises. Here are some statistics.

Every 2 minutes, someone in the U.S. is sexually assaulted.

• 1 in 3 American women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime.
• 1 in 4 college women have either been raped or suffered attempted rape.
• 1 in 7 women will be raped by her husband.
• 1 in 12 males students surveyed had committed acts that met the legal definition of rape. 84% said what they’d done was definitely not rape.
• Only 16% of rapes are reported to the police.
• Only 6% of rapists will spend a day in jail.

FAIL: The United States has the world’s highest rape rate of the countries that publish such statistics. It’s 4 times higher than Germany, 13 times higher than England, and 20 times higher than Japan.

Survivors of sexual assault are:

• 3 times more likely to suffer from depression.
• 6 times more likely to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder.
• 13 times more likely to abuse alcohol.
• 26 times more likely to abuse drugs.
• 4 times more likely to contemplate suicide.

Stop it, okay? Just fucking stop it.

Statistics from: RAINN.org and Coalition Educating About Sexual Endangerment (CEASE)

Filed under: Inner Life, anger, drinking & drugging, healing, kinda crazy, sex | 3 Comments