Thursday, June 26, 2008


In the writer's almanac, just a few days ago, there was this excerpt from Ulysses, by James Joyce, Chapter: Penelope:

"Molly's soliloquy ends, "O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibralter as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Morrish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."

Wow -- "my mountain flower," all those yesses, the exasperation, the opening -- it made me breathless. And I remembered a line from my favorite astrologer, Rob Brezsny, a line that I had transferred in passionate handwriting on the cover of my notebook for RLST 405: The Psyche & The Sacred my sophomore year of undergrad:

"yes she said and again yes and his hands and yes she said again she said yes."

I adored that steamy and definitive (she said yes!) ramble. Yes. Yes. Yes.

On some level, I ached for that yes. I wanted to be all breathy and heaving and feel it, to feel the YES in all of its exclamation. (Maybe, in the back of my mind, I wanted it too much -- being as unrequited as I was -- and all that grasping usually hold no manifestation for fulfillment, right?) Lack of willing participants aside, I wanted to be so radically open to receive such an intense moment of desire, to be that badly desired, to be consumed by the fire until there was nothing left.

Some people shoot heroine. I just wanted a lover.

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