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Sunday, January 24, 2010

I Watched A Leaf Fall

There was no struggle,

No fight,

Not even a protest

Against January's might.

There was no petition to thwart her frosty rain or

Proclamation to sustain another day.

There was only a slight fluttering in the falling away.

Chariot awaiting, Leaf released her long

Love affair with Limb

And rode a limber breeze

To Ground's fertile embrace,

While I espied the skies through my kitchen window

As I peacefully rocked mi nieto,

Hazel eyes affably bowing to Sleep.

Both sweet deeds left me intrigued

At Nature's wordless ease

Of showing us how to navigate the maze of our days,

Segueing from one calm dignity into another,

The rendezvous better and better,

Minus the demand to command what is out of our hands.

It was all there in the falling of one leaf today.

The Golden Goddess

January 23, 2010

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Afterthoughts on Kissing...

After pondering what I'd written on the subject of kissing in my second blog entry of the new year and speaking with others, certain afterthoughts have come to guide me into other levels of understanding.
What is an afterthought but the cream that rises to the surface of consciousness once you figure you've thought all that you could possibly think on a theme. And found there is an ocean of more thoughts to think. *sonrisas* are my exhalations. Have you ever had anyone to beg you to kiss him or her? I mean implore in voz alto, sorta like, "CLAUDIA, KISS ME. PLEASE, KISS ME!" The tone begs, what is wrong with you? Don't you know if you only bowed to the feeling you might find that somebody loves you? I didn't. This happened thrice, once in a friend's living room, the other while sitting in my car, in the front of what used to be Towers II, and the third in an airport. Each time I was virtually appalled, shocked. What? Were their lips going to communicate something their words and expressions couldn't? Stymied, the beat went on and so did I, rolling into the next moment without a clue. Until now...
Tonight, I am listening to Iyanla Vanzant's "In the Meantime: The Music That Tells The Story" CD and am shrouded in the prickly sweetness of love, always, after the song, "You Haven't Lived" with Donnie McClurkin, Iyanla Vanzant and Nancey J. It's absolutely beautiful. Donnie sings the story; reminding me that I haven't lived until I've loved. To me, that means I haven't really tasted what love is until I've relished the ecstasy of the delicacy of lips on lips, of lips on skin everywhere that skin can be, like the synergy of the meeting of the minds, when two become one in the realm of thought. Treat yourself to the song, if you haven't heard it already.
Reality shows crossed my mind today, in conversation with my beloved sistafriend, Anita, who is Miss New York and Miss Venezuela and Miss Puerto Rico, wrapped in one queen! On today's televisions, the reality shows seem anything but reality yet are definitely shows, almost Broadway shows in scope with their glitter and glitz and fantasy living. Mercy! One handsome Mister Man has the spine-tingling task of choosing a wife or girlfriend from, let's say, twenty women. Each is, appearance-wise, entirely different from the girls around her. Some are tall, short, shapely, thin, thick, nappy, slicked, brunette, blond, spiked, whiny, direct, smooth, sexy, straitlaced, ingenious, ditsy and the adjectives can skid off this page describing them. What does the lucky Mister Man do? Spend the entire program discerning between the women, sharing dates with not only one but two and sometimes the whole group, debriefing on this or that one's loyalty and quirky traits and honesty, AND, get this, KISSING them as if somehow he is about to glean something special about the woman's character if he kisses her often enough. A kiss and he sends one off in hopes that she will stop telling lies in the house; a kiss and that one hasn't given her all, like the others before her; a kiss and the wild one is leaving the show...she lied about having a threesome.
Where does it stop? As long as the viewing public watches and the Neil son ratings are up, television producers continue spoon feeding us what we might emulate while finding our own mates. Okay. So what, Sweetheart, you might say, before you digress further, what do realty shows say about kissing? Mmmm. That kissing can be taken lightly, is there only for the moment's flash, not cherished for that divine moment when all feels right, when trust sets amorous possibility into play. Yet I know that isn't the message the Powers That Be want to send about kissing...or is it?
Gee, even my grand baby, Nazzie Pooh, knows how to kiss, and he knows when to kiss, as he only kisses those whom he adores, those who care for him. To date, his mama, daddy, maternal relatives, and me are the only ones he kisses. And it's the cutest thing, like my sister, Chicken, says about her grand babies who kiss. The miniature hands grab your face, position it just so, the smile explodes on the plump baby face, and the teeny tiny lips present a sloppy great-big one, right on your lips, and one on each cheek! And my grand baby hasn't topped ten months yet. His twenty-two year old mother has always kissed him. With Chicken's crew, their young mother has regaled them, also, with precious Mommy kisses since they've been in the world; thus, they know why one kisses---to show love and affection. Guess I'll take some tips from the smallest of us! *smiles*
I've longed to kiss in my past...many times...but I've always waited for her to make the first move...and the last was in the not-so-distant past. I was visiting D.C. for the Inauguration. I knew her from our connection in the cyber world. Well, not quite. I did know her voice, too. On countless nights, we talked and laughed, about movies and her job and her past and my history, etc. But I'd been in that blasted, chilly city for a couple of days before we met, standing face to face, the time and distance falling away like scent after a shower. She came in to greet my sistafriend, Bren, and her hubby, so that, I told them earlier, if she didn't like me and hit me in the head somewhere in our capitol, Washington's finest would know where to begin the investigation.
She was considerate. She was easy. Gentle. Serious. If I close my eyes, I can feel again her red-carpet embrace. We went sight-seeing at night. Snapped pictures in the street with night-vision lenses. Accommodating, she drove to the famous Florida Avenue Grill. Too late. They'd closed a half-hour before we pulled up. As we pondered what to do next in the warm car, she entwined her fingers in mine, and it was the most intimate act. My vision lowered. I was excited. I longed for her kiss, thought it was coming. Didn't know how to lean over and smooch her on the cheek, for being precious, thoughtful. So we held hands like that, the road before us leading into Virginia, I think, being she wanted me to see the lights off the water or maybe to spend more time together, before she had to return me to Bren's home.
I've decided to kiss more. To kiss hello on the cheeks; to kiss good-bye. Miss New York reminds me of herpies and other diseases one can contract on mere contact, skin to skin. I am not calling that to me. Simply, I desire to express the plethora of emotions, beautiful emotions, that I feel in the presence of others. The Italians are known for it. Kissing, kissing, kissing. My other Miss New York friend, Kimmie Tyger, is Greek and Italian, and she kisses just to look at you. I love it! An indescribable warmth comes over me when a dear friend kisses me on the cheek and hugs me tightly. Guess it's another part of the magic of kissing.
The Golden Goddess
January 21, 2010

Monday, January 18, 2010


For as far back as I can remember, I have always been mesmerized with the act of kissing. Have and will sit forever before Big Screen or cabled love stories and fall into a romance and live for the moments when the lovers reach that passionate scene, the one in which they are locked in a tight embrace, heads slowly drifting towards the other, lips slightly parted, as if they've waited far too long for that moment, eye lashes floating towards their cheeks---two about to engage in the allure of the magic of The Kiss.
The same magic happens when I read about lovers kissing, too. Years back, in my adolescent bedroom, no doubt like most teenage girls, I savored romances, mostly Harlequin Romances. The kissing scenes were plentiful, considering the lovemaking ones weren't mainstays in such cut-out love stories. I will read, even now, particularly descriptive narratives of lovers kissing over and over, never failing to see myself in the scene, imagining what it feels like to be inundated in the carnal sensuality of two pairs of lips, soft and maybe moistened, gently, roughly, wantonly, imploringly, lovingly one.
Now if this was and is the situation, then why don't I know my way up to and around The Kiss? Why don't I know the magic of the kiss for reaching a certain level of intimacy, for cherishing the trust that says we have something here beyond the folks who never make it to this stage in a relationship? Spill the beans. What's the 411?
I think my attitude towards kissing stems from me being raised in a family in which kissing was taboo. I don't have memories of my parents kissing me after a certain age, and that age must have been incredibly young, because I am scraping the bottom of my memory bank trying to remember. I don't recall my parents demonstrating affection in the way of kisses and hugs and playful pats and love taps. Could it have been my parents' generation? Could it have been my grandparents didn't kiss nor show affection in the home?
Whatever the situation, my father had difficulty allowing himself to relax when he entered our house after a grueling day on the road, trucking. He seemed wired, constantly. But what he had ample time to do, around the clock, was discipline my four siblings and me, either after my mother articulated a list of things we didn't do or wouldn't do during the day or, heaven forbid, after he caught us committing an infraction while he was in the house...and now that I think about it...that was almost never. My mother didn't whip, only reported the news (including what teachers said during PTSA's) and saved that chore for him. And my father administered the whipping, as if a lottery ticket existed somewhere that counted on him to win Connecticut's Best Father Sweepstakes by behaving like he didn't recognize us when we did something that was deemed a sin at 13 Wood Street. He'd unbuckle his thick black leather strap of a belt from around his waist and grasp you about your wrist and dangle you from one massive arm and spank the daylights from you! Usually, my mother couldn't last through the whippings. Long before the whelps rose along your legs or across your behind, she'd end up cringing and imploring him to stop, shouting that we'd had enough.
No, I am not a product of an abusive home by any means. And most importantly, no, I am not emotionally scarred. Undoubtedly, my father set store by corporal punishment and to the tune of not wanting to know of any other punishment for his children. Where did he learn it? His mother, my darling Grandma Moss, whom I cannot recall ever whipping us, but who, purportedly, spanked my father and his two brothers. Guess it's that ole "she softened with age" syndrome. Like my much-younger brothers and sister not being treated to the same hide-tanning we enjoyed, not to mention they got away with more than we'd EVER have been allowed to get away with and yet live unthrottled.
Am I bitter? Nope. I am reflecting on where I think my disinterest in the physical act of kissing had its beginnings. Now add to the above scenario the rigid ban on contact with the opposite sex for what felt like an eternity and you have the frothy formula for a classic case of learning to sidestep true intimacy. "I better not hear about you kissing boys! I don't send you to school to look at boys! You'd better not come in here pregnant! You do and you are getting out!" These were refrains that I commonly heard daily. They slipped into my head and infected my heart with a virus that kept me to myself through a red-carpet of relationships, in which I could advance but so far, before I was spinning 360 degrees, expeditiously heading out the door through which I'd just sashayed.
Therefore, I can be where I am today, a late bloomer, well beyond the typical late, swinging wide my front door in the WILLINGNESS to know what it means to kiss and kiss passionately and, thus, love and love deeper than I've ever allowed, permitted myself to love and be loved before.
What might have tossed salt into the wound and pumped air onto the flame was having a mate, who got a kick out of pissing me off with sloppy, annoyingly wet kisses, tongue trailing globs of spit across my lips. I yet shiver from the memory! And since I'm cleaning my kissing closet of staid memories here, I may as well say Halitosis can turn a reluctant kisser into a staunch non-kisser! While reading a reader's response on the subject of kissing on one of my favorite creative writing websites, I marvelled at her saying she had to kiss someone with a clean, healthy mouth, inclusive of wholesome teeth. Yessss! Love it! But never got that far, as I always shut kissing down based on my early years and a much earlier mate whose kisses left me in the middle of the floor, cringing. But I loved another part from that sister/reader. She said she needed to have a lover with great lips, soft lips, with which she could work.
Today, in 2010, I WANT to know the beauty of The Kiss. I want to know the softness of lips not only on my lips, but also---as others on the aforementioned website said---lips that kiss the various places on my body that lips can feel so divinely, so deliciously kissing. I want to trust somebody to take me, to guide me, to teach me about this sweetly, sacredly bonding act. I will know arousal, not only in fingertips, but in the visceral fire that can burn under the skin when lips brand and sear. I am curious about the communiques in kisses. What can they say? "You mean more to me than I can ever say? Than what I haven't said? I could stay right here, kissing you forever. There is nobody but you. Your kisses are golden. Kissing you captures the breathlessness of my first kiss."

In earnest, I want my lips to go numb from kissing. I want to compare that first kiss with the one hours later, when our lips, stopping for air, shocks me that they aren't intrinsically connected. I want to miss her kiss when she leaves and dream about it until she returns. I want to imagine its sweetness, eyes closed to plunge deeper into the expectation before the actual meeting of kissed bliss. I want to intimately KNOW her lips so well I can discern them behind a bandanna in a circle of Spin the Bottle kissers. In short, my tongue will dance a centuries-old dance and follow another's skillful, sensual, teasing, tantalizing tongue into a Lover's Paradise.
The Golden Goddess
January 19, 2010

Friday, January 15, 2010

On Being Single in 2010...

I'm fifteen days into the New Year 2010, exactly four days after my birthday, and I find myself single...again.

But there is a tremendous difference between this year and those of the past, when I could have been a garment stuck on the clothesline of regret, flapping in the late-afternoon sun, bemoaning why in the world other women had mates and my flashy-sassy self was home, shaking the hell out of possibility, moaning and gripping and, in general, bellyaching over the myriad reasons why I should be in someone else's heels, instead of mine, and praying how to count myself amongst the blessed bevy of women with enviable mates---of course, with jobs, cars, savings accounts, 401K's, vacation resorts, time to enjoy them and sprawling homes.

Yet, somewhere between those prior years and this one, 2010, something CHANGED! And thank the Divine, not a moment too soon, as bellyaching 24/7 is exhausting. This woman was fed-up. So the hell what if I didn't have a date nor a mate. Was I not still blessed, still me? The pomp and pageantry, the broad smile (as a certain artist said), the deep words (quote from same artist) and glitter (ditto) were all still me, and if not a woman in Atlanta recognized that I was perfect exactly as I was, then so be it!

Before I came into this knowing, I didn't recognize the beauty of where I was. Sometimes we get bogged down in the general consensus.

So this year, I find that I am absolutely beyond fine with being SINGLE. And I so much as shared this notion with a lovely lady, Duchess Tenn, on Facebook last night, albeit unasked, considering I saw the announcement of her relationship status floating sweetly down the reel of status up-dates, and I figured I could comment. Being single is a repository of blessings.

What do I mean? Well, being single has its place for preparing us for the beauty of our next relationship. Yes, while single, we can learn countless things about ourselves. It is a training ground of sorts. If I am open to being better acquainted with myself and my needs and desires, hopefully, I will be able to articulate these delights about myself to my mate, and not leave her guessing about what I like and don't like, what makes me livid and what renders me soft inside.

In a single state, I think we can come to love ourselves, to know ourselves well enough to discern what we prefer in a significant other, also. After any relationship, long or short, we require time to face certain idiosyncrasies about ourselves and about our last mate, so that we can hold them to the light of reflection and thoroughly examined what they have to offer us in the way of self improvement. Many times we are direly afraid of being single, as though it is a plague-ridden condition. Some of us dive head first into the next union with a teaspoon of consideration to what we just suffered in the last ill-suited hook-up, the wrinkles we might have ironed out still etched in the fabric of our souls until the next time we come to the fork in the road and must walk our separate ways.

I'm going to be more loving to myself. Single or in a relationship.

If the groundhog can eventually see his shadow at some point in the year, we ought to be able to recognize the benefits of the joys of self-improvements over time.

Therefore, I accept where I am now in my life. I accept the stellar possibilities in the beautiful women to whom I am attracted. I am learning to trust the Universe and the Present in the day. Being single and enjoying the bliss of dating, I afford myself the opportunity of sharing the joy of the moment with another soul. I am learning to honor my voice and say No when I mean No and Yes because I Want to go forward. I am accepting the flow, and not only accepting it, I am permitting Life to live me.

I have been walking this path for a while now, not just for a couple of days into this joyous New Year. Quite simply, I changed my mind about being single, and my being single changed. And HOW it has changed!

Now possibilities abound everywhere! I recognize them and am saying YES to opened doors.

On the first day of the New Year, I savored a lunch date that found us sitting near the chilly glass of Bangkok Thai in Ansley Mall dining on laughter, photography, stories and delicious cuisine. Neither of us noticed the day change her garb from a sparkling pinafore to a flowing starry gown. Fifteen days in and I have accepted the invite to be the muse of two photographers and an artist/sculpture. I'm writing more consistently and being invited to showcase my work in an eclectic assortment of publications. On my birthday, I received the most exquisite purple roses from a most exquisite poet. A sumptuous fruit basket arrived with a card signed: "From the CEO of the Siren Fan Club," and, in shadows, I've yet to discern who sent them. Moreover, unforgettable friendships are forged daily on cyber sites on which I share my art. I am being urged to set dates for luscious, weekend get-aways---one within the next month, the other within the year. A girl has got to stand in awe and expectation for what lies ahead!

I am discovering me. Am stepping out on stages and flinging wide my arms, Diana Ross style, to embrace my audiences, to love and be loved, to roll out my talents, known and unknown, and titillate in the jubilation of discovering other aspects of the woman that I am.

Most importantly, I love what is, love what the Now brings. I am grateful. For each moment. If more single days are spread before me like a path of rose petals, I accept them. If a trail of lilies dares me to love in a relationship that enthrals and charms me into disinterest in other sections of the garden, then I will bow to a relationship. I adore the testimony of one of my favorite bloggers, Alix B. Golden, who said in the past she ran towards what could be, unlike me, who sprinted not to see.

Thus, I do not fear the walking away. I do not fear not being enough. I do not fear fear. I will remember who I really am, for I AM LOVE!

The Golden Goddess
Friday, January 15, 2010