Moments

RMPhairineyes

Live in the moment; try to be present.

The meaning of life – the reason we are put here on earth, the secret to happiness – is to live in the moment; to be fully engaged in that.single.moment…

And to learn from those precious moments we are given. -Ret

And in our time together I am shattering the philosophy while at the same time adhering fully to it.

I’m enjoying my day to day here in the present, in the doing what I do, while having the conversations I have, while immersed in the big projects from sunrise to sunset; every little observation enhanced because I filter each through the music I strive to pull into my life.

And at the VERY same time, I’m only half-here, half-present in the meaningful moments.  I’m only half-enraptured with the eruption of spring, only half-laughing at the antics of friends and family, only half-entranced with the starlight and moonbeams and the riffs I hear in the wind. Your smile is carried through its chorus, moves my hair across my cheek, my collarbone, tangling it into the eyelashes of these wizened and wondering hazel eyes.

Only half of me is here, present.

And half of me, is gone, a little lost,  living in the day to day of feeding your body, feeling your hunger for my limbs, letting my heart beat match yours while fingers play the length of forearms and across shoulders, tracing slowly the muscle and bone of your back.

Ours is a simple love in a complex structure of loving. And I am so grateful for the learning.

There you are! There you are.You have found me, all of me. Where have I been wandering all of my life?  

#for Reticent Mental Property. Image from the web.

Lies Here

RMPliehere

I lie here,

Awakened in some altered state of madness

where I cannot stop pushing and breaking and crushing all of my boundaries

and former limitations,

Laughing and lending my trust

To this tryst

with blind faith

in the goodness I once believed in.

She feels.

#for Reticent Mental Property. Image from the web.

Drowning in the Forest

Play not in the forest of beasts and winged creatures.

Live not on the crust of the earth seeking dewdrops to drown her, paused briefly under a sky of longing.

Silly nymph! Hearts and minds can not romp across the prairie and enter the wood together, for nature’s way has not been carved in that overgrown path we traverse while trapped and tangled and maimed in the quest for mere connection.

The tendrils of the vine play through her hair. His hands dig into the mud to shape and form his shrine. He wishes to worship, has practiced his prayers, puts every accolade she ever uttered into this rendering, his gift.

She is muse, yes. She inspires his brush and chisel when the sunshine breaks through the bones of her ribcage and reaches out to trace the line of his jaw.  He feels her touch, she is waves and salt, her mind crashing against the silt covering the shore, unable to anchor.  Head swimming, yet still firm in her navigation, she leads him along a learned path where she believes no map exists,  knowing she is fully capable of travel without him.

He is wise but wandering- adeptly steers an unwieldy ship until his hands rest, mouth agape, gripping and white-knuckled on the wheel. His gaze into her eyes allows the careening vessel to carry him through the mist at speeds that astound, sails full billow into joyful waters; he believes his compass guides, his stars align.

Until it doesn’t. Until they do not.

For she has returned to the land.

Better the forest take her back to the mosses, the darkest sides of the oak, to the underbrush where the morels grow. Better the forest cover her in fern, a mound of dry stone and the decay of leaves consume a shining interrupted chrysalis, shed and broken and necessary in the transformation.

Listen to me. Hear me oh winged creature: Play not within the forest of the beast unless you know your purpose and your direction is clear.  

#for Reticent Mental Property. Image courtesy of the web.

Quote Day: Sundays

The French have long had conflicted feelings about Sundays. In the early 1950s, the singer Juliette Greco – one of the muses for French existentialists – made her reputation with “I Hate Sundays.” While she derides Sunday as dead time, made for funerals and the hollow rites of the bourgeoisie, Greco also praises Sunday as the day for making love, not things.

That’s very secular. Forget God. Sex is good, and pleasurable, as she knew. Her 1957 affair with Miles Davis, when he was in Paris, being cool, is legendary, and that had not a thing to do with religion. They probably had some fine Sundays, but that’s a French thing:

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Sundays are for love-making. Plan accordingly. 

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# for Reticent Mental Property, with credit to an inspirational blog Just Above Sunset at https://justabovesunset.wordpress.com/2015/01/25/europe-being-europe/