What A Woman Wants (audio)

Hello out there, how are you doing? I am thinking of you, wondering with you what will today bring? What is today? What day is this day. And what I felt like sharing today is so far away from what I usually share. It is a sort of behind the scenes of my creativity, my process, my writing, my craft, my art. I have been wanting to reach out in so many multiple directions lately but I keep cutting myself off because, well I don’t even know why exactly, I guess I had it in my head that a writer or a creator should have a certain bend, like be a certain kind of writer, only write certain things about certain topics in certain ways. But then that feels boring to me, I think that’s the thing, I do get bored. I have liked to evolve over time, delving into new things when the old things feel limiting, new ways of expression.

But anyway I was reflecting on the topic of women and desire. I think because the days stretch out right now like blank pages you can fill with anything you want. But what do I want? Like you can do anything, but what do you want to do. Not what you have to or should do but what is it that I want to do? Want to study? Want to create? Want to try?

I did this weird thing where in my journal I took a whole full page and just wrote the words “I want” over and over and over until the word ‘want‘ seemed like it didn’t even mean anything, you know how that happens? If you keep saying or writing a single word over and over somehow your brain goes numb to it. So ‘want’, I had to remind myself how to spell it but I kept writing it until I filled the entire page. I didn’t write what I want, because I don’t know what I want. I really don’t. As long as I can remember I have been full of longing, a need, a feeling like something in me is begging me to get it something, do something to fulfill it. Soothe it. Hear it, listen to it, turn toward it. Look at it. But I do not know what it wants me to do, I don’t know what it wants.

I wonder if this is because I am a woman who grew up as a little girl hungry to express, to create, to pour forth. I was taught subtly and directly, right, not so subtly, too be small, quiet, still, grateful for whatever I got. I was taught not to be hungry. Not to ever want, and certainly not to ever want more. I was taught that my desires, my true human desires, were ‘bad.’ I was taught that to want was greedy. If you want nothing, you are easier to be around. Not wanting is nice. Not wanting is sweet, kind, loving. Not wanting is good. Wanting is bad. And so now, and for as long as I can remember, when someone, some motivational, inspirational someone whoever it may have been, when they said to me Dream or Desire or Imagine… I would have a very hard if not impossible time doing so. I would shut down, go blank, go numb. I have been unable to Dream because I don’t allow myself to want. I have often been unable to name, seek, or explore my Desire because what I want is considered by some to be bad and bad is not allowed. If you want to be loved, you have to be good. I have been unable to Imagine because imagination means conjuring up what you want inside your mind.

But now in this alone time, this extended alone time, I have decided I want to want what I want, and I want to know what it is that I want. So I wrote in my journal ‘I want’ a thousand consecutive times just to feel the words in myself. Just to get them out onto the page, make them real in the real tangible world. To break through to myself and my want, my desire, my hunger, my need, my ache, my essence. I do not have the answer yet to this inner restlessness, this inner question “Allison, what do you want? What do you want your life to be? What do you want to do with yourself? What is your most burning desire?”

But I am hoping that by preparing the way, by repeatedly making it okay to say I want, over and over, my desires will break through and show themselves to me. And because I will be ready, I will touch them, feel them, hear them, listen to them, turn toward them. Accept and welcome and cherish and act on them. Make them real.

 

Zoning Out

As I’m trying on a pair of heels, I roll the ankles of my jeans up and walk the carpeted runway toward one of those silly little low mirrors they put at the end of the aisle. Who cares what just the shoes look like? I need to see my whole self to really get a feel, but alas in any case I’m pleased with the strappy nude sandals and so make my purchase. We walk toward each other and we walk away, we expose ourselves and then retreat, and just hope to make it through another day with a little something decadent here and there to keep from losing our sanity completely. Later as I’m sitting in a business meeting, the man who is speaking is making his case about something he appears quite passionate about but I just can’t seem to make myself feel any kind of way about it here or there. The world to me often feels like my inner life must be a distant relative of this alien place, but seven or eight thousand times removed. Beginning to scrawl little designs in the edges of my notebook, my mind wanders away from me toward a provocative scene wherein a beautiful woman lies naked upon a blanket on a floor, surrounded by a ring of glowing vanilla scented candles. Like a goddess, like a sacrifice. Her attention is fixed on the man kneeling next to her who is stroking her sex gently but firmly as his fingers slowly begin to work her blossoming folds more fervently. The penetration is drawing her glistening honeyed sap forth, which he uses to wet and spread her pretty pink lips open even further. She closes her eyes as she gives into the pleasure he administers, moaning softly and rocking her hips, encouraging him. One finger, two, three. And he has her now, in his open palm, her sweet juices soaking him there. Another woman appears from the shadows, naked, curious, hungry. She circles her tongue around the erect nipple of the perfect breast of the woman lying on the floor, before placing her mouth on her mouth and kissing her deep. The sensation of soft lips and hard tongue, thick fingers stretching and probing her aching cunt, sends her tight body spasming over the edge with electric shocks, ecstatic waves ripping through her head to toe. I can see her cascading hair draped about a pillow as she breathes heavy, panting in euphoric bliss, skin shining and a glow in the darkened room. Feeling warm all over, I suddenly drift back into the business meeting and force my mind to try to concentrate on the matters at hand. But truth be told, a lot of the time, I don’t think I’m suitable for work.

// Write All Of It //

I believe if we want to remain prolific, if we want to maintain flow, if we want to continue to be nimble, a writer must write all of what it means to write. Just like with any kind of life, the struggles we go through to create are part of the creation itself.
Birth, death, ecstasy, curiosity, brutality, resurrection.
So much of what we have to do is sheer survival of the word, of the vision, of the expression.
All the ways the words are meant to be formed, the way they are forming within us, it is so often a terrible mess.
It can be very hard to break through. And the brave ones keep going. The brave ones write all of it.
So write all of it.
Even as many people come and go,
as they adore you and forget you,
as they question you and open you
and move on.
As they stay.
Do not worry about them.
You are still here.
You are still this heavy beautiful collection of dark skies
stealing catches of light through trees.

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// the bones of the artist //

I love that you do not shy away from your humanity,
divinity,
possibility,
uncertainty.

I love that you move into them, inhabit them, crawl inside them and open up your soul before them, allow yourself to become what they are in full tragic erotic chaotic bloom.

It takes my breath away to know you let them fill you, emerge from you, surround you,
have you,
have you,
have you.

And in that holy space, in the infinite spread of that rarely glimpsed suspension, you are as still as you are in motion. You become the flesh and blood of every creature ever born into this madness.

You allow their wisdom to touch you everywhere.

When I see you, I feel all of this written across the sky inside my heavenly earthen body.

Because I know in the secret chambers of my wild heart that which you know in yours:

that if it is not tearing at the bones, it is not poetry. 

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