Luke and I have taken some time off from performing to work on writing. We have a handful of songs in progress. The one I'm most inspired to work on is tentatively called "Portable," a title which, in the tradition of many New Order tracks, cannot be found in the lyrics--at least not literally.
For some reason, I have not been able to finish this or any others from this batch yet, and it's driving me mad. I suppose I'm too distracted. I've upped my meditation time in the hopes of fixing this. Upon rising, I do visualization exercises, and, before bed, Caroline Myss helps me review how I used my energy during the day. Every night she asks, "Did you receive a surprise today?" Um, yes...
At some point, though, I would like the surprise to be that one of the songs has words that I can be proud of. Not that I don't like the surprises I've gotten lately. They're actually quite lovely, only too nascent to use professionally. Actually, maybe, hopefully, I'm wrong about that.
Once I can access these little surprises, I'll be able to pump these suckers out in no time. Could it happen today? That would be amazing. Please, please, pretty please, send some creative and mellifluous vibes my way.
Thank you so much,
Margot
25.6.08
16.6.08
Tantric hangover
We discussed how each of us women carries within her every person who's been sexual with her. No wonder many of us take these things so seriously! We brought the 60s back, forging a sacred reconnection with ancient matriarchal ritual, baring ourselves and identifying the parts of each other we felt to be the most beautiful. Inevitably, we found that the things we were most self-conscious about were often the very source of our gorgeousness, and we heard ourselves commenting on the many facets of beauty the fashion mags leave out. I almost included the list of compliments I was given, but it was sounding too X-rated, so I'll have to leave that to your imagination. Then we dined outside, wearing sarongs, and the fare was, most happily for me, vegan with a lot of raw.
It was in this atmosphere of acceptance and appreciation that we told the stories of our Yonis and proceeded to explore them in the most accurate ways. Our teacher turned us into sticks of butter, and we melted and, becoming sponges, soaked up our surroundings, hummingbirds darting through massive umbrellas of glittering leaves. We exited that secluded Silverlake location radiantly but reluctantly, like the post-coital separation from your partner necessitated by the demands of dental hygiene. You don't want to leave, but you have to. Otherwise, your teeth will rot. And you can't stay in bed forever, can you?
We had never felt from other fingers what our classmates' fingers had so simply brought out--this from a room of women who have, for the most part, had attentive partners who've delighted them with all sorts of tingling touches. I can only imagine what sex with a conscious lover is like. Did I just say lover? Yeah, I did. With conscious fingers. And other conscious parts. It is refreshing to continue on a path of allowance of ever-increasing pleasure, of basking in the orgasmic way of being that is more than sex and certainly more than the boring definition society offers--the meeting of penis and vagina. It is carnal inspiration, then a gaze, heat, touch, and whatever else you dream up. We actually have sex way more than we think.
The event was powerful, and I am grateful to have had the courage to see it through. Turns out I've learned something valuable from the challenging partners who have been unwilling to commit to a real relationship: when we have resistance to something, we have to push through it because that's precisely where the healing is. Björk was right in Five Years when she called out the cowards "who can't handle love." I am more "bored with cowards" than I've ever been because I'm braver than ever. Because I took a chance on the unknown, I feel like I'm recovering from a night of indulging in the perfect amounts of red wine, dark chocolate, and cocaine followed by repeat effings by a partner who loves me intensely, even though I'm a teetotaler who's never done blow and hasn't had a boyfriend since Nixon was in the White House. I do love my chocolate, though.
We are changed. We've seen and been seen. Our society doesn't make room for this kind of seeing. We don't see birth because we've handed that process to doctors, who've kept it in hospitals. If you are present for it, you're often asked not to look too long. We don't really see the bit of nudity that is supposedly available to us. On nude beaches, we have to pretend we're not looking. We live not seeing bodies outside of a sexual context, while dead and dying bodies are shielded from view. It's a spectrum of not seeing, one in which there is little expansion. We don't see what other people are and therefore do not see ourselves. If we're ready to see, though, we can. Any woman should be able to feel the universe that is another woman, that is woman herself, without fear or shame. We should be encouraged to know in a deeper way who we are, that each of us is a universe in the universe, the microcosm to the macrocosm. We are the trees and the birds and the sky. We are breath and energy and life itself.
I am a universe. This realization not only changes every interaction I will ever have but also informs my musical responses to upcoming experiences. Future inhabitants of my universe should start sweating over their resumes.
It was in this atmosphere of acceptance and appreciation that we told the stories of our Yonis and proceeded to explore them in the most accurate ways. Our teacher turned us into sticks of butter, and we melted and, becoming sponges, soaked up our surroundings, hummingbirds darting through massive umbrellas of glittering leaves. We exited that secluded Silverlake location radiantly but reluctantly, like the post-coital separation from your partner necessitated by the demands of dental hygiene. You don't want to leave, but you have to. Otherwise, your teeth will rot. And you can't stay in bed forever, can you?
We had never felt from other fingers what our classmates' fingers had so simply brought out--this from a room of women who have, for the most part, had attentive partners who've delighted them with all sorts of tingling touches. I can only imagine what sex with a conscious lover is like. Did I just say lover? Yeah, I did. With conscious fingers. And other conscious parts. It is refreshing to continue on a path of allowance of ever-increasing pleasure, of basking in the orgasmic way of being that is more than sex and certainly more than the boring definition society offers--the meeting of penis and vagina. It is carnal inspiration, then a gaze, heat, touch, and whatever else you dream up. We actually have sex way more than we think.
The event was powerful, and I am grateful to have had the courage to see it through. Turns out I've learned something valuable from the challenging partners who have been unwilling to commit to a real relationship: when we have resistance to something, we have to push through it because that's precisely where the healing is. Björk was right in Five Years when she called out the cowards "who can't handle love." I am more "bored with cowards" than I've ever been because I'm braver than ever. Because I took a chance on the unknown, I feel like I'm recovering from a night of indulging in the perfect amounts of red wine, dark chocolate, and cocaine followed by repeat effings by a partner who loves me intensely, even though I'm a teetotaler who's never done blow and hasn't had a boyfriend since Nixon was in the White House. I do love my chocolate, though.
We are changed. We've seen and been seen. Our society doesn't make room for this kind of seeing. We don't see birth because we've handed that process to doctors, who've kept it in hospitals. If you are present for it, you're often asked not to look too long. We don't really see the bit of nudity that is supposedly available to us. On nude beaches, we have to pretend we're not looking. We live not seeing bodies outside of a sexual context, while dead and dying bodies are shielded from view. It's a spectrum of not seeing, one in which there is little expansion. We don't see what other people are and therefore do not see ourselves. If we're ready to see, though, we can. Any woman should be able to feel the universe that is another woman, that is woman herself, without fear or shame. We should be encouraged to know in a deeper way who we are, that each of us is a universe in the universe, the microcosm to the macrocosm. We are the trees and the birds and the sky. We are breath and energy and life itself.
I am a universe. This realization not only changes every interaction I will ever have but also informs my musical responses to upcoming experiences. Future inhabitants of my universe should start sweating over their resumes.
9.6.08
Tantra teaser
My Tantra teacher sent out an email several weeks ago. It mentioned a special workshop she would be holding for those students who were ready to dive deep into the practice. Nudity would be involved. With my limited experience, I figured this nudity was attached to the gaze, and, because I don't have a problem with being seen, I was fine with it. She said to call her if we felt drawn to do this, and, after putting it off for a week, I did. She made it sound progressive and transformative, so I let a potential yes marinate. It wasn't until she sent out a reminder email, tempting us with a deeper understanding of and release from what was holding us back in our lives and relationships, that it hit me. I enrolled and was stoked that I did until a more detailed explanation of the class was sent out.
It irked me for four reasons: 1) As a raw foodie, I was concerned that I would starve at the potluck. 2) I didn't own a sarong and would have to scrounge around for one. 3) We would be practicing the art of Yoni (vaginal) massage with a fellow student. 4) There were no refunds.
Some of the girls, after hearing about this, dropped out. They thought it was too perverted, too disgusting. It's not like the rest of us didn't share those concerns, but, when we thought about it, we realized our resistance was merely a clinging to comfort, convention, cowardice, and cunt-hatred. None of these represent what I want for myself. I stopped hating and competing with other girls a long time ago, and Inga Muscio's Cunt inspired me to do it. If you have problems embracing women, read it right away. The CliffsNotes version is available via cinema through the brilliant feature Mean Girls. Our power is in our unity.
Thus, I figured, as a true vag-loving woman, how could I refuse advanced Tantric practice on the basis of the fear of another woman's body? Isn't that essentially self-hatred? If I can't embrace myself as my own reflection in another woman, how can I ever love myself? How can I ever love and be loved?
I decided to work through my resistance and fear. Besides, I wanted the distraction. My sister moved to Hawaii on Saturday, taking my 6-week-old niece with her. I could think of better things to do than hanging by the pool in my jammies, remembering her sweet baby cuteness.
More than this, I just had to do something about that tiny spark wishing to burst into a flame, to draw on Björk's Isobel. I had to feed that part of me that thrives on being completely bold and subversive.
Late Saturday night, I made my potluck slaw. The next morning, I gathered my props for the event. Then, cradling my little heart spark, I drove east toward hipster town.
That afternoon and into the night, my teacher guided me and nine other hugely brave women into the unknown. I will tell you all about it next week because this post was turning into a novelette. Stay tuned for the juicy deets. It was an amazing experience!!!
It irked me for four reasons: 1) As a raw foodie, I was concerned that I would starve at the potluck. 2) I didn't own a sarong and would have to scrounge around for one. 3) We would be practicing the art of Yoni (vaginal) massage with a fellow student. 4) There were no refunds.
Some of the girls, after hearing about this, dropped out. They thought it was too perverted, too disgusting. It's not like the rest of us didn't share those concerns, but, when we thought about it, we realized our resistance was merely a clinging to comfort, convention, cowardice, and cunt-hatred. None of these represent what I want for myself. I stopped hating and competing with other girls a long time ago, and Inga Muscio's Cunt inspired me to do it. If you have problems embracing women, read it right away. The CliffsNotes version is available via cinema through the brilliant feature Mean Girls. Our power is in our unity.
Thus, I figured, as a true vag-loving woman, how could I refuse advanced Tantric practice on the basis of the fear of another woman's body? Isn't that essentially self-hatred? If I can't embrace myself as my own reflection in another woman, how can I ever love myself? How can I ever love and be loved?
I decided to work through my resistance and fear. Besides, I wanted the distraction. My sister moved to Hawaii on Saturday, taking my 6-week-old niece with her. I could think of better things to do than hanging by the pool in my jammies, remembering her sweet baby cuteness.
More than this, I just had to do something about that tiny spark wishing to burst into a flame, to draw on Björk's Isobel. I had to feed that part of me that thrives on being completely bold and subversive.
Late Saturday night, I made my potluck slaw. The next morning, I gathered my props for the event. Then, cradling my little heart spark, I drove east toward hipster town.
That afternoon and into the night, my teacher guided me and nine other hugely brave women into the unknown. I will tell you all about it next week because this post was turning into a novelette. Stay tuned for the juicy deets. It was an amazing experience!!!
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