Underneath

I'll model for the University again. I can show my scars that way, I can lay on drapery again. I can be interpreted and brushtips can caress the outline of my curves, bringing me to life a hundred times, in a hundred different ways.

Does sacred mean secret? Does sacred mean unshared? No. Churches ask more and more, and forever more worshippers to enter into the Lord's chamber. They ask soul after soul to come into intimate contact with Love. They commune Love with Lover.

Yet, after all this waxing eloquent about sharing, loving, welcoming and plurality, I get momentarily jealous when my lover loves another. I feel disposed-of. Moved beyond. I'm in an impossible position. I understand that if my "indiscretions" were known to my partner, he would feel much the same way, only worse. Exponentially worse. And I wonder why this is? Is it because, simply, I agreed to a contract with him? Made a(n impossible?) promise? Or is it something more primitive? I feel it too... of, for, and because of people with whom I've never made contracts.

I know there are reams of hypotheses regarding the issue of whether or not monogamy is meant for humanity. I guess this is not a new discussion. Bluntly put, I, like millions of other wives, single women, men, poetic, musical monks, animals and ancient gods, want to fuck many people, in many places, whenever I want. And I can't. It's simply not reality. The Romans tried that, and look what happened to them.

I guess I have to gain mastery over my carnal nature and move beyond. Onwards, and upwards. We're given these philosophical minds for a reason. Freedom and peace come when one climbs that mountain and submits to that mean, old, benevolent Teacher with the long, white beard. Maybe taking Tai-Chi will start me off on the right foot?

I'm happy when I'm simple. Sometimes I have to remove myself entirely from the world, shut my ears and close my eyes, put away that magnetic phone with its marvellous text messages, and in a few days, I'll start to remember that I actually DO like to bake bread, finish a needlepoint, watch a movie and have a glass of wine. Do I like to make love to my husband? I don't know. I don't remember anymore. I'm supposed to. He's the one I'm allowed to have. And I don't take advantage. I don't find solace and peace and release and joy there. I haven't for a very VERY long time. Would climbing a mountain with him to the top, and sequestering ourselves there help?

This mental whirlwind isn't new to anyone. Especially those of you who've heard me yammer before, over coffee and cute waiters.

You know, I've always felt like I was a whore, a madame, in a previous life. I always, since I was a child, identified with it. Maybe a geisha. Something like that. It's odd, but as a girl I would close my eyes and imagine many many partners. I've always known that I wasn't designed for purity. I have this moral absoluteness on one hand... that's been the public part of me. Perhaps, unsurprisingly, it's part of me because the real, seething underpart of me is exactly the opposite. I'm the same as any rabid disgraced clergyman. The strength of my argument for self mastery is only strong because I understand the relevance of it... the only reason it's relevant is because of what I'm trying to fight. And I wish I didn't have to live with this tension.