Original Composition
January 2012
Butterflies are not so much about love as about surprise. Will she? What if? Does she? Really? What if?
I got butterflies today when she gave me a sneaky unexpected I love you! I was taken off guard and I almost forgot to speak for a moment.
I hadn’t goten butterflies in a while. It’s more like a full-body wag, like my soul and my insides and my tail and my ears wag with joy and excitement and anticipation when I get something from her. She does that to me a lot. A lot. more than she knows, I think.
Butterflies are that “Oh no! Does she like me? really? REALLY REALLY?” Butterflies are that “Oh! Be still my fleeting heart! I think I’m in love!” moments. It’s not that serious but it’s the unknown and the promise of love like you hadn’t felt before.
I got butterflies a lot before, and not as much now. It’s more comfortable now, more known now — but I like the butterflies. I like changing things up where she has me fawning over her with a fluttering heart. I like being her dumb-struck loverboy.
Making my hand to do my mind’s bidding is something I’ve had much practice at;
still though, my mistakes fall through my wishes.
The challenge, I find, is not in not making mistakes,
but in crafting joy and beauty out of them.
I am an artist. I have been for a long time.
I have started drawing on the covers of hardback books; the first I have completed, other than the covers of personal journals, is the one below: the back of the book “The Dream Giver.”
I am starting on the front cover tomorrow.
When it has been completed, I would like to loan the book to anyone who would appreciate the story and would appreciate my art.
I would like to move on to painting murals in the near future. If you or any person or organization you know would be interested in a custom piece of art, please let me know.
Excerpt from “Werewolf-Babies“:
“It was an accident,” she said.
An accident. The first time. She hadn’t intended it to go there, and yet… it was the right time, kind of. It was awkward, and, not sure, and…She’s not sure if she can do it again. I told her we’ll wait for if – or when – the time is right again. I dearly, dearly hope that there is a time that’s right again in the future…
Read the rest of the chapter here.
Sometimes I see a transperson in a public place, in a restaurant, in a store, standing with an acquaintance… and I know. Or I think I know. Our eyes lock and there’s a moment where I recognize them — and maybe they recognize me — as someone who lives their life in the gray area between genders.
It happened to me just now. I’ve heard other transpeople talk about it, too — that moment of recognition. It’s agonizing and reassuring at the same time. You’re immediately curious about them, entranced by them, you want to know what about them set off your bell that says “you are like me.” They may or may not be trans — you can never tell for sure. But there’s something about them that draws you.
It’s agonizing because you can’t just walk up to them and say, “Are you like me? What’s your life story?” It’s not exactly an appropriate grocery-store conversation. But, maybe, sometimes, you can smile and nod and acknowledge that you held eyes… and maybe acknowledge that you’ve recognized each other.
That’s the reassuring part. Seeing that there are others like you, out living their normal lives, doing their normal things while living in the gray area like you.
Making love is tender, intimate. Even with quick motions, it is an experience of being deeply tied to the other person, tethered to their desires and tethered to their self.
Making Love is something only people who are deeply connected can do. it is a love passing deeply through the parts of us that go on forever, and when you make love, you connect and tie and become one with the forever of another person, their soul, the beautiful part of them that simply is, which hides not a thing at all… which is shining clear, and bright, and unique.
“Making love” is called making love because when you see a person that clearly, that crystal, when you see that part of them, you can’t help but love them.
This is so special, because it is so incredibly rare.
None, not even ourselves, regularly see the purist, most perfect of ourselves. We hide behind our mistakes and lies, we hide behind the faces we put on at work and home and around friends and in our hobbies. GBut when you make love, those faces are not there, the othe rperson sees deeply through you, they see the precisely pure, beautiful, thriving glowing pulsing vibrant soul that you are… and sometimes, you see it too. Sometimes you see in their eyes the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen and you’re floored and struck and moved and your heart calls out to them and you wrap your innermost heart around them in the black forever that is making love, and you see and feel it come back to you. Sometimes you feel it come reeling back at you and all the glory of their light wraps around you and spins you and makes you dizzy, and sometimes you come to and you see yourself glowing with the same beautiful light that consumed your senses about them and you realize…
…you realize that they are looking at you with the same beauty you feel for them in that moment and that you… you are as beautiful as you feel their light. Sometimes you realize that you are as beautiful as they.
Making lvoe is so intimate that few can experience it. Few of us are able to expose our most honest, naked souls to anyone other than the one whom we most deeply trust.
This is why it is so special, and so beautiful.
Making love is the kiss, the touch, the lips on your skin, the motions of the body that, against you, cry out with every inch that they love you more than their heart could ever express in the deepest, most powerful of human expressions.
Making Love is God-like.
Making love takes you to a place that created the universe.
Making love is in the same moment the force that is life and the force thatcreates life. Making love is everything that we could ever be in one moment, it is a glimpse into the everything, and we can only reach that view of the universe from the arms of another, from combining with another, from looking through and caring absolutely for another soul in forever; through becoming one.
Through making love.
Fucking is rough, and sensual. It involves being deep inside someone and tasteing their sweat and hearing their groans like the primal forces of animal reproduction.
Fucking is a searing, non-thinking state of mind and heavy breathing and the use of muscles and voice and teeth and hands, it is the desire to cum, and cum hard. It is the desire to get yours and to bring them tearing along with you.
It is the desire to ride cock and fuck deep, fucking is the desire to feel nothing but the moving of your bodies and the tension, the delectable, wild, coursing, searing tension that drives you to move against them, to pull them into you and to press into them as deep and as hard as you can.
Fucking is the state of mind where motions and spaces that would ordinarily be painful drive you to a fiery, eyes-narrowed place that knows no pain, only tension and pleasure. Fucking is the tumbling dark intensity of our bodies that makes us feel like ancient shamans or magicians calling on the seminal forces of this universe to create. Fucking is the combination of destruction and creation; fucking breeds and spills power; fucking is the sort of magic that makes us feel alive.
Fucking is the feeling that we have power over our lives and our pain and our ecstasy. Fucking is an expression of the power we have been endowed in every cell in our bodies.
Fucking is not for the weak or heart or meek of mind.
Fucking, at it’s best, is an exaltation of being human.
I always wanted to be a cowboy.
I grew up in a small town in Texas. There were plenty of “cowboys” around, though I was not one of them.
They weren’t real cowboys, but they reflected the sentiment. Real cowboys were gone a long time ago. Real cowboys lived with their cattle and their horses were their friends. Real cowboys spent lots of time alone, or with other cowboys, and they spent months on end sleeping under the stars.
Real cowboys carried all of their belongings in their saddle bags, and real cowboys cooked their food over fire. They carried only what they needed, they cared for their herd, and they may have had a dog as a best friend. They may have had a heeler or a shepherd or a mutt that looked after the herd with them, that watched the stars with them, and that listened for coyotes, or men.
I always wanted to be a cowboy.
Real cowboys lived in a time when fences did not slice our country into individually owned pieces. Real cowboys lived in a time when you could drive a herd of cattle clear across the country, with no fences or interstates to interrupt. Cowboys were rugged men who enjoyed their life outdoors, and cowboys were a brotherhood that understood the harsh beauties of the wild over which they crossed.
Cowboys like that don’t exist anymore. We’ve cut up our country and paved the roads and replaced them with trucks, and trains. Cowboys were the in-between of a culture like ours and the shepherding human cultures that have been ours for thousands of years.
We’ve lost them.
Now we have cowboys like me, and the boys in my home town. Boys who wear hats an wranglers and boots, boys who drive trucks but have no farms to tend. Boys and men who crave in a part of themselves the freedoms of cowboys from an earlier time.
I’m not a cowboy. I never will be. But if I had a hat, I would wear it to protect myself from the sun and cold and heat and rain, and I’d remember the cowboys who went before. I’d nod at the others who wear a hat like mine, acknowledging that through all of the differences between their culture and mine, the still, like me, wish to shade themselves from the sun like the cowboys who are gone.