Tag Archives: Fiction

Closer Than Skin

You know. You do. I know that you know. You’ve been there. Right there. You’ve been to “the” place, the land of exaltation. Your body knows how to tread that narrow, but well-worn path through those particular woods very well. You could get there blindfolded if you had to. Yes, you’ve been there and you’d like to stay. We all want to stay, so we devote poems and songs and great works of art to this magic realm.

heartsWhat is this place? Being in love. You know: when you think of someone you love, and your whole body floods with such emotion and adrenaline that you feel hot, dizzy, weak. Your heart pounds when you think of them. You feel eager, excited, and happy when they are around and achingly lonely when they are not. Like, it’s actually physically painful not to be in their presence. Your body sits up and takes notice when that person enters the room. You are pointedly aware of their every move, where their eyes alight, how they hold their hands, the shape and heft of their body. You want nothing more than to pull that person close to you, look into their eyes, feel their skin, kiss them, and stay in that warm bubble of connection, that syrupy happiness forever.

Yeah, that place. The place we all love to visit. The location of primal, glorious, and flushing feeling. I love that place. My body loves that place. But (and there’s always a butt–hahhaha), we all get there alone and we remain there alone. *Sigh* One of the things that my body and I have been pondering all of our lives, but in particular, very deeply over the past few months, is the concept that we are each alone. Truly, inexorably, completely alone here on planet earth. Despite our connections with others, our abundant senses, our experiences, our feelings for other people, our great and not-so-great “loves”, we are isolated. We experience the circumstances of our lives and live with the effects of our decisions, alone.

No one else can share in our reality. No one else shares one ounce of our perception or even our sight. No one shares our synapses, ruminations, or emotions. Oh, to be sure, we can look at an object and agree to what it is, a car, a book, a table, but you perceive these things wholly differently than I do. We are totally unique in our perceptions of objects and our experiences of things. And, I have to tell you that this causes me some distress. I kinda hate it. More on that in a minute.

atomWe create reality by way of our consciousness, our thinking, and our corresponding actions. Literally. So, each of us is completely separate from others. We are in a bubble of our own creation, a reality of our own design and maintenance. Yes, our bubbles get close to each other and there is energy exchange (which happens all of the time); yes, we commingle and interact, but in that process, what we perceive of as touch is actually an illusion; it’s the sensation of not touching that we actually perceive. It’s a dream of connection, but on a subatomic level, there is no such thing as touching.

The charged electrons in your hand actually repel the inversely charged electrons in my hand. What we feel as touch is nothing more than a tiny spark of repelling energies that shove each other away (quite violently, actually) when they get close together. There is no real connection at all, other than the resultant expansion in our consciousness from the energy that we perceive of as touch and well, our ideas about the person with whom we “connected”. But, no touch actually occurs. Sad, I know.

In my pondering of this sad fact of being human, I realized (yeah, like, just this week) that this is why I’m writing the book that we’ve explored together in other posts and on which I’ve been slaving away for pretty-much ten years. As you, dear readers and friends might recall, a compelling thing happens to me. I’ve only experienced it a couple of times in my life (with people) and find that it happens much easier and more frequently with nature and animals. My term for it is “merging” and my book is a futuristic/SciFi novel about a telepathic race of people who do this practice of merging in pair bonding.

Merging is literally the feeling of exchanging energies with another being. In my book, however, the characters go much deeper with it. They actually swap bodies and physically experience what the other person, place, or thing perceives. Well, I’m now pretty sure that I’m writing the book as a way to slay that dragon who goes by the name of “I-am-alone”. Ah, so there it is. All of my psychology, laid out on the open Internet for all to see. Well, then. I might as well tell you the rest.

It bugs the living crap out of me that we are ultimately alone, that we have to do all of this perceiving and living and learning alone, in our isolated little consciousness bubbles, and that one man’s reality in no way, shape, or form resembles my own. I mean, I get that we feel love and exchange energy with the world around us and I deeply believe in “guides” who nurture us and help us from the Other Side while we are here in earth school just slugging it out. I get that we have some help and that our bodies are a huge boon to us in what we explore here, but ultimately all of our perceptions are our own and we are responsible for grooming them and learning from them.

I suffer from a deep existential loneliness and this “aloneness” is the root cause of it. What I know, I cannot teach (though I keep trying and trying and trying by way of my words, my blogs, my poems, my art, etc.). The fact that what I experience, my merging with others, my depth of feeling is really, really rare. I suffer because when I talk with others, tell them about what I think, people often look at me like I have a horn coming out of my head. I feel really alone here. I think about and say sh*t that few people seem to ponder and then, I’m left wondering where the rest of my tribe is. I wonder where my people are. I wonder why I chose a life where I walk around feeling so terribly alone.

And, I suspect, given how hard I work and how little time I have left, that the book, if I ever finish it, will be my magnum opus. It’s my attempt to beat this loneliness down. It’s a chance to explore what it would be like if there were more people here like me. Yes, it’s narcissistic. Every bit of art is a practice in narcissism. But, I *hope* that it serves others and helps them. I hope it gives something back to humanity.

I want to be closer than skin. I want to merge energies with others. I want to be open and heightened and feeling. Other people’s emotions do not scare me. I want to know what they feel and think about and ponder and learn. I want to experience what others experience, because it causes expansion and growth, feeling and thinking. I just want to know that one other person on this planet gets it, gets me, and that I get them, really get them. But, that’s impossible, isn’t it, my little love-nuggets? Nonetheless, I’m gonna keep trying until I don’t any more.

P.S. In case it wasn’t abundantly obvious, this is me, a bit down-in-the-dumps. Just thought you’d like to know that I am not always “sunshine” and “delirious happiness”; all sides are represented. I don’t come to the shores of sadness often, but when I do, I lug my boat up onto the sand and I camp for a few days. ❤ Love you, my friends.

Breaststrokes: “Natural”; A Guest Post by Claudia Moss

Editor’s note: This is installment #3 in a series of guest posts by the wonderful, prolific, and talented Claudia Moss. In this series, Claudia artfully explores the voice, opinions, and reality of women’s breasts and what they experience. Enjoy! And, please, please show Claudia some love by commenting here.

Natural

It’s the catchphrase on everybody’s lips. Natural this and natural that. We honestly cannot go more than three days without bumping into the word in some way, form or fashion. Yes, we understand that a considerable percentage of the population wants to be natural today more than ever, but, goodness, why we hypocritical about it?

Educate yourself, for Heaven’s sake.

Think about it. Consumers want natural foods with as few preservatives as possible. Over half the FDA-approved additives in our processed food will no doubt leave us six feet under, given enough years of eating it. What’s natural about macaroni and cheese bright enough to tie-dye five white T’s? Give us naturally brown eggs, with unbleached shells; brown rice or maybe even black rice, which is new to us, in place of white rice. And, let’s not forget the catchphrase whole-wheat flour instead of bleached, lily-white flour.

That word natural is a stream, flowing over into grooming and hair care. It’s unnatural for mothers, black or white, at least the white ones with biracial children, don’t need to be combing creamed lye into their children’s nappy hair, burning the daylights out of them while instilling the premise: “Something is inherently wrong with the way your hair is right now, in its natural form. And, in order for you to presentable in my eyes and yours and the world’s at large, please sit still while we bring order to these unruly naps!”

Then, you have the fashionista, natural, hair-care divas with YouTube on lockdown. Sisters talking self love for others with naps and curls and waves and kinks. Sisters who are not only bringing the natural, hair-care tips, but sisters who always demonstrate right there in their bathrooms and bedrooms how to be thankful for and glorify the beauty of nappy hair.

The power of the video is a wonderful thing.

Let’s not forget the natural-oriented fitness community. One of our favorite fitness queens on Instagram, that awesome Mankofit, just plugged eating right, with the right servings of vegetables and protein and drinking water, works better for her than drinking the whey protein-powdered drinks. They’re the new fitness craze, another way, we say, to bank dollars. If you have enough funds to purchase a $34 plastic bag or $62 canister of the powder, then why not put those dollars into fresh produce? It’s got to be better than continuously drinking something that you don’t actually know the ingredients of. The tiny print in its contents section looks like Greek or Malaysian.
I’m just saying.

Now, if you care to follow me in other directions, consider the natural fabrics that allow the body to breathe. Or, the shoe that is engineered to fit the natural curvatures of your feet. What of using natural gas to power the energy-needing sources in your house? And, the natural resources we need to be honoring and preserving?

So, with all this talk of us living in a world going more natural every day, somebody please tell us why we are so “unnatural” that she can’t ever put us in her baby’s mouth without the family going into battle about it, simply lining up and taking all sorts of stabs, above and below the belt, about it.
It gets so crazy, so unnaturally insane, until we want to scream, “Where else on a woman’s body can milk be secreted to nourish an infant? Can somebody please answer this for us?”

And if you can’t find any other place on a woman’s body to do that, please don’t edit and proofread and revise what the Divine has preordained for a baby’s first meal. I mean, folks, it’s not even relegated to homo sapiens. Animals under the umbrella of mammals have teats and suckle their young, people!

You would think that people forget that everyone has a chest—if they are living, and some men have literal breasts, when they are overweight. Dressed, people forget this bit of minutia, until a woman pulls out one of us to do what thus made the Lord, okay?

The problem is the world’s mind is wrongfully thinking.

If all people can see when they see us or bump into us or feel us or read about us is sex and dirty sex (for why else would they think we are so nasty and need to be bound and lifted and smothered and covered, like hash browns,) then scientists and spiritual leaders have got it wrong. We are not advancing, getting better with each generation. In truth, we are heading backward…or maybe we are standing still, locked in stasis, considering cavemen and women knew to put a baby to a woman’s breast, we’re thinking.

Why can’t the family see that we are magical?

When the baby cries out in hunger, we download a stream of milk in response—we are that attuned to Mother Nature’s call. And, even when she thinks about the baby when she is away from the baby, we will discharge sustenance, reminding her to return to the little one. How can knowing how to do what we were made to do be wrong?

She has gone to taking a lightweight drape to toss over her shoulder as she nurses the baby if she is going into the public. That keeps harsh eyes from glaring at us and the baby, which isn’t good, to say the least, for either of us. The cold way some people stare would make you think we’d committed a capital offence and should expect to be arrested at any moment.

“That’s right,” Cedric blares, when she sat on the long sofa one evening and peeled the lap back on her nursing bra and placed one of our nipples in the baby’s ravenous mouth. “Why don’t you listen to your mother and go upstairs or in another room when you do that?”

“Do what?” she asks, drawing him out. We knew she was tired of his rude, self-righteous tone.
He smirked and clicked the television remote. “You know. What you are doing.”
“Feeding our child is what I’m doing.”
“Don’t be cute, Jadira. You know what I mean.”
“Honey, I told you. In my day, I nursed you children in private. Some things are only for your husband to see.” Her mother is in the rocking chair across the room, barely able to stay in the room. She’ll be fleeing soon.
“What is it with you? My nipple? I don’t even have my whole breast exposed. Is it my opened blouse? Or, is it a tiny sucking mouth doing what comes naturally, instead of what is perceived as sexual?”
Cedric’s back stiffens. “Why do you have to go there? Nobody mentioned that nonsense, woman. We just want you to cover up and go somewhere else to do that is all. Damn.” He huffs loudly. “Do you have to make everything dirty?”
Her sister laughs softly with her legs pulled up in the armchair near the kitchen. “No. I’d say you guys do that exceptionally well already.”
“Sophie.” This from her mother, to keep Cedric from commenting, but it doesn’t work.
“Stay out of grown-folks conversation, girl. I done told you about that, but you just like your sister.”
Sophie’s different. We love her.
She giggles and answers, “Oh, forgive me. You’re right. All grown-folks’ conversations aren’t equal and worthy entering to share truth, light and love.”
“SOPHIE.”
“Excuse me, Mama. But what’s right is right, and he’s right on another account. I’m ‘just like Jadira,’ except I wouldn’t have made some of her choices.” She looks over at us, nursing. “Not that you’re my favorite person, Jadira.”
She and Jadira share soft, musical laughter.
“No need to explain, Baby Sis. We speak the same language,” Jadira agrees.
“And, that is precisely why she will be an old maid and you,” he says, waving the remote at his wife, “maybe an older maid with her, you keep that talk up.”
“Aaaaw, that sounds delightful!” Jadira sighs and looks at Sophie, who adds, “Yes. Sounds like the glory of liberation!”
The baby releases a nipple, palms our white nursing bra and glances up at his mama and smiles, full and satisfied. He coos his gratitude.
“And, I see Junior is in agreement,” Jadira says.
Before lifting the flap back over one of our nipples, she lifts the baby to her right shoulder and gently massages a burp from his middle.
Sophie leans over the side of her chair. “Good boy,” she coos. “That’s Auntie Sophie’s fav nephew.”
Cedric hurls his disgust into a nearby chair with the remote before stalking out of the family room.
“See, both of you are, plain and simple, unnatural,” their mother affirms. “Haven’t I taught you anything? Women do not goad men. Now stop it. PLEASE.”

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This is post number three, in a series of guest posts provided by the incomparable Claudia Moss, author, radio personality, speaker, dancer, and all-around AMAZING WOMAN! Please share your thoughts here, BigBodyBeautiful peeps; better yet, visit Claudia’s links below, tell her how you feel about her writings, and connect with this Goddess of self-esteem.

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https://www.Amazon.com/author/claudiamoss
www.theGolden-Goddess.blogspot.com
https://www.facebook.com/claudia.moss.35
www.Twitter.com/theLadySiren
www.BlogTalkRadio.com/ClaudiaMossShow
www.YouTube.com/theLadyBestseller
http://about.me/claudiamoss
www.Talkshoe.com/tc/125101
www.claudiamoss.wordpress.com
www.Twitter.com/WandaBWonders
http://www.tumblr.com/blog/thegoldengoddess

She’s Wild, Deeply Wild

She’s wild, deeply wild. A feral and hot restlessness inside of her; she’s driven and strong. She can do things that others cannot. She feels near-constant yearning mixed with frustration. She gets things done and well. But, things move too slow for her. When she wants something, she wants it now. She wants it fast and lasting. She wants to feel it in every cell, every sinew, every pore and plane. She wants to carry experience inside of her and hold it forever.

field

What she really wants is pure freedom, peace, a life of contemplation, a life of feeling, but she doesn’t get to experience very much of this. She can’t have what she really wants because, well, it would ruin the current state of things. She would have to turn her back on the predictable, known present and head into the cool, silent, and mossy unknown of a different reality, a new way of being and that’s just too scary. But, the vista beyond the fence, calls to her, daily. And, like every other day, she looks away, throws herself into the tasks of which she’s demanded. She charges ahead with energy, fire, passion, and courage. She does her job and doesn’t complain. 

She does not utter her deepest dreams and desires. She just thinks about them over and over. Obsessively. Twisting the thoughts, wringing from each one, a small drop of nectar that she can taste and then feel spreading through her like sugar on oats. She holds her fantasies in and reveals only the barest hint of that dense world inside, the universe behind her large, dark eyes, her full lips showing a soft, half-smile. She is an utter mystery to most. But, don’t mistake her oft sanguine expression as an indicator of purity. She’s utterly wild, prone to fierce desires, deeply ingratiating, untamed, and aching desires. She is nuclear.

oats

Her fire, her panting restlessness is only calmed by three things: (A) Being alone with the earth. For example, standing on a remote mountain or a beach or at the edges of a lake or on some lonely, tree-lined path with no one else in sight, staring into the wide sky, regardless of the weather, (B) Movement, be it dancing, walking, hiking, or riding and (C) Looking into his eyes. When she sees him, the one to whom she does not belong, her skin ripples with excitement; she dances across the grass toward him and greets him with all of herself. His eyes have this crazy ability to immediately bring her to the center of herself, help her simply be there in that moment. And, the moments with him are sacred, soft as grass, and fleeting, but she doesn’t care. Seeing him walking toward her with some delectable gift in each hand, holds her here, keeps her steady, keeps her working. Will she ever be truly tamed? Possibly. But, if so, he’s the only one who can do it. And, he knows this. He knows.

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Years and years ago, I took a four-week fiction writing class. One of the exercises the teacher gave us was to write a biography of someone or something. At the time, I wrote a biography for a stretch of road. I know, it’s weird, right? But, it was so much fun to imagine the road as a sentient being with its own thoughts, emotions, and needs. So, I was sitting here thinking about the class and the exercise and thought that I’d try it again. Can you guess the protagonist of the above story?