The Solitary Panda has moved to its own domain:
www.solitarypanda.com please update your rss if you'd like to continue receiving updates.
I don’t claim to have it all figured out, you know. Not a Goddamn thing. The way people are. The way love is. Communication break downs. That’s all I know. I know that the sun rises and sets and that the moon shines its moon-sun reflection on cold, wintery nights. I know that when my parents hem and haw and hover over computer screens like spacecrafts, under low voices and hushed tones while dad indulges in online affairs and mom tries to control him, that my stomach crawls on the inside and I have a harder time loving. I’m an alien here, and I want to fly away.
Once, I think I walked in on my mom masturbating; just a quick glimpse of fingers underneath silk nightgown, nothing graphic, but enough to put a scowl on my face and walk off, trying to shake the image away.
I’m a walking contradiction on most days. A cynical romantic. A slutty prude. An Agnostic that prays to God for hope. The conflicts in my life are minimal; all in my head. But they are enough to show me my mortality. No more enlightened than Buddha or Christ. I am only human after all.
So, when the topic of love comes along, I just want to hide in the recesses of my own cocoon. And whisper, I’m not ready, I’m not ready, I’m not ready. Entanglements of the heart by my track record leave me codependent, and hovering like spacecrafts over computer screens. Like mother like daughter, they say. The similarities sicken me. I don’t want that. I don’t want this. I’m not ready.
The way an ex lover and I said goodbye was on my hands and knees and doggy style. Backdoor. I screamed loud. The loudest I’ve ever screamed. Top of my lungs, back of my throat, guttural screams. Not because it felt so good, but because it didn’t feel like anything at all, except maybe hurt. Void of emotion. I screamed to make me feel; to make the fake seem real. Communication break downs. That’s all I know.
Despite it all, I still have Hope. Hope that I won’t end up with someone like dad, who has a tranny fetish and a penchant for porn, online relationships, escorts. Hope that there’s something better for this cynic who freezes at the thought of marriage, because why cage a freebird, but wants a life partner just like the best of them? Hope for something healthy.
In twenty-ten, I will love myself, continuing on the barrel of self improvement that was 2009. If 2009 was sworn celibacy then twenty-ten will be openness for opportunities and new experiences; a meditation on impermanence, of the sexy kind. I will unravel spirituality through sexuality by cherishing those magic moments and letting go of attachments. Like me on all fours, screaming at the top of my lungs. Letting go. One big exhale. I will unravel layers of love.
No, I don’t like casual, but I am determined to find that love doesn’t have to come in boxes; in things called “relationships” and “commitment” and “romance”. Maybe I am too broken. I don’t know. But it’s all I can handle for now and I want to learn about love. The healthy kind. Not the codependence. Not the meaningless sex, but somewhere in the middle. I’m not sure what that looks like, how far my boundaries can go. Is it merely friendship? Friends with benefits? I don’t know. Is it blow jobs and practicing deep throat and strap-ons? Is it wrestling and choke holds and practicing martial art moves? 2am sex after an amazing day learning how to swim, hiking to hot springs, and sharing a banana leaf umbrella under tropical storms? Or maybe just a good ear, belly laughs, and mango ice cream? I don’t know.
And so I write. Write my fantasies. Write my life. Write somewhere in the middle.
I’m willing to find out. Live my conflict. Like a bohemian, changing and bending. Never set in one way. It’s all I know.
In the meantime, my new virtual home has a special guest blog series while I am in India. Please check it out and remember to update your rss feeds.
Posts
