Clouded

Clouded

I had a moment at a tantric yoga healing session.

I was nervous, awkward, shut down- and the instructor knew it. I put on a fake smile and bubbly personality. Looking from the outside in, this girl didn’t fool anyone.

I wasn’t ready to be so honest. When it was my turn to share my intentions and past, I babbled and deflected. Psalm Isadora stared through my façade and I choked. I timidly stated I had sexual trauma and we moved on.

Throughout the day my fake smile started to mold. I wanted to cry and scream and rage, but I held tight to that smile.

Beginning to crumble, I ran to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I saw my dad.

A robot. Clouded eyes. Fake smile. It was terrifying.

I don’t want to live in a fantasy world anymore. I want connection, authenticity, darkness and light. I want to grow and change, conquer and enjoy the life I have been given.

Beginning on that day, a desire grew to have clear eyes.

I saw a recent photo of myself at a party. I was poolside with my closest girlfriend. My body and hair looked pretty, but my smile was strained. My eyes- lifeless. And I cried.

I cried for the missed connections, the strain of pretending, and for my dad. A man I’m not sure has ever really lived.

Running to the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

My eyes. They were bright, alive, and full of pain. They were beautiful.

 

 

Shameless, Not Fearless

Shameless
Some parts of myself scare me.
My obsessive nature. My desire to control and manipulate as I obsess.
These parts of my personality are not fun, and I am ashamed of it at times.
For instance, boys.
They give me the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Why?
I don’t want my emotions to be so affected by a man.
In the past I would brush aside the feelings of rejection. Or cover them with distractions and booze.
Well today, I am choosing to sit in my discomfort.
Normally, I struggle with frigidity.
I keep my sexual energy hidden, buried, and cold. Out of fear.
Fear of vulnerability. Fear of rejection. Fear of judgement.
Sometimes I got the sense that my husband gained satisfaction from shaming me and rejecting me.
There was a night of abandon, not too long ago.
I slept with a man and left myself completely open.
This guy had the face of David Gandy and the personality of Larry David.
He was also 6’5″.
We met uneventfully on Valentine’s Day for lunch. He was dry and reserved, but nice.
When I text him later on, he was shocked, saying he had no indication that I was into him.
He then explained how beautiful he found me and how he wanted to kiss me and be inside of me.
A couple of weeks of texting and selfies, I was in an uber to Buschwick.
We made polite conversation and then he took my mouth with his. It felt so good to be touched tenderly by an affected and responsive man.
My divinity came out to play. I seduced him, teased him until I ached.
It is burned into my brain the way he stared into my eyes with wonder and sank into me. I loved it.
We were soft, slow, rough, primal.
At one point he was standing off the bed, entering me from behind.
As I clenched around him and swiveled my hips, he lost his conscious thought but kept talking.
“Dirty Bitch” left his mouth on an exhale. I was so glad my back was to him or I would have laughed in his face.
With the next 5 strokes, he would repeat “pussy” on every entrance. “Pussy, pussy, pussy, pussy, pussy”. I felt like I was in a Seinfeld episode.
After, he stood in the kitchen, naked and eating gelato. I had to ask about the coital articulations.
Surprisingly, he was not embarrassed. He just owned it, but couldn’t explain it.
I was still unsatisfied, so once in bed I began kissing his neck and caressing his body. He told me there was no way and cradled me to go to sleep.
But I was burning. I wanted him.
I laid there and fantasized about us kissing and touching. Right before he entered me in my dream, the real thing pounced. He was desperate and wild. And we almost broke the headboard.
I could feel it cracking under my hands, but he kept hitting my G spot and I didn’t care.
It felt so good.
He was concerned about my pleasure and couldn’t stop himself from kissing me over and over.
The next morning we had slow, easy sex before he had to get ready for work.
It was such a good morning. I basically skipped to the coffee shop before taking the happiest train ride home.
We texted a couple of times after, but never met up again.
He didn’t love me. He allowed me to love myself and my prowess in the moment, and that’s what made it great.
The best part- this was completely sober.
Normally, masturbation helps me to sleep. I would read a steamy novel, manipulate the situation in my mind and orgasm. But I was never a participant.
I was a fly on the wall in my sexual fantasies.
Last November, I decided I wanted to be the star. Let it be around me. And my brain fought me.
In my fantasies there would be an angry spouse, unforeseen blockages or excuses to stop the tryst.
This is something I continue to struggle with.
Today I had a breakthrough. I was doing tantric yoga with a rose quartz yoni egg. I decided I wanted a healing orgasm.
I struggled with my mind for an hour. Hot, cold, blocked, scared.
Until finally a golden light spread like veins from my belly. My back arched. My clit throbbed and my body zapped with electricity.
An outline of a man made of pure white light entered me and my orgasm rolled throughout my body.
It felt like such a huge victory.
I continued to massage my entire body in a bubble bath, feeling powerful and whole.
I was ready to seduce the world, and my date, Kane.
Except Kane never called.
My obsession to reach out to him or constantly check my phone took over.
Every message from my girlfriends sent a dash of hope through my body.
But he never texted.
I know I shouldn’t take it personally, he doesn’t know me.
Him flaking is on him, there’s nothing I did wrong or should change about myself.
So I choose to sit here in my discomfort and reflect.
Trusting that every experience I am supposed to have won’t miss me.

Grilled Cheese

NYC
Am I only dreaming?
My dreams have for years revealed parts of myself or have sent words of warning.
I played down their power. Saying it’s my unconscious piecing pictures together for me that I do not allow in my awakened state. Which is plausible. Without questioning their source, I always took heed.
Even when I was religious, I looked at dreams seriously.
So early this morning when I dreamt of a love, I knew it shouldn’t be written off.
In my dream I was in bed with a handsome man. He had blonde, wavy hair and smooth, tan skin.
Cradling me into his side and covering my body with a powdery blue sheet, he sighed in contentment.
I was expecting to feel comfort and bliss. Instead, I jolted with an alarming voice.
“This is childish and shallow love.”
Waking up, a question hung in the air:
“What is love?”
I of course went back to sleep immediately.
A couple of hours later and I am making coffee and setting my intentions for the day, pushing away the urge to dive into my dream and it’s haunting inquiry.
Fast forward to my mid day Kundalini class.
I’m lying flat on my mat, completely melded to the Earth. I have another visual, not curious for yoga and meditation.
I was surrounded by angels. They were dancing and giggling and pouring a beautiful golden light into my head, filling my body through the tip of my toes.
And that same dream voice declared “It’s you.”
And I cried, in public.
My first thought was “I hope I’m not disturbing the person next to me.”
My second thought being “I am love. I am perfect. There is no search for bliss or contentment. It’s me. It’s not a strong man to lay my head next to. It’s my loud, playful, passionate spirit.”
Something inside of me finally sated.
That careful facade I keep in place, not wanting to admit it, but a constant state of searching for validation and companionship finally evaporated.
Being single is weird.
When I separated from my husband, the idea of dating was so exciting. Last I dated, there were no smart phones or dating apps. This was a new world.
Being the scientist and planner that I am, I strategized and prepared.
“I would need to accept rejection and guard my feelings, while following my gut and taking leaps.”
Especially when I moved to New York. I was going on 3-4 dates a week. My all time record being 3 in one day.
I would cut it off or they would disappear. My intentions and desires were never clear to me.
I was searching for intimacy, and when it presented itself, I was too terrified to accept it.
I eventually gave up on dating.
Put away my apps, stopped making eyes on the street or wearing makeup to bars.
But both felt wrong.
I was burning.
Today I had a spiritual grilled gruyere sandwich. My burning hunger, sated.
I detach from this mentality that true fun, emotion, creativity and emotion are a reflection from my partner. The “Life is better when you share it” state.
I can live in technicolor, alone.
Thank you, angels.
Thank you, New York.
Thank you, grilled cheese.

Art In Progress

(Companion to previous post ‘Art’)
Art2
My dad recently remarried and I had made a trip to Houston to spend quality time before my big move to New York.
 I took him and his new wife to my favorite Japanese restaurant in the museum district, hoping that they would go to the museum with me after and I could relive that memory from my early years.
I was so excited and nervous.
My dad hates trying new things and stepping outside of his comfort zone, so udon was a huge leap.
We talked about his new life, my new life and my travel schedule. Lunch was winding down and I finally mustered the courage to ask “Do you want to go to the museum with me? It’s right down the road.”
My dad politely refused, saying he needed to get back home. But that wasn’t what hurt me. It was when he said “I think I took Amanda there one time, we really enjoyed it.”
My favorite memory of my father, and he didn’t remember me being there. I was crushed.
I went to the museum by myself and cried.
That’s what benches in museums are for. Overwhelming emotion.
I then decided to head to an oldie, but a goodie- Brasil.
I cried over my soy latte and kale salad, and didn’t care who saw.
I pulled out my journal and I wrote. (and yes, I am about to reference myself)
“January 16, 2016
I faced a lot of demons today. And I realized that I never did say goodbye to Houston. I ran away to Dallas and pushed down the crappy relationship with my parents. I pushed out the sad and broken relationships with Joel and Doug. I pushed out the Amy that needed to heal.
The MFAH is a powerful place for me. It feels like home, in a sad way.
One of the few nice memories of my father was him taking me to this museum on a date, just us.
I stopped at the Corn Poppy and couldn’t stop staring. I was her and she was me.
That painting still haunts my dreams and artwork. It is a powerful symbol of myself. And a monument of peace and hope in my life.
It was much smaller than I remembered.
Today I invited my dad and his new wife to lunch in the Museum District, hoping he would come with me to the museum. He didn’t. And he also didn’t remember our date. It wasn’t important to him.
I hadn’t realized how much hope I still carried for my dad to really see me.
I can accept that I love him. I can accept that I cannot change the past. And I can accept the responsibility of pursuing a real relationship with him now.
I’m sitting in Cafe Brasil, crying and drinking my coffee. Even this place is nostalgic.
I’ve been here on dates with Doug, Joel, Sergio and Nghia.
It’s still here. It also didn’t miss me.
Moving to New York is the right thing for me. I just don’t want to run anymore. I want to make conscious decisions and heal my broken heart.
No more distractions, I am sitting in my truths.
I was a little girl, ignored and pushed aside.
I was a naive preteen, with no one to protect her.
I was a frustrated teenager, with no one to listen.
I was a lonely wife, too scared to speak up and live.
I put you first. I care for your mind, body and soul. You are my priority. You can have everything. I hear you. I see you. I am proud of you. I believe in you. I love you.”

Art

My art is not for you, it’s for me.
I strive to get to a place where courage is unnecessary. A place where I am no longer trembling with anxiety or fear of judgement. I am not in that place.
Growing up my father was nonexistent. But there was one day, one memory I hold very dear to me.
My dad took me on a date. I was 13 and in trouble at the Kingdom Hall, so the elders required my father to spend time with me.
It was awkward and forced, but I was so excited to drive out of our small town and submerge myself in my true passion- art.
We were going to the Museum of Fine Arts Houston. I was buzzing in my seat, so hungry for beauty and positive inspiration.
We wandered Greek and Ancient Egyptian relics, but I felt drawn. I wandered off by myself, slowly scanning European oils, not landing on any particular piece.
I turned a corner, and there she was. The Corn Poppy by Kees Van Dongen. I had never felt so many overwhelming emotions at one time.
I immediately pulled out my sketchbook and filled page after page of her face.
Thinking back over this memory, my heart still races.
I love her, and I’m not sure why.
I am a true believer that artists can share emotions through a piece. That’s what makes art good to me. It’s an emotion. An intangible transfer of energy and meaning.
This painting has haunted my dreams and lit up my darkest days.
Fast forward 15 years and I am in my studio in Dallas, glaring at a blank canvas. I was stuck and uninspired.
I then glanced at my phone- my lock screen a rendering I did of the Corn Poppy.
“I’ll take it back to the beginning.” And I was filled with joy and energy to get started. Laying out my tubes of oil a thought piqued.
“This needs to be personal.”
I knew what I needed to do, and I dreaded it.
I’m not sure when it started, but mirrors made me very uncomfortable. I dreaded looking into them, never liking what I saw. For this painting I needed to face myself, literally.
So I started slowly by looking at pictures of me from social media. My face looked so different in each one. I have always had a hard time recognizing myself in pictures.
I bucked up and took out a mirror and propped it up beside my canvas.
My oil painting instructor complains that I perfect people in my work. Well this is one person I could never see as perfect.
I looked into my reflection for an hour. Staring at myself was very uncomfortable at first. And then I was fascinated.
How did I go so long without knowing my own jaw line? The curve of my eyelashes?
I felt a wave of awe for myself that I had yet to experience.
Months later, I am staring at the beginnings of my new favorite painting.
The only form is a face so far, and it’s beautiful.
I promise to finish it soon. And when I do, I know exactly what to do with it.
If you ever come to my house and see a portrait of me hanging at the foot of my bed, feel free to judge. I would.
But like I said, my art is not for you, it’s for me.Portrait