I Like It, Love It, Yes I Do

I, a married woman, spent last weekend in Phoenix, in the company of three men.  We had been planning this little get-away for about a month, and it finally came together.  The excitement had been building, and after a long dusty drive through the desert, we arrived, ready to get down to business.

Previous liaisons had occurred hurriedly in a crowded room in L.A. for which we paid by the hour, but now we were in the comfort of someone's home, with nothing but space and time stretching out before us.

Despite having done this since my teen-age years, I still get the anticipatory jitters, and I brought along some fine tequila.  Several shots later, and small talk over, we started what we came there to do.  There was no turning back, no guilt, no shame.

It didn't matter to us if the neighbors heard us; the louder the better.  We gave each other performance feedback, and sometimes had to do it a couple of times to get it right.  Soon we were sweaty and smiling, and had to take a break, because none of us are as young as we used to be.  In fact, one of us had to stop and take a nap, while the rest went outside, unplugged from our devices, and carried on some more.

Sex and drugs?  No.  Rock and roll?  Oh hell yes.

I know,  it's only rock and roll but god I love it.

I just joined this standing group a few months ago, and I can't tell you how much fun it is.  I have been singing in the car and at home forever, but not in a band since graduate school.  The synergy of playing together is an absolute joy.

I do feel the tiniest bit conflicted about pursuing this.  It is at its core absolutely selfish and hedonistic.  With my writing pursuit, I can tell myself that while it is a personal passion, it is also because I hope that ultimately others are touched in some beneficial way by reading it.  With the band, it is just because we can, because it is fun, because it feels good.  No one else usually hears it, and it does take time away from other important people and pursuits, so I do appreciate the forbearance of my family more than I can say.

But singing makes my spirit sing, and that can't ever be a bad thing.  I believe we are better people, and act more loving and tolerant as a result, when we allow ourselves the full measure of what gives us joy, and exercise our talents.  Mine is a quite minor and limited talent (and my son would probably argue,  no talent at all, having had to suffer through countless nights of Rock Band).   Nevertheless, I guess  it's kind of like that hackneyed sentiment: sing like no one is listening, and dance as if no one is watching.  How good or bad I am is not the point.  It is me, being me.

If I want to play rock star, why the hell not?

A Poem for Turning 55

Well, I have not been on my little blog site since September, so thought it was time to post something I have been working on over the past week.  Still a work in progress.  I originally was going to title it What My Hot Flashes Teach Me,  then changed it to Morning Mirror, now it is just untitled for the moment.

Domain without dominion,                                                

this body as I age.                                                           

I startle at my reflection,                                                

in recognition of                                                           

a “me-ness” that abides within that cage                       

no longer new.                                                           

What a breath-stopping moment

as I become aware

that memories now stretch  longer than

the road which lies ahead. 

Exhaling, holding my own gaze, I stare:

no longer young.    

Yet passions long neglected

need nothing but a choice.

Ancient desire and nascent fire,

inchoate, they arise,

seek form, and now demand to have a voice,

no longer mute.

Sight will dim and sinew thin

as bars of cage must rust.

But in this moment, in this breath

is all.  Enough.  Today

I write the poem of pulse, before the dust.

No longer lost.