Hope, Heart, and Crazy Wisdom: Good night, little brother

As I write, my youngest brother Alan is in the last days of his struggle against terminal cancer. Only 49, it is so strange to think that in a few days, give or take, he will be gone. For the last months of his life he has been in the care of my wonderful sister and her husband, for which I am grateful beyond words. The fact that he could come to the end of his life in a place that feels like home, is a gift that simply can't be measured.

We had a wild life growing up, my family. For a while in the 1960's it had the feel of American middle class life (belied a bit by the intense group of intellectual eccentrics we were developing into). But we had a small but nice house we lived in nestled in an old farm town in Massachusetts, and I remember those days mostly with happiness. We always had cats, and I remember a cold March day in the late sixties, when Alan, just a little boy, appeared one morning and said he had found mice in his bed, and not sure of what to do, he had put them out on the porch. What we actually discovered on the porch was a litter of kittens -- our one cat (at the time) had disdained the nice nest we had made for her when the time came to give birth, and had her kittens in Alan's bed. They were all fine (and some led long and memorable lives). And Alan had his start as a lifelong lover of cats.

Ten years later, our lives had radically changed. For reasons complex to me even now, we lost our grip on middle class life, and ended up what today would be called homeless (though that word, to my knowledge, hadn't been coined yet in the '70's). We lived in temporary apartments and in tents in the woods, traveling up and down the East Coast, and finally to California. A strange life to say the least, and one that shaped all of us in different ways. Here is Alan from that time, with another beloved cat, the Gray Shred, a sweet -- if somewhat demented -- kitty we had taken in as a stray with a permanently broken paw...and who had a special bond with Alan.

Below is the whole family (excepting my oldest brother, who had moved on to seek his own fortune by this time) as we were in that time in the late 70's. What a motley crew! Mum is gone now as well, having also succumbed to cancer, but we were an eclectic bunch in those days--I was writing (bad) novels already, and Alan's lifelong interest in the sciences had taken firm root.

As adults, we had our times of connection and disconnection with each other, and Alan became a brillant if reclusive figure, going into teaching, becoming a notable pool shark, and developing a strong philosophy of non-materialism (something we share).

After a long period in which we fell out of touch, Alan and I had a time of very lively re-connection, which I treasured then, and even more so now. We exchanged long letters and phone calls, and I felt so much delight to learn about his views and passions, many of which we had in common. Here are some of Alan's thoughts from those letters, first on non-materialism:

You may not be aware, but your cutting down your possessions, and then your whole living-in-the-woods minimalistic adventure, those things influenced me a youth. So some of our overlap in approach to living is not coincidence. But clearly my path towards enlightenment has been far more than a few childhood memories, but I thought you'd like to see that you played a small part. I do hope I can get my act together for a visit eventually.

On his life as a teacher:

I love the idea that we can look at one another and truly absorb what we are seeing, in a stepladder fashion of learning. I don’t see a lot of growth in most people, and the stagnation scares me. The more commercial and material we become, the more of that I see. But my anarchism still believes that the people are slowly awakening. It helps to teach as I do, where all my students are 18 or 19 (all freshman classes), even one young 17 yr old Taiwanese dude! They are a spoiled generation; the generation of kids getting trophies just for participating! But their minds are open, and I believe in youth's ability to recreate the world’s structure.

On our love of books:

Books are so powerful. I still believe that the need for keeping a book, like on a shelf in a room in the house, is overcome by the power of the simple mental and emotional residue of having read the book, which is not truly liberated without removing the actual book. So I read and discard the material book, but it will always be alive in my mind. And you actually create NEW books, which makes the whole process even more beautiful.

On love (which I of course rhapsodized on as transformative and transcendent):

Your comments on love made me a little sad for myself (but happy for you!). I have not found love yet, in the way the rest of the family has. I think I have been dealing with my autism, and that has held me back. I am unsure where I will end up on that front, but am still hopeful. I still think I have a lot to offer!

In reading his thoughts now, I'm sad too, at the thought that his life and dreams are cut short. But I told him that I loved him, and that I was glad we grew up to be friends. How I'll miss you, little brother...your abstract intellectualisms that made my head swim (though happily), balanced by your laugh and slacker-dude alternate persona. I'll miss the chance to see your many dreams come true.

Here is the last paragraph of the last letter he wrote to me:

Uh oh, I feel myself running out of steam, and still have "miles to go before I sleep", haha. I will get to work (on my studies of quasi-injective modules, which I believe may also hold a key to understanding consciousness). Later dude.

Later, dude. May you have peace, and I'll dream sometimes of the two of us as old men, laughing about it all. Good night, little brother.

Two Suns in the Sky: "Torera" and the wonder of collaboration

Today "Torera", the epic novel exploring thirty years in the life of lady matador Lucretia Maria Calderon, goes on sale from Passion in Print Press. Any day a book makes it out of the mind of its creators and into the world is an exciting day, and I am particularly proud of this book, which is the product of two people finding a shared voice, one of the most satisfying experiences I believe a writer can have.

I've been incredibly gifted with the collaborators I've joined with over the years. Artist David Cuccia (whose stunning portrait of Lucretia is at the end of this blog...many thanks, David!), Erotic Artist Samarel, painter Bedazzled, artist and poet Marge Simon to name a few, as well as poetic works created together with talents like Tess MacKall, Willow, Kristaline, Kate Barker, Saroya and many more. Each time, I am amazed at the depth of these artists and writers, who take me outside of my own mind with fresh and inspiring visions.

In the writing of  "Torera", I had the honor of coming to know Tisha Garcia, who before arriving in the world of novels has written remarkable, cutting-edge screenplays with her writing partner David Strickler. Ideas flew fast and thick when Tisha and I began to brainstorm this book, and it grew and grew through that interaction, becoming a story of intense depth and  history. My original concept for the book (as I am a devoted animal-lover, and wondered how I would respond emotionally to a story about the world of bullfighting) was to set it in the modern arena of "bloodless" bullfighting, where supposedly no one gets hurt as all go through the motions of the classical bullfight -- but that story, though it would have been interesting, lacked the fire of deep emotion. Tisha felt that we could bring the story to a more powerful environment by going to the literary place that Hemingway went in his book "Death in the Afternoon"...looking with a novelist's eye at the wildly obsessive and driven figures of the 20th century Spanish corrida.

To that end we both read Hemingway, and researched the matadors of Spain, including Belmonte, Joselito, and many others -- but as our matador was to be a woman, we also studied the lives of Conchita Cintron, Patricia McCormick, and other Lady Matadors. Truly fascinating. And I came to think that like pacifists who write the most insightful books about war, perhaps Tisha and I truly could write not only of the violence and blood of the bullring, but the honor, courage, and almost mystical connection to life and death that these men and women embodied and experienced.

And so instead of one sun shining down on an idea as there is in the writing of a solo novel, there were two. Time and again I would be touched, astonished, moved and excited by the subtleties and strengths Tisha brought to the story. Our writing became a very organic thing, with each of us selecting a period in Lucretia's life that interested us particularly, and writing chapters along a time line in that manner, each of us sharing our thoughts and adapting as we went along. We took on subjects like fighting the disempowerment of women; the emotional and sexual obsessions of people who make the choice of a career that could kill them on any given day; and we didn't shy away from the violent world of the corrida, while at the same time exploring the humanity of those who live it. We found humor and tragedy, love and life.

The end result? Only the readers can tell us, but reading the finished novel, there is a seamless feel that I think most collaborators dream of. Our vision for the characters, the story, became one voice...bringing life to scenes that neither of us could have achieved alone.

Tisha, thank you for the gift of your wild intelligence, your insight, and your gift with words. "Torera" is alive with all of those things. I hope that the readers who read about the lives of Lucretia, Diego, Christian and all the others we illuminated in our thirty-year narrative, will feel the same exhilaration in reading as I felt in writing this book with you.

Torera available through Passion in Print Press HERE
Visit the website of Lucy V. Pelt alias Tisha Garcia HERE
Visit the artistic world of David Cuccia HERE
Cover art for "Torera" by Deana C. Jamroz

The Peach Orchard

As spring arrives here in Florida and the days begin to be hot, here's an old favorite -- a sweet, sensual interlude from my poetry collection "Touch in the Bed of Light".

The Peach Orchard

I bite the flesh of a peach,

with the air around me so thick with humidity

that sweat has become a liquid skin,

stinging on tiny cuts on my palms,

From where I have bent down the branch

to steal its fruit.

I will bring its flavor to you, on my tongue.

I see your face,

framed in the shadow of that same night,

my lips subtly swollen

where you have taken them in your teeth.

I feel the arch of your foot,

as you curl your legs upward.

The same rough palm of my hand

takes your ankle, and you are open to me.

There is a growl in your throat,

the coiled muscles of the night

finding voice in you.

Outside our window,

the peach orchard stirs

in a breeze that heralds rain.

Its scent of ripened life surrounds us,

and you moan, tasting the approaching moment.

When the rain comes, it will wash the heat

from every laden branch.

Kama Sutra - Husband and Wife

With Valentine's Day this Monday, here is the fourth of the Kama Sutra poems from my collection "Touch in the Bed of Light". It's dedicated to every man who has found his soul's wife, and every woman who truly knows her soul's husband.

Kama Sutra – Husband and Wife

 

I lift her into my arms,

feeling the pleasure that comes in strength

to cradle her body in my grasp.

She winds her hands behind my neck,

and whispers in my ear.

We smile together, and I set her down

to rest on the bed,

the illumination of happiness and want

in her face.

He is so strong, it always excites me.

What could be more alluring,

than powerful hands that have mastered

gentleness; than a husband who longs

to see me in pleasure.

The smile bursts from me,

a sunrise breaking from clouds.

When he lays me down, I gasp

with impatience,

because I want him beside me.

I lift her feet until she is framed

by her graceful legs on either side;

then let them come across my back,

as I bend to kiss her neck.

The pulse of life there is a voice

of its own; life and warmth

are in its beat.

I cup her breasts,

and we are in Uthkanta, throat-high.

His lips on my throat

make all the pain in my body melt away.

Currents flow through my limbs,

and I know what it is to be water,

moving through a weary land

and awakening it to life.

The strength in her legs gives way,

but as they slide away from my back

even that movement seems like grace

to me; and yet she cries out softly

as if from loss, and so I catch her feet;

draw them up until they reach her hair.

So we have Vyomapada, sky-foot.

I take her arching foot to my lips.

Oh god, do not ever let us be parted.

When I sleep, I dream of seeing him

next to me in the morning light,

and when I wake, the reality of it

is almost to much joy to bear.

Come inside me, my love, my heart,

my soul.

The warmth of the night is ours to share.

When we have breathed our pleasure

to one another, I lay my head on her breast,

and she strokes my hair

until I begin to drift

into the purest peace; into the shared heart

of our embrace.

I kiss her, and sigh out a good night,

but her hand is already still,

her breathing deep and even.

We lie together on the edge of dream,

the beat of her heart my lullaby.

Lilith is Alive and Well - Samantha Birch and "Beat"

I have a very special guest on "The Passionate Mind" tonight. In June of last year, I had the privilege to write the introduction to a book of poetry by Samantha Birch, called "Beat". Without further preamble, here's what I had to say:

Do not stick your head out of the window of a moving car.

That admonition, from Samantha Birch’s poem 87, could easily be applied to the poem itself. Climbing into the passenger seat of her mind as she takes language and wrenches it into forms that are vital, harrowing, inspirational and terrifying, can make you feel as if your head’s going to be sheared off at any moment and left tumbling along the highway as she speeds on.

But it’s too late for warnings. When you read her work, there is no stopping.  

It feels like an old house

It is home to me

The broken motorbike

leans against the shed

Telling me I belong here,

I am loved

The above lines from Custard Creams and Midget Gems echo with the happiness and ache of something as simple, as precious, as coming home. But the world is not a place where we can retreat into the warmth of home forever.

Rid the deranged of bizarre spirits
in hypocritical excess of black bile and shame
It sticks and swirls; There are no winners here

As in those lines from Folly, the great monsters of our time—things like hypocrisy, cruelty, ignorance and pain also take unforgettable shape in her writing.

To characterize Birch’s voice in the words of an introduction is not possible. The poems themselves will speak to that.  They offer an indelible journey into the thoughts of a woman who is a visionary, a fierce lover, a caring friend, a warrior, a mother, a daughter, and who at times wields her gift with words very much like a scythe, cutting away anything that is false, exposing necrosis in the body of our society; looking hard at things that make us flinch, challenging us not to turn away.

A wild wind is calling to me beyond the closed window of a moving car.  I should stay in my seat, safe within walls of glass and metal. But no, that sense of safety is illusion. And there are words in the voice of that wind that I am desperate to hear. 

And here is a sampling of two of the amazing poems from the collection. Sammie, I hope you'll give us some insight into the visions these two works present!

Thoughts On Losing Lilith

On first wake with beast, quietly tethered

A beauty appeared; born of filth and sediment

groomed from my own creation

Impure dust forged clean

Coccyx stump hacked and weeping

Burned and bound

As weakness flows into rivers of primary blood.

Surely not the same earth and clay

From which my own perfect ego birthed.

Thoughts of capture re-emerge

As the beasts distaste struggles

against a futile coupling.

Turning to face my glorious gift

I feel hope, with a prayer

That the tide would turn

To my favour...

"Will you match me in strength and faith?

and not ask that I lie beneath you

still and tolerating as the beast you tamed and refused?"

She bears Sin, the first

Of independence and strange notion

The blood of a hardened mind shows

Within universal eyes

Weakness desert me!

I cannot contain us

The burden is hers

To re-live...

To hold...

Forever more.

"Those who know Love as the sacred word

and who use it justly,

must be strong enough to hold on for the ride"

She speaks of the light within

And travelling poisonous tides

Soaking in corrupted rains lest myself be lost

We were one, her front to back

Yet now she seeks to utter a name

In rising above, she takes the blame.

She... demon queen; in separate form,

I see my need abandoned; a limb

A shadows departure through the boundaries

A flickered glimpse through gates of destruction

and catastrophic shores of abandoned oceans

Shame, my love, shame; show remorse

For lives of whispered children lost in "defyant" battles

Slumbered seduction bears the spawn of life's ruin

Punished and banished in free-will's cage.

With ego dimmed I ask for more

My falsified rib is ripped and torn

Re-emerging as succulent fruit

To tempt and strip bare the truth

I am no longer protected

I see the purity that once was

And I turn to regard the amputated part

With contempt and anger

My own proclivity mirrored

once more, in beauty's face

Her Sin is the second...

She has unveiled my failure as a man

____________________________________________________________________

87

Prophet!  (or Profit?)
Your reflective surfaces show sickness
in magnified proportions

Look... LOOK
Your attention please!

An inspection of the air
reveals sullied skins; grime
boiling in iatrogenic conditions
with superbug resistance
See what you have done
See what you have become

Selfish concentric, ever INCreasing circles
play and ripple in pools of cynicism
and forgotten peace

So-called civilised playgrounds appear
Organic, at first, rollin' with the trees
To be heavily replaced
with perfect, concrete slabs 
In cracked and open doorways
and solar-mirrored walls; cue sunglasses

Human nature is corrupt
(no-brainer)
The destroyer of all things
That means you
So keep your fingers to yourself
Steal nothing, protect EVERYthing
Play dead

Do not stick your head out
of the window in a moving car
You'll barely breathe for long
before it's swiped off at the neck
and smashed up like coffee beans
for a motorway brew on double yellows

So much to lie about, so little time
but you'll only have survived the ride
if you're mad...

or eighty-seven

________________________________________________________________________

 

Sammie's book is available in hardcover and as an electronic download here:

BEAT by Samantha Birch

Ancient Reflections of the Sacred Feminine

Those of you who have followed the first two novels in the Siobhan Bishop series know that despite being filled with eroticism, the stories are also filled with spirituality, which manifests through the main character, Siobhan, exploring passionate but also enlightening writings from the deep past.

In the third novel, The Unbound Goddess (which I am writing now) the story circles around the concept of the Sacred Feminine, as embodied by Lilith. Though religious scholars differ greatly about how divinity differs between men and women, still I was fascinated to read this passage from the Kabbalah (which is my primary source for understanding the mysteries explored in the novel):

“There are two aspects to the female of Z'er Anpin, one when she is contained initially in the male, and the second when she is separated from him and he gives her the crown of strength... When she separates from him and becomes an autonomous aspect, then the two of them are in the secret of a husband and his wife, the male alone and the female alone."  

Remember that the story of Lilith has her wanting to share passion equally with her husband, which doesn't sit well with (the to my mind, pig-headed) Adam, who rejects her. She then "speaks the secret name of God and flies from Eden on her own."

In the italicized passage above, which is not talking specifically about Adam and Lilith, the man is described as "giving her the crown of strength", each becoming separate and strong, and then becoming a true husband and wife as a male alone and a female alone. In other words, both actualized as individuals before truly bonding.

I'd say Lilith had it right from the start.

Fascinating indeed, to find in a text from the 14th century.

These are the kind of wonders that come like treasure to a writer, finding a home in something as commercial as a novel in the Siobhan Bishop Erotic Underworld series. Is it any wonder that I love to write?

Kama Sutra: Pillars

Over on my Goodreads page, where I began the "Passionate Mind" blog, I had explored two subtle phases of the Kama Sutra that also found expression in my poetry. In the first, the concept of all of us possessing "seven senses", and in the second, the beauty of joining our oneness to nature with our sensuality. In this third poem, the Kama Sutra once again goes beyond (or rather, enhances and deepens) the physical, in the way that we can become whole when joined.

Kama Sutra: Pillars

There are moments of love

that are crafted to be living echoes

of temples raised to the sky;

towers that call down the hungry moon.

We stand, and together

our pleasure joins heaven and earth.

Sthita is the first step,

with a wall to aid us.

Her hands rest flat

on the plastered surface,

which still holds the heat of the day;

her palms burn with it.

She looks over her shoulder,

seeking the eyes of one who will rival

that sun's heat, and fill her with it.

Turn then,

and give your back to the wall,

let your feet spread, wider and wider,

until you sink down onto me,

so that I am the pillar

suspending you.

Face to face, Sammukha.

Whisper to me what you would like

to feel within you.

She says, "I wish most of all

for separateness to leave us,

for me to see into you,

as you enter me."

Then twine your thighs around mine,

lock your feet to my knees,

clasp my neck,

and I will lift you into the swing,

which is Dola.

Catch me in the cage of your arms

and crush me,

force my knees apart,

and sink slowly into me.

Dadhyayataka, the churn.

So we will blend

into perfect fiery harmony.

I want you to draw up one leg,

nestle it here, behind my knee.

Let us move

in a single stride, Traivikrama.

One step, just one step,

purely joined.

I do not remember

what it was to be alone.

We have banished the horizon;

sky and earth are joined.

Tears are in my eyes,

a moaning rises from my center.

I did not know

that my body could stand so,

burning into you, consumed

and consuming.

I love you.

And I love you.