Cold Light - 6/21/97 8:00 a.m.

Sex and writing are my religion. I do all things with my eyes on god, but these two are where I open myself to the very core. Writing is private, so I can connect with the great flow of energy without fear of rejection. The words on the page are a by-product - what matters is becoming one with where the words come from - that great shining stream at my core, in the deepest well of my being, the burning pillar of colorless light that takes me out of myself. But sex is mutual, and there are few things more jarring than the shock of rejection when that flow is going. Sex brings in the extra element of the other person - seeing their core of light, seeking to merge the streams. And to open myself - to bare that deepest core - and not to be met in kind, is painful. So rarely do I allow myself to unmask that flow of energy in sex. This was fine when I wasn't taking Prozac - my hormones were enough to carry me through, and I could worship without exposing myself. But the Prozac, which keeps me alive, blunts the hormones, so that to feel sexual I must go within and touch the core, offer that shining river to my partner if I am to feel anything like desire. Unlike my body, this is not something I can share with anyone. My inner self is mine, and I will offer it to very few. I offered it to one, but he wasn't up to it, he couldn't see it for what it was - because we were young, because I did not know then who I was, because I was still hiding from myself and ashamed. I offered it to another, but he did not want it - did not want the responsibility, did not want to open himself in return - did not know himself well enough yet. Two rejections have made me shy, and now I find myself holding back in turn with you, beloved, because I do not want to burn you with that cold fire, because I do not want the shock of rejection or betrayal yet again. Because sex for me has overtones of the sacred. I forget that it may not be so for other people. I imagine you and your previous one opening to each other in a way I have yet to be able to do, and I am hopelessly jealous and paralyzed by feelings of inadequacy and pain. I imagine you sharing a closeness I am struggling to develop with you - sharing an intimacy that I am finding it hard to achieve. I feel like he has been let inside the walls where I should be - that he is in my rightful place, that you have opened to him a place you have not opened to me, when you and I are 'going out' and I should be inside your walls as I wish you inside of mine, yet the doors stand open and the throne for you is empty. And my heart cries 'why?' What is it that makes me so foul, that someone who approaches me, approaches me should come only so far and no further? Is it because her eyes are open, and she sees me (rather than the mask of the true desired superimposed upon my face, to make me palatable) and therefore she is repulsed? Have I revealed my true self again into betrayal and rejection? I used to thing people stayed away because of my true self - that shining river core - was too foul to be endured. Then I thought perhaps people shied away because it burned too bright and hot, and they were afraid of being burned. Now I just don't know, and I am out of metaphors - perhaps I still don't make the invitation clear. Perhaps, having opened the door, I still hide it. Who made this wall between us that I feel - was it you, or I? The issue of consent, of move and counter movement - why can that one touch you and not I? how can he rub your shoulders and not I? Perhaps that is what all these words are for - I am seeking explicit permission to unveil myself before you, and begging your forbearance that should you (when you) need to turn away, you do it gently. If it is my center and true self that has drawn you to me, there is less to worry about, but I still seek permission to undamp the core, to risk burning you with that inner cold cold flame. I want to be by your side, constant companion, borrowed words of blood and fire - someone who can take as much as I give, and give back as much as I need, and still have the will to live. So I am here, wrapped in flannel and cool breezes, watching the morning light sparkle off the glitter and the cat hair, and missing you - missing you as we have yet to be able to be together. Missing the future. Missing the possibilities of love, love and sex, love and religion.
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