How Bravely You Seek.

Through my window

You take a peek.

Into my room

You quietly sneak.

You stroke my hair

And kiss my cheek.

You tell me living

Is not for the meek.

It's not what you get;

It's how bravely you seek.

Mid-Living Crisis.

I love how people give phases of life names that supposedly relate to where you are in your allotment of existence.

Quarter-life crisis. End-of-life crisis. Mid-life crisis.

Since none of us know how much life we’ve been allotted, I think this sort of categorization is hilarious.

For instance, if you will only live to the age of fifty-six, your “mid-life” actually occurs at the age of twenty-eight - not forty, which is the age most of us stereotypically associate with mid-life. So when you reach the age of forty, the term “mid-life crisis” is meaningless because what was the middle of your life span passed more than a decade earlier, and the time that is left to you is very brief indeed.

My point being that none of us know how long we’ll live, so labeling parts of our lives like this only serves to delude us about the eventual end - and when it will occur. In fact, such labeling implies that we have some sort of control over the timeline of our existence, which as I mentioned earlier is laughable.

This is not to mention the fact that such categorization causes us to live all too frequently in the realm of “someday.” As in, “Someday I’ll get another chance. Someday I’ll try again. Someday I’ll start towards that goal.” But this is a risky way to live. Each time you see someone, that might be the last time. Each time you leave things in anger and chaos, that might be how things get left forever. Each time you postpone expressing affection until the next time, you run the risk that there will not be a next time.

And why would you want to do that?

I suggest that rather than living for someday, you instead live all of your life as if you don’t have very much of it left.

Because maybe you don't.

Lifted By Light.

We are all aware of the injustices of the world, but most of us do little to correct them. We take the coward’s way out by saying that one person can’t make a difference, so why even bother trying?

I am here, now, begging you to be braver than that. I am asking you to have the courage not to be a fucking quitter, even if you believe everyone and everything is doomed.

Say you’re right. And you probably are - one person can’t make much of a difference in the universe’s overall scheme. We’re just too insignificant to have an impact on any grand scale.

But where does that fact leave you?

I’ll tell you where. With a choice.

You can shut down and quit - which most of us do.

Or you can muster up the courage to fight - even if it's a losing battle - because fighting for those who cannot fight for themselves is the only brave thing to do.

My friend, Melinda, is visiting her home in Mendocino briefly before she returns to India to continue her work as a dance therapist for the children of sex workers...

“on alternating days i will stay here in forbesganj and go to the red light district, where there is a center for girls whose mothers are in prostitution but who live at home, and i’ll do the same thing there. so that’s the plan, though it’s a bit terrifying at this point. bihar is not the safest of states, and i am wary of traveling at night, by train or rickshaw. so i’m just going to pretend it’s going to be fine.”

Every single day, Melinda swallows her own fears to help these children - who have few prospects in this world outside of eventually becoming sex workers themselves - to learn that sovereignty over their bodies comes from within.

“we start by taking deep, slow breaths. in and out, with our arms rising and falling in time with our breathing. then we start to make noise; a relatively foreign concept for most children here, who are ridiculously ‘well-behaved’ and silent. we put our hands on our chests and hum…. feeling the vibrations and hearing our voices blend. eventually we yell at the top of our lungs… something that thrills them no end. then we begin to move – wiggling our toes, feet, legs… all the way through our bodies. we affirm with each motion: ‘these are MY toes… this is MY head…’ and ultimately, ‘this is MY body.’ even though they are just mimicking me, they know what they are saying. occasionally we say it in hindi, and the laugh at my pronunciation.”

You can read more about Melinda’s work over at her blog, Live Like The Lotus. All of the gorgeous photos featured here are hers, by the way.

Melinda chooses to be brave every single day.

“i choose to drink the water… it is ‘better’ to drink what someone offers me so kindly, in a dirty metal cup, when i am in their home, than to refuse it, even though i may have an intimate relationship with the toilet later on. i choose to eat and drink everything i am offered out of hospitality, because that experience of someone finding joy in sharing their meagre pantry with me is worth any negative side effects. some may say i am, by default, choosing to be sick. but that’s okay. it’s worth it. it’s my choice.

i choose to let nisha, a sad and shy 14 year old who was prostituted by her father and sister, brush and braid my hair for hours. all the girls at kasturba have lice, and not sharing a hairbrush is cardinal rule number one, but it is worth it to risk discomfort and annoyance to bond with a girl who has few allies in the world, letting her be skilled and admired for her work.”

As you can see from these excerpts, Melinda writes with eloquence and sensitivity concerning the sacrifices (and rewards) that come with living a fearless life.

“the act of showing up is half the process. the girls here don’t care that i come to dance with them; they care that i come at all.”

Melinda is my hero - as is anyone who fights bravely on behalf of those who absolutely cannot defend themselves. You can donate to Melinda’s cause by clicking here. Or, if you’re in Mendocino this Friday evening, you can attend A Taste of India at the Helen Schoeni Theater (MTC). There will be entertainment, education, and libation with a party plan that includes traditional South Indian dancing by Nicole Fish, samosas and specialty cocktails by Sara Liner, a reading from her travels by Melinda, a screening of Joe Mickey's film India 101, and a silent auction featuring many fabulous items from generous local vendors.

Admission to the event is free and donations are graciously accepted. Melinda's goal is to raise enough money to start an educational fund so that these children may go on to secondary school, as opposed to having to return to life in the brothels.

If you won’t be in Mendocino for this lovely dinner, did I mention that you can donate securely through PayPal by clicking here and then clicking on the PayPal button?

“a friend wrote to me, after my last post, and said that i was breaking their heart. this was and is not my intention; i don’t want to hurt you, to shame you, or to scare you. i have no ulterior motive~ i tell it like i see it. but please: don’t let your hearts be broken. these girls’ hearts are not. they are battered, yes, but not broken. broken hearts can’t effect change, or reach out, or plant seeds of goodness. broken hearts are immobilized, stagnant. i write not to break your hearts but to open them. and yes, the farther and wider they open, the more likely they are to hurt now and again, and the world and i will continue to send arrows that will pierce and wound you. but this is a good thing. this lets you know you are alive, and still caring, and still hoping for better, for yourselves and those with whom you share the planet. let your heart ache, once in a while. and then count your blessings, and go about your day. fight the good fights. dream the good dreams. live like the lotus, at home in the muddy water. or in my case, like the ginormous toads, at home in the gutter of sewage.”

I beg you. Do not turn your back on the defenseless of this world, simply because you have the luxury of feeling a little helpless about how to address the injustices visited upon them.

Do not be the sort of person who hides her head in the mud instead of reaching for something brighter.

My heart is a lotus

Floating on the water’s surface

Sunk by turbulence

Lifted by light

My toes are in the mud

But my arms reach for the sky.

I love you, Sequoia RainDancer.

You Can't Spell "Santa" Without "Satan."

Every year at around this time, I have a recurring nightmare. I’m at a party at my family’s old ranch house, and all of my friends and relatives are there. Everyone keeps coming up to me and giving me gifts and cards and smiling and hugging me, and I can’t for the life of me figure out what’s going on. I know I’ve forgotten something - I can feel it - but I don’t know what it is.

Then it hits me. It’s Christmas day, and I’ve completely spaced on the entire holiday. I mean, I’ve done NOTHING - I haven’t bought a tree, put up lights, gone gift shopping, made food, drank eggnog, mailed cards, NOTHING.

My mind races. What should I do? I rummage through a nearby desk, hoping to find something I can MacGyver into several dozen wrapped and tagged gifts in less than ten minutes, but all I come up with are rubber bands and a box of thumb tacks and one of those weird plastic water bottles with the sponge on top that people used to use to seal up envelopes. Back when you used to have to lick the flaps of envelopes to seal them. Back when we used to send mail through a place called the post office in a thing called an envelope. (We used to write on these envelopes in something called “cursive” or “script” writing. But that’s another blog post…)

So I stand there, panicked, without so much as a flask of spirits or basket of food or even the most modest of cards. I am entirely empty-handed.

It’s horrible.

The fact that I’m in my underwear hardly even matters.

The point is, Christmas confounds me. For most people, it’s celebrating some guy’s birthday by doing things that this guy would HATE. Frenzied shopping that sometimes erupts into violence? Gorging on food and wine until we’re sick? Bickering over saying “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas?” You must be fucking kidding me.

For those of you who truly believe that there’s a “war” on Christmas, you should ask yourself which side of that “war” Jesus would be on. The fact is, Jesus would want nothing, and I mean NOTHING to do with this holiday the way we celebrate it - let alone to have everyone claim that we’re all celebrating the day of his birth.

Which it isn’t, by the way. The date and time of Jesus’ birth isn’t recorded in the Bible, but most scholars agree that Jesus was NOT, in fact, born in December - because of the position of the Star of Bethlehem, Jesus was probably born sometime in the spring.

Christians of olden times made the decision to celebrate Jesus’ birth on the winter solstice because there were already Roman and Pagan traditions in place for celebrating the shortest day and longest night of the year. The idea was that the fledgling Christian religion could gain some cred and recognition by piggybacking onto these more popular religious celebrations that had been going on for centuries.

In this way, Christianity gained a foothold, and soon became the more dominant religion. Then, once in power, Christians went about exterminating those who refused to celebrate Christmas properly. By which I mean, their way. Which Jesus would have loved. Clearly.

And as best I can tell, celebrating Christmas “properly” means showering adoration on a guy who preached constantly about helping the poor, living simply, and peace - while at the same time indulging in behavior that’s not all that Jesus-y.

So the way I look at it, there’s only one solution.

In order to be respectful of Jesus, I’m going to have to insist that we all take the “Christ” out of “Christmas.”

Jesus won’t care, I promise. He’s a modest guy. He wouldn’t want people making a fuss over his birthday in the first place. Plus, as I mentioned, it’s not his actual birthday, and frankly he’d probably be pretty pissed off over the violent and intolerant circumstances that led to us celebrating on this particular day to begin with.

And that’s not even to mention the WAY we celebrate “his” day. Seriously. If you, like me, intend to spend this holiday season drinking, carousing, gift-giving, gift-getting, decorating a tree, dancing around a fire, and eating yourself silly, then you CANNOT in good conscience call what you’re doing “Christmas.”

It’s so unfair to Jesus. It really, really is.

From now on, I propose we remove the “Christ” reference entirely and instead celebrate “*$&%@!Mas.” It’s perfect. Everyone can enjoy the darkest and longest nights of the year by indulging in all kinds of naughty, hyper-indulgent behavior. You know, over-spending, over-eating, over-committing, over-indulging, and going overboard in general.

By which I mean to say, the holiday stays exactly the same as it is now except for the fact that we don’t drag poor Jesus into it anymore.

Maybe we can have a celebration for him some other time of the year that involves penance and self-reflection and humility and homage to the poor...

I suggest August. It’s relatively holiday-free.

I wish you all a splendid *$&%@!Mas.

Love and Peace.

Merry Everything.

Cocktalk.

Hello and welcome to Cocktalk.

Today’s Cocktalk topic:

Euphemisms for “penis.”

I decided to write about this topic at around the same time I decided to write a sonnet to the penis.

No. Wait.

Maybe I should back up.

I wrote a novel a while back, which contains sex scenes. Plural. Because delicately portraying the vulnerability of humans during the act of lovemaking makes the characters relatable.

But mostly because sex sells.

When you write a sex scene, you’re faced with a couple of interesting dilemmas. One is trying not to giggle like a twelve-year-old boy as you write the sex scene. Because that comes through in the end product, believe me. This problem can be resolved with copious amounts of red wine, and by describing things as simply and directly as possible. I say, don’t try to get fancy with it, and if you don’t trust me, trust someone who actually makes a living writing sex scenes. (Note to self: Figure out way to make a living writing sex scenes.)

I actually think it’s a pretty funny writing exercise to write up intentionally bad sex scenes. It’s a great lesson because it makes you laugh, and your laughter cues you to what NOT to do when describing sex. If you read it and laugh, cut it or rewrite it. Seriously. Because if it makes you laugh, it’s going to make someone else apoplectic. Or it’ll make them cringe, which is even worse.

Although I have to admit something here. One of the literary prizes I desperately want to win is the Literary Review’s Bad Sex in Fiction Award. I have this secret desire to show up in London in person to accept the award. I imagine them announcing me as the winner. I’d walk up to the stage to accept, my sky-high pumps clicking sharply through the crowded, silent, disapproving hall. When I reached the podium, I’d adjust my slightly-too-short pencil skirt, and smooth the frill on the front of my blouse. Then I’d unbutton the top button, pull my hair out of its ponytail, take off my glasses and say, “I’m going to read out loud the sex scene in question. By the time I’m finished, if most of the men in this room DO NOT have a raging boner, then I’ll graciously accept your award and be on my way. If, however, most of the men in this room DO have a raging boner, I fully expect you to reconsider bestowing upon me this honor.”

Which leads to the second problem. What to call stuff in sex scenes. You know. Stuff. Actions. Methods. Logistics. Lady parts. Man junk. Stuff. Jeese. See? Even in the privacy of my own blog it’s awkward.

For me, the biggest problem is what to call the penis. Because you can’t call it a penis. I mean, come on. “She wanted nothing more than to feel his hard penis…” Are you laughing? You remember the rule about laughing and editing, right?

You could call it a dick, but that presents problems, too, because “dick” also has comic overtones - not to mention tons of negative connotations outside of the sexual ones - dickwad, dickhole, dickweed, etc.

I was so perplexed over what to call the trouser mouse, I actually did research on how other authors approached what to call the penis, how men felt about their own penises, and penis portrayals in art and literature throughout history. I found that I was not alone in my dilemma.

In doing that research, I also came across this, which has less to do with what to call the penis and more to do with how much fun you can have researching a novel. Plus, it caused me to get sidetracked by the euphemism “manroot” for a while (for obvious reasons), but also because I couldn’t believe that authors actually used the phrase “manroot” in their fiction. Really? “He thrust his manroot into her...”

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAA!!!

The phrase "manroot" should be reserved for vegetables like carrots and sweet potatoes. (Note to self: sweet potato = possible euphemism for the penis.) Although there are some who think that produce like cucumbers and bananas are so sexually suggestive that women should be prohibited from handling them in order to avoid sexually impure thoughts. I kid you not. (Thank you for the article, Sequoia Raindancer!) Those same people would have fits about the mushrooms growing around here, I can tell you. Mushrooms, by the way, are thought to be an aphrodisiac. I can't imagine why.

One of the things I found most surprising in researching this issue is that there is a scarcity of literature that presents the penis in a loving or tender way - it seems as if the penis is forever stabbing or jabbing or thrusting at something, and it’s often compared to ugly, unsettling things. In poetry, for instance, there’s piles of prose devoted to lady parts of all shapes and sizes, all lovingly described and catalogued alongside all manner of beautiful objects. But I couldn’t find similar poems devoted to the penis.

This seemed like an outrageous injustice - one I decided must be resolved.

Which brings me to my sonnet on the penis. Writing a sonnet SUCKS, by the way. You can take all of that iambic pentameter crap and smoke it, for all I care. My point is, it's a rigid structure - which makes it perfect for a poem devoted to the penis - but working within that structure was maddening for me. What I'm saying is, I hope you enjoy this sonnet because let me tell you... Never again.

The Humble Cock.

A spear or dagger bent on destruction

Is how we mislabel the humble cock.

Not as a weapon of mass seduction,

But as a violent tool of awe and shock.

The function of clubs or bullets or swords

Is halting the heart and stopping the breath.

A rocket brings mayhem to huddling hordes;

Heat-seeking missiles deliver up death.

But the cock embodies all that’s alive

All that throbs, all that rises, all that beats.

It helps us to live; not merely survive

As it brings us our bliss wrapped up in sheets.

To compare the cock to arrow or knife

Weds something to death that's bristling with life.

So as you can see, I went with "cock." Process of elimination, mostly, but also because the word "cock" is simple and has a classic quality to it.

The way I figure it, if it's good enough for Shakespeare, it's good enough for me.